"Of course,” said his companion with some irritation, “I did say it was just an idea. Have you a better one?"
"Well, it did make me think about another business. The culprit had jammed a half-filled balloon one step down from the top of a steep staircase. At night, it did the trick. The woman died of a broken neck. The poor woman had made the mistake of forbidding her son to reply to a passionate letter from a French female correspondent. The murderer was only fourteen years old."
"Yes, I remember it vaguely. And unfortunately, it's not the only such case. I could cite a number of similar ones, each more dreadful than the next. You're always telling yourself that there are no surprises left, and you're always wrong! But, getting back to the case in hand, Twist, you haven't answered my question."
The elderly detective shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"Maybe we're attaching too much importance to it. After all, it's perfectly normal to find a ball on a beach, isn't it? I think we should consider it more of a psychological clue."
"Meaning?"
"Think of the passage in the Odyssey where Nausicaa drops her ball to go to the aid of the shipwrecked sailor."
"I don't understand. If Rachel and Anthony are Nausicaa and Ulysses respectively, what role would Portman play?"
"I don't know,” replied Alan Twist, pensively. “Let's just consider Nausicaa, who was the one who dropped the ball..."
"So, as far as you're concerned, Rachel Syms is the guilty party?"
The question was still hanging in the air when Christopoulos arrived at their table, eyes gleaming and a smile on his lips.
"Well, he's confessed at last,” he announced. “Our hard work paid off. I knew if we pressured him he would eventually talk!"
"What?” exclaimed Dr. Twist. “He's the killer?"
"No. He simply wanted to cover up the crime as an accident. Everything happened as he said, except that he didn't admit that he found the monkey wrench next to the body and simply threw it into the sea, in order to protect his mistress. So, despite a few complications, this matter turns out to be pretty straightforward. As we thought, Rachel Syms murdered her husband in a fit of rage."
* * * *
Sometime around eleven that night, the detectives listened once more to the actress in the hotel's small salon. Flush with his earlier success, Christopoulos expected to be able to take the culprit's confession in his stride. But, contrary to his expectations, Rachel Syms didn't break down and tell him everything he wanted to hear. Although drained of her normal verve and energy, she nevertheless appeared to have recovered her spirit.
"What?” she exclaimed, eyes round with astonishment. “I'm supposed to have killed George with a wrench? But that's horrible. It's absurd! And I would have remembered! If you'd produced witnesses swearing that I pushed him, I might have believed you. But hit him with a weapon like that, never! It's not possible! I simply argued with him and left. I didn't want to see him again, ever. I remember practically running up all those steps. My lungs were on fire by the time I reached the road."
"We don't doubt that, madam,” said Christopoulos with a respectful look. “I read in the newspapers that you are an accomplished athlete, and, if you will permit me to say so, it shows. But if we look at the facts calmly, you will understand that you are the only person capable of committing this unfortunate act. I have studied the chronology of events, which has been confirmed by witnesses. It goes like this:
"At nine-thirty, you and your husband left the hotel to go down to the cove. You came back here at ten, in a state of great agitation. Given that it takes five minutes to get there or back, you must have left your husband not later than nine fifty-five. You rushed to the bar and then to your room. Your conversation with your lover was overheard by Dr. Twist here, among others. It was ten past ten when Anthony Stamp left the hotel and ten-fifteen at the earliest when he arrived at the scene of the crime where he found your husband with the wrench next to him."
"My God!” gasped the actress. “So Tony also believes I killed George!"
"Think carefully. You plead with him not to go to the cove. Once there, he finds the body of your husband with the weapon by his side. He will have to answer for his act, but one might well consider it to be a chivalrous gesture to have made it disappear."
"Even so, I didn't kill my husband,” the film star insisted.
"So who did, madam? Between the moment you left your husband to the time he was found dead, twenty minutes had gone by, at most. And according to your own testimony and that of your lover, there was nobody but you near the cove."
With her head in her hands, the lovely Rachel started to sob, then stammered:
"If—if only I could remember."
"You know, madam, it's not unusual for people to suffer temporary memory loss after a violent event. One's brain willingly shuts out despicable acts, particularly those which one regrets having committed. You have doubtless heard of Hercules, who killed his wife in a fit of anger. He also could remember nothing after the event. And, as you can see, the facts here speak for themselves: Your husband was never seen alive after your departure."
"Wait!” exclaimed Rachel Syms, suddenly sitting up. “I think there was a boat arriving just as I left him."
"A boat? Well, that's not out of the question. But we would need to know which one. There is no shortage of pleasure boats around here."
"No, it wasn't sailing past. It came towards the cove.” Rachel shut her eyes to concentrate harder. “Yes, I'm sure. I couldn't see the passengers, but it could have been those charming retired people who go there regularly in the mornings. If so, they would certainly have spoken to George."
Christopoulos frowned.
"Guests in the hotel?"
"No, they don't stay at the Poseidon."
"Do you know them?"
"Not really. We've just exchanged a few words with them."
"That's all rather vague. If you don't know their names—"
"I do. They introduced themselves. It's something like French or Trent. Mr. and Mrs. Trent, I think."
