Photo Finish

“Doyng!” said the bell, “ ’oyng, ’oyng, ’oyng,” said the echo.

This time Alleyn got it first try. “Launch engine crook,” it read and was repeated. “Launch engine crook.”

“Hell!” said Alleyn and took it out on the gong.

Mr. Reece, wearing an American sporting raincoat and pigskin gloves, was at his elbow. “What’s the message?” he asked.

“Shut up,” said Alleyn. “Sorry. He’s at it again.”

Les signaled: “Hope temporary.”

“Bang!” Alleyn acknowledged, “ ’ang, ’ang, ’ang,” said the echo.

“Over and out,” signaled Les.

“Bang.”

Alleyn followed Les through the binoculars down to the jetty, which was swept at intervals by waves. He saw Les dodge the waves, board the launch, jouncing at its moorings, and disappear into the engine room.

He gave Mr. Reece a full account of the exchange.

“I must apologize for my incivility,” he said.

Mr. Reece waved it aside. “So if the Lake becomes navigable,” he said, “we are still cut off.”

“He did say he hopes the trouble’s temporary. And by the time he’s fixed it, surely the wind will have dropped and the helicopter will become a possibility.”

“The helicopter is in Canterbury. It took the piano tuner back yesterday afternoon and remained on the other side.”

“Nobody loves us,” said Alleyn. “Could I have a word with you, indoors?”

“Certainly. Alone?”

“It might be as well, I think.”

When they went indoors Alleyn was given an illustration of Mr. Reece’s gift of authority. Signor Lattienzo and Ben Ruby clearly expected to return with him to the study. Hanley hovered. Without saying a word to any of them but with something in his ma

Signor Lattienzo, who was rigged out in a shepherd’s cape and a Tyrolese hat, said: “My dear Ben, it is not raining. Should we perhaps, for the good of our digestions, venture a modest step or two abroad? To the landing and back? What do you say?”

Mr. Ruby agreed without enthusiasm.

Mr. Reece said to Hanley: “I think the ladies have come down. Find out if there is anything we can do for them, will you? I shan’t need you at present.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Hanley.

Dr. Carmichael returned from outside. Alleyn suggested to their host that perhaps he might join them in the study.

When they were once more seated in the huge soft leather chairs of that singularly negative apartment, Alleyn said he thought that Mr. Reece would probably like to know about the events of the previous night.

He went over them in some detail, making very little of Rupert’s bonfire and quite a lot of Maria’s ongoings and Bert’s vigil. Mr. Reece listened with his habitual passivity. Alleyn thought it quite possible that he had gone his own rounds during the night and wondered if it was he who had looked down from the landing. It would, somehow, be in character for Mr. Reece not to mention his prowl but to allow Alleyn to give his own account of the bonfire without interruption.

Alleyn said: “I hope you managed to get some sleep last night.”

“Not very much, I confess. I am not a heavy sleeper at normal times. You wanted to see me?”

“I’d better explain. I seem to be forever raising the cry that I am really, as indeed we all are, treading water until the police arrive. It’s difficult to decide how far I can, with propriety, probe. The important thing has been to make sure, as far as possible, that there has been no interference at the scene of the crime. I thought perhaps you might be prepared to give me some account of Madame Sommita’s background and of any events that might, however remotely, have some bearing on this appalling crime.”

“I will tell you anything I can, of course.”

“Please don’t feel you are under any obligation to do so. Of course you are not. And if my questions are impertinent we’ll make it a case of ‘No comment’ and, I hope, no bones broken.”

Mr. Reece smiled faintly. “Very well,” he said. “Agreed.”

“You see, it’s like this. I’ve been wondering, as of course we all have, if the crime ties up in any way with the Strix business and if it does whether the motive could be a longstanding affair. Based, perhaps, on some sort of enmity. Like the Macdonalds and the Campbells, for instance. Not that in this day and age they have recourse to enormities of that kind. Better perhaps to instance the Montagues and Capulets.”

Mr. Reece’s faint smile deepened.

He said, “You are really thinking more of the Lucianos and Costellos, aren’t you?”

Alleyn thought: He’s rumbled that one pretty smartly, and he said: “Yes, in a way, I am. It’s the Italian background that put it into my head. The whole thing is so shockingly outlandish and — well — theatrical. I believe Madame Sommita was born a Pepitene: a Sicilian.”

“You are very well informed.”

“Oh,” Alleyn said, “when we got your letter, asking me to come out with Troy and take a look at the Strix business, the Yard did a bit of research. It did seem a remote possibility that Strix might be acting as an agent of sorts. I was going to ask you if such an idea, or something at all like it, had ever occurred to you.”

With more animation than one might have supposed him to be capable of, Mr. Reece gave a dismal little laugh and brought the palms of his hands down on the arms of his chair. He actually raised his voice.

“Occurred to me!” he exclaimed. “You’ve got, as they say, to be joking, Mr. Alleyn. How could it not have occurred to me when she herself brought it to my notice day in, day out, ever since this wretched photographer came on the scene?”

He paused and looked very hard at Alleyn, who merely replied: “She did?”

“She most certainly did. It was an obsession with her. Some family feud that had started generations ago in Sicily. She persuaded herself that it had cropped up again in Australia, of all places. She really believed she was next in line for — elimination. It was no good telling her that this guy Strix was in it for the money. She would listen, say nothing, calm down, and then when you thought you’d got somewhere simply say she knew. I made inquiries. I talked to the police in Australia and the U.S.A. There was not a shred of evidence to support the idea. But she couldn’t be moved.”

“Last night you said you were certain Strix was her murderer.”

“Because of what you told me about — the photograph. That seemed to be — still seems to be — so much in character with the sort of thing she said these people do. It was as if the man had signed his work and wanted to make sure it was recognized. As if I had been wrong and she had been right — right to be terrified. That we should have had her fully guarded. That I am responsible. And this,” said Mr. Reece, “is a very, very dreadful thought, Mr. Alleyn.”

“It may turn out to be a mistaken thought. Tell me, how much do you know about Madame Sommita’s background — her early life? Her recent associates?”

Mr. Reece clasped his large well-kept hands and tapped them against his lower teeth. He frowned and seemed to be at a loss. At last he said: “That is difficult to answer. How much do I know? In some ways a lot, in others very little. Her mother died in childbirth. She was educated at convent schools in the U.S.A., the last being in New York, where her voice was first trained. I got the impression that she saw next to nothing of her father, who lived in Chicago and died when Bella was already abroad. She was brought up by an aunt of sorts, who accompanied her to Italy and is now deceased. There used to be confused allusions to this reputed feud, but in a way they were reticent — generalizations, nothing specific. Only these— these expressions of fear. I am afraid I thought they were little more than fairytales. I knew how she exaggerated and dramatized everything.”