Tour de Force (15 page)

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘But the woman's dead. We've just left her, lying there all alone, and I do think we might have some thought for her, just a little pity. Nobody with her but a pack of strangers, poor wretched woman, not a soul who loved her.'

She gave a little shrug. ‘Oh, well – as to that, I don't think you need really worry.'

‘Not worry?' he said, roughly. ‘What do you mean?'

She was frightened again. ‘I only mean – well, you go on and on about nobody loving her: what does it matter, she's dead now, why should you care?'

He thumped with his one hand on the painted black wooden rail. ‘My God, Louvaine – not you too! Not you too – jealous and possessive, fighting off even a kind word for another woman: and a dead woman at that! For God's sake, I didn't care two hoots for the girl, I don't care whether anyone loved her or not, I dare say no one did, she was an unlovable creature at the best of times. I only Say that she lies there now, alone in a grave in an alien land – don't you think she's just to be pitied a little for that?'

The wind lifted the heavily-curling mass of red hair, swept it back from the face that was suddenly no longer the face of his gay and lovely love but the face of a stranger, only dimly to be recognized. Once again, as on the first evening that he had known her, the great blue eyes were abrim with unshed tears. ‘Pitied?' she said. ‘No, I don't think she's very much to be pitied. She's dead, and I'm alive – but sometimes I think I envy her, with all my soul.' She waited: but he was not looking at her, he was examining the palm of his hand where he had whacked it down on the wooden rail. He said, absently: ‘I'm sorry … I seem to have picked up a splinter. Just a second …' He went over to the café bar, and she saw him hold out his upturned hand, like a child, to his wife.

She turned and walked away, along the dirty decks, among the plumes and the beaded wreaths, the tarnished silver and the mourning draperies, past the garish uniforms of the funeral band; and stumbled as she went.

Chapter Nine

L
UNCH
on the terrace that afternoon was not a very festive affair. The exculpated tourists were to continue their itinerary next morning, in the care of a new guide who had been deflected from another tour after much to and fro cabling between Gibraltar and England; and already their minds were filled with apprehension as to whether the canals of Venice would smell and what would happen if they failed to have their baggage outside their doors the next morning at seven-thirty, as required. Several of the guests who were to have filled their vacated rooms had heard of events in San Juan and, apparently assuming murder a natural hazard of holidaying there, had cancelled their bookings; and the hotel management, though they had easily filled the rooms up with ‘chance trade', were not pleased with Odyssey Tours. Mr Fernando, of course, remained behind with his helpless ones, and appeared by no means elated at the prospect; his eye was shifty and he wore a hangdog air. Louli Barker was white and silent, Leo Rodd ominously black-browed and his wife alert and anxious; Miss Trapp was altogether absent, having declared her intention of going to lie down, not obviously comforted by Mr Cecil's reminder that this had proved in the past to be not necessarily the safest thing to do. Only Cecil himself was up to scratch socially, twittering away to Inspector Cockrill over
espressos
on the terrace, ticking off on tapering white fingers intriguing points against Miss Trapp. ‘A Christophe client, Inspector, but
I
don't recognize her, never seen her in one's life, I do assure you. Shopped by proxy, perhaps, but then why? If one's not coming in oneself for fittings, why come to a couturier?' Under such circumstances, said Mr Cecil, blenching at the bare thought of it, one might as well simply get things off the peg. ‘And then why go all funny when I recognized her hat?' He considered it. ‘Mind you, it's a very old hat.'

Cockie sat perched on the wide balustrade of the terrace, with his coffee cup beside him, swinging his short legs, his back to the sea. ‘Is it? How old?'

‘Well, but I mean, my dear – roses: three seasons ago, it gives one the actual
date
. And come to think,' said Cecil, ‘everything she's got is at least three years out of fashion. It's odd. She goes to the big houses, she spends a lot; but she gets nothing new for at least three years. Now, why?'

‘Perhaps she can no longer afford to,' suggested Cockie.

Mr Cecil cradled the shallow coffee cup in his long white hands. ‘It might be. Everything she has is madly expensive – but old. Of course some people like things like that, we have lots of old drears who think it's not chic to be smart.' He went off into a whinney of high-pitched laughter. ‘Oh, dear – not chic to be smart! – I do think that's rather good!'

