The man in the doorway was slender, dark complexioned with black hair grey at the temples and he sported the loudest tropical shirt Reyes had ever seen upon a tourist’s back. Reynard’s voice, was that of a professional orator, trained to resonate at just the right pitch, able to project to the farthest reaches of even the largest packed auditorium. The man exuded an urbane confidence.
“I understand someone has made ill use of your oopa, Henry,” Reynard said.
“Jackal!” Stillwell snapped.
“Oopa?” Reyes asked.
“An out-of-place artifact,” Reynard said. “Archaeologists find them often, even without my help. Mainstream academicians, such as Professors Mopsey and Flopsey here, dismiss them as intrusions, brand them spurious or label them ‘religious cult artifact,’ as if that explained anything.”
“You’ve never read any of Reynard’s many tomes, have you?” Grosvernor asked.
“No, I haven’t,” Reyes admitted.
“You haven’t missed much,” Grosvernor quipped. “If you want good science fiction, stick to Asimov, Clarke and Heinlein.”
“Inspector Reyes,” the newcomer said, “I am Antoine Reynard. The manager told me you wanted to speak to me regarding poor Vale’s untimely demise.”
“Vale’s murder.” Stillwell shot in.
“So I heard.” Reynard smiled slyly. “And with your little souvenir from Ponape. Really, Henry, you should be more careful.”
Stillwell shot to his feet. For a moment, his body quivered, as if he were about to spring at the author, but the moment passed. Reyes watched keenly as the archaeologist moved into and out of rage. As if by will alone, he stilled his hands, unclenched his jaw and lowered his shoulders.
“Do you have any further questions, Inspector Reyes?” he asked, his tone calm.
“Not at this time,” Reyes replied. “I may need to speak to you later, both of you.”
“Of course.” Stillwell gave Reynard a look of frost and fire, then walked out the room.
Grosvernor sighed, labored to his feet and followed Stillwell out of The Explorer’s Club, taking his expensive brandy with him.
Antoine Reynard chuckled when he and Reyes were alone. “Those two really crack me up, Inspector. First rate archaeologists, or could be if they weren’t straight-jacketed by tradition and blinded by consensus. Take that dagger for instance.”
“Did you lose it on Ponape?”
“Good god no!” Then Reynard smiled. “But, to tell you the truth, I’d love to have it.”
“Perhaps you should explain,” Reyes suggested.
“Can we speak elsewhere?” Reynard surveyed the room. “This is for those play at being explorers. I am an explorer. The room is offensive. Too much Great White Hunter, if you get my drift.”
“Where, then, Mr. Reynard?”
“Are you a drinking man, Inspector?”
Reyes smiled. “I’m married.”
“Stillwell’s story that I somehow planted that dagger on Ponape in hopes of uncovering it myself is bunkum,” Reynard asserted. “Never happened.”
They sat on the front porch of Reynard’s bungalow a short distance from the bulk of the hotel. Set among palms and low bushes, its view was quite excellent, the broad sweep of the Pacific Ocean set against the gentle curve of the bay. The night was clear and Reynard’s Kentucky bourbon was truly excellent.
“Where, then, did the dagger come from?” Reyes asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Reynard said. “It’s real, Inspector, an artifact of the Lemurian Empire, and it fell into the hands of the one man who will never believe in its authenticity, no matter how many verifying tests of provenance it is subjected to. It does not belong, therefore, it’s a fake. The only reason he keeps it is to spite me. I tried to buy it from him, but when I saw how much pleasure he derived from bargaining in bad faith, I gave up.”
“Did you steal it?” Reyes asked.
Reynard shook his head. “No, but I tried once, a few years ago. I suppose he told you.”
Reyes said, “Were you acquainted with Mr. Vale?”
“Thomas Elliott Vale was a fan, and all fans are precious to a writer,” Reynard said, the hint of a smile curving his thin lips. “Even fans like Miss Atwater. She also knew Vale.”
Reyes nodded. “We spoke earlier.”
“Did she tell you she was in love with him?”
“Not in so many words, but she did indicate there was a...relationship.”
