by Paul Halter
‘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 9.30. Did that gate-keeper 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 11, 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 10.10.’
‘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 that 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 th
ought 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 10.10 and 10.15, the swimmer must have left the nearest cove, the one below the monastery hill, at 9.40 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?’
In the silence that followed, all eyes turned to Maggie Lester, who shot a baleful glance at Christopoulos.
‘After all those loaded questions yesterday I knew you suspected me.’
‘I was merely trying to establish that you had no alibi, Miss,’ he replied with a smile, ‘which does indeed seem to be the case. Nobody at the monastery can identify you as having been there. You could have acted in the manner Mr. Cullen described. You had the time, the opportunity, and the motive.’
‘Which was?’
‘Jealousy. To pay your companion back for his infidelity, you committed a crime knowing it would be blamed on him.’
The accusation elicited a cynical sneer.
‘Do you think I would have done that because of Tony? Taken all those risks for that... look at him! Out of the glare of the spotlight, he’s just a wimp, good for stealing schoolgirls from their spotty boyfriends. Do that because of Tony? You must be joking!’
Anthony Stamp looked hurt, while Charles Cullen continued:
‘What’s clear is that there was premeditation, for there were only your prints on the wrench, Mr. Stamp, and that’s significant. As Dr. Twist pointed out, several people on the boat were said to have handled it at one time or another, yet yours were the only prints found. Hence, someone deliberately wiped the wrench clean and waited for Anthony Stamp to touch it so they could take it and use it the following day. I’ll let Dr. Twist explain his theory.’
The elderly detective looked at all the suspects in turn over his pince-nez before picking up the thread.
‘It’s quite simple. There’s not much to say except that that manoeuvre reveals the murderer’s strategy. After committing the crime, the killer carefully placed the weapon where we found it. Actually, it may not even have been the real weapon, which could have been an iron bar, but no matter. What is clear is that the wrench was left next to the body so that Stamp couldn’t fail to see it. What, then, would be his reaction? It could only be one of two possibilities....
‘The first: do nothing and simply report what he had seen. The circumstances under which the body was found, plus his prints on the weapon, would frame him as the guilty party. The second: throw away the weapon in order to save his mistress, for it was she at whom the evidence pointed. That’s actually what he did, and I’m willing to bet that the murderer banked on it; banked on the police finding the weapon on the rocks or in the sea, at which point the actor would be caught like a rat in a trap, particularly after the Trents’ testimony. Nobody would believe he’d been trying to save his mistress. Any such claim would seem like another lie, digging himself into an even deeper hole. The only worry the killer might have had was that the weapon would not be found, in which case it would seem like an accident, and no harm done.
‘Now, the murderer’s need to pin the crime on someone reduced the field of suspects considerably, for it meant that it was necessary for the police to be handed a suspect. In other words, the killer was someone on whom suspicion would otherwise naturally fall.’
After a long pause, Rachel Syms fluttered her eyelashes and said:
‘Do you mean me?’
‘Yes, Miss Syms, you, his wife, set to inherit a considerable fortune. I’m only guessing, but I suspect you took up with your previous co-star for the sole purpose of using him; for, as I said, you needed a scapegoat. Everything was worked out in the most minute detail: the time and the place of the crime; your confession to your husband of your infidelity, simply to drive him into such a rage he would hit you; the bruises and scratches on your body when you came back to the hotel, so that your furious lover would be seen racing down to the beach to teach the fellow a lesson. It was all very cleverly done: to appear to be guilty at first, only to be proved innocent by surprise witnesses later!
‘Yes, everything had been worked out and prepared in advance. You knew at exactly what time the Trents would anchor in the cove and you knew their testimony would save you and deal a fatal blow to your lover. From an artistic point of view, it was a remarkable murder. One cannot help but admire your ingenious plan, not to mention your acting, but nobody doubts your ability in that direction.’
After another stunned silence, the lovely Rachel threw her head back and laughed, but for once her amusement sounded strained.
