There was a commotion on the rough little beach the other side of the diving rock, a small boat nosed its way off the dry sand and was hauled by two bare-chested fishermen into the sea. Mr Fernando rushed down to the water’s edge and hallooed to them, pointing out to where that terrible upflung white arm had been. They leaned on their oars, pointing, gesticulating, arguing, and at last rowed off obliquely across the bay. Louvaine dragged herself up to her knees to watch them, clasping her thin hands in an agony of subconscious prayer. Miss Trapp said to Cockrill: ‘All this is so dreadful for her. Don’t you think …?’ She could not approve Miss Barker’s passion for a married man – but you could see that her heart was smitten at the sight of that bleak despair. ‘Don’t you think she should be taken up to the hotel?’
‘I shall stay here,’ said Louvaine.
‘But if anything … If they should … It will be very painful for her,’ said Miss Trapp to Cockrill.
‘You can tie me with ropes and cart me away,’ said Louvaine, ‘but I’ll drag myself back. I’m staying here.’
‘Then, Inspector, do you not think that this distressing story …?’
‘This distressing story must be told some time,’ said Inspector Cockrill. ‘It will be better for her if she can believe the truth.’
‘There’s only one truth,’ said Louvaine. ‘He loved me. Even – even after the murder, he still loved me, he still wanted to marry me.’ She knelt, hands clasped on her breast, her gaze riveted upon the little boat toiling out across the bay. The brief twilight was over, it was growing dark, the men had lighted their lantern and it swung at the boat’s prow, a twinkling beacon, inappropriately gay, throwing its pale gold disc of light down upon the heaving waters. She prayed: ‘Perhaps he’s still safe, perhaps they can find him in time.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Cockrill. ‘He swam out there intending to die. He told me what he’d done and he showed me how he’d done it and then he told me what he meant to do: and in that very moment, it was too late to do anything to stop him. He was gone.’ He shrugged. ‘No use flapping about like a fool at the water’s edge, and I can’t swim. He’d gone. I, for one, hope for his sake that when the boat finds him, he’s dead.’
The breeze blew the red hair, dark now in the evening dark, back and away from the sorrowful face, wrapped the soft dress close about the lovely body that Leo had held in his arms. She said, ‘None of it’s true. None of it’s true.’
‘It’s true,’ said Cockie.
Fernando and Mr Cecil and Miss Trapp stood wretchedly by them, their anxious eyes on the boat. Miss Trapp said, miserably: ‘But why, Inspector, should Mr Rodd kill poor Miss Lane?’
‘Poor Miss Lane was a blackmailer,’ said Cockie, sourly. ‘She blackmailed other people for the power it gave her over them, for the pleasure of seeing them wriggle on the hook. She blackmailed Mr Rodd for something different – she blackmailed him for love.’
Louvaine shrugged her shoulders with a weary, derisive movement, looking away out to sea where the little boat crept across the waters, her attention only half with him. Miss Trapp said, ‘For love?’
‘Or if not exactly that, to prevent his love from being given somewhere else. She told him that if he would not give up Louvaine, she would tell his wife that he had been planning to leave her.
‘Mrs Rodd is a very patient woman,’ said Cockie, ‘and loyal. She had put up with innumerable flirtations because she believed that they gave her husband some comfort in his grief and frustration at the loss of his arm. She knew that he needed her, she knew that he always came back to her, she knew that even while they were going on, he himself never believed these affairs to be more than affairs. Mrs Rodd thought the thing with Louvaine was just an affair.’
‘And Miss Lane …?’
‘Miss Lane knew that it was not just an affair. That night down here on the beach,’ said Cockie to Cecil, ‘when you and Miss Barker walked here talking, she told you all about their plans to run away together. I know, because I overheard you. And somebody else overheard you. Miss Barker said suddenly, “Here he comes!” but it was several minutes before Mr Rodd came. Somebody else had been moving down there, listening to the conversation – and that somebody else was Miss Lane.