“Love...obsession...whatever you want to call it.” Reynard tossed another shot. “Miss Margaret Atwater had it bad.”
“You mean Marguerite.”
Reynard shook his head. “Margaret Dorcas Atwater — staid English names all, but not very romantic, so she affects a more eloquent eponym.” He uttered a bitter laugh. “Cruelly abused by life, she bends reality to her liking. She is not what she seems. The universe has the last jest, however, for while most people are more than what they seem, Margaret Dorcas Atwater is less, much less. A most pitiful creature, moved to tears by Vale’s rejection. I was shamed to witness it, furious that if affected me. That’s what drove me onto my walkabout, why I could not return to civilization until I had walked all the ire from me.” He sighed and sagged back against the wicker chair in which he sat. “I’m drunk.”
Reyes placed his nearly full shot glass on the table between them. “When did you last see Vale?”
Reynard did not shift his gaze from the moon-shimmered sea. “Lunch, yesterday. Hotel dining room. During tiffin, when he had his tiff with Miss Atwater. Got out soon as I could. That’s the last time I saw the four of them.”
He had hiked all night, Reynard claimed, empowered by whatever strange emotion that had welled up at Vale’s rebuff of Miss Atwater. It was barely an alibi.
Reyes took his leave and headed toward his office.
When his key touched the rim of the lock, the door swung inward slightly. He dropped low and listened to the silence.
Unlike his subordinate officers, who mostly handled airport security, Reyes did not carry a firearm. When he had been a detective in Santiago he had always carried two (shoulder and ankle holsters) and slept with one under his pillow. But he had left that violent world behind.
Muffled sounds came from out of the darkened office, paper rustling, occasional shuffling feet, and every now and then a slight metallic tap. He knew he should back away and summon one of the island lads, but that might be all the time the intruder required to make an escape.
Reyes eased inside to switch on the light, but the door betrayed him with a tiny squeak. The intruder broke for the door as Reyes reached for the light-switch. Something hard and thin hit him in the middle of the back. A shadow rushed past. The inspector climbed to his feet. He switched on the light.
His office had been ransacked, as Vale’s room had been. The murderer had not found what he was looking for in Vale’s room and had moved his search to Reyes’ office, and had again failed, for he was still looking when Reyes had interrupted him. The keyhole was scored with small scratches. The crime report on his desk was in disarray, but nothing was missing.
The only pieces of evidence he had not left in his office were the dagger and the parchment covered with mysterious symbols. Everyone knew he had the dagger, but not the parchment. He could not bring himself to believe that a scrap of paper, no matter how old, could be worth a man’s life, but what else could the goal of the intruder have been?
Who had done this? Certainly one of the three suspects. No, four, he realized. Although he had just left Reynard’s company, the writer was much younger, no doubt faster, and he could have been much less affected by his drinking than he appeared to be. No, nobody could be ruled out yet.
Reyes groaned as he rolled his shoulders.
Then he noticed an envelope on the floor behind the still-open door. It had been earlier slipped under, then pushed out of the way by the opening door. Though the pain was lessening, he groaned as he stooped to pick up the envelope. The w
riting was in Dr. Huris’ hand. The doctor had rolled his eyes at Reyes’ request for an autopsy, for, after all, was it not obvious as to the cause of death? But the good doctor had acquiesced.
He read the first few lines of the report and his hands trembled.
He knew who, but not the why of it.
He wrote several notes and had an urchin run them to the Rapa Nui. Before leaving his office twenty minutes later — time enough for his pain to become an annoyance, enough time for his suspects to gather — he donned his old shoulder holster, took his revolver from a locked cabinet, blew away the accumulated dust, checked the load and slipped the weapon into place.
All four awaited Inspector Reyes in the dining room of the Rapa Nui, which had been cleared of patrons by hotel management at Reyes’ request. Miss Marguerite (Margaret Dorcas) Atwater sat very stiff, thin hands clutching each other. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she looked very much her age.
