"Miss Nostrum, are you all right? We heard that the reporter Fitzhugh was killed in the gardens. They say it was because he revealed your identity."
"I—that's not true. You see, I'm not Miss Nostrum. It was all a terrible mistake."
Bert Stein frowned at her words. “What do you mean?"
"My name is Linda O'Toole. The police have picked up the real Laura Nostrum for questioning."
"That is bad. The police do not like interference from the CIA."
"They're British police, not Spaniards,” she reminded him.
He shrugged. “Police are police. Be careful, Miss O'Toole, if that is your name."
As she made her way to her room she knew what she must do next.
* * * *
Once in the safety of her room she opened the tote bag, revealing the laptop computer she'd expected. But when she raised the lid there was a surprise, a sticker that read: Property of the London Daily Mail. It was the dead man's computer. She took a deep breath, wondering if Laura had killed him for it. She scrolled down the e-mail list of sent items and opened the last message, addressed to someone at the paper, most likely his editor. Skimming down the screen she saw Nostrum's name and read: Nostrum was observed speaking with a man I suspect is channeling casino profits to terrorist organizations. I am keeping an eye on the Rock.
She stared at the screen, trying to understand the words. At the time Liam Fitzhugh sent this e-mail, he still believed she was Laura Nostrum, the purported CIA agent. And she'd noticed him nearby once or twice when she was speaking with someone. But what men had she spoken with prior to his murder? She made a quick list in her head and came up with only three: Pierre Zele, the conference organizer; the Irishman Mike Patrick; and Bert Stein from Spain. Patrick had offered to show her the Rock apes and take the cable car to the Rock's observation deck. Was that why Fitzhugh had wanted to keep an eye on it?
When there was still no word that Laura Nostrum had been freed by the police, she sought out Pierre Zele and asked if he'd heard anything. “Only that they're holding her,” he said, standing outside the theater, where a film on casinos in the Far East was being shown to delegates. “It's best not to ask too many questions."
"But she was on your program as a speaker!"
His eyebrows rose a fraction. “You're forgetting, Miss Nostrum did speak to us, just this morning."
"I ... I shouldn't have used her name. I thought I was doing it for a good cause."
"You're still wearing her badge."
"She must have mine. When I see her we'll have to exchange them. I'm Linda O'Toole."
"I see."
She hurried away, regretting that she'd approached him at all.
* * * *
Back at the hotel casino, Mike Patrick caught up with her. At that moment, despite her suspicions, his friendly face was a relief. “How about that trip to see the Rock apes?"
She hesitated only a moment. “Why not?"
"I've got a rental car. We can drive through. It's the best way to see them. They climb all over the cars."
"Sounds exciting,” she replied with only a touch of irony.
The car was an older model that looked as if it had visited ape country before. As they started up the road toward Queen's Gate, Mike Patrick remarked casually, “The word around the conference is that you're not Laura Nostrum at all."
She laughed. “There was a bit of a mix-up. I'm just a poor Irish girl named Linda O'Toole."
"I thought you were American."
"I am, but I work at my firm's Paris office now."
"And they are ... ?"
"Osage Investments."
He grunted. Ahead of them she saw the Apes’ Den, and an officer stopped them with a few words of warning. “Stay inside the vehicle at all times and do not touch the apes. They do like to bite people. We're not responsible for injuries to yourself or your vehicle."
They continued down the road, watching the hillside for movement. “There's one!” Linda exclaimed, pointing to a tailless monkey about two feet tall that had suddenly come running down from the trees.
Within minutes there were three Barbary Macaques on the car, one of them effectively blocking Mike's view through the windshield. He kept driving slowly. “They want food, I suppose. Here's a bag of berries. Throw them a few, but don't let them bite you."
She opened the window far enough to toss some berries, and by that time two more cars had appeared behind them. One of the macaques grabbed a berry while the other two jumped off, heading for the new arrivals. “This is a popular place,” Linda said.
