“So here he is on the same tour with the man who defrauded him. It’s a big coincidence,” Rogers said.
“If it is a coincidence. You have to admit he had a motive.”
“But why would he tell you about losing his money because of Beasley if he intended to kill him? It seems to me he wouldn’t mention a word about any connection with Beasley.”
“He didn’t. He never mentioned Beasley’s name — nor the name of Insulae, for that matter. I made that connection. I doubt that Beasley knew Hunter had lost money on one of his buildings. And there was no way for Hunter to know that I knew Beasley was the builder for Insulae. Or that I knew anything at all about Insulae. And there is one other thing.”
“Well?”
“I described Hunter to the watchman who was on duty at the gangplank that night. With that outfit of his he’s conspicuous. I asked him if he had seen anyone dressed like that return to the boat that night, and, if so, when. He said Hunter came back at the same time as the others, then he went ashore again directly and didn’t return for thirty or forty minutes. What more do you want? He’s got a motive and he’s not accounted for during the period the murder occurred. It’s got to be Hunter who killed Beasley.”
Van Alt, Rogers thought, in addition to proclaiming himself the best tour director in Egypt, was now establishing himself as the best detective.
Or possibly the best liar.
“What are you reading, Mr. Trewin?” Rogers asked as he stopped at the table where Trewin was sitting alone in the bar. “May I sit down?”
“Please do.” Trewin cleared his throat as if reluctantly preparing himself for something. “It’s Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy.”
“Appropriate in view of what happened last night,” Rogers said, and thought how appropriate the title was for Trewin as well. His somber suit, dark frayed tie, and black-edged eyeglasses made him a reserved and gloomy figure in contrast to the easy-going, easy-laughing casualness of his countrymen. Once the others became aware of Trewin’s demonstrated desire to be let alone, they no longer paid any attention to him, so that he became like some fixture on the tour, a bus driver or a waiter, who is noticed, if at all, only in a cursory fashion. The exception, of course, was Mrs. Murray, who had been seen having drinks with him and chatting with him on deck.
Trewin passed the book to Rogers who, not knowing what to do with it, idly riffled through the pages. He noted that Trewin, or somebody, had underlined many passages. Trewin had fashioned a bookplate which, like so much about him, had a home-made quality and imparted a purse-mouthed, bookkeeperish accountability that may also have been indicative of its owner: “This book is the property of Thomas Trewin.”
“Could you shed any light on last night’s events?” Rogers asked, passing the book back. The waiter placed a drink before Trewin. Anticipating Trewin s hesitant invitation, he waved the waiter away. Trewin, he noted with interest, was drinking doubles and, judging by the number of glasses on the table, he was now on his fourth. Maybe the reclusive Trewin was not as self-sufficient as it might appear.
“Very little. You are interested, I assume, in my movements. I sat with Beasley at the sound-and-light show. We walked partway out together and then Van Alt overtook us. I left them and walked ahead to the boulevard and had coffee at that little cafe opposite the entrance to the temple complex. A little later, maybe ten or fifteen minutes, I can’t be sure, I saw Van Alt come out of the temple grounds. About five minutes after that, I saw that Dr. Livingstone fellow, the one who always carries that horsetail, come out. I came back to the boat a little after that myself.”
His lips twisted bleakly, as though he enjoyed not being able to provide information, but then Rogers was surprised when he added gratuitously, “I know something about the building business. I knew Beasley by reputation. I’m surprised someone didn’t do away with him long before this.”
A general approximation, Rogers thought, of what Van Alt knew about the man who had poured Hunter’s money into his concrete mixers. Insofar as Trewin himself was concerned, Rogers concluded that the most mysterious thing about him was why he was on the cruise at all.
He had nothing solid to go on, Rogers admitted to himself, but this wasn’t a court. It was a cruise where people were supposed to enjoy themselves and not end up lying before a monument with a shattered head. He had motives and some evidence perhaps, and also some suggestions that might point the way to the truth, but he could prove nothing. He couldn’t even convince himself. Sometimes he was certain it was Van Alt, other times he was sure it was the strangely immature Hunter. And now he was wondering whether the solemn Trewin was involved. While the real assailant could be hundreds of miles down the river, traceless in some teeming bazaar.
He dismissed the thought. Knowing, and not caring too much, that he would lose his job if he accused the wrong person, he was determined to confront Van Alt, Hunter, and Trewin with what he knew. He had asked Van Alt to get them together, which he did without objection — which was not his customary way of treating Rogers’ suggestions.
We’re meeting in a frivolous place for a deadly serious purpose, Rogers thought as he waited for the others at a table in the ship’s lounge. The air-conditioning, the brightly colored awnings, the splashing and laughter from the pool on the other side of the sliding glass doors all made this a place where shipboard friendships were begun, to last until the following Christmas when cards would be exchanged between already barely remembered people.
Van Alt was already present, his face showing strain. He passed an airlines envelope from one hand to the other and finally slapped it down on the table in frustration.
Hunter arrived and seated himself, placing his fly whisk on the table and following it with his white hat, which he deposited with a ceremonial flourish. Trewin came in from the brilliant morning sun, waited until his eyes adjusted to the lounge’s dimness, and took his place, regarding the others soberly and looking as though he would prefer to be left in peace to read the book which he laid before him on the table.
“Mr. Van Alt has asked you to meet with us to see if we can’t sort out the facts relating to the—” Rogers groped lamely for a way to avoid the blunt harshness of the word “—death of Sam Beasley. You were asked to bring certain items that might be of help. Mr. Van Alt has brought evidence which he will reveal at the proper time. And you, Mr. Trewin, have brought what was requested. Mr. Hunter has brought his fly whisk.” (His sixteen ounces of iron pipe, Rogers thought, his lethal, home-handyman blackjack.)
“First of all,” he said, “Mr. Hunter. You had a motive. Beasley’s construction company used up your investment and left you broke. And you had a weapon.” He pointed to the fly whisk, its black horsehair glittering on the table. “A weapon you always carried with you, that you said you left behind at the sound-and-light performance. I see it has been returned.”
“I found it hanging from the doorknob of my stateroom door. And I know who put it there.” Hunter gestured toward Van Alt. “He did.”
“That’s right, I did,” Van Alt said. “I found it hanging on the back of a chair at the sound-and-light show. You left it behind and I returned it, that’s all.”
“Not quite all,” Rogers said. “Hunter, will you repeat what you told me?”
Hunter related the argument he had overheard on the steps of the forecourt — how he had seen Van Alt follow Beasley toward the obelisk where the body had been found, how he heard the sounds of conflict. “To me it’s open and shut,” Hunter concluded. “Van Alt hit him with my fly whisk.”