‘Miss Trapp still lives in Park Lane.'

‘Can't get rid of the lease, dear. Or wants to keep up appearances till the last ditch. Hoping and hoping that something may turn up.'

‘Such as a husband?' suggested Inspector Cockrill.

‘A husband!' He put down the cup with a rattle in its saucer. ‘A rich woman, Inspector, rich and lonely but not minding being lonely because of being rich. But something goes wrong, she begins to take fright about her money; and while it still lasts, she decides to go forth and use what's left to get herself a husband.' But, to be honest, it did not sound like Miss Trapp. ‘Or a husband just comes along …'

‘Who wouldn't be a husband if he knew …'

‘That the tide of fortune was about to turn,' said Cecil, triumphantly.

And it had been Miss Trapp who had insisted so importunately that Vanda Lane should retire to her room that day. Of course, reflected Cockie, himself retiring to his room and throwing himself on the four-poster bed for the siesta, there would be no intention to murder – not then. Get the girl out of the way for the moment, would be her impulse, till one had time to think things out; and very neatly she had gone about it, with every sign of concern – and it was true, as he recollected it, that the concern had sounded oddly impersonal, oddly Insincere. Then, safe for the moment, the bathe. And after that … He could picture the poor thing, crouching in an agony in her nudist camp for one, deciding at last to creep up and see the girl, to discover for herself the real extent of the danger; to plead, to promise, to threaten; at last – to kill? The book turned on the table perhaps by the blackmailer at the first threat: beware what you do, there's a policeman among us.… But, blind with rage at the blighting of hopes so lately grown infinitely dear, she would lunge forward with the suddenly snatched up knife. He thought of the improvised catafalque of the bed, the outstretched figure, the hands composed, the outspread hair. The work of a woman, her mind deranged by horror of what she had done? But there had been little sign of derangement in the methodical removal, in the bathroom, of stains of blood. He reflected again that it had been convenient for a murderer that they had all been, wearing bathing dresses which could be washed with impunity and would cause no comment if they appeared still damp; and thought wistfully of Scotalanda Yarda, of post-mortems and fingerprints and analysis of garments for traces of blood.

Mr Cecil was not one to keep his mouth shut when he was excited about anything. Mr Cockrill, having ventured out as far as the raft, was sitting sunning himself there after the siesta that afternoon, when he was approached by Fernando, rolling out from the beach like a well-baked golden porpoise, hoisting himself up beside him and turning upon him an agitated, round brown face. ‘Inspector, forgive me, I trouble you, but I am in a great worry, I have heard bad news. Inspector, I ask you now as man with man – is this true?'

‘Is what true?' said Cockie.

‘This which I have heard: to me it seems impossible that anyone can think of such a thing.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' said Cockie.

‘Ah, ha, Inspector, you refuse then to answer me, you avoid my question?'

‘I don't avoid your question at all – I simply don't know what your question is.'

‘Then I must ask it again,' said Fernando, heavy with irony. ‘And here it is, I ask it, please this time to listen, Inspector; do you believe that Miss Lane was killed by – Miss Trapp?'

‘By Miss Trapp?' said Inspector Cockrill. ‘No, I don't.'

Mr Fernando was absolutely flabbergasted, ‘You don't believe this?'

‘No, certainly not. I'm quite sure she wasn't killed by Miss Trapp.'

‘But I thought – I heard – I understood that you had built up a Whole case against her?'

There was something black and wet and shiny on the raft near Inspector Cockrill's hand. He picked it up idly and looked at it as he talked, turning it over and over, not thinking about it. ‘There's a big difference, Mr Fernando, between building up a case and building up anything else. When you build – for example, a house – you start with a certain number of bricks and if you need more you get more; and if there are any over, well, you put them aside, you use them up some other time. But in building up a case, you must work only with the bricks that you find on the scene of the crime – and if there are not enough, then your case falls down; and if there are any over then, once again, your case falls down. There are two bricks left over in the case against Miss Trapp, two bricks that try as I may, won't fit in anywhere: and so the case against Miss Trapp falls down.'

