Photo Finish

He had hoped for some differences: something that could give him a hint of a pattern or explain the seeming discrepancies in Maria’s narrative. Particularly, something about keys. But no, on all points the account corresponded with Maria’s.

Alleyn asked if the Sommita made much use of her bedroom key.

“Yes; I think she did, I recommended it. She has — had— there was always — a considerable amount of jewelry in her bedroom. You may say very valuable pieces. I tried to persuade her to keep it in my safe in this room but she wouldn’t do that. It was the same thing in hotels. After all, we have got a considerable staff here and it would be a temptation.”

“Her jewel case in the escritoire — unlocked.”

Mr. Reece clicked his tongue. “She’s — she was incorrigible. The artistic temperament, I am told, though I never, I’m afraid, have known precisely what that means.”

“One is never quite sure of its manifestations,” said Alleyn, surprised by this unexpected turn in the conversation. Mr. Reece seemed actually to have offered something remotely suggesting a rueful twinkle.

“Well,” he said, “you, no doubt, have had firsthand experience,” and with a return to his elaborately cumbersome social ma

“Thank you. While I think of it,” Alleyn said, “do you, by any chance remember if Madame Sommita carried a gold-meshed handbag when you took her up to her room?”

“No,” said Mr. Reece, after considering it. “No, I’m sure she didn’t.”

“Right. About these jewels. No doubt the police will ask you later to check the contents of the box.”

“Certainly. But I am not familiar with all her jewels.”

Only, Alleyn thought, with the ones he gave her, I daresay.

“They are insured,” Mr. Reece offered. “And Maria would be able to check them.”

“Is Maria completely to be trusted?”

“Oh, certainly. Completely. Like many of her class and origin she has an uncertain temper and she can be rather a nuisance, but she was devoted to her mistress, you might say fanatically so. She has been upset,” Mr. Reece added with one of his own essays in understatement.

“Oh, my dear Monty,” Signor Lattienzo murmured. “Upset! So have we all been upset. ‘Shattered’ would be a more appropriate word.” He made an uncertain gesture and took out his cigarette case.

And indeed he looked quite unlike himself, being white and, as Alleyn noticed, tremulous. “Monty, my dear,” he said. “I should like a little more of your superb cognac. Is it permitted?”

“Of course, Beppo. Mr. Alleyn? Doctor? Ben?”

The secretary, with a sort of ghostly reminder of his customary readiness, hurried into action. Dr. Carmichael had a large whiskey-and-soda and Alleyn nothing.

Ben Ruby, whose face was puffed and blotched and his eyes bloodshot, hurriedly knocked back his cognac and pushed his glass forward. “What say it’s one of that mob?” he demanded insecurely. “Eh? What say one of those buggers stayed behind?”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Reece.

“ ’S all very fine, say ‘nonsense.’ ”

“They were carefully chosen guests of known distinction.”

“All ver’ well. But what say,” repeated Mr. Ruby, building to an unsteady climax, “one of your sodding guestserknown-stinction was not what he bloody seemed. Eh? What say he was Six.”

“Six?” Signor Lattienzo asked mildly. “Did you say six?”

“I said nothing of sort. I said,” shouted Mr. Ruby, “Strix.”

“Oh, no!” Hanley cried out, and to Mr. Reece: “I’m sorry but honestly! There was the guest list. I gave one to the launch person and he was to tick off all the names as they came aboard in case anybody had been left behind. In the loo or something. I thought you couldn’t be too careful in case of accidents. Well, you know, it was — I mean is — such a night.”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Reece said wearily. “Give it a rest. You acted very properly.” He turned to Alleyn. “I really can’t see why it should be supposed that Strix, if he is on the premises, could have any motive for committing this crime. On the contrary, he had every reason for wishing Bella to remain alive. She was a fortune to him.”

“All ver’ well,” Mr. Ruby sulked. “If it wasn’t, then who was it? Thass the point. D’you think you know who it was? Beppo? Monty? Ned? Come on. No, you don’t. See what I mean?”

“Ben,” said Mr. Reece quite gently. “Don’t you think you’d better go to bed?”

“You may be right. I mean to say,” said Mr. Ruby, appealing to Alleyn, “I’ve got a hell of a lot to do. Cables. Letters. There’s the U.S. concert tour. She’s booked out twelve months ahead: booked solid. All those managements.”

“They’ll know about it soon enough,” said Mr. Reece bitterly. “Once this storm dies down and the police arrive it’ll be world news. Go to bed, boy. If you can use him, Ned will give you some time tomorrow.” He glanced at Hanley. “See to that,” he said.

“Yes, of course,” Hanley effused, smiling palely upon Mr. Ruby, who acknowledged the offer without enthusiasm. “Well, ta,” he said. “Won’t be necessary, I daresay. I can type.”

He seemed to pull himself together. He finished his brandy, rose, advanced successfully upon Mr. Reece, and took his hand. “Monty,” he said, “dear old boy. You know me? Anything I can do? Say the word.”

“Yes, Be

“There’ve been good times, haven’t there?” Mr. Ruby said wistfully. “It wasn’t all fireworks, was it? And now—!”

For the first time Mr. Reece seemed to be on the edge of losing his composure. “And now,” he surprised Alleyn by saying, “she no longer casts a shadow.” He clapped Mr. Ruby on the shoulder and turned away. Mr. Ruby gazed mournfully at his back for a moment or two and then moved to the door.

“Good night, all,” he said. He blew his nose like a trumpet and left them.

He was heard to fall rather heavily on his way upstairs.

“He is fortunate,” said Signor Lattienzo, who was swinging his untouched cognac around in the glass. “Now, for my part, the only occasions on which I take no consolation from alcohol are those of disaster. This is my third libation. The cognac is superb. Yet I know it will leave me stone-cold sober. It is very provoking.”

Mr. Reece, without turning to face Alleyn, said: “Have you anything further to tell me, Mr. Alleyn?” and his voice was elderly and tired.

Alleyn told him about the Morse signals and Mr. Reece said dully that it was good news. “But I meant,” he said, “about the crime itself. You will appreciate, I’m sure, how — confused and shocked — to find her — like that. It was—” He made a singular and uncharacteristic gesture as if warding off some menace. “It was so dreadful,” he said.

“Of course it was. One can’t imagine anything worse. Forgive me,” Alleyn said, “but I don’t know exactly how you learned about it. Were you prepared in any way? Did Maria—?”

“You must have heard her. I was in the drawing room and came out and she was there on the stairs, screaming. I went straight up with her. I think I made out before we went into the room and without really taking it in, that Bella was dead. Was murdered. But not — how. Beppo, here, and Ned — arrived almost at the same moment. It may sound strange but the whole thing, at the time, seemed unreal: a nightmare, you might say. It still does.”

Alleyn said: “You’ve asked me to take over until the police come. I’m very sorry indeed to trouble you—”

“No. Please,” Mr. Reece interrupted with a shaky return to his customary formality. “Please, do as you would under any other circumstances.”

“You make it easy for me. First of all, you are sure, sir, are you, that after Madame Sommita ordered you and Maria to leave the bedroom you heard her turn the key in the lock?”

“Absolutely certain. May I ask why?”

“And Maria used her own key when she returned?”