"We will, of course, look into the matter,” replied the detective, incredulously. “But I suggest you do not rejoice too soon."
* * * *
The next morning, the investigators questioned Anthony's girlfriend. Maggie Lester's freckled features were pretty enough, and would have been even more attractive but for her rather listless appearance. Her exquisite tan complemented lovely blond locks and, thought Dr. Twist, she made a fitting companion for the handsome Anthony. But at that precise moment, having heard what the police had to say, it was obvious that her ardour for the actor had cooled.
"You must understand, miss, that in view of the circumstances we can no longer keep silent about your relationship,” announced Christopoulos.
"I thought not,” sighed the young woman. “Anyway, I always knew he wasn't the man for me."
"Why did you stay with him, then?” Charles Cullen could not help but ask.
"To have a good time. He's amusing and rich, and that's good enough for the time being."
Christopoulos cleared his throat and continued: “You are naturally free to live your life as you wish, but whether you like it or not, you are implicated in this matter and must therefore answer all our questions."
"Oh,” said Maggie. “I thought the case was solved already."
"Meaning?"
"It was that woman who did her husband in, wasn't it? And who says it was in a fit of anger? I always did think she married him for his money."
"We haven't reached that point yet,” said Christopoulos. “There are several points which need to be cleared up, including your own testimony, Miss Lester. According to your statement, you were visiting the monastery on the hill at the time of the incident. That seems strange—"
"What's strange?” demanded Maggie defiantly. “That I visited a monastery? I'm a practising Christian, however curious that might seem to you."
Christopoulos smiled nervously.
"That's not what I meant, miss. What I found strange was that the visit took place in the morning and, according to the hotel personnel, you have never been seen before noon, except when accompanying your friends on a boat trip."
"I don't deny it. But I'd been planning to see the monastery for some time now, and since the idea didn't appeal to Tony or Rachel or even her husband, I thought it would be a good moment to go."
"All right,” said the policeman, consulting his notes. “But that's not the problem. We've questioned the priests and none of them can remember you. Don't you find that strange? There weren't that many people there yesterday morning. We gave them your description and—forgive me for saying this—there aren't that many pretty girls running around the monasteries."
For a moment Maggie Lester appeared disconcerted, but then she grinned broadly.
"I remember what happened. The first time I turned up they wouldn't let me in because I'd forgotten you had to cover your arms and shoulders. I went back to the hotel—not in a good mood, I can tell you—and, so as to be sure, the next time I tied my hair in a bun and put on a long black robe like the women around here. So it's more than likely they didn't recognize me the second time. But you can ask the gatekeeper, he'll remember my first visit: He looked me over from head to toe and stared at me a long time."
"What time was this?"
"When they opened, around nine o'clock."
"And at what time did you return to the monastery?"
"Somewhere around half an hour later,” replied Maggie, evasively. “Just enough time for me to change and walk the round trip."
"Well, you certainly didn't dawdle on the way, because it's a good ten-minute walk from here to the monastery."
"I have strong legs and I love to walk."
"And to swim as well, someone told me?"
"Yes, I used to swim competitively. So did Rachel, by the way."
"Did you know her before you met Anthony?"
The girl's expression darkened.
"Yes, and I don't mind telling you that even in sports there was already an intense rivalry between us. It was through her that I met Tony."
"Did you know at the time that there was something going on between them?"
Maggie shrugged her shoulders.
"Of course not, otherwise ... I'm broad-minded, but there are limits."
Christopoulos nodded and continued: “Let's talk about when you went back to the monastery, around nine-thirty. Did that gatekeeper you talked about recognize you?"
Maggie Lester smiled and shook her head.
"I doubt it. I didn't look the same, so he didn't give me a second glance."
"And when did you get back to the hotel?"
"At about eleven, which is when I heard the dreadful news."
Christopoulos seemed on the point of asking another question when the telephone rang. He listened expressionless for a minute, and when he replaced the receiver he seemed somber and perplexed.
"Rachel Syms has been eliminated from our list of suspects,” he announced. “Five minutes before her lover found the body, Portman was still alive."
* * * *
In the early afternoon, Dr. Twist and Charles Cullen went down to the “Blue Lagoon” via the steps, which clung to the side of the cliff amidst a fragrant vegetation buzzing with cicadas. From time to time, gaps in the greenery opened up to reveal magnificent views of the azure sea. As they rounded the base of the promontory to reach the cove they could see a small wooden landing-stage surrounded by boats. They took the path along the shore and stopped at the spot where Portman had died.
"Well, there don't appear to be many solutions to the puzzle,” declared Twist.
"I'd settle for one,” replied Cullen.
"Did you hear what the Trents had to say this morning?"
"Yes, they're quite definite in their statement, which bears out precisely what Rachel Syms claimed. It was they who arrived by boat just as Rachel was walking away from her husband, shortly before ten o'clock. They're a retired couple who live in a hotel across the bay and who come here regularly at that time because it's a good place to dive, which they like to do before continuing down the coast. They moored their boat to the landing-stage while Portman was sitting close by, staring at the sea. He nodded to them as they walked past. He seemed his usual affable self, although he appeared preoccupied. After they had completed their usual three dives, which took less than ten minutes, they walked back and, as they passed Portman again, asked him if all was well. He replied that life was full of ups and downs, at which point they boarded their boat and cast off. According to them it was then ten past ten."
