Photo-Finish

  ‘Old-fashioned Simplex. I used it yesterday. I snapped the people round the bathing pool from my sitting-room window.’

  ‘Miss Parry?’

  ‘It’s a Pixie. I used it yesterday.’ She turned pink. ‘I took Rupert. By the landing stage.’

  ‘Signor Lattienzo?’

  ‘Oh, my dear Mr Alleyn!’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘Yes, I have a camera. It was presented to me by – forgive my conscious looks and mantling cheeks – a grateful pupil. Isabella, in fact. I cannot remember its name and have been unable to master its ridiculously complicated mechanism. I carry it about with me, in order to show keen.’

  ‘And you haven’t used it?’

  ‘Well,’ said Signor Lattienzo, ‘in a sense I have used it. Yesterday. It upsets me to remember. Isabella proposed that I take photographs of her at the bathing pool. Rather than confess my incompetence I aimed it at her and pressed a little button. It gave a persuasive click. I repeated the performance several times. As to the results, one has grave misgivings. If there are any they rest in a prenatal state in the womb of the camera. You shall play the midwife,’ offered Signor Lattienzo.

  ‘Thank you. What about you, Mr Ruby? There’s that magnificent German job, isn’t there?’

  Mr Ruby’s camera was a very sophisticated and expensive version of instantaneous self-development. He had used it that very morning when he had lined up the entire house party with the Lodge for a background. He actually had the ‘picture’, as he consistently called the photograph, on him and showed it to Alleyn. There was Troy between Mr Reece, who as usual conveyed nothing, and Signor Lattienzo who playfully ogled her. And there, at the centre, of course, the Sommita with her arm laid in tigerish possession across the shoulders of a haunted Rupert while Sylvia Parry, on his other side, looked straight ahead. A closer examination showed that she had taken his hand.

  Alleyn himself, head and shoulders taller than his neighbours, was, he now saw with stoic distaste, being winsomely contemplated by the ubiquitous Hanley, three places removed in the back row.

  The round of camera owners was completed, the net result being that Mr Reece, Ben Ruby, Hanley and Signor Lattienzo (if he had known how to use it) all possessed cameras that could have achieved the photograph now pinned under the breast of the murdered Sommita.

  To these proceedings Maria had listened with a sort of smouldering resentment. At one point she flared up and reminded Marco in vituperative Italian that he had a camera and had not declared it. He responded with equal animosity that his camera had disappeared during the Australian tour and hinted darkly that Maria herself knew more than she was prepared to let on in that connection. As neither of them could remember the make of the camera their dialogue was unfruitful.

  Alleyn asked if Rupert Bartholomew possessed a camera. Hanley said he did and had taken photographs of the Island from the lake shore and of the lake shore from the Island. Nobody knew anything at all about his camera.

  Alleyn wound up the proceedings, which had taken less time in performance than in description. He said that if this had been a police enquiry they would all have been asked to show their hands and roll up their sleeves and if they didn’t object he would be obliged if – ?

  Only Maria objected but on being called to order in no uncertain terms by Mr Reece, offered her clawlike extremities as if she expected to be stripped to the buff.

  This daunting but fruitless formality completed, Alleyn told them they could all go to bed and it might be as well to lock their doors. He then returned to the landing where Bert sustained his vigil behind a large screen across whose surface ultra-modern nudes frisked busily. He had been able to keep a watch on the Sommita’s bedroom door through hinged gaps between panels. The searchers in this part of the house had been Ben Ruby and Dr Carmichael. They had not tried the bedroom door but stood outside it for a moment or two, whispering, for all the world as if they were afraid the Sommita might overhear them.

  Alleyn told Bert to remain unseen and inactive for the time being. He then unlocked the door and he and Dr Carmichael returned to the room.

  In cases of homicide when the body has been left undisturbed, and particularly when there is an element of the grotesque or of extreme violence in its posture, there can be a strange reaction before returning to it. Might it have moved? There is something shocking about finding it just as it was, like the Sommita, still agape, still with her gargoyle tongue, still staring, still rigidly pointing. He photographed it from just inside the door.

