The Isle of Devils

by Craig Janacek

  Dunkley frowned. He hesitated for a moment, as if to contemplate the wisdom of sharing this fact with the man. Finally, he said simply, “It was a Colt single action revolver.”

  The man sighed deeply, as if he had been holding his breath while awaiting this information. “That is what I was afraid of.” He reached down and lifted the case that he had entered with. Setting it upon the table, he spun a set of combination locks and threw back the lid. Inside, we found two depressions molded into a purple velvet-lined padding. In one of the depressions lay the duplicate of the six-chambered pistol that we had encountered upon Dumas’ nightstand. The other was empty.

  Dunkley and I stared at the case, and I am certain that his brain resounded with as many questions as my own. Before we could voice them, however, Dubois continued.

  “You see, gentlemen, I always carry a brace of pistols with me when I travel, as one can never be too careful. There are places in the western United States where the arm of the law has never reached. And yet, they are primarily for sport, to be used in target shooting. Therefore, I have always kept them carefully locked up, so as to prevent any unfortunate accidents from occurring. Until this morning, when I decided to do some pistol practice in the open-air, I had no reason to check to see if they were still both safe in their case.”

  “Even last night, when you knew that a murderer still roamed free in this hotel?” interjected the constable sharply.

  “You assured us, sir, that we were perfectly safe. I took you at your word,” replied Dubois with equal heat. “And yet now I see that the sanctity of my room has been violated, and my possessions ransacked and stolen.”

  Dunkley leaned forward and inspected the lock on the box. “Yes, there are many scratches here, as if the lock had been forced,” he concluded. He gazed sternly into Dubois’ eyes. “However, that effect would also be easy to fabricate.”

  The man’s lips pursed together angrily. “That is the second time, Constable, that you have accused me of dishonesty. It is an unfamiliar sensation to me, and I find that I do not care for it. At another time and place, one such accusation would be grounds for me to seek satisfaction. Do you mean to arrest me, sir?”

  Dunkley held up his hands in a conciliatory manner. “Now, now, sir. Take it easy. You must understand that it is my job to suspect everyone in this building until the murderer has been caught.”

  Dubois visibly calmed, but he raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Everyone excepting the Doctor here, it seems.”

  Now was my turn to grow offended. “What do you imply, sir?” said I, heatedly.

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “Only that I believe that you have no official locus standi in this investigation? And you hold a privileged position, sir. You performed the post-mortem examination, even before the constable arrival, from what I hear. You have been present at the questioning of every guest, able to steer the conversation in the direction of your choosing. In short, you have carte blanche. If I was a murderer, it would be the exact arrangement that I would covet. How could I ever be suspected?” His eyebrows rose suggestively.

  I started to rise in anger out of my seat, but the constable’s hand upon my shoulder restrained me. “Touché, I think is the word in your tongue, is that not correct, sir?” said Dunkley.

  Dubois merely smiled grimly and nodded.

  “Do you have any other theory, besides the guilt of the doctor here, as to who shot Mr. Dumas?” continued the constable in a reasonable tone of voice.

  The Frenchman shrugged again. “We have a saying that seems apt. ‘Le mauvais goût mène au crime.’ Perhaps he found himself so odious that he shot himself?”

  “Seven times?” I scoffed.

  He turned to me and looked me straight in the eyes. “He was most odious.”

  Against my better judgment, a smile cracked my lips. There was a grain of macabre wit to the man. I shook my head in bewilderment, for this did not seem like the kind of absurdity that would amuse the Lucy that I had come to know. I have never been accused of having an overly-developed sense of humor, but I greatly wondered what had attracted her to him? Was she simply tired of being alone in the world after her mother passed on? And yet, a lady as exquisite as Lucy would have had her pick of eager suitors even if she had not a farthing to her name. Why this man?

  Dunkley shook me out of my reverie, “Very well, Mr. Dubois, if you have nothing else?”

  The man licked his lips. “I was wondering, Constable, if you knew whether I might eventually get my pistol back?”

  Dunkley pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “Certainly, Mr. Dubois. There will be no need for the evidence of the case once it has been solved. Any effects will be either be destroyed or returned to their rightful owners… presuming that you are innocent, of course.”

  Dubois laughed easily. “Yes, of course. I have no such concerns, Constable. I am certain you will catch the man soon, and the rest of us may be on our way.” He closed the half-full pistol case and stood up. He bowed slightly to us. “Au revoir, gentlemen.”

  He strode to the door and opened it, but just as he was about to depart, Dunkley called out his Parthian shot. “Mr. Dubois, please be so kind as to let Mrs. Foster know to assemble the guests after dinner, say seven o’clock. The doctor and I will present our conclusion to the crime at that time.”

  §

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE LIST OF EVIDENCE

  Dubois’ eyebrows rose in great surprise. “Truly? I will be certain to convey your message. I must admit that I find myself anxious to hear your solution.” He paused, but when it became apparent that nothing further was forthcoming from either of us, the man departed with a respectful nod.

