“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?”