  Soon the room smelt horridly of synthetic violets as Alleyn made use of the talc powder. He then photographed the haft of the knife, a slender, vertically grooved affair with an ornate silver knob. Dr Carmichael held the bedside lamp close to it.

  ‘I suppose you don’t know where it came from?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so. One of a pair on the wall behind the pregnant woman.’

  ‘What pregnant woman?’ exclaimed the startled doctor.

  ‘In the hall.’

  ‘Oh. That.’

  ‘There were two, crossed and held by brackets. Only one now.’ And after a pause during which Alleyn took three more shots, ‘You wouldn’t know when it was removed?’ Dr Carmichael said.

  ‘Only that it was there before the general exodus this evening.’

  ‘You’re trained to notice details, of course.’

  Using Troy’s camel-hair brush, he spread the violet powder round the mouth, turning the silent scream into the grimace of a painted clown.

  ‘By God, you’re a cool hand,’ the doctor remarked.

  Alleyn looked up at him and something in the look caused Dr Carmichael to say in a hurry: ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean – ‘

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ Alleyn said. ‘Do you see this? Above the corners of the mouth? Under the cheekbones?’

  Carmichael stooped. ‘Bruising,’ he said.

  ‘Not hypostasis?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so. I’m not a pathologist, Alleyn.’

  ‘No. But there are well-defined differences, aren’t there?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘She used very heavy make-up. Heavier than usual, of course, for the performance and she hadn’t removed it. Some sort of basic stuff topped up with a finishing cream. The colouring. And then a final powdering. Don’t those bruises, if bruises they are, look as if the make-up under the cheekbones has been disturbed? Pushed up, as it were.’

  After a considerable pause, Dr Carmichael said: ‘Could be. Certainly could be.’

  ‘And look at the area below the lower lip. It’s not very marked but don’t you think it may become more so? What does that suggest to you?’

  ‘Again bruising.’

  ‘Pressure against the lower teeth?’

  ‘Yes. That. It’s possible.’

  Alleyn went to the Sommita’s dressing table where there was an inevitable gold-mounted manicure box. He selected a slender nail file, returned to the bed, slid it between the tongue and the lower lip, exposing the inner surface.

  ‘Bitten,’ he said. He extended his left hand to within half an inch of the terrible face with his thumb below one cheekbone, his fingers below the other and the heel of his hand over the chin and mouth. He did not touch the face.

  ‘Somebody with a larger hand than mine, I fancy,’ he said. ‘But not much. I could almost cover it.’

  ‘You’re talking about asphyxia, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m wondering about it. Yes. There are those pinpoint spots.’

  ‘Asphyxial haemorrhages. On the eyeballs.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alleyn and closed his own eyes momentarily. ‘Can you come any nearer to a positive answer?’

  ‘An autopsy would settle it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Alleyn agreed.

  He had again stooped over his subject and was about to take another photograph when he checked, stooped lower, sniffed, and then straightened up.

  ‘Will you?’ he said. ‘It’s very faint.’

  Dr Carmichae
l stooped. ‘Chloroform,’ he said. ‘Faint, as you say, but unmistakable. And look here, Alleyn. There’s a bruise on the throat to the right of the voice-box.’

  ‘And have you noticed the wrists?’

  Dr Carmichael looked at them – at the left wrist on the end of the rigid upraised arm and at the right one on the counterpane. ‘Bruising,’ he said.

  ‘Caused by – would you say?’

  ‘Hands. So now what?’ asked Dr Carmichael.

  ‘Does a tentative pattern emerge?’ Alleyn suggested. ‘Chloroform. Asphyxia. Death. Ripping the dress. Two persons – one holding the wrists. The other using the chloroform. The stabbing coming later. If it’s right it would account for there being so little blood, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly would,’ Dr Carmichael said. ‘And there’s very, very little. I’d say that tells us there was a considerable gap between death and the stabbing. The blood had had time to sink.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Don’t make too much of my guesswork, will you? Perhaps as much as twenty minutes – longer even. But what a picture!’ said Dr Carmichael. ‘You know? Cutting the dress, ripping it open, placing the photograph over the heart and then using the knife. I mean – it’s so – so far-fetched. Why?’