  Once the door was closed, I turned to Dunkley with what must have been an equal amount of astonishment in my eyes. “Constable, dinner is but a few hours away! How can we possibly come to a conclusion in such a short amount of time?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, Doctor. But it must be done. The guests have begun to complain to their consulates about missing their scheduled boats. Governor Beckwith has become involved, and this morning I received instructions from Mayor Hyland that we cannot detain the guests past tonight. On the morn, the suspects in this case will be allowed to depart this island, and once they are gone I am afraid that the case will never be solved. No, we must bring it to close tonight,” said Dunkley with a heavy finality.

  “But where are we to start?” I asked, baffled and disheartened. I felt that we had reached a dead wall built across every path with which we tried to approach the truth.

  “Come now, Doctor, take heart. We have heard their words. Now we must parse them and try to determine if someone was lying to us.”

  “Such as?”

  “For example, did you note, Doctor, that Mr. Dubois was not the first guest to try to convince us that Dumas committed self-murder?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yes, Signore Aicardi suggested the same.”

  “It is as if they want us to take the easy way out. To conclude that he killed himself and let them go scot free. But of course this was no suicide. It was a very deeply planned and cold-blooded murder.”

  “Are you implying that Monsieur Dubois and Signore Aicardi are in cahoots?”

  Dunkley shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps, Doctor, perhaps. We must not discount any possibility, however remote.”

  I nodded slowly. “Not only was the prospect of suicide brought up more than once, but both Signore Aicardi and the Marquesa suggested the possibility of a supernatural explanation.”

  “That is an excellent point, Doctor. It is as if some of the guests are motivated to get us to latch onto any possibility other than the existence of a murderer within these walls. Signore Aicardi becomes a man of great interest. Anything else?”

  I shook my head, unsure of where I had heard any falsehoods uttered. Then one question entered my brain. “Constable, why did you ask Mr. Warburton about his presence on that particular beach?”

  “Alexandria�
�s Battery?” Dunkley’s eyebrows rose suggestively. “Doctor, do you know what that beach is known for? It is not the Diamond-Back Terrapin, as our naturalist claims. Because of the number of wrecks on the reefs just offshore from it, Alexandria’s Battery Beach has the highest concentration of beach glass on this side of Church Bay.”

  I frowned again. “But I still do not understand how the beach glass relates at all to Dumas’ murder? It wasn’t even in his room!”

  “That is very true, and yet its presence remains a mystery. Furthermore, when I gave Mr. Warburton a chance to explain why he was at Alexandria’s Battery, he said nothing of beach glass. It is suspicious, and anything suspicious must be considered.”

  I nodded in agreement, and then another thought occurred to me. “I think the Marquesa may be lying to us.”

  “Why do you say that, Doctor?”

  “I have not examined her, of course, but it is my medical opinion that the Marquesa is likely suffering from consumption.”

  Dunkley was astonished. “I will admit, Doctor, that she does not look well, but how can you know the cause of her illness without an examination?”

  “Do you recall where she lived prior to her time in Madrid?”

  “Somewhere in Switzerland, I think,” replied Dunkley.

  “Indeed. It was Davos Platz, the locale of one of the most famous sanatoriums in the world. The crisp mountain air does wonders for patients with consumption.”

  Dunkley nodded slowly. “But she freely admitted that she had been there.”

  “Indeed, but she also reported that she was travelling to Florida. I have yet to visit that part of the United States, but from what I have read about it, the climate of Florida is similar to that of Bermuda. Its summers are noted for their great heat and extreme humidity, the exact opposite of the airs of Davos Platz. Someone with consumption would not last long in Florida.”

  Dunkley stared at me for a moment, clearly trying to process how this information could assist in determining the murderer of Gustave Dumas. “Perhaps she is better?”

  I shook my head. “Absolutely not. Although it can be a painful and lingering disease for many years, the signs are clear. She is certainly in the last stage. And there is one more thing. Who was present when we determined the number of bullets with which Mr. Dumas had been shot?”

  Dunkley considered this. “Just you and I.”

  “Exactly! Then how did the Marquesa know that he had been shot seven times? I certainly did not tell her!”

  “Nor I,” said Dunkley grimly, pausing to think about the implications. “That is an excellent point, Doctor, but can you explain how the Marquesa exited a room with a barred door?” he asked.

  I sat back in dismay over the collapse of my theory. “No, of course not. It is not conceivable that a woman as weak as the Marquesa could have descended that ladder in the midst of such a great storm.”

  “I agree. The ladder is a critical clue. In my opinion we can discount anyone who could not have navigated it.”

  “That would include the Marquesa and Mr. Sims,” I said. “I also highly doubt whether Madame Dubois or Mrs. Foster could have done such a thing.”

  “This leaves Mr. Delopolous, his reported lumbago notwithstanding, as our most likely suspect. Mr. Cordeiro, Mr. Warburton, Mr. Bey, Mr. Aicardi, Mr. Dubois, and Dr. Nemcek are less likely possibilities.”