‘The next afternoon, the afternoon of the murder, Mr Rodd lay on the beach and pretended to sleep. I said to-day that Mrs Rodd could have passed along under the terrace and I need not have seen her. The same applied to him. Not troubling, perhaps, a very great deal as to whether or not he was seen, Mr Rodd passed along under the terrace and up the little path in the corner of the diving rock and up the jasmine tunnel to the hotel. He was looking for Miss Barker. Miss Barker was with me on the terrace, but he didn’t know that. You couldn’t see the terrace from the sun-shed where he lay.
‘He’d missed seeing you before the bathe, Miss Barker – you told me you’d had a vague “date” but Mrs Rodd went with him and then your bathing dress tore and, one way and another, you weren’t able to meet. So he went up to your room – I’m telling you now what he told me. You were not there. Your red shawl was over the back of the chair and he picked it up and held it against his cheek for a moment because it smelt of your perfume and reminded him of you. He was standing there with it in his hands, when Miss Lane came into the room.
‘She had heard a movement there, I suppose, and she thought it was you – come up to do some work, perhaps, in the quiet hour before drinks on the terrace. But it wasn’t you; it was Leo Rodd, standing there in your room with your shawl held against his cheek. She couldn’t bear it, she started to rail at him, she said that if she couldn’t have him, nobody else should and that she would tell his wife and put an end to it all. She rushed into her room, and slammed the door. He followed her there, arguing with her, trying to persuade her to keep her mouth shut. His wife had to be told some time; but not this way.’
The little boat ploughed on over the waters and now it had begun to cast about, the voices of the men in argument and speculation carried to them clearly across the water in the still evening air. Louvaine crouched, head turned seawards, gazing after them with straining eyes, paying no further heed to his words, given up to the pitiful remnants of her hope. Fernando said: ‘But, Inspector – does Mr Rodd kill this woman, only to prevent his wife from knowing his plan too soon? And then – the blackmail book?’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Inspector Cockrill. ‘The blackmail book. The blackmail book was lying on the table. She went and stood at the table with her back to him – not in the corner where the chair was, but looking across the table at the chair, with her back to the room. She turned over the pages of the blackmail book. He stood just behind her shoulder, looking down at the book and she showed him what she had written about him and about his wife and about his mistress. He saw it all written there and he saw also what she had meant him to see, that she was a blackmailer, an accustomed blackmailer, and that she meant what she said. When she came to the page with my name on it, he stopped her hand, he saw that he could play the same game, he reminded her that I was a policeman and threatened that, if she told his wife what she knew about himself and Louvaine, he would tell me, in his turn, that she was a blackmailer. That was how the book came to be open at that page. She said in reply that he could prove nothing; and then he lost his temper and told her to go ahead and tell his wife, it would hurt his wife but it would hurt nobody else – it could do no real harm to himself and Louvaine.…’
Louvaine had been listening after all, or at least half listening, for she lifted her head a little and said: ‘You see – he loved me, he was going to run away with me.’
‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Cockie readily. ‘Of course he was. He was going to run off with Louvaine Barker, the famous writer, who was rich.’
She dropped her head again. She said, very quietly: ‘Yes, I see now. She told him then that I was not Louvaine Barker, I was not the famous writer – and I was not rich.’ But she did not seem really interested at all; the men shouted to one another a
cross the length of their little boat, and she craned forward through the deepening dark. ‘Did they say …? Can you hear …?’
‘It was nothing,’ said Fernando. ‘A false alarm.’ He said to Cockrill: ‘And the knife?’
‘The knife was there,’ said Cockie. ‘Lying on the table beside the book. He says the whole thing flashed upon him in one blinding blaze of realization of what it all meant to him, and of rage with her. She would tell his wife that he had been planning to betray her; and his wife would not forgive that; and he would be left with a love affair on his hands with a girl who in actual fact was penniless. He snatched up the knife hardly knowing what he was doing and, with his left hand, his only hand, standing there behind her, he leaned forward over her left shoulder and stabbed down into her breast. Seen from in front, the wound ran from right to left: from in front, it could only have been done by a right-handed man. But it was done from behind.’
The ring of light bobbed and swayed upon the water, the men’s hunched bodies were silhouetted against the evening sky as they leaned over the gunwales, anxiously scanning the water. ‘It is all a make-believe,’ said Louli. ‘It’s all lies.’ But she spoke now only with a sort of dreary refusal to believe, the fire had long gone from her denials, the faith was spent. She stared across at the light on the surface of the water. ‘It’s all stupid lies.’