  ‘As far-fetched as a vengeful killing in a Jacobean play,’ Alleyn said, and then: ‘Yes. A vengeful killing.’

  ‘Are you – are we,’ Carmichael asked, ‘not going to withdraw the weapon?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve blown my top often enough when some well-meaning fool has interfered with the body. In this case I’d be the well-meaning fool.’

  ‘Oh, come. But I see your point,’ Carmichael said. ‘I suppose I’m in the same boat myself. I should go no further than making sure she’s dead. And, by God, it doesn’t need a professional man to do that.’

  ‘The law, in respect of bodies, is a bit odd. They belong to nobody. They are not the legal property of anyone. This can lead to muddles.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘It’s all jolly fine for the lordly Reece to order me to take charge. I’ve no right to do so and the local police would have every right to cut up rough if I did.’

  ‘So would the pathologist if I butted in.’

  ‘I imagine,’ Alleyn said, ‘they won’t boggle at the photographs. After all there will be – changes.’

  ‘There will indeed. This house is central-heated.’

  ‘There may be a local switch in this room. Yes. Over there where it could be reached from the bed. Off with it.’

  ‘I will,’ said Carmichael and switched it off.

  ‘I wonder if we can open the windows a crack without wreaking havoc,’ Alleyn said. He pulled back the heavy curtains and there was the black and streaming glass. They were sash windows. He opened one and then others half an inch at the top, admitting blades of cold air and the voice of the storm.

  ‘At least, if we can find something appropriate, we can cover her,’ he said and looked about the room. There was a sandalwood chest against the wall. He opened it and lifted out a folded bulk of black material. ‘This will do,’ he said. He and Carmichael opened it out, and spread it over the body. It was scented and heavy and it shone dully. The rigid arm jutted up underneath it.

  ‘What on earth is it for?’ Carmichael wondered.

  ‘It’s one of her black satin sheets. There are pillowcases to match in the box.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘I know.’

  Alleyn locked the door into the bathroom, wrapped the key in his handkerchief and pocketed it.

  He and the doctor stood in the middle of the room. Already it was colder. Slivers of wind from outside stirred the marabou trimming on the Sommita’s dressing gown and even fiddled with her black satin pall so that she might have been thought to move stealthily underneath it.

  ‘No sign of the wind dropping,’ said Carmichael. ‘Or is there?’

  ‘It’s not raining quite so hard, I fancy. I wonder if the launchman’s got through. Where would the nearest police station be?’

  ‘Rivermouth, I should think. Down on the coast. About sixty miles, at a guess.’

  ‘And as, presumably, the cars are all miles away returning guests to their homes east of the ranges, and the telephone at the boathouse will be out of order, we can only hope that the unfortunate Les has set out on foot for the nearest sign of habitation. I remember that on coming here we stopped to collect the mailbag at a railway station some two miles back along the line. A very small station called Kai-kai, I think.’

  ‘That’s right. With about three whares* and a pub. He may wait till first light,’ said Dr Carmichael, ‘before he goes anywhere.’

  ‘He did signal “Roger", which of course may only have meant “Message received and understood.” Let’s leave this bloody room, shall we?’

  They turned, and took two steps. Alleyn put his hand on Carmichael’s arm. Something had clicked.

  The door handle was turning, this way and that. Alleyn unlocked and opened it and Maria strode into the room.

  II

  This time Maria did not launch into histrionics. When she saw the two men she stopped, drew herself up, looked beyond them to the shrouded figure on the bed and said in English that she had come to be of service to her mistress.

  ‘I perform the last rites,’ said Maria. This is my duty. Nobody else. It is for me.’

  Alleyn said: ‘Maria, certainly it would be for you if circumstances had been different, but this is murder and she must not be touched until permission has been given by the authorities. Neither Dr Carmichael nor I have touched her. We have examined but we have not touched. We have covered her for dignity’s sake but that is all and so it must remain until permission is given. We can understand your wish and are sorry to prevent you. Do you understand?’

  She neither replied nor looked at him. She went to a window and reached for the cord that operated it.

