“But let’s start from the beginning: How would one spread weed-killer in an area so inaccessible? Answer: by throwing it as a compacted object like a ball.”

  “Throwing it over a high yew hedge?” said Rene Baron. “That would seem to be rather difficult.”

  “True, but there was also the gap in the hedge the size of a small door which was, if I’ve understood correctly, astride the path leading to the gate.”

  “The gate which was locked and guarded.”

  “Certainly, but at night our trickster wouldn’t have been noticed, particularly if he’d taken advantage of the dogs’ barking; he might even have provoked them.”

  “In short,” observed Felder, “someone could have thrown a block of dried powder twenty yards from behind the gate.”

  “It was feasible, given that the guards made their rounds around the wall, so our man had intervals of time in which to act.”

  “Right. But it’s the actual throwing that seems too risky. A block of dried powder could be blown off course by the slightest wind, not to mention the precision necessary in the first place. At one time or another, it would have landed in the wrong place. And how would the powder have been spread evenly across the grave?”

  “With the help of the rain.”

  “We have more than our share of it around here, agreed, but still it doesn’t rain every night. And someone would be bound to notice the next morning.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Twist. “We have to find another method.” His eye fell on the bowl of ice brought over by the innkeeper. “What if our man had thrown a large block of ice made with a heavy dose of weed-killer? It would have had time to melt during the night and spread evenly in a pool over the grave.”

  “There’s still the question of accuracy,” observed Felder.

  A mischievous look glinted behind the detective’s pince-nez.

  “But suppose the large block of ice was in the form of a ball, like, say, an orange? It would be almost the same weight as a boule as you call it.” He turned towards the photos behind the bar. “Any boule player worth his salt can deliver a series of strikes placed close together; I shouldn’t have to explain that to a professional like yourself, Mr. Baron. The boule would go over the gate, roll along the path, and go through the gap in the hedge to reach the grave. With half a dozen throws of carefully prepared ice projectiles, there would be no trace left in the morning except some moisture which would be attributed to the early morning dew. No need to do it every night, just after each fresh load of earth.”

  The smile seemed to be frozen on the face of the man from Marseilles. Pointing to the photograph over the bar, he asked: “Is that how you tumbled to it?”

  “Let’s say it helped.”

  “Then congratulations for the deduction, monsieur,” said Rene Baron, bowing slightly. “But you know, nobody in the village wanted a huge hotel blocking their view. And all I did was help destiny along a bit. Before Evans appeared, neither I nor anyone else had ever acted that way.”

  “I don’t pretend to have solved the whole mystery, gentlemen,” said Twist solemnly.

  “So I think it’s just as well if we forget the whole thing,” said Felder, draining his beer.

  “I agree,” said the detective. “I know how to hold my tongue, particularly since I had to use a similar scheme myself once. That’s why it wasn’t too difficult to work out what happened here. There was a neighbour of mine once who used to chase away the local cats with a pitchfork. I was angry and told him that if he didn’t cease his barbaric habits, lightning would strike his house and the lawn which he tended so lovingly. He had brought in an especially rich, red-coloured soil from another county just for the lawn.”

  Dr. Twist plunged his hand into the ice bucket and brought out several blocks. “So, Mr. Baron, like you, I put a strong dose of weed-killer in the ice tray and when night came I sprinkled dozens of ice fragments on the torturer’s lawn. A few days later, it looked as if it had caught measles!” ●

  EQMM, June 2007

  Nausicaa’s Ball

  by Paul Halter

  translated by Robert Adey & John Pugmire

  EQMM has mentioned before the availability in English of Paul Halter’s short story collection The Night of the Wolf, whose title story appeared in EQMM in 2006. It’s worth noting, however, that one of the other tales that appeared in that volume, “The Flower Girl,” received a nomination for the Barry Award for Best Short Story of 2007. Currently three Halter novels have been translated into English, and all await a U.S. publisher.

  ON THE ADVICE OF ONE OF HIS NIECES, DR. ALAN Twist was spending a few days vacation in Corfu: “You’ll see,” she had told him enthusiastically, “the Mediterranean air and that extraordinary light will do you the world of good, Uncle dear. And Corfu is superb, probably the most spectacular of all the islands in the Aegean."

