Nausicaa's Ball (dr. alan twist)

by Paul Halter

  “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 feel 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.”

  “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 defia
ntly. “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?”