Professors Stillwell and Grosvernor sat in chairs pulled close to each other, as if circling the wagons against a common foe, Reyes thought. Stillwell seemed relaxed. Grosvernor rested chin rested on his interlaced fingers upon the silver headpiece of his cane.
Antoine Reynard, frustrated archaeologist and prophet for a new age, sat slumped in a chair, his legs stretched out before him, head lolled to one side. Only the bright glitter of his dark eyes showed that he was conscious.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” Reyes said. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but…”
“Damned nuisance is what it is!” Grosvernor spat.
“…but events have progressed to where a resolution, perhaps a revelation is at hand,” Reyes continued.
“Don’t be cryptic,” Reynard said. “Who stabbed poor old Vale through the heart?”
“Whenever we have an action driven by intense passions, there is always the quick answer and the truth,” Inspector Reyes began. “The presence of all five of you, Mr. Vale included, on Easter Island at the same time, is the result of coincidence and design.”
“All right, Inspector,” Reynard said, “you’ve progressed from cryptic to enigmatic.”
“The sequence of events leading to Vale’s murder began in this room yesterday, when all of you had lunch.” The inspector looked about. “It is not a large room, but there was no crowd. All of you saw each other, some with more interest than others. You, Miss Atwater, had a lunch with Vale, which you called disastrous.”
“On a personal level, yes.”
“But you did talk ‘shop,’ did you not?”
“It was what drew us together and kept us corresponding.”
“Your belief in the lost continent of Lemuria?”
“Yes.”
“He claimed to have proof, did he not?”
“Yes. He showed me a parchment with ancient hieroglyphics.”
“But your attention by then was wandering, Miss Atwater,” Reyes said. “That was what you meant when you told me, you ‘couldn’t read it’.” Tell me, did he rebuff your affections, or did he simply ignore them, dismiss then as inconsequential?”
“Young swine!” The middle-aged woman’s eyes flashed fire. “I told him I loved him and he laughed, as if it were some kind of bloody joke, then went on as if I hadn’t said a thing.”
“Was that before or after you noticed Professor Stillwell showing his knife to Professor Grosvernor?” Reyes asked, his voice low. “The sacrificial dagger from the Empire of Lemuria.”
Stillwell made a soft snort of derision.
“Was that the first time you had ever seen it?” Reyes continued.
“Yes, but I had seen a drawing of it in one of Thomas’ newsletters.”
“You read Vale’s self-published newsletters also, don’t you, Professor Grosvernor?” Reyes asked.
Grosvernor looked up, startled. “What? Of course not!”
“We both received letters from Vale,” Stillwell added.
“So you told me,” Reyes admitted. “But you, Professor Grosvernor, mentioned ‘obnoxious little newsletters’ and exhibited more than a passing knowledge of his beliefs.”
“What of it?” Grosvernor demanded.
“You were aware of his beliefs concerning your friend’s dagger from Ponape.” Reyes replied. “You realized the significance of the parchment he showed to Miss Atwater.”
Stillwell frowned. “Come to think of it, I believe I do recall Vale showing something to Miss Atwater. It was clear he was totally blind to how distraught she was, how much he had upset her with his callous attitude.”
“Your attention was on Miss Atwater?”
“Well...uh...” Stillwell nervously licked his suddenly dry lips. “Somewhat. A little.”
“Mr. Reynard, as you had your lunch yesterday,” Reyes said, “did you observe Mr. Vale show Miss Atwater a parchment covered with symbols?”
“I did.”
“And you saw Professor Stillwell discussing the Ponape dagger with Professor Grosvernor?”
“Yes.”
“And when there were no, as you might say, ‘fireworks,’ you became disgusted and went on your all-night trek.”
“What?” Reynard exclaimed.
“If he actually went on that trek.” Grosvernor added. “We have just his word on that.”
“You were hoping for an argument between the two professors and Vale, were you not?” Reyes suggested.
“Okay, I was looking for a confrontation between Stillwell and Vale,” Reynard admitted. “I knew Stillwell had the dagger and I knew Vale claimed to have proof of the artifact’s antiquity.”
“From Mr. Vale’s newsletter?”
