In the silence that followed, all eyes turned to Maggie Lester, who shot a baleful glance at Christopoulos.
"After all those loaded questions yesterday, I knew you suspected me."
"I was merely trying to establish that you had no alibi, miss,” he replied with a smile, “which does indeed seem to be the case. Nobody at the monastery can identify you as having been there. You could have acted in the manner Mr. Cullen described. You had the time, the opportunity, and the motive."
"Which was?"
"Jealousy. To pay your companion back for his infidelity, you committed a crime knowing it would be blamed on him."
The accusation elicited a cynical sneer.
"Do you think I would have done that because of Tony? Taken all those risks for that ... look at him! Out of the glare of the spotlight, he's just a wimp, good for stealing schoolgirls from their spotty boyfriends. Do that because of Tony? You must be joking!"
Anthony Stamp looked hurt, while Charles Cullen continued: “What's clear is that there was premeditation, for there were only your prints on the wrench, Mr. Stamp, and that's significant. As Dr. Twist pointed out, several people on the boat were said to have handled it at one time or another, yet yours were the only prints found. Hence, someone deliberately wiped the wrench clean and waited for Anthony Stamp to touch it so they could take it and use it the following day. I'll let Dr. Twist explain his theory."
The elderly detective looked at all the suspects in turn over his pince-nez before picking up the thread.
"It's quite simple. There's not much to say except that that manoeuvre reveals the murderer's strategy. After committing the crime, the killer carefully placed the weapon where we found it. Actually, it may not even have been the real weapon, which could have been an iron bar, but no matter. What is clear is that the wrench was left next to the body so that Stamp couldn't fail to see it. What, then, would be his reaction? It could only be one of two possibilities...
"The first: do nothing and simply report what he had seen. The circumstances under which the body was found, plus his prints on the weapon, would frame him as the guilty party. The second: throw away the weapon in order to save his mistress, for it was she at whom the evidence pointed. That's actually what he did, and I'm willing to bet that the murderer banked on it; banked on the police finding the weapon on the rocks or in the sea, at which point the actor would be caught like a rat in a trap, particularly after the Trents’ testimony. Nobody would believe he'd been trying to save his mistress. Any such claim would seem like another lie, digging himself into an even deeper hole. The only worry the killer might have had was that the weapon would not be found, in which case it would seem like an accident, and no harm done.
"Now, the murderer's need to pin the crime on someone reduced the field of suspects considerably, for it meant that it was necessary for the police to be handed a suspect. In other words, the killer was someone on whom suspicion would otherwise naturally fall."
After a long pause, Rachel Syms fluttered her eyelashes and said: “Do you mean me?"
"Yes, Miss Syms, you, his wife, set to inherit a considerable fortune. I'm only guessing, but I suspect you took up with your previous costar for the sole purpose of using him; for, as I said, you needed a scapegoat. Everything was worked out in the most minute detail: the time and the place of the crime; your confession to your husband of your infidelity, simply to drive him into such a rage he would hit you; the bruises and scratches on your body when you came back to the hotel, so that your furious lover would be seen racing down to the beach to teach the fellow a lesson. It was all very cleverly done: to appear to be guilty at first, only to be proved innocent by surprise witnesses later!
"Yes, everything had been worked out and prepared in advance. You knew at exactly what time the Trents would anchor in the cove and you knew their testimony would save you and deal a fatal blow to your lover. From an artistic point of view, it was a remarkable murder. One cannot help but admire your ingenious plan, not to mention your acting, but nobody doubts your ability in that direction."
After another stunned silence, the lovely Rachel threw her head back and laughed, but for once her amusement sounded strained.
"It's—it's grotesque,” she gasped. “But supposing everything you say about my motive is true, how the devil could I have done it, while I was in the hotel all the time? Didn't you see me at the time the crime was committed?"
"Actually, it was slightly before. And I also heard you—as you intended, for you deliberately raised your voice and left your window open. It was ten-ten when your lover crossed the terrace."