It was almost pathetic to see the relief, the incredulous joy and relief on that bland, round face: the dawn of doubt, the dawn of conviction, the sunshine of gold teeth flashing in a smile as broad as the break of day. To Inspector Cockrill's horror, two huge tears gathered in the soft, brown eyes and rolled, unimpeded and unashamed, down the sunburned face. ‘Two bricks?' said Fernando, foolishly babbling. ‘Two bricks?'

‘One brick is the red shawl. Why should Miss Trapp have laid out the dead body on the red shawl? How would she have got the shawl anyway, why should she have gone into Miss Barker's room?' The other brick, the real brick, the gold brick as one might say, was the brick that he had placed under all their noses, when he described the scene of the murder to them: the brick they had failed to recognize as relevant at all.

But Fernando did not really care two hoots about the bricks. ‘I am so thankful, Inspector, for this poor Miss Trapp. One word from you about this, and … you understand, Inspector, El Gerente grows impatient, already there is trouble about the murder, the hotel is complaining, bookings are cancelled and this island lives largely upon the tourist trade. There has been an order from – from higher up,' said Fernando, glancing back nervously to where, literally higher up, the palace of the Grand Duke sat on its pinnacle of rock. ‘The matter is to be cleared up without more delay, the murderer is to be found and the rest of the suspects must be sent home at once and the whole thing wiped over and forgotten. I tell you, Inspector, the Gerente is very anxious – very anxious indeed.' The complaint was evidently catching for he added in a Voice of positive awe: ‘El Exaltida has decreed.'

‘Oh,
has
he?' said Cockie, deeply interested.

‘So the Gerente must strike soon; and, Inspector, the choice is not very great. You are out, for El Exaltida has said that he does not wish for trouble with the British police who might put the island out of bounds for tourists. Miss Barker is out, because we know that she was with you. This left Miss Trapp, Mr Cecil, Mr and Mrs Rodd, and me. Now you most happily say that Miss Trapp is out. I also am out, so that leaves only those three.' He looked not unduly downcast at the thought of their plight.

‘Why are you out?' said Inspector Cockrill bleakly.

‘
I?
' said Fernando, incredulous.

‘Was not Miss Lane trying to blackmail you too? There was a figure against your name in the book.'

Mr Fernando shrugged deprecatingly. ‘No use, Inspector, to blackmail a man with no money.'

‘Unless he has – rich prospects,' suggested Cockie.

He shrugged off that one too with an odd little smile. ‘In any event, Inspector, I could not have done it. I lay all the afternoon here on this very raft, you say it yourself.'

It was a large raft, built at two levels with a sort of wide step on two sides of it. Now in the light breeze blowing up over the glinting blue sea, it rolled a little, breasting the gentle waves. ‘I saw you sunbathing on the raft. I didn't see you leave the raft and I didn't see you swim back to it, it's true. For this reason, I assumed at one time that you'd been here all the time; in my anxiety to look after everyone's interests, I assumed a good many things, too readily. But if you watch this raft carefully from the terrace for an hour, as I've since been careful to do, you'll realize that most of the time – especially in a breeze like this – you need not actually see the whole surface of the raft at all.'

Mr Fernando's smile faded, he sat deflated, his hands on his knees. ‘But, Inspector …'

‘I don't say you did leave the raft. I just say that you can't so definitely count yourself out. You
could
have left. You could have swum to the shore, to the little beach on the further side of the rock, you could have gone up to the bathing cabins from there and so on up the steps to the top terrace and to her room. I don't say you did,' repeated Inspector Cockrill, ‘but I do say that you could.'

From far out to sea, Leo Rodd drifted lazily back from a solitary swim, his head dark against the breeze blown blue. ‘Inspector – just glance over there, just lift your head for one moment and then down again. Can you miss him? Can you miss a swimmer, can you sot see the dark head bobbing, a blot where all is so blue? You did not sleep that day: how was I to have known that
any
one would sleep, was I not to suppose that all might be alert, looking out idly over the nice blue sea? How could I have dared to swim half across the width of the bay to the rock, knowing that, by any or all of half a dozen people, I would almost certainly be seen?'