Photo Finish

“Good morning, Mr. Alleyn,” said Mrs. Bacon. “I’ve just come up to see if Mrs. Alleyn has everything she wants. I’m afraid, in all this disturbance, she may have been neglected, and we can’t have that, can we?”

Alleyn said we couldn’t and Troy called out for her to come in.

When she had been assured of Troy’s well-being, Mrs. Bacon told Alleyn she was glad of the opportunity to have a word with him. “There are difficulties. It’s very inconvenient,” she said as if the plumbing had failed them.

“I’m sure it is,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“It’s Maria.”

“Is she still cutting up rough?”

“Indeed she is.” Mrs. Bacon turned to Troy. “This is all so unpleasant, Mrs. Alleyn,” she apologized. “I’m sorry to bring it up!”

The Alleyns made appropriate noises.

“Of course she is upset,” Mrs. Bacon conceded. “We understand that, don’t we? But really!”

“What form is it taking now?” Alleyn asked.

“She wants to go — in there.”

“Still on that lay, is she. Well, she can’t.”

“She — being a Catholic, of course, one should make allowances,” Mrs. Bacon herself astonishingly allowed. “I hope you’re not—?” she hurriedly added, turning pink. “And, of course, being a foreigner should be taken into consideration. But it’s getting more than a joke. She wants to lay Madame out. I was wondering if — just to satisfy her?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Bacon,” Alleyn said. “The body must be left as it is until the police have seen it.”

“That’s what they always say in the thrillers, of course. I know that, but I thought it might be an exaggeration.”

“Not in this instance, at any rate.”

“She’s worrying Mr. Reece about it. He’s spoken to me. He’s very much shocked, you can sense that, although he doesn’t allow himself to show it. He told me everything must be referred to you. I think he would like to see you.”

“Where is he?”

“In the study. That Italian gentleman, Mr. Lattienzo, and Mr. Ruby are with him. And then,” Mrs. Bacon went on, “there are the two ladies, the singers, who stayed last night, I must say what I can to them. They’ll be wondering. Really, it’s almost more than one can be expected to cope with.”

“Maddening for you,” said Troy.

“Well, it is. And the staff! The two housemaids are talking themselves into hysterics and refusing to come up to this landing, and the men are not much better. I thought I could depend on Marco, but he’s suddenly gone peculiar and doesn’t seem to hear when he’s spoken to. Upon my word,” said Mrs. Bacon, “I’ll be glad to see the police on the premises and I never thought I say that in my occupation.”

“Can’t Hanley help out?” asked Alleyn.

“Not really. They all giggle at him or did when they had a giggle left in them. I told them they were making a mistake. It’s obvious what he is, of course, but that doesn’t mean he’s not competent. Far from it. He’s very shrewd and very capable and he and I get on quite well. I really don’t know,” Mrs. Bacon exclaimed, “why I’m boring you like this! I must be going off at the deep end myself.”

“Small wonder if you did,” said Troy. “Look, don’t worry about the rooms. How about you and me whipping round when they’re all out of them?”

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Bacon, “I couldn’t dream of it.”

“Yes, you could. Or, I tell you what. I’ll talk to Miss Dancy and Miss Parry and see how they feel about a bit of bedmaking. Do us all good instead of sitting round giving each other the jimjams. Wouldn’t it, Rory?”

“Certainly,” said Alleyn and put his arm round her.

“Are they in their rooms? I’ll ring them up,” Troy offered.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs. Alleyn, you’re a darling. Their breakfasts went up at 8:30. They’ll still be in bed, eating it.”

“One of them isn’t,” said Alleyn, who had gone to the window. “Look.”

Mrs. Bacon joined him.

The prospect from their windows commanded the swimming pool on the extreme left and the hangar on the right. In the center, Lake Waihoe swept turbulently away into nothing. The mountains that rose from its far shore had been shut off by a curtain of ashen cloud. The fringes of trees that ran out into the Lake were intermittently wind-whipped. The waters tumbled about the shore, washed over the patio, and reared and collapsed into the brimming pool, which still overflowed its borders.

And down below on the bricked terrace, just clear of the water, stood Rupert and a figure in a heavy mackintosh and sou’wester so much too big that it was difficult to identify it as Miss Sylvia Parry.

Mrs. Bacon joined Alleyn at the window. “Well,” she said after a pause. “If that’s what it seems to be, it’s a pity it didn’t develop when he was going away for days at a time for all those rehearsals.”

“Where was that?”

“On the other side — at a Canterbury seaside resort. The chopper used to take him over and he stayed the night. Mr. Reece had them all put at the Carisbrooke. Luxury. Seven-star,” said Mrs. Bacon. “They rehearsed in a local hall and gave concerts.”

Down below, Rupert was speaking. The girl touched his arm and he took her hand in his. They remained like that for some moments. It had begun fitfully to rain again. He led her out of sight, presumably into the house.

“Nice girl,” said Mrs. Bacon crisply. “Pity. Oh, well, you never know, do you?”

She made for the door.

Alleyn said: “Wait a second, Mrs. Bacon. Listen. Troy, listen.”

They listened. As always when an imposed silence takes over, the background of household sounds that had passed u

“Les, by Heaven!” said Alleyn. “Here. Mrs. Bacon. Have you got a bell in the house? A big bell.”

“No,” she said, startled.

“A gong?”

“Yes. We don’t often use it.”

“Bring it out on the terrace, please. Or get the men to bring it. And field glasses. I saw a pair in the hall, didn’t I? But quick.”

He pulled the slips off two of their pillows and ran down to the hall and out on the terrace to a point from which the jetty and boathouse could be seen across the Lake. Out here the sound of the bell was louder and echoed in the unseen hills.

It was ringing irregularly: long-spaced notes mixed with quick short-spaced ones.

“Bless his heart, he’s signaling again,” said Alleyn. He got out his notebook and pen and set himself to read the code. It was a shortish sequence confused by its echo and repeated after a considerable pause. The second time around, he got it. “Police informed,” Les signaled.

Alleyn, hoping he was a fairly conspicuous figure from the boat shed, had begun a laborious attempt at semaphoring with pillowcases when Bert and Marco, piloted by Mrs. Bacon, staggered out of the house bearing an enormous Burmese gong on a carved stand. They set it up on the terrace. Alleyn discarded his pillowcase and whacked out a booming acknowledgment. This too set up an echo.

“Received and understood thanks.”

It struck him that he had created a picture worthy of Salvador Dali — a Burmese gong on an island in New Zealand, a figure beating it — pillowslips on a wet shore and on the far shore another figure, waving. And in the foreground a string of unrelated persons strung out at intervals. For, in addition to trim Mrs. Bacon, Dr. Carmichael, Hanley, Ben Ruby, Signor Lattienzo, and Mr. Reece, in that order, had come out of the house.

Mrs. Bacon gave Alleyn the binoculars. He focused them and Les, the launch man, jumped up before him. He was wearing a red woollen cap and oilskins. He wiped his nose with a mittened hand and pointed in the direction of the rustic belfry. He was going to signal again. He gesticulated, as much as to say “Hold on,” and went into the belfry.