Photo Finish

“Rangi Te Pokiha?” Johnstone exclaimed. “You know him? He is one of our most prominent elders.”

And he settled down to talk at great length of his people. Alleyn led the conversation back to the Island. “After what you have told me,” he said, “do you mind my asking if you believe it to be tapu?”

After a long pause Eru Johnstone said: “Yes.”

“Would you have come,” Troy asked, “if you had known?”

“No,” said Eru Johnstone.

“Are you staying here?” asked Signor Lattienzo, appearing at Troy’s elbow, “or shall we fall back upon our creature comforts in the drawing room? One can’t go on saying good-bye to people who scarcely listen.”

“I’ve got a letter I want to get off,” said Alleyn. “I think I’ll just scribble it and ask one of these people if they’d mind putting it in the post. What about you, Troy?”

“I rather thought — the studio. I ought to ‘fix’ those drawings.”

“I’ll join you there,” he said.

“Yes, darling, do.”

Troy watched him run upstairs.

“Surely you are not going to start painting after all this!” Signor Lattienzo exclaimed.

“Not I!” Troy said. “It’s just that I’m restless and can’t settle. It’s been a bit of a day, hasn’t it? Who’s in the drawing room?”

“Hilda Dancy and the little Parry, who are staying on. Also the Dr. Carmichael, who suffers excruciatingly from seasickness. It is not very gay in the drawing room, although the lissom Hanley weaves in and out. Is it true that you made drawings this afternoon?”

“One of two preliminary canters.”

“Of Bella?”

“Mostly of her, yes.”

Signor Lattienzo put his head on one side and contrived to look wistful. In spite of herself Troy laughed. “Would you like to see them?” she said.

“Naturally I would like to see them. May I see them?”

“Come on, then,” said Troy.

They went upstairs to the studio. Troy propped her drawings, one by one, on the easel, blew fixative through a diffuser over each, and laid them side by side on the throne to dry: Signor Lattienzo screwed in his eyeglass, folded his plump hands over his ample stomach, and contemplated them.

After a long pause during which vague sounds of activity down in the hall drifted up and somewhere a door slammed, Signor Lattienzo said:

“If you had not made that last one, the one on the right, I would have said you were a merciless lady, Madame Troy.”

It was the slightest of the drawings. The orchestra was merely indicated playing like mad in the background. In the foreground La Sommita, having turned away from them, stared at vacancy, and in everything that Troy had set down with such economy there was desolation.

“Look what you’ve done with her,” Signor Lattienzo said. ‘Did she remain for long like that? Did she, for once, face reality? I have never seen her look so, and now I feel I have never seen her at all.”

“It only lasted for seconds.”

“Yes? Shall you paint her like that?”

Troy said slowly. “No, I don’t think so.” She pointed to the drawing of La Sommita in full cry, mouth wide open, triumphant. “I rather thought this—”

“This is the portrait of a Voice.”

“I would have liked to call it ‘A in Alt’ because that sounds so nice. I don’t know what it means but I understand it would be unsuitable.”

“Highly so. Mot juste, by the way.”

‘“A in Sop’ wouldn’t have the same charm.”

“No.”

“Perhaps, simply ‘Top Note.’ Though why I should fuss about a title when I haven’t as yet clapped paint to canvas, I can’t imagine.”

“Has she seen the drawings?”

“No.”

“And won’t if you can help it?”

“That’s right,” said Troy.

They settled down. Signor Lattienzo discoursed cosily, telling Troy of droll occurrences in the world of opera and of a celebrated company, half-Italian and half-French, of which the Sommita had been the star and in which internal feuding ran so high that when people asked at the box-office what opera was on tonight the manager would intervene and say, “Wait till the curtain goes up, madame!” (or “dear boy!”) “Just wait till the curtain goes up.” With this and further discourse he entertained Troy exceedingly. After some time Alleyn came in and said the launch had been sighted on its return trip and the last batch of travelers were getting ready to leave.

“The wind is almost gale force,” he said. “The telephone’s out of order — probably a branch across the line — radio and television are cut off.”

“Will they be all right?” Troy asked. “The passengers?”

“Reece says that Les knows his job and that he wouldn’t undertake the passage if he thought there was any risk. Hanley’s swa

“How glad I am,” Signor Lattienzo remarked, “that I am not on board her.”

Alleyn opened the window curtains. “She could be just visible from here,” he said, and after a pause, “Yes, there she is. Down at the jetty.”

Troy joined him. Behond the half-blinded window, lights, having no background, moved across the void, distorted by the ru

“They are going aboard,” said Alleyn. “I wonder if Eru Johnstone is glad to have left the Island.”

“One would have thought—” Signor Lattienzo began and was cut short by a scream.

It came from within the house and mounted like a siren. It broke into a gabble, resumed, and increased in volume.

“Oh no!” said Signor Lattienzo irritably. “What now, for pity’s sake!” A piercing scream answered him.

And then he was on his feet. “That is not Bella’s voice,” he said loudly.

It was close. On their landing. Outside their door. Alleyn made for the door, but before he could reach it, it opened and there was Maria, her mouth wide open, yelling at the top of her voice.

“Soccorso! Soccorso!”

Alleyn took her by the upper arms. “Che succede?” he demanded. “Control yourself, Maria. What are you saying?”

She stared at him, broke free, ran to Signor Lattienzo, beat him with her clenched fists, and poured out a stream of Italian.

He held her by the wrists and shook her. “Taci!” he shouted and to Alleyn: “She is saying that Bella has been murdered.”

iv

The Sommita lay spread-eagled on her back across a red counterpane. The bosom of her biblical dress had been torn down to the waist and under her left breast, irrelevantly, unbelievably, the haft of a knife stuck out. The wound was not visible, being masked by a piece of glossy colored paper or card that had been pierced by the knife and transfixed to the body. From beneath this a thin trace of blood had slid down toward naked ribs like a thread of red cotton. The Sommita’s face, as seen from the room, was upside-down. Its eyes bulged and its mouth was wide open. The tongue protruded as if at the moment of death she had pulled a gargoyle’s grimace at her killer. The right arm, rigid as a branch, was raised in the fascist salute. She might have been posed for the jacket on an all-too-predictable shocker.

Alleyn turned to Montague Reece, who stood halfway between the door and the bed with Beppo Lattienzo holding his arm. The secretary, Hanley, had stopped short just inside the room, his hand over his mouth and looking as if he was going to be sick. Beyond the door Maria could be heard to break out afresh in bursts of hysteria. Alleyn said: “That doctor — Carmichael, isn’t it? — he stayed behind, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Reece. “Of course,” and to Hanley: “Get him.”

“And shut the door after you,” said Alleyn. “Whoever’s out there on the landing, tell them to go downstairs and wait in the drawing room.”

“And get rid of that cursed woman,” Mr. Reece ordered savagely. “No! Stop! Tell the housekeeper to take charge of her. I—” he appealed to Alleyn. “What should we do? You know about these things. I — need a few moments.”