‘It’s what he told me himself,’ said Cockie. ‘He told me how he dragged the body to the bed. He’d flung the shawl there when he first came into the room, finding that he had, not thinking, still got it over his arm. The shawl played no part in the murder, he needed no protection from spurting blood because he’d stabbed the girl from behind. The shawl was already on the bed. With God knows what vague idea of seeing if she was still alive, of saving her, perhaps, if he could – he hadn’t meant to kill her, after all, the whole thing was simply a hideous impulse – he laid her on the bed. But she was dead. He was filled with horror at what he had done. He laid her out as well as he could, from a sort of – well, a sort of remorseful pity and respect for her, now that she was dead. He straightened the shawl, he got a towel to staunch the blood, he folded her hands on her breast. With only a very vague idea of protecting himself, he cleaned up the rest of the room as best he could and washed himself down in the bathroom; at the last moment, he thrust the blackmail book out of sight, but he really doesn’t know why, just a general idea of confusing the issue, I suppose. He thought he had barely a chance of getting back unseen to the sun-shed, but luck was with him: his wife was still asleep as she had been when he went, Miss Trapp was in her “modesty tent” as Mr Cecil calls it, Mr Cecil himself was out of sight round the other side of the diving rock, Mr Fernando on the raft was asleep or quite simply not looking towards the shore. While he walked under the terrace, he was invisible to Miss Barker and me – Miss Barker, anyway, was asleep. During the very short dash to the sun-shed, he had to chance my having my eyes on my book – which it seems I had: I’ve never claimed to have been watching the beach the whole time. It was a matter of luck and he had luck: murderer’s luck! And from then on, he’s been free from suspicion because none of us thought of that over-the-shoulder thrust.’
He was silent. There was no sound but the grey monotony of the splash of the waves, the voices of the fishermen reaching them faintly across the dark heave of the water. Louvaine said at last: ‘But you say you knew?’
‘I knew this afternoon,’ said Cockie. ‘I knew up on the tower when Mr Cecil reached over Fernando’s shoulder and lifted the sun-glasses from his pocket. I knew when I saw how for a minute they slanted from left to right – as a dagger might slant. The sunglasses play no part in it, none at all: whether Mr or Mrs Rodd was wearing them that day doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except that I saw them this afternoon, lifted out of Fernando’s pocket – slanting from left to right: as a dagger might slant.’
‘And so you told him that you’d found out? You drove him to his death?’
‘I told him, yes. He said …’
‘He said what?’
‘He said,’ said Cockie slowly, ‘that it didn’t matter what I knew. Nobody would believe me: nobody here in San Juan, I mean. They didn’t want to believe me. They had – he said that they had already made their choice.’
‘But their choice was Mrs Rodd,’ cried Miss Trapp, gooseberry-eyed. ‘And now, if she was innocent …’
‘After all,’ said Cockie, reasonably, ‘he’d known all along that she was innocent. Yet he’s allowed her to be “chosen”.’
Louvaine said nothing, kneeling there on the sand, red hair blown back from the high cheekbones, pale face smirched with tears, staring out to sea. Miss Trapp stammered that surely, surely – surely, at the end, it had been this that had made him act at last; could not Inspector Cockrill confirm – could he not just – just tell them that at the last moment this repentance had come, Mr Rodd had taken this terrible step to save his wife …’
‘I’ve told you,’ said Cookie, bleakly. ‘He’s killed himself because his wife will not save him.’
‘But what can she tell that they will listen to?’ said Fernando; and at the same time, Miss Trapp cried out: ‘Do you mean to say that all this time she’s known that it was her husband who killed Vanda Lane?’
Inspector Cockrill answered them both. He said: ‘Mrs Rodd could tell nothing about the murder of Vanda Lane. She knows nothing about the murder of Vanda Lane.’
‘But then …?’