  On that point there couldn’t be much doubt, the elderly criminologist thought to himself as he partook of an early breakfast on the hotel terrace. It was indeed a lovely spot, and the view of the coastline from the Hotel Poseidon, where he was staying, was quite breathtaking. Grassy promontories jutted out from the turquoise sea, creating a series of charming little coves, each invisible to the rest, and foam-flecked waves gently lapped the golden sands. The whole scene was bathed in a brilliantly clear light seldom seen in British skies.

  “And best of all, it’ll be a complete break and stop you from running into mayhem and murder wherever you go.”

  Stop running into mayhem and murder? Easy to say: as if he were responsible for how others behaved! If he had been involved so often in criminal matters, it was entirely because of his powers of deduction and because he’d had occasion to give Scotland Yard a hand when they occasionally came up against some inexplicable case. But this time he was determined to think about nothing but his holiday. Nonetheless, on the very first day of his arrival at the Poseidon, he had run into Charles Cullen, an old friend and recently retired Scotland Yard superintendent. He’d been delighted to see him, but inevitably they started reminiscing about old cases they had been involved in together: unusual cases with unexpected denouements,to which he’d made his own modest contributions.

  The very man he’d been thinking about appeared just at that moment. Despite his casual dress, the ex-policeman cut a proud figure, with his upright stance and carefully groomed grey hair. He greeted Dr. Twist cheerfully and asked politely if he might join him. They chatted idly for a while but, after having praised the beauty of the surroundings, Charles Cullen suddenly lowered his voice.

  “Tell me, Twist, do you get the same feeling I do about this place? Everything is so perfect and so peaceful, and the people are so charming, that it’s almost eerie.”

  “It does all seem too good to be true,” replied Twist mischievously, removing his pince-nez.

  “Yes, in a way.”

  “You know, Charles, I’m too well aware of human nature to have any illusions.”

  “True. We’re both too experienced for that. But since I’ve been here, I’ve noticed a certain tension in the air, as if something were about to happen.”

  Dr. Twist sighed: “Just remember who you’re talking to! I often get that impression and, sad to say, I’m not often mistaken.”

  The former policeman turned to look at the gardens bordering the terrace. The chirping of cicadas could be heard from within the thickets of thorny bushes.

  “Still, it seems that very little happens here. There hasn’t been a suspicious accident for years, from what I’ve been told.”

  “There was an Italian who broke his ankle last month.”

  The ex-superintendent smiled gently: “Just a rather boring accident. Nothing to do with what we’re talking about.”

  “Do you really think not? Apparently it’s the third time a tourist has been injured at the same spot in less than a year.”

  “Here, at the hotel?”

  “Close by: just in front of us, on the other side of the road. At the foot of the promontory there’s a small cove which they call ‘The Blue Lagoon.’ Do you know it?”

  “Of course. It’s a charming spot, but getting down is a bit tricky. There’s a series of steps cut into the rock which zig-zags down a hundred feet to the beach. Once you’re there, you can rent a boat and there’s even a small diving board.”

  “That’s the place. To reach the diving board, you have to follow a devilishly slippery path which runs along the shoreline at the base of the cliff then curves around the promontory and into the cove.”

  “So, do you believe in cursed places?”

  “Let’s just say that some places are more dangerous than others.”

  “That’s certainly true,” agreed Cullen, gazing at the horizon. “As a matter of fact, here in Paleokastritsa we’re not just in any old place. Apparently Ulysses got washed up in one of the local inlets, after escaping from Calypso’s grasp.”

  “And was rescued by the charming Nausicaa, who happened to be playing ball on the beach with her entourage.”

  The ex-policeman smiled admiringly.

  “Really, nothing escapes you, Twist. I assume then that you must also be aware that they made a film at this very spot about a year ago?”

  “Yes, and I’m also aware that the main actors are staying here in this same hotel.”

  Charles Cullen heaved a deep sigh.