  “There is also the chance that it could be someone not affiliated with the hotel. Someone who fled into the night?”

  “That option must be considered, Doctor, though my instincts tell me that the answer lies within this hotel. There are few places for villains to hide in St. Georges’ where I would not have heard rumors about them. In a quiet town, where all gossip is welcome, strangers generally do not pass without remark. And that storm was too great for anyone to leave the confines of the town. There is no place of safety between St. George’s and Flatts upon so wild a night. Furthermore, I am convinced that this was not a random slaying. Dumas was targeted for some reason. We have to determine why. Was it his Confederate sympathies? Are there any other observations that you have made that could be of assistance?”

  I contemplated this for a moment. I cudgeled my brain in the endeavor to find some suggestive anomaly. And then a thought dawned upon me. “Yes, there is. I have often wondered how the murderer knew that Dumas was going to drink the drugged comet vintage of Mr. Sims. What if he had chosen Senhor Cordeiro’s Madeira wine?”

  Dunkley nodded slowly. “That is an excellent question, Doctor. I had not thought of that. You said yourself that he went about in mortal fear of some personal attack. He would not have taken such extreme precautions as he did with the liquids that he drank unless he had a specific danger to guard against. But without Dumas being drugged, the murderer could never have gotten close enough to shoot him seven times.”

  “All we have is Mr. Cordeiro’s word that he drank the other bottle. What if he disposed of the wine? I forgot to mention this to you, but I stumbled upon Mr. Boyle removing a dead plant from Mr. Cordeiro’s room this morning.”

  “A plant? What on earth has that to do with anything, Doctor?”

  “When I examined the soil, I noted some ruby-colored crystals on the top layer.”

  From the look in his eyes, it was apparent that Dunkley did not realize the significance of this. “So?”

  “I have never before seen such crystals in the soil of a house-plant. However, after imbibing from a well-aged bottle of wine, I have seen something similar in the bottom of my wine glass. “

  Dunkley rocked back in his chair. “Good heavens! Are you suggesting that Mr. Cordeiro poured his bottle of wine into the plant in his room, which killed it?”

  “I am.”

  “But he told us that he drank it. Any he would have no reason to lie unless he knew that the bottle was also drugged.”

  “Precisely,” said I, nodding.

  “Can you be certain, Doctor, that those crystals were sediment from a wine bottle?”

  I shook my head. “No, I am not. It is merely a hypothesis. There may be a way to chemically prove it, if we can recover them from wherever Mr. Boyle was taking the plant, and if an adequate laboratory exists upon the island that could re-solubulize the crystals.”

  Dunkley exhaled harshly. “I am afraid not, Doctor. Perhaps they could do such a thing in the best hospitals of London, but not here. Damn, it’s potentially a fine clue! If we could prove it, it might be sufficient to place our Mr. Cordeiro in the dock, and perhaps even put his head in a noose.”

  “But there were many other clues in that room, all of which pointed to someone other than Mr. Cordeiro,” I protested. “The red paint, the pieces of eight, and the Persian slipper, for example.”

  Dunkley nodded thoughtfully. “That is very true, Doctor. One might say that we are suffering from a plethora of clues. Perhaps they are red herrings, left behind on purpose solely to confuse us?” said he, shaking his head in exasperation. “We must contemplate this and try to winnow the chaff from the wheat. What are the special points upon which the whole mystery turns?” He held up his palm toward me. “No, don’t answer now, Doctor. Let us both try to come to a conclusion, and then we will compare notes.” He reached into his coat-pocket and pulled out his cherry-wood pipe, which he filled with tobacco from a little pouch. He leaned back and began to silently emit great puffs of blue smoke as he flipped through his memorandum book.

  It was apparent that the constable did not want to be disturbed, so I stood up and quietly walked over to the window. It looked out only upon a plain little alleyway that ran between the Globe Hotel and the building beside it. It was not much of a view, but I soon found that this ordinariness was beneficial for the workings of the mind, as there was little to distract it. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was! I contemplated the clues and our conversations with the guests, however, and endeavored to find some explanation which would cover all of these facts. What in the world could be the connectio
n between all of the oddities that we had witnessed? I turned the case over in my mind and found that the list of clues was rapidly building to the point where my mind was no longer able to enumerate and categorize them. Since I had long been in the habit of jotting down little lists on whatever scraps of paper I could find, I decided to make such a document now. I sat back down and fished a pen from my pocket and started jotting on some blue-tinged stationary. I could not help smiling at the document when it was complete. It ran this way:

  The last name was the most difficult to set down. My heart rebelled against the notion that she might be involved in any way in such a brutal slaying. When my list was finally complete, I sat back to contemplate it. I soon realized that it had led me no closer to the truth. Based on the clues so far, a case could be made against virtually any of the guests. And part of me was profoundly ambivalent about finding the answer. As far as I could tell, Monsieur Dumas was a singularly unpleasant individual. I felt no real antipathy to his murderer. If I wanted to admit the truth to myself, it would have to be that I was helping the constable purely for the thrill of the hunt.