  ‘No,’ Alleyn said. ‘Nothing must be touched.’ She made for the heavier, ornate cord belonging to the curtains. ‘Not that either,’ Alleyn said. ‘Nothing must be touched. And I’m afraid I must ask you to come away from the room, Maria.’

  ‘I wait. I keep veglia.’

  ‘It is not permitted. I am sorry.’

  She said in Italian, ‘It is necessary for me to pray for her soul.’

  ‘You can do so. But not here.’

  Now she did look at him, directly and for an uncomfortably long time. Dr Carmichael cleared his throat.

  She walked towards the door. Alleyn reached it first. He opened it, removed the key and stood aside.

  ‘Sozzume,’ Maria said and spat inaccurately at him. She looked and sounded like a snake. He motioned with his head to Dr Carmichael who followed Maria quickly to the landing. Alleyn turned off the lights in the room, left it, and locked the door. He put Maria’s key in his pocket. He now had two keys to the room.

  ‘I remain,’ Maria said. ‘All night. Here.’

  ‘That is as you wish,’ Alleyn said.

  Beside the frisky nude-embellished screen behind which Bert still kept his vigil there were chairs and a clever occasional table with a lamp carved in wood – an abstract with unmistakable phallic implications, the creation, Alleyn guessed, of the master whose pregnant lady dominated the hall.

  ‘Sit down, Maria,’ Alleyn said. ‘I have something to say to you.’

  He moved a chair towards her. ‘Please,’ he said.

  At first he thought she would refuse but after two seconds or so of stony immobility she did sit, poker-backed, on the edge of the offered chair.

  ‘You have seen Madame Sommita and you know she has been murdered,’ he said. ‘You wish that her murderer will be found, don’t you?’

  Her mouth set in a tight line and her eyes flashed. She did not speak but if she had delivered herself of a tirade it could not have been more eloquent.

  ‘Very well,’ Alleyn said. ‘Now then: when the storm is over and the lake is calmer the New
Zealand police will come and they will ask many questions. Until they come Mr Reece has put me in charge and anything you tell me, I will tell them. Anything I ask you, I will ask for one reason only: because I hope your answer may help us to find the criminal. If your reply is of no help it will be forgotten – it will be as if you had not made it. Do you understand?’

  He thought: I shall pretend she has answered. And he said: ‘Good. Well, now. First question. Do you know what time it was when Madame Sommita came upstairs with Mr Reece and found you waiting for her? No? It doesn’t matter. The opera began at eight and they will know how long it runs.’

  He had a pocket diary on him and produced it. He made quite a business of opening it and flattening it on the table. He wrote in it, almost under her nose.

  ‘Maria. Time of S’s arrival in bedroom. No answer.’

  When he looked up he found that Maria was glaring at his notebook. He pushed it nearer and turned it towards her. ‘Can you see?’ he asked politely.

  She unclamped her mouth.

  ‘Twenty past nine. By her clock,’ she said.

  ‘Splendid. And now, Maria – by the way I haven’t got your surname, have I? Your cognome.’

  ‘Bennini.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He added it to his note. ‘I see you wear a wedding ring,’ he said. ‘What was your maiden name, please?’

  ‘Why do you ask me such questions? You are impertinent.’

  ‘You prefer not to answer?’ Alleyn enquired politely.

  Silence.

  ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘When you are more composed and I hope a little recovered from the terrible shock you have sustained, will you tell me exactly what happened after she arrived with Signor Reece?’

  And astonishingly, with no further ado, this creature of surprises who a few seconds ago had called him ‘filth’ and spat at him, embarked upon a coherent and lucid account. Maria had gone straight upstairs as soon as the curtain fell on the opera. She had performed her usual duties, putting out the glass of water and the sleeping pill that the Sommita always took after an opening night, folding her negligée and nightdress over the back of a chair and turning down the crimson counterpane. The Sommita arrived with Signor Reece. She was much displeased, Maria said, which Alleyn thought was probably the understatement of the year, and ordered Maria to leave the room. This, he gathered, was a not unusual occurrence. She also ordered Mr Reece to leave, which was. He tried to soothe her but she became enraged.