  “You’ve just arrived and you already know everything, Twist. And here I was planning to surprise you.”

  The detective’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

  “It’s just a matter of keeping one’s eyes and ears open. And besides, how could anyone be anywhere near a beauty like Rachel Syms without noticing her?”

  Twist went suddenly quiet. A couple had just appeared at the hotel entrance. The man, dark-haired and of medium height, was approaching his forties; his unprepossessing physique contrasted starkly with that of the ravishing creature by his side, who was none other than Rachel Syms. She was wearing a sports outfit with a tank top and short white cotton skirt that showed off her magnificent slender legs to perfection. The actress was clearly not in a good mood, but even the scowl on her face could not conceal its natural beauty, framed in a luxuriant mass of black hair which tumbled in opulent waves over her bronzed shoulders. She strode haughtily across the terrace by the side of her companion, who was carrying their beach gear and who, like her, ignored the seated guests.

  After the couple had disappeared down the steps to the road, Charles Cullen observed to his companion: “You’re right. How could anyone not notice her? But she doesn’t seem to have a very sunny disposition.”

  Dr. Twist adjusted his pince-nez.

  “That’s fairly obvious, if you don’t mind my saying so. But who was her companion? Was it one of the actors we were talking about?”

  “No, that’s her husband, George Portman, the son of a rich industrialist, who’s just come into a fortune. Quite a catch, financially speaking. Rumour has it that Rachel didn’t marry him just for his blue eyes. What’s more, they say that she fell in love with her screen partner, Anthony Stamp, during the making of the film last year. An unknown young actor who, according to the critics, was a marvelous Ulysses. The same wagging tongues say it was love at first sight, and it happened during the scene where Ulysses and Nausicaa meet on the beach, where she’s throwing a ball around with her handmaidens.”

  The detective sighed.

  “These things happen. One plays a game, and then ends up getting caught—in the trap of love.”

  The ex-superintendent gravely nodded his agreement.

  “They were only rumours, but seemingly well-founded, if I trust the evidence of my own eyes. I’ve been here a week and I’ve had time to study all four of them: Rachel Syms, her husband, Anthony Stamp, and his girlfriend of the moment, Maggie Lester—an empty-headed blonde whose main attraction seems to be her remarkable figure.”

  “That’s not a negligible asset for a woman.”

  “They lunch together frequently, and it’s pretty obvious to me that the looks they exchange go beyond simple friendliness or professional courtesy. Portman doesn’t seem to notice anything, but then everyone knows the husband is the last to catch on. As for the aforementioned Maggie Lester, it’s more difficult to tell. She’s more reserved and doesn’t join in the conversation much. She must find it hard to swallow that Rachel’s better looking.”

  Twist stroked his moustache thoughtfully.

  “Why are they on holiday together? And why here? Is it just coincidence?”

  “According to the hotel owner, they’re going to be shooting another film here, with the same stars. That’s all I can tell you.”

  His friend stared at him for a moment:

  “I have a suspicion these were the people you were talking about earlier.”

  “It’s not out of the question,” admitted Charles Cullen with a wry smile. “One has a feeling there’s a lot of tension there, like a gathering storm. I don’t like the feeling I’m getting—but I must be off now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  And with those words the ex-Yard man left, leaving Dr. Twist seemingly lost in thought. As the minutes went by, he felt the sun beating down more and more fiercely, despite the thick wickerwork trellis. The oppressive sensation grew stronger, and he was sure that the summer heat was not the sole cause. His old friend’s observations had given him pause for thought and he felt somewhat perplexed. He made a conscious effort to ignore his growing suspicions, but in vain. He could not help but imagine that someone, at this very moment, was laying the groundwork for a Machiavellian crime against their nearest or dearest. Something wasn’t quite right; he could feel it in his bones. The beauty of the landscape and the purity of the blue sky only served to enhance the impression.

  The actress reappeared, this time alone, at ten o’clock—half an hour after she had left. It was obvious that something wasn’t right. Rachel Syms was very pale and her hair was in disarray. As she went past, Dr. Twist noticed that her tank top was torn and there was a long scratch on her shoulder. The actