Paul Halter
Nausicaa's Ball
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.”