‘It’s—it’s grotesque,’ she gasped. ‘But supposing everything you say about my motive is true, how the devil could I have done it, while I was in the hotel all the time? Didn’t you see me at the time the crime was committed?’
‘Actually, it was slightly before. And I also heard you—as you intended, for you deliberately raised your voice and left your window open. It was 10.10 when your lover crossed the terrace.’
‘Exactly, and I begged him to come back. How could I have got down before him without being seen. He was walking very fast.’
‘Yes, but you had a few minutes in hand as he descended the cliff path. You went out of one of the side doors of the hotel and reached the cove before he did.’
‘How? On a magic carpet?’
‘No, there was nothing magic about it. You simply followed the ball... Nausicaa’s ball. Have you forgotten?’
The actress looked about her, then tapped her temple with a finger and sneered:
‘He’s completely out of his mind! He’ll say anything that comes into his head.’
A dangerous glint came into Dr. Twist’s eye.
‘No, madam, I’m not mad. I still have all my faculties, unfortunately for you. You did follow, to within a few yards, the trajectory of the ball which fell from the top of the cliff yesterday. While your lover was making his way slowly and carefully down the cliff path, and just after the Trents left the cove—which you could see from where you were—you made a graceful dive from the top of the cliff into the only spot where the water is deep enough: by the diving board. A dive of a hundred feet: dangerous for an amateur, but nothing to a competitive swimmer of your class.
‘You climbed swiftly out of the water, killed your husband— who was probably stupefied with shock—and planted the wrench, after which you rapidly climbed the sheer cliff face using the rope you had secured from the top that morning. Tony couldn’t see you because the view from the path was blocked by the promontory and you knew that nobody else would be around in the water. In any case, for an athlete like you it would only have taken a minute to climb a hundred feet, after which you hid the rope. You may even have had time to watch the scene down in the cove below and see how your lover would react. All you then had to do was
get discreetly back to your room, swallow a few glasses of whisky, and play out the comedy.’
Pure hatred flashed in the eyes of the actress as she hissed:
‘You miserable old wizard!’
‘No, it’s you who are the witch, and let’s hope the jury sees it that way.’
‘How did you work it out?’ said the actress, still spitting with rage
‘Why, because of Nausicaa’s ball, of course. I suspected you as soon as I saw it. Purely by intuition, I must admit. I told myself it was a sign from the gods. Who could have played such a trick on poor Portman, if not the mischievous Nausicaa playing with her ball?’
THE ROBBER’S GRAVE
‘Why is there a gravestone here? Well, because grass doesn’t grow there any more!’
Silence followed the words of René Baron, a jovial little man with a Charlie Chaplin moustache. There being few customers at The Two Crowns inn that evening, Baron, the owner, had come out from behind the bar to join his friends Charles Bilenski and Mike Felder and a passing visitor, one Dr. Alan Twist. From the start, René Baron had been intrigued by the presence of the tall, thin, elderly stranger at that time of year—the end of winter— when strangers were a rare sight. Even though, like his two friends, he was unaware that the man before him was an amateur sleuth so gifted that Scotland Yard frequently availed itself of his services, he had nevertheless sensed something out of the ordinary about him. With his calm demeanour, his unhurried movements, and his old but immaculate tweed jacket, Dr. Twist effortlessly commanded respect.
If truth be told, the eminent detective was feeling far from sure of himself. He was coming to realise, with some bitterness, that he was now well past the age when he could, on the spur of the moment, jump into his car and get away from the noise and bustle of London to lose himself in the peaceful English countryside. That evening, he had finished up in some desolate spot far across the border in darkest Wales, having started his journey heading west in total abandon. His early enthusiasm had, however, gradually dissipated the further he traveled along narrow roads winding between barren hills and seemingly leading nowhere. In fact, the absence of signposts, coupled with his increasing tiredness and the fading light, had nearly proved fatal, and it was only by luck that he had managed to brake in time to avoid driving off a cliff. He had quickly decided to find refuge if he were not to spend the night under the stars, another old custom that had fallen victim to his advancing years.
