The detective sighed.
"These things happen. One plays a game, and then ends up getting caught—in the trap of love."
The ex-superintendent gravely nodded his agreement.
"They were only rumours, but seemingly well-founded, if I trust the evidence of my own eyes. I've been here a week and I've had time to study all four of them: Rachel Syms, her husband, Anthony Stamp, and his girlfriend of the moment, Maggie Lester—an empty-headed blonde whose main attraction seems to be her remarkable figure."
"That's not a negligible asset for a woman."
"They lunch together frequently, and it's pretty obvious to me that the looks they exchange go beyond simple friendliness or professional courtesy. Portman doesn't seem to notice anything, but then everyone knows the husband is the last to catch on. As for the aforementioned Maggie Lester, it's more difficult to tell. She's more reserved and doesn't join in the conversation much. She must find it hard to swallow that Rachel's better looking."
Twist stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
"Why are they on holiday together? And why here? Is it just coincidence?"
"According to the hotel owner, they're going to be shooting another film here, with the same stars. That's all I can tell you."
His friend stared at him for a moment:
"I have a suspicion these were the people you were talking about earlier."
"It's not out of the question,” admitted Charles Cullen with a wry smile. “One has a feeling there's a lot of tension there, like a gathering storm. I don't like the feeling I'm getting—but I must be off now, if you'll excuse me."
And with those words the ex-Yard man left, leaving Dr. Twist seemingly lost in thought. As the minutes went by, he felt the sun beating down more and more fiercely, despite the thick wickerwork trellis. The oppressive sensation grew stronger, and he was sure that the summer heat was not the sole cause. His old friend's observations had given him pause for thought and he felt somewhat perplexed. He made a conscious effort to ignore his growing suspicions, but in vain. He could not help but imagine that someone, at this very moment, was laying the groundwork for a Machiavellian crime against their nearest or dearest. Something wasn't quite right; he could feel it in his bones. The beauty of the landscape and the purity of the blue sky only served to enhance the impression.
The actress reappeared, this time alone, at ten o'clock—half an hour after she had left. It was obvious that something wasn't right. Rachel Syms was very pale and her hair was in disarray. As she went past, Dr. Twist noticed that her tank top was torn and there was a long scratch on her shoulder. The actress reached the bar and asked for a double Scotch, which she downed in a couple of gulps. Her eyes full of tears, she squeezed her hands together to avoid trembling. At this juncture Anthony Stamp arrived. Twist had already noticed his superb build and deep-set eyes. An Adonis with flowing locks, he was wearing shorts and a flowery shirt and holding a beach towel. He had been about to favour the actress with his most dazzling smile when he noticed her distress.
"Rachel, what's happened?” he asked in his throaty voice.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?” he repeated, pointing to the scratch on her shoulder.
The young woman swallowed several times, and with an effort held back her tears.
"I ... I wanted to talk to him ... and ... and—"
The words wouldn't come out, and she broke down in sobs. Anthony tried to take her in his arms, but she pulled away and strode resolutely into the hotel lobby. The actor watched her, perplexed, and decided that he, too, needed a double Scotch. After emptying his glass, he went to find the young woman.
It all happened so quickly that Dr. Twist didn't have time to order his thoughts. Almost immediately afterwards, however, he was able to follow the rest of the conversation in the utmost detail. For the actress's room, which faced south, as did the terrace, was immediately above where Twist was sitting and the windows were wide open.
The unintentional eavesdropping caused the elderly detective considerable embarrassment, and he was not alone, to judge from the expression on his neighbours’ faces.
"What's the matter?” he heard the young actor repeat in an insistent tone.
"I don't know ... I don't know anything anymore,” sobbed Rachel Syms. “But I do know that I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!"
"Did you tell him about us?"
"Yes, and he saw red. He insulted me, he even hit me. But I wasn't going to take it."
"Right. I'm going to have a few words with him."
"No, Tony, don't go. He ... he—"
"Anyway, we need to get things straight."
"Tony, Tony, I beg you. Don't go!"
There was the sound of a door slamming, and shortly afterwards Dr. Twist saw the young actor leave the hotel lobby. He was still carrying the beach towel, but perhaps only out of habit, for nothing in his manner suggested he was going for a dip. Still in a fury, he strode determinedly across the terrace and disappeared down the steps leading to the beach road.
When he reappeared a quarter of an hour later, his expression had changed completely. Clearly bewildered, his features drawn, he asked the barman to call the hotel owner, adding in a subdued voice that Mr. Portman had just had an accident.
* * * *
An ambulance arrived shortly afterwards. Early in the afternoon, a police car drew up in front of the hotel. A little later, Charles Cullen was asked if he would care to join Inspector Christopoulos at the Blue Lagoon cove, where Mr. George Portman had had a fatal accident on the dangerous path bordering the shoreline. At the time, that was all that Dr. Twist knew, but at teatime his friend sought him out in the hotel lounge.