"In the busy season they have a thousand visitors a day here."
"I can tell this isn't your first trip."
He increased their speed as more apes headed for the car. “I was here once before, a couple of years back."
By then it was late afternoon, but Mike insisted they must take the cable car to the observation platform on the Rock. When they reached it, crowded in among some French and Spanish tourists, Linda had to admit it was a magnificent sight. “Is that Africa over there?” she asked.
"It certainly is. Those are the Rif Mountains you're looking at. It's Morocco, the country of Tangier, Marrakesh, Casablanca, and a thousand intrigues, only a few of them captured in the cinema. We could take the ferry across tomorrow if you have time."
She gave her familiar laugh. “There are enough intrigues right here on Gibraltar. This has been pleasant, but I'd better be getting back. I'm anxious to learn if the police have released Miss Nostrum."
Bert Stein was the first person she saw in the hotel lobby. It was he who told her the news. “The police have released that woman, Laura Nostrum. The word is there was pressure from Washington and the Prime Minister ordered it. If the Spanish were in control, it wouldn't be like that."
"Is she back here?"
Stein shook his head. “Zele says they're flying her to London on the first available plane."
She glanced at her watch, wondering about the schedule. Gibraltar's airfield was at the north end of the peninsula, almost to the Spanish neutral zone, but it was barely more than two miles from the hotel. She hurried up to her room to get the laptop and then went out to the street where a few taxis were waiting. The airfield, jutting into the bay to allow the necessary length for takeoffs and landings, was located just beyond Gibraltar's sports stadium. She was there within minutes, just as the setting sun was dipping into the bay, and she only hoped it wasn't too late. A Gibraltar police car was parked in front of the terminal, which was a good sign.
"When's the next London flight?” she asked the ticket seller.
"British Airways has a delayed flight to Gatwick boarding in twenty minutes."
"I have to see someone waiting to board."
The young woman stared at her. “You can't pass through security without a boarding pass."
Linda turned to see Laura Nostrum being escorted through security by a police officer. “Laura!” she called out. “Wait up!"
The blond woman turned and recognized her at once. She shook off the officer's arm and came forward to meet her. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
"I thought you'd want this laptop. Can I speak with you in private before you take off?"
"I only have fifteen minutes.” She glanced at the officer. “The police are convinced I killed Fitzhugh because he blew my cover. If they see that computer, they'll be sure of it. They only released me on condition that I leave Gibraltar at once."
Linda glanced around. “Do they have a private office we could use?"
"This is as private as it gets. Who are you, anyway?"
Linda took a deep breath. It was time for the truth. “Interpol. I'm stationed at their Paris headquarters. We're both after the same person, the one who's diverting casino profits to terrorists. I think I know who it is, but I need you to confirm it. Washington wouldn't have sent you here unless they were suspicious of someone at the conference."
"I'm sorry. I can't tell you a thing."
Linda was aware that someone else had entered the terminal building behind her, but she ignored it until she saw the startled expression on Laura's face. “He's got a gun!"
There were two shots close together as Laura pushed her to the floor. Then she realized the police officer had fired back. “Stay down!” the officer warned them as he made his way carefully to the wounded man. Already the ticket agent was calling for help on her phone.
Their assailant was still alive, but bleeding badly. “Who is this man?” Laura Nostrum asked as they ignored the officer and got to their feet.
"He's the one we're both looking for,” Linda told her, “and I'm pretty sure he's Liam Fitzhugh's killer. His name is Bert Stein."
* * * *
The flight to London departed without Laura Nostrum. There were police reports to be filled out, and a trip back to the station for them both. The investigating detective was Lieutenant Collins and he let them know that Stein would probably live. “He might even be willing to implicate others in his skimming operation, if we're lucky. I assume that's the goal of both Interpol and the CIA. Now suppose you tell me about Fitzhugh's computer, Miss O'Toole."
"Laura left it by our table when the police took her in for questioning this morning, obviously because if you found it in her possession you'd think she killed the reporter to obtain it."