"Exactly, and I begged him to come back. How could I have got down before him without being seen. He was walking very fast."
"Yes, but you had a few minutes in hand as he descended the cliff path. You went out of one of the side doors of the hotel and reached the cove before he did."
"How? On a magic carpet?"
"No, there was nothing magic about it. You simply followed the ball ... Nausicaa's ball. Have you forgotten?"
The actress looked about her, then tapped her temple with a finger and sneered: “He's completely out of his mind! He'll say anything that comes into his head."
A dangerous glint came into Dr. Twist's eye.
"No, madam, I'm not mad. I still have all my faculties, unfortunately for you. You did follow, to within a few yards, the trajectory of the ball that fell from the top of the cliff yesterday. While your lover was making his way slowly and carefully down the cliff path, and just after the Trents left the cove—which you could see from where you were—you made a graceful dive from the top of the cliff into the only spot where the water is deep enough: by the diving board. A dive of a hundred feet: dangerous for an amateur, but nothing to a competitive swimmer of your class.
"You climbed swiftly out of the water, killed your husband—who was probably stupefied with shock—and planted the wrench, after which you rapidly climbed the sheer cliff face using the rope you had secured from the top that morning. Tony couldn't see you because the view from the path was blocked by the promontory and you knew that nobody else would be around in the water. In any case, for an athlete like you it would only have taken a minute to climb a hundred feet, after which you hid the rope. You may even have had time to watch the scene down in the cove below and see how your lover would react. All you then had to do was get discreetly back to your room, swallow a few glasses of whiskey, and play out the comedy."
Pure hatred flashed in the eyes of the actress as she hissed: “You miserable old wizard!"
"No, it's you who are the witch, and let's hope the jury sees it that way."
"How did you work it out?” said the actress, still spitting with rage.
"Why, because of Nausicaa's ball, of course. I suspected you as soon as I saw it. Purely by intuition, I must admit. I told myself it was a sign from the gods. Who could have played such a trick on poor Portman, if not the mischievous Nausicaa playing with her ball?"
(c)2008 by Paul Halter; translation (c)2008 by Robert Adey and John Pugmire.
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Fiction: AFTER BABYGIRL by Jean Femling
Californian Jean Femling is the author of three mystery novels: Getting Mine and Hush Money (St. Martin's), and Backyard (Harper & Row). Her short stories have appeared in Without a Clue, Descant, and elsewhere. She joins us this month with a high-speed, high-tension adventure on the road that has its origin in a situation many of us have witnessed.
She started it.
She made it happen.
Dillon was just sitting there in the double left-turn pocket onto Fair waiting for the signal to change when he happened to glance over at the car beside him. And there she was, staring at him. Her mouth was even open a little—when his eyes met hers she kind of flinched like she was waking up and snapped her eyes forward. Probably she couldn't believe her luck.
She gave him a good long look at her profile, which was perfect. A little prize, she
was, silky skin bare to the shoulder and then everything covered; light blond hair pulled up on top in a bunch. Her left forearm was lying on the doorframe, her window actually open. Little hands with natural pink fingernails white-tipped, none of this black garbage, and he really liked that, too. She was sort of stroking her side mirror, like it was somebody's face.
His new music system going, the gigantic bass speakers booming almost too low to hear, you more felt them; so low they shook the ground and the car like bombs tramping. She had to feel them, too, slamming into her, invading, and she couldn't move, couldn't get away, she had to sit right there and take it. He stared at her but she kept turned away, she wouldn't look back. That was calculated, too; everything to lure him.
Dillon was so turned on he only now thought to lean over and talk to her. But then the signal changed, the cars in front started to move, and she jumped forward like a scared little rabbit. The car in front of Dillon was slow and he wanted him to stomp it so he could pull even with her and get something going. She had bitchin’ wheels; a tan Mercedes 360SL—probably a high-school graduation present from her daddy. Maybe even her sixteenth birthday. Probably she was her daddy's Babygirl, he would get her anything. She had only to ask. Not like Dillon's beat-up Camaro; it still needed a lot of work and he was still paying on it.