"And five minutes later Portman was found dead, beaten over the head with a monkey wrench."
"That's according to Anthony Stamp's testimony, and it looks as though he's been lying through his teeth. After all, from what we now know, who else could have committed the crime?” Charles Cullen asked, looking at the surrounding scenery. “Apparently, no one. Particularly since the Trents claim they didn't see any boats, swimmers, or anyone else while they were in the cove. Which would leave less than five minutes for any other killer to act. It's simply not possible. I'm afraid Anthony Stamp's fate is sealed."
Without saying a word, Dr. Twist walked the length of the path to the diving board, picking his way carefully over the slippery surface.
"My goodness, do you realize how deep the water is here? I can't see the bottom."
"Naturally; it's the underwater extension of the cliff. That's why this spot was chosen."
"It's a marvelous place,” said Twist, straightening up and looking around. “You feel totally isolated from the rest of the world: The reefs on either side of the cove protect you from intruders and you can't see beyond the promontories on either side. It truly is a Blue Lagoon: the water is so limpid and suffused with light, it's an enchanted spot."
"What's your point, Twist?” asked his friend, frowning.
"That this spot is isolated and difficult to reach, but it would be easy to hide in the deep water near the diving board, wait for the Trents to leave, then rush Portman and fatally wound him. How long would that take, Charles?"
"No more than a few seconds."
"Quite. Then all the killer would need to do is disappear back into the hiding place."
"Then swim under water to make his escape?"
"For a good swimmer, it wouldn't be a problem, would it?"
"It's quite plausible, particularly because I doubt that when Anthony Stamp discovered the body, he spent much time inspecting the surface of the water for a murderous swimmer. I think I can see where you're going with this, Twist."
"Maybe not."
"Let's just say I know who you're thinking about."
"Actually, I'm thinking about an object, not a person."
"Let me guess: a palm tree? ... a cool aperitif?"
"No. A ball."
"Not that damn ball again! I really think you're on the wrong track there, Twist. We found the owner: a young lad staying at the hotel, who lost it the evening before the murder. He was even scolded by his grandmother for running across the road to try and catch it."
Cullen nodded towards the edge of the cliff high above their heads: “Ignoring his grandmother, he ran to the cliff and looked over, where he saw the ball hadn't fallen in the water at all, but was stuck between the rocks. He was quite relieved because he thought he'd be able to collect it the next day. That's the whole story and you can see it has nothing whatever to do with the murder investigation."
Dr. Twist expressed some surprise: “Do you mean to say the ball fell from up there?"
"Yes. What's so strange about that?"
"Nothing. Little boys are always losing their toys in impossible places."
"So, what's the point?” said the ex-superintendent, obviously becoming exasperated.
"I think I've just realised something important,” replied Twist with a little smile. “Oh, and I must point out something about Tony
's fingerprints. In fact, it's quite astonishing nobody's noticed it until now."
* * * *
The next day, Christopoulos called the suspects together. Alan Twist and Charles Cullen were also present, as well as two sinister-looking policemen to guard the door. Maggie Lester seemed on her guard; Rachel Syms appeared worn out, as did her lover, whom Christopoulos addressed formally.
"I must warn you, Mr. Stamp, that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you."
"You're planning to arrest me?” gasped the actor with a piteous look.
The policeman stroked his moustache gravely.
"To be frank, I should have done so already, even before Dr. Twist confirmed his latest discovery. Be that as it may, we will now proceed with the arrest. I must tell you also that, should you make a confession, it may reduce the charges and even help you avoid the ultimate sanction."
The young actor clenched his fists and blurted out: “But I'm not the murderer! I just wanted to save Rachel. That's why I threw away the wrench."
Rachel Syms gave a deep sigh.
"So you thought I did it?"
"No, I didn't think so. But now, with all the facts—"
Christopoulos called for silence and took control. He gave a detailed chronological account of everyone's movements on the morning of the murder. By the time he had finished, Anthony Sharp was holding his head and groaning: “I tell you, somebody else killed him."
"Who and when?” asked Christopoulos vehemently.
"I don't know who, but it was just before I arrived on the spot. Remember, I told you Portman's body was still warm."
"The Trents didn't see anyone as they were leaving."
"Somebody may have been in the water waiting for a suitable moment."
"We thought of that. Mr. Cullen has some comments on that score. He can explain it himself."
The retired British policeman cleared his throat.
"My theory rests on the fact that the swimmer was aware the Blue Lagoon would be the scene of a quarrel between the couple, so he or she must be someone close to them. It's possible to reach that cove by swimming round from the other side of the promontory, which is quite dangerous but can be done in half an hour. Given the murder took place between ten-ten and ten-fifteen, the swimmer must have left the nearest cove, the one below the monastery hill, at nine-forty at the latest, and returned there after the crime. Given that Rachel Syms could not have committed the murder because she was still in the hotel when her lover left, who's left?"
EQMM, September-October 2008 Page 28