Collins nodded. “We certainly would have. How did it come into your possession, Miss Nostrum?"
She shrugged. “As soon as I heard he'd been killed I went to his room, found it, and removed it."
"Did you have a key?"
"Not an official one."
Lieutenant Collins grunted. “We'll let that pass.” He turned back to Linda. “Go on, Miss O'Toole."
"I read Fitzhugh's last e-mail to his London paper. He said he'd observed Nostrum—the name I was using at the time—speaking with the man he suspected of aiding the terrorists. I'd only spoken to three men since I'd arrived—Pierre Zele, Mike Patrick, and Bert Stein. Fitzhugh went on to say he'd be keeping a close eye on the Rock. Did he mean the Rock of Gibraltar? Hardly! Since he was already on the Rock, how could he help but keep an eye on it? His sentence meant something else. He was keeping a close eye on one of those three men, and his murder confirmed it. He must have followed one of them into the gardens and got stabbed for his trouble. This evening after he told me Laura was on her way to London, Stein saw me come down from my room with a computer tote and hail a taxi. He didn't know what was on the computer, but he had to retrieve it or kill us trying."
"I see. And how did that message tell you it was Bert Stein?"
Linda smiled when she saw by Laura's expression that she'd realized the obvious answer herself. “Well, the names Zele and Patrick have no connection with Gibraltar, but I suddenly remembered that Stein is the German word for rock."
(c)2006 by Edward D. Hoch. First published in Great Britain in I.D.: Crimes of Identity, edited by Martin Edwards.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Passport to Crime: NAUSICAA'S BALL by Paul Halter
EQMM has mentioned before the availability in English of Paul Halter's short story collection The Night of the Wolf, whose title story appeared in EQMM in 2006. It's worth noting, however, that one of the other tales that appeared in that volume, “The Flower Girl,” received a nomination for the Barry Award for Best Short Story of 2007. Currently three Halter novels have been translated into English, and all await a U.S. publisher.
Translated from the French by Robert Adey and John Pugmire
On the advice of one of his nieces, Dr. Alan Twist was spending a few days vacation in Corfu: “You'll see,” she had told him enthusiastically, “the Mediterranean air and that extraordinary light will do you the world of good, Uncle dear. And Corfu is superb, probably the most spectacular of all the islands in the Aegean."
On that point there couldn't be much doubt, the elderly criminologist thought to himself as he partook of an early breakfast on the hotel terrace. It was indeed a lovely spot, and the view of the coastline from the Hotel Poseidon, where he was staying, was quite breathtaking. Grassy promontories jutted out from the turquoise sea, creating a series of charming little coves, each invisible to the rest, and foam-flecked waves gently lapped the golden sands. The whole scene was bathed in a brilliantly clear light seldom seen in British skies.
"And best of all, it'll be a complete break and stop you from running into mayhem and murder wherever you go."
Stop running into mayhem and murder? Easy to say: as if he were responsible for how others behaved! If he had been involved so often in criminal matters, it was entirely because of his powers of deduction and because he'd had occasion to give Scotland Yard a hand when they occasionally came up against some inexplicable case. But this time he was determined to think about nothing but his holiday. Nonetheless, on the very first day of his arrival at the Poseidon, he had run into Charles Cullen, an old friend and recently retired Scotland Yard superintendent. He'd been delighted to see him, but inevitably they started reminiscing about old cases they had been involved in together: unusual cases with unexpected denouements,to which he'd made his own modest contributions.
The very man he'd been thinking about appeared just at that moment. Despite his casual dress, the ex-policeman cut a proud figure, with his upright stance and carefully groomed grey hair. He greeted Dr. Twist cheerfully and asked politely if he might join him. They chatted idly for a while but, after having praised the beauty of the surroundings, Charles Cullen suddenly lowered his voice.
"Tell me, Twist, do you get the same feeling I do about this place? Everything is so perfect and so peaceful, and the people are so charming, that it's almost eerie."