How old would she be? Twenty, max, he'd bet. Dillon was old enough to get his guts shot out, if he was stupid enough to volunteer, but not to buy a beer. An hour till he had to be at work; his two junk classes for the day done. He had time.
Babygirl's lane was moving faster than his: Dillon shoved his snout right in behind her, making the next car back hit his brakes with a screech and an angry honk. And Babygirl noticed Dillon: In her rearview mirror he saw the sudden panic flare in her eyes. Now, how to get her to stop? Too much traffic to pull alongside and try the old low rear tire bit on her. Follow her when she pulled off? She might be pretty close to home, though. He could see the top half of her face perfectly, and she wasn't looking at him now. Worried, more. Like guilty, daydreaming about a strange guy in another car.
What was all that crap along the bottom of her rear window? Oh; little stuffed toys. A monkey, a tiger—alligator, bluebird, polar bear. Even a buffalo with horns. The car in front of Babygirl now was a dusty old chug, and that suited Dillon just fine for the moment. Heyyy ... she was moving one lane left, maybe for the freeway entry lane. This was beginning to look promising.
Onto the freeway and starting to move. Now Dillon could let it out a little, let her see his style. Some way he had to get her to pull off at one of these exits. He couldn't do anything till he got to talk to her. Through the 405 bottleneck; time enough here to give him a sign. But she got into the middle lane and built up to 75, and then just held steady. Seven or eight cars ahead of her there was a big square truck, plain white: She'd have to go around that. In the meantime Dillon tried pulling up close behind her right on her bumper and then backing off a little, rocking it up and back, up and back, as close as he dared. She'd have to get that signal. But she drove straight ahead, hunched forward over the wheel.
Harass her enough so she'd be screaming to get off the freeway. Dillon tried pulling alongside her and then swerving like he was going to jam himself in front of her; and again, again. But she held her speed, her eyes terrified. The truck ahead was opening up, they were all beginning to move. Ah; now her cell phone comes out, glued to her head. Dillon was too close for her to pick up his license number, he was positive. Only four cars ahead of her, and now three. Two.
Cell phone down. Dillon sees Babygirl looking to move over into the right lane, certainly to get off. But no, they fly right on past the off ramp, she's not going to get off. Baby bitch. And he the dog in heat. Dillon grins: a good song title. Now she's the last one and she pulls in snug behind the truck. Like a sheep and it's some kind of shelter. Nutso—the truck driver has no idea she's back there, he can't possibly see her. And suddenly the truck isn't moving ahead: It's shuddering, tires screaming, that huge block of white getting bigger—Babygirl is going straight into it, everything in slo-mo, it takes forever and here goes Dillon, there's nowhere else, he braces his arms on the wheel, her rear window a sheet of red like a shade coming down onto the toys ... Too-loud glass crumbling ... escalating beyond hearing—
In orbit, screaming in a long flat trajectory too fast to hear. Out of sight—Blinding—Everything black...
Cool Empty
One part screams—crushing him. Caught. Held. Sudden cold. Too many sensations.
* * * *
Darker again. A little warmer. Snuffling sounds. Dillon can't see things, only a lighter blob with red along the top—his mother, her red bangs. He recognizes her smell, flowery-sweet and Margarita.
* * * *
The next time, Dillon knew something had happened but he didn't know what. Not in his car now, the beat was sort of there but the music was gone. When he tried to turn over, he couldn't, the fissure opened, lava spurting, and he had to stop while the fire burned out. When he could try again, he couldn't move, he was fastened. Tied down. The one leg up in the air he couldn't feel, but his arms were both nailed, the right arm against the bed railing. His left side was weirder, his elbow held bent over his chest. When he yelled, only a rattle came out. He could still hear, if he couldn't see much. The parts of the room, the TV and the door, stayed put now, so he began to figure this was real.
