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.