"It does all seem too good to be true,” replied Twist mischievously, removing his pince-nez.
"Yes, in a way."
"You know, Charles, I'm too well aware of human nature to have any illusions."
"True. We're both too experienced for that. But since I've been here, I've noticed a certain tension in the air, as if something were about to happen."
Dr. Twist sighed: “Just remember who you're talking to! I often get that impression and, sad to say, I'm not often mistaken."
The former policeman turned to look at the gardens bordering the terrace. The chirping of cicadas could be heard from within the thickets of thorny bushes.
"Still, it seems that very little happens here. There hasn't been a suspicious accident for years, from what I've been told."
"There was an Italian who broke his ankle last month."
The ex-superintendent smiled gently: “Just a rather boring accident. Nothing to do with what we're talking about."
"Do you really think not? Apparently it's the third time a tourist has been injured at the same spot in less than a year."
"Here, at the hotel?"
"Close by: just in front of us, on the other side of the road. At the foot of the promontory there's a small cove which they call ‘The Blue Lagoon.’ Do you know it?"
"Of course. It's a charming spot, but getting down is a bit tricky. There's a series of steps cut into the rock which zig-zags down a hundred feet to the beach. Once you're there, you can rent a boat and there's even a small diving board."
"That's the place. To reach the diving board, you have to follow a devilishly slippery path which runs along the shoreline at the base of the cliff then curves around the promontory and into the cove."
"So, do you believe in cursed places?"
"Let's just say that some places are more dangerous than others."
"That's certainly true,” agreed Cullen, gazing at the horizon. “As a matter of fact, here in Paleokastritsa we're not just in any old place. Apparently Ulysses got washed up in one of the local inlets, after escaping from Calypso's grasp."
"And was rescued by the charming Nausicaa, who happened to be playing ball on the beach with her entourage."
The ex-policeman smiled admiringly.
"Really, nothing escapes you
, Twist. I assume then that you must also be aware that they made a film at this very spot about a year ago?"
"Yes, and I'm also aware that the main actors are staying here in this same hotel."
Charles Cullen heaved a deep sigh.
"You've just arrived and you already know everything, Twist. And here I was planning to surprise you."
The detective's eyes twinkled mischievously.
"It's just a matter of keeping one's eyes and ears open. And besides, how could anyone be anywhere near a beauty like Rachel Syms without noticing her?"
Twist went suddenly quiet. A couple had just appeared at the hotel entrance. The man, dark-haired and of medium height, was approaching his forties; his unprepossessing physique contrasted starkly with that of the ravishing creature by his side, who was none other than Rachel Syms. She was wearing a sports outfit with a tank top and short white cotton skirt that showed off her magnificent slender legs to perfection. The actress was clearly not in a good mood, but even the scowl on her face could not conceal its natural beauty, framed in a luxuriant mass of black hair which tumbled in opulent waves over her bronzed shoulders. She strode haughtily across the terrace by the side of her companion, who was carrying their beach gear and who, like her, ignored the seated guests.
After the couple had disappeared down the steps to the road, Charles Cullen observed to his companion: “You're right. How could anyone not notice her? But she doesn't seem to have a very sunny disposition."
Dr. Twist adjusted his pince-nez.
"That's fairly obvious, if you don't mind my saying so. But who was her companion? Was it one of the actors we were talking about?"
"No, that's her husband, George Portman, the son of a rich industrialist, who's just come into a fortune. Quite a catch, financially speaking. Rumour has it that Rachel didn't marry him just for his blue eyes. What's more, they say that she fell in love with her screen partner, Anthony Stamp, during the making of the film last year. An unknown young actor who, according to the critics, was a marvelous Ulysses. The same wagging tongues say it was love at first sight, and it happened during the scene where Ulysses and Nausicaa meet on the beach, where she's throwing a ball around with her handmaidens."
EQMM, September-October 2008 Page 26