"What happened?” he asked once and this person started talking about a serious accident, but he couldn't get it. This green ghost, but very solid, was there again poking at him, in his ear, sticking Dillon's wrist. He started to lay out the ghost but it was too hard, too hard, he faded.
* * * *
A big fuss somewhere close. They rolled in a bed, an old man unconscious, just out of surgery, on it, but the family didn't want him in this room. Arguing and then yelling. Then everybody was gone, no old man, the room was empty.
* * * *
Somebody on each side of Dillon pushing him over, moving wires and tubes—it hurt him, he screamed, but they went on lifting him and handing stuff back and forth around him. “In that case,” one of them said, “is he under arrest, or what?"
"Don't see any armed guard. Not that he could move if he wanted to."
* * * *
"Dillon? Come on, Bungee-Bunge, you can do it. Do it for Mommy.” Bungy, the kid nickname from that time he tried to jump off the garage holding on to some bungee cords. She was rubbing on him, his arm, he wanted her to quit but he couldn't make the words come out, only a sound.
"Oh, thank God!” his mother said. “I came straight from the airport, can you believe it took four hours to get out of Vegas? When they finally got around to locating me. And I've been back up here three times already. Bungy? You're not going to slip away again on me, are you?"
She went over to the TV, which was hung way high, and turned it on. “You will not believe the crap....” When she came back she pulled a chair close to him. “I know you're awake, I can see it in your eyes. Well, after what you've been through.” She kept trying to find a patch of him to pat, but it was mostly tubes and wrappings. The announcer said something about a freeway accident and his mother sat up straight, talking louder than the announcer.
"There she goes again, raving about it all. Yes, it was a terrible accident—you hear that? Exactly what they just said: an accident. And yes, she's lost her daughter; but she's not the only one suffering here. Look what we almost lost. A very near thing.” She watched, glued to the TV, sucking air through her teeth. Dillon closed his eyes. He'd just figured out that the catheter was the worst, most fiendish form of the torture; and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He pretended to be asleep, hoping she would go away.
"You forget how many people there are that get off on this personal fame thing,” his mother said. “You won't believe the kind of stories they're out there telling about this. Must've been about three thousand witnesses, by the sound. Absolutely disgusting
. Feeding on other people's pain and misery."
The announcer went on talking and his mother did, too. “Oh: And now she's complaining because the police didn't check you for drugs and your blood-alcohol level, for God's sake. The woman is mad.” Dillon ignored her, looking sideways and squinting hard to focus on the picture of a pretty girl filling up the screen. For a second he got it: Babygirl. It was the first time Dillon remembered Babygirl, sitting in her car beside him at the signal, looking over. But he didn't remember any accident. Anyway, she must be dead. Everybody said so.
* * * *
The green ghosts in the squared-off caps were aides; they appeared in the dead of night or even broad daylight, handling parts of him. In the night he looked over and saw the shadow of one of them in the doorway, tilting in sideways but just still. She looked familiar. Not very big. He couldn't quite see her face, but he didn't need to; he knew it was Babygirl. Perfectly normal. Because if she was dead she wasn't tied down to one place anymore, she could go anywhere.
* * * *
Click: The doctor standing there again, it must be morning. He was the bastard told them to put that damn catheter in Dillon. Showing off for these other people around him—when he asked Dillon questions, Dillon just snarled and shook his bed till it jingled. The doctor got mad and planted his hand on Dillon's shoulder. “Listen to me, young man. You're very seriously injured, we've been able to perform some extremely delicate repair work, but you're on the way to doing yourself serious harm. Now, you can either cooperate and start to mend, or we'll have to keep you knocked out, which could greatly delay your recovery. To put it mildly.” He started to leave, and turned back. “I mean it. One wrong move, and Rip! That's all she wrote."
EQMM, September-October 2008 Page 29