“That’s right. I wanted to see them go head to head,” Reynard explained. “I wanted to work the encounter in as a chapter in my next book. Thought it might bolster sales.”
“You are a scoundrel, sir,” Stillwell said curtly.
“Professor Stillwell was ignorant of Vale’s claim,” Reyes said. “He considers the knife spurious, your handiwork.”
“Yes, I do,” Stillwell agreed. “I didn’t know Vale knew about the dagger.”
Reynard sighed wearily. “All I got for my time and trouble was a baggy trollop making goo-goo eyes at a snot-nosed kid half her age and two stuffed shirts acting like they own history. Can you blame me for taking off?”
“Miss Atwater,” Reyes said when everyone had quieted following Reynard’s exclamation.
“Yes, Inspector Reyes?” She was very pale, her voice barely a whisper. Her hands writhed, as if trying to strangle each other.
“When you stole the dagger from Professor Stillwell’s room, did you plan on killing Mr. Vale here, at the hotel?”
“Don’t answer that, Marguerite!” Stillwell blurted.
Atwater smiled wanly. “Yes, Inspector, that was my intention.”
“You told me the last time you saw Mr. Vale was when you were in the hotel bar and he walked through the lobby,” Reyes said.
She nodded.
“But you saw him later, before dawn, leaving the hotel.”
“I saw him from my window,” she admitted. “It was raining, but I saw Thomas quite plainly. Oh, it was so much like a dream. I hardly felt the rain as I followed after him.”
“He went up toward Rano Raraku?”
“Yes, where the Old Gods still stand their lonely vigil,” she said with a small nod. “Once I knew where he was going, I dropped back. I didn’t want him to see me.”
“You had the dagger?”
“Yes.”
“Was your intent to kill Thomas Vale.”
“Inspector!” Stillwell exclaimed, shaking off Grosvernor’s restraining hand. “I must protest!”
“Did you plan on killing Thomas Vale because he jilted you?”
“I...I don’t know. I knew where he was going,” she said. “The most powerful dimensional vortices on the island. On the volcano’s slope where the giant statues are. The kings of Lemuria walked there when the world was young. I was coming home, returning to a timescape
I had seen through other eyes. As I walked among them, it seemed the Old Gods whispered my name.”
“Did you see Vale?” Reyes asked.
“I saw him resting,” she said. “The walk was wearying to mortal flesh and he had fallen asleep before one of the Old Gods. When I heard the whispers, I knew why I was there.”
“And why was that?”
“To carry out the will of the Old Gods,” she replied. “My hand held the dagger, but the hand was not my own. I chanted the prayers of Lemuria, then plunged the dagger into his heart.”
“My god,” Stillwell cried softly.
“Damn,” Reynard muttered. “What a chapter this will make.”
“Well done,” Grosvernor said. “You tied it all up very neatly.”
“Except for one thing.” Reyes said.
Grosvernor ground his cane slowly against the floor.
“Miss Atwater didn’t kill Thomas Vale,” Reyes aid.
Grosvernor spluttered. “She confessed! We all heard her.”
“Yes, she plunged the dagger into Vale’s heart, but the most she can be prosecuted for is mutilation of a corpse,” Reyes explained. “Vale was already dead. You killed him.”
“Ridiculous!” Grosvernor exclaimed.
“When I saw Vale’s body that morning,” Reyes continued, “I was struck by how little blood was present. I attributed it to the rain, but it was because he was already dead.”
“Look at me,” Grosvernor said. “I couldn’t have. He was young and strong.”
“You hit him from behind with your cane, as you struck me in my office,” Reyes said. “You were searching for the parchment you did not find when Miss Atwater came along. Since I did not show you the parchment, you assumed it was in my office. It was not.”
“I did not kill Vale,” Grosvernor protested. “Not with these. These are an old man’s hands.”
“There was a bruise across his throat, which I did not make much of at the time, at least not consciously.” Reyes said. “But I must have noted it on some level, because I asked Dr. Huris to perform an autopsy. He indulged me. Death by strangulation.”
Beneath Strange Stars: A Collection of Tales Page 44