"Our premonitions were unfortunately correct,” he announced sadly. “What we feared has happened. Sometimes, my dear Twist, I wonder if life is preordained. That accident is very strange. It happened in circumstances in which the police here, quite rightly, suspect something worse—"
"Murder, to be precise,” cut in the detective.
Charles Cullen nodded, wiping his damp brow with the back of his hand.
"It's a delicate matter, because all those involved are British subjects—and pretty well-known ones. When the local inspector in charge of the investigation heard about my past, he quickly asked for my help."
"What have you found?"
"The circumstances are quite clear. Portman went down to the cove with his wife at nine-thirty. After a quarrel, Rachel left him down there. Scrambling along that tricky path, no doubt in an angry mood, his foot slipped and he fell, cracking his head fatally on a rock. That's where Anthony found him stretched out on the path, dead. According to him, it had happened only shortly before, because the body was still warm. And that was confirmed by the medical examiner."
"There's not necessarily anything suspicious in all that."
"Not necessarily. It's quite possible that Portman died falling down that way. But someone could equally well have hit him over the head, using who knows what weapon. What intrigued the inspector was that there were scratches on the victim's forearms. His quarrel with his wife could account for those, but once he learned about her relationship with that young actor ... maybe the affair took a more sinister turn. The inspector could be right. Which reminds me, I took the liberty of telling him you were a first-hand witness. Is it true?"
Alan Twist repeated for his benefit all that he had seen and heard around the time of the crime. When he had finished, Cullen paused for a moment, then said: “I'd like to engage you as my assistant, if you don't mind. Inspector Christopoulos has more or less given me carte blanche, so he can't object."
"I assume the inspector suspects Rachel of having killed her husband during their quarrel?"
"There's no hiding things from you, is there? But let's face it, who better than you to form a judgment, given that you saw her return in a state of shock."
"What does she say about the matter?"
"That she doesn't remember very clearly. It's certa
inly true that she was in a sorry state when we went to her room to find her. She'd drunk about half a bottle of whiskey to calm herself down. But she seems to have recovered somewhat, and I'd like you to listen to what she has to say."
One of the hotel's private rooms had been set aside for Inspector Christopoulos, a small Greek gentleman with a bony face sprouting a handsome handlebar moustache. His tone was courteous and his smile discreet and friendly. Dr. Twist sat down next to Charles Cullen and opposite the lovely Rachel Syms, who was wearing dark glasses. She was evidently in a state of profound distress, her chest heaving under her thin bolero. Without prompting, she openly admitted her affair with Anthony Stamp.
"What's the point in denying it? Everyone seems to know!"
"It appears that you and your partner were here because you were going to make a new film together?” asked Christopoulos, lighting a cigarette.
"Yes, our producer asked us to come. He wants to make a sequel and suggested we come here to pick out suitable new sites."
"Which is why you, your late husband, and friends were exploring the coves in the area by boat?"
"That's right. But this morning George and I decided that we would seek the quiet of the cove, just the two of us. Which suited me, because I wanted to talk to him about Tony and me."
"You were hoping for a divorce?"
"Yes. That's what I was going to ask him for. But he took it very badly. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me to try and get me to change my mind. I fought back, as I've already told you several times."
"But what happened after that?” asked Christopoulos sharply.
The actress broke down in tears, her head between her hands.
"I don't know ... I don't know exactly. His sudden outburst shocked me. I didn't know he could be like that. I ran away as fast as I could."
"After having hit him with a rock?"
The actress took her glasses off, revealing red eyes wet with tears, and said, stressing each word: “No, Inspector, I didn't kill him! Of that I am absolutely certain!"
"Then maybe you pushed him as you were leaving?"
"I just don't know. At the time, I didn't want to see him anymore; I just wanted to get away. Maybe I did want him dead at that moment, but I didn't kill him ... I didn't kill him...."
Anthony Stamp was next after his partner. Dr. Twist found him to be much quieter than he had been at the end of the morning. His testimony corresponded exactly, point by point, with what he had seen and heard. The actor admitted having considered teaching Portman a lesson for his brutal conduct towards his wife, but what he had wanted most of all was to make his feelings for Rachel and the serious nature of their relationship clear to the fellow.
Rubbing the back of his neck and recalling his astonishment at what had happened, he said: “That's why I was so surprised, do you see, at finding him lying there on the rocks. As soon as I got close I realized there was nothing to be done."
"What time was it?” enquired Charles Cullen.
"I didn't check my watch, but it must have been about quarter past ten."
"That's about right. You were seen leaving the hotel at ten past ten and you came back at ten twenty-five. It takes about five minutes to reach the cove."
"At least that. It's a winding path down the cliff face, going down steeply from the road to the beach."
"So you must have spent five minutes contemplating the body."
The observation seemed to catch the actor off guard.
"Well, yes, I suppose so. I was so shocked that I didn't react straightaway."
"What were your thoughts at the time, Mr. Stamp? That it was the work of your lover?"
The leading man suddenly appeared very uncomfortable.
"No, no. I was simply too stunned to think clearly."
"You told us there was nobody else in the cove at the time."