‘Leo Rodd killed Vanda Lane to prevent his wife’s discovering the truth about his affair with Miss Barker,’ said Cockie. ‘And then what happened? As a result of the murder, everything came out about the affair with Miss Barker. I don’t know that Mrs Rodd actually said anything to her husband: but I do know that this was something she would not accept. She is a patient person, she dislikes scenes: she would wait quietly, putting up with things until she could act; and then she would act. Leo Rodd knew that as soon as they got back to England, Mrs Rodd would leave him: whether he went off with Miss Barker or not, his marriage was over. But he had to have money; with or without Miss Barker, he had to have money. And Mrs Rodd had made her will leaving everything to him.’ There was a shout from the boat again and he lifted his head and looked keenly out to sea. He did not comment on any increase of activity there but he a little accelerated his speech. ‘There’s a great deal still to be told, a lot to be cleared up. I will tell it all later. But to round off the story for now – you have forgotten, haven’t you? the attack on Mrs Rodd. A clumsy attack – a thrust with a knife so ill-aimed that it struck the right shoulder, fifteen inches or so away from the heart.’ Louvaine looked up sharply and he said: ‘Do you remember Leo Rodd once saying to his wife: “Your heart’s in the right place, whatever they may say”? “Whatever they may say”!’ He got to his feet and, standing watching the boat, said quietly: ‘Do you think Mrs Rodd is such a fool that she wouldn’t reflect that out of all the possible suspects, her husband was the only one who could know that she is one of those people whose organs are reversed: that her heart was not on her left side but her right …?’
There was a cry from the boat, a flurry of activity, the men leaned over, their silhouettes moved and changed, were humped, were elongated, flattened themselves almost to the water’s edge. Louvaine cried out, ‘Oh, God!’ and stumbled once again down the beach, standing knee-deep in the unregarded waves with outstretched, horribly shaking hands. The men called again and Fernando translated. ‘They have found him.’ He added gently: ‘He’s dead.’
They brought him ashore, covered with a huddle of dirty sailcloth, in the bottom of the boat. Mr Cecil held Louvaine back by the arms. Inspector Cockrill went forward and lifted the cloth and looked down quietly at the still figure. They had a glimpse of a white hand, hanging with lax, crook’d fingers at the end of a boneless arm, and then he stooped and lifted the hand and laid it upon the still breast. He let the cloth fall back and returned to them. He said in his expressionless, grumbling voice: �
��Yes. Dead.’
Mr Fernando, backed up by weeping Miss Trapp, began anxiously to bumble. Could not something perhaps even yet be done? Artificial respiration …?
‘He wanted to die,’ said Cockie crossly. ‘Why do you want him to live?’ But he said to Cecil: ‘You come with me and see for yourself. I don’t want any trouble about this when we get home.’ Mr Cecil, making no outcry, went forward and knelt with him beside the body and put out his hand and felt the heart beneath the dank clothes and laid his knuckles against the lips. He came back to Louvaine. He said, not meeting her eyes: ‘Go to your room now, there’s no more to be done. Let Miss Trapp take you.’ As galvanized into action, she took a tottering step towards the boat, he caught her by the arm. ‘Don’t go there. If you want to remember him – remember him as he was. Go to your room.’ His grip on her arm redirected her steps and she went obediently, moving up the long, shallow, central flight between the scented gardens, like a dead creature whose muscles continue to move automatically, after heart and brain are stilled.
The Gerente appeared with two of his henchmen, swarthy and glittering in the light of the rising moon. He spoke rapidly to Fernando. ‘He says they will take the body, Inspector. He says they will let Mrs Rodd come back to-night and we must all clear out first thing in the morning. It is all arranged, anyway, the flights are booked, he says that we must go. We shall be in London to-morrow evening. I come with you, Inspector, I must see my company and explain all to them.’ He added, his easy emotionalism beaten down for a moment by the acuteness of his curiosity:
‘And meanwhile, Inspector, you have promised to explain all to us? There remain many little things …’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Cockie. ‘I’ll clear it up for you. We must get a call through to the Yard to-night, they’ll want to see us all and you’ll hear it all then.’ To Miss Trapp, creeping up the steps after the reeling Louvaine, he called out: ‘You hear that? They’ll let Mrs Rodd out to-night and we leave first thing in the morning. Get your things packed.’
Tour de Force Page 23