Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 805 & 806, September/October 2008

Nausicaa’s Ball by Paul Halter

© 2008 by Paul Halter; translation © 2008 by Robert Adey and John Pugmire.

EQMM has mentioned before the availability in English of Paul Halter’s short story collection The Night of the Wolf, whose title story appeared in EQMM in 2006. It’s worth noting, however, that one of the other tales that appeared in that volume, “The Flower Girl,” received a nomination for the Barry Award for Best Short Story of 2007. Currently three Halter novels have been translated into English, and all await a U.S. publisher.

Translated from the French by Robert Adey and John Pugmire

On the advice of one of his nieces, Dr. Alan Twist was spending a few days vacation in Corfu: “You’ll see,” she had told him enthusiastically, “the Mediterranean air and that extraordinary light will do you the world of good, Uncle dear. And Corfu is superb, probably the most spectacular of all the islands in the Aegean.”

On that point there couldn’t be much doubt, the elderly criminologist thought to himself as he partook of an early breakfast on the hotel terrace. It was indeed a lovely spot, and the view of the coastline from the Hotel Poseidon, where he was staying, was quite breathtaking. Grassy promontories jutted out from the turquoise sea, creating a series of charming little coves, each invisible to the rest, and foam-flecked waves gently lapped the golden sands. The whole scene was bathed in a brilliantly clear light seldom seen in British skies.

“And best of all, it’ll be a complete break and stop you from running into mayhem and murder wherever you go.”

Stop running into mayhem and murder? Easy to say: as if he were responsible for how others behaved! If he had been involved so often in criminal matters, it was entirely because of his powers of deduction and because he’d had occasion to give Scotland Yard a hand when they occasionally came up against some inexplicable case. But this time he was determined to think about nothing but his holiday. Nonetheless, on the very first day of his arrival at the Poseidon, he had run into Charles Cullen, an old friend and recently retired Scotland Yard superintendent. He’d been delighted to see him, but inevitably they started reminiscing about old cases they had been involved in together: unusual cases with unexpected denouements,to which he’d made his own modest contributions.

The very man he’d been thinking about appeared just at that moment. Despite his casual dress, the ex-policeman cut a proud figure, with his upright stance and carefully groomed grey hair. He greeted Dr. Twist cheerfully and asked politely if he might join him. They chatted idly for a while but, after having praised the beauty of the surroundings, Charles Cullen suddenly lowered his voice.

“Tell me, Twist, do you get the same feeling I do about this place? Everything is so perfect and so peaceful, and the people are so charming, that it’s almost eerie.”

“It does all seem too good to be true,” replied Twist mischievously, removing his pince-nez.

“Yes, in a way.”

“You know, Charles, I’m too well aware of human nature to have any illusions.”

“True. We’re both too experienced for that. But since I’ve been here, I’ve noticed a certain tension in the air, as if something were about to happen.”

Dr. Twist sighed: “Just remember who you’re talking to! I often get that impression and, sad to say, I’m not often mistaken.”

The former policeman turned to look at the gardens bordering the terrace. The chirping of cicadas could be heard from within the thickets of thorny bushes.

“Still, it seems that very little happens here. There hasn’t been a suspicious accident for years, from what I’ve been told.”

“There was an Italian who broke his ankle last month.”

The ex-superintendent smiled gently: “Just a rather boring accident. Nothing to do with what we’re talking about.”

“Do you really think not? Apparently it’s the third time a tourist has been injured at the same spot in less than a year.”

“Here, at the hotel?”

“Close by: just in front of us, on the other side of the road. At the foot of the promontory there’s a small cove which they call ‘The Blue Lagoon.’ Do you know it?”

“Of course. It’s a charming spot, but getting down is a bit tricky. There’s a series of steps cut into the rock which zig-zags down a hundred feet to the beach. Once you’re there, you can rent a boat and there’s even a small diving board.”

“That’s the place. To reach the diving board, you have to follow a devilishly slippery path which runs along the shoreline at the base of the cliff then curves around the promontory and into the cove.”

“So, do you believe in cursed places?”

“Let’s just say that some places are more dangerous than others.”

“That’s certainly true,” agreed Cullen, gazing at the horizon. “As a matter of fact, here in Paleokastritsa we’re not just in any old place. Apparently Ulysses got washed up in one of the local inlets, after escaping from Calypso’s grasp.”

“And was rescued by the charming Nausicaa, who happened to be playing ball on the beach with her entourage.”

The ex-policeman smiled admiringly.

“Really, nothing escapes you, Twist. I assume then that you must also be aware that they made a film at this very spot about a year ago?”

“Yes, and I’m also aware that the main actors are staying here in this same hotel.”

Charles Cullen heaved a deep sigh.

“You’ve just arrived and you already know everything, Twist. And here I was planning to surprise you.”

The detective’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

“It’s just a matter of keeping one’s eyes and ears open. And besides, how could anyone be anywhere near a beauty like Rachel Syms without noticing her?”

Twist went suddenly quiet. A couple had just appeared at the hotel entrance. The man, dark-haired and of medium height, was approaching his forties; his unprepossessing physique contrasted starkly with that of the ravishing creature by his side, who was none other than Rachel Syms. She was wearing a sports outfit with a tank top and short white cotton skirt that showed off her magnificent slender legs to perfection. The actress was clearly not in a good mood, but even the scowl on her face could not conceal its natural beauty, framed in a luxuriant mass of black hair which tumbled in opulent waves over her bronzed shoulders. She strode haughtily across the terrace by the side of her companion, who was carrying their beach gear and who, like her, ignored the seated guests.

After the couple had disappeared down the steps to the road, Charles Cullen observed to his companion: “You’re right. How could anyone not notice her? But she doesn’t seem to have a very sunny disposition.”

Dr. Twist adjusted his pince-nez.

“That’s fairly obvious, if you don’t mind my saying so. But who was her companion? Was it one of the actors we were talking about?”

“No, that’s her husband, George Portman, the son of a rich industrialist, who’s just come into a fortune. Quite a catch, financially speaking. Rumour has it that Rachel didn’t marry him just for his blue eyes. What’s more, they say that she fell in love with her screen partner, Anthony Stamp, during the making of the film last year. An unknown young actor who, according to the critics, was a marvelous Ulysses. The same wagging tongues say it was love at first sight, and it happened during the scene where Ulysses and Nausicaa meet on the beach, where she’s throwing a ball around with her handmaidens.”

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 certainly 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 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 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?”

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 costar 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 ten-ten 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 that 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 whiskey, 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?”