"No. The fellow who hires out the boats never arrives before half-past ten. All his customers know that. In any case, I didn't see anyone."
"The only access to the cove is via the stairs cut into the rock, as far as I can gather."
"Right. All around there are nothing but cliffs with a sheer drop of a hundred feet straight down. There are bushes dotted here and there on the cliff faces but too far apart to offer a way down, even to the most experienced climber. The stairs lead down to the wooden landing stage where the boats are moored. From there, that damned slippery path goes as far as the diving board put there for tourists."
"But you could swim to the spot?"
"Of course, but in that case you'd have to come in from the open sea like the boats because the coastline is littered with reefs. Only a really experienced swimmer would try it."
"Do other boats ever stop there?"
"Occasionally. Amateur sailors who want to use the diving board or simply get away from the crowds. But why all these questions, gentlemen?"
"Why?” repeated Christopoulos with a forced smile. “Because we'd like to know who, apart from you and Rachel Syms, could have got close enough to George Portman to kill him. We can't rule out the possibility that he was murdered, you see. In which case, you and your mistress would be far and away the most likely suspects. You have both motive and opportunity. However, I do concede that your partner is in an even trickier position than you are. If we look at the circumstances, at her attitude and her words on her return from the cove, one could easily imagine that she had just killed her husband in a fit of anger. Furthermore, I've just had another talk with the medical examiner, who finds the wound to the victim's temple more and more suspicious. According to him, it was caused by a blunt instrument rather than sudden contact with a rock."
Anthony went pale.
"But that's not what I'd been led to believe! And there was no weapon anywhere near the body, was there? Unless your mysterious killer used a ball."
"A ball? What ball?” enquired Dr. Twist, intrigued.
Charles Cullen clarified the matter with a shrug of the shoulder: “A kid's ball was floating between the rocks close to the victim."
"Would that be Nausicaa's ball, Charles? Remember Nausicaa was playing with a ball when she noticed Ulysses on the shore? We spoke about it just this morning."
Faced with bewildered looks from the three men, Twist added quickly: “Of course, it's of no importance; it's just a thought which crossed my mind."
There was a knock on the door and an officer in uniform entered and saluted. He opened his dispatch bag, brought out a monkey wrench wrapped in nylon, and placed it carefully on the desk.
"The divers found this in the sea about thirty meters from the shore. As you can see, it's almost new. The water has probably washed away the blood, but not the fingerprints. They are quite clear and belong to one person only. We immediately compared them with those we took of the suspects."
The policeman turned slowly towards the actor and announced: “They're yours, sir."
Later that evening, under the subdued light of the lamps hanging from the trellis, Alan Twist and the superintendent dined together. The sun had just gone down and the air was marvelously soft and warm.
"He was so surprised I thought he was going to confess on the spot!” said the retired policeman after having finished his moussaka with evident gusto.
"Yes,” agreed his companion, “but he acquitted himself well. Particularly since we now have the testimony of the boat owner that the wrench was left in there at all times because it was used to set up the canopy. And since that was the boat that was hired regularly by our little group, Anthony Stamp would naturally have handled it quite a few times, as he confirmed. He doesn't recall it falling into the water, but it's perfectly possible that a slight swell could have caused it to happen without anyone on board noticing."
Cullen shook his head, sceptically.
"That doesn't prove his innocence. At the time, he looked just like a culprit faced with irrefutable evidence, and he only came up with that explanation some time later."
"Don't you f
eel that, in such circumstances, an innocent person would have reacted the same way?"
"Possibly. But in my book he's still a suspect. I don't really believe that story about the wrench falling into the sea by accident. I was glad the inspector continued to press him. I have a feeling the fellow isn't as solid as he appears, despite his athletic build. He's an impulsive character who acts on the spur of the moment, going purely on instinct. I can see him going down to the cove with the intention of having it out with Portman. You saw him walk across the terrace, didn't you? He doesn't waste time arguing with his rival, he just picks the wrench up out of the boat and delivers the fatal blow. It's only afterwards that he starts to think and remembers the accidents that happen so frequently here. The reputation of the dangerous path could perhaps save him. He gets rid of the weapon by chucking it into the sea, then arranges the body as best he can on the rocks by the side of the path, with the head against a large one, so as to look like an accident."
"I'll take a walk to the scene of the crime tomorrow,” said Alan Twist thoughtfully, ‘to get my ideas straight. The exercise will do me good as well."
Charles Cullen regarded his companion shrewdly, as he lit a cigar.
"By the way, Twist, that comment about Nausicaa's ball didn't strike me as entirely innocent. You've something on your mind, haven't you?"
"Let's just say that I found the incident curious and that made me think about the story of Ulysses."
"I thought about it afterwards. And it occurred to me that someone could have placed the ball on the path in order to precipitate Portman's fall."
"In broad daylight?” said Twist. “How could the victim have failed to see it, especially in a spot where great care had to be taken at all times? The murderer would be leaving too much to chance."
EQMM, September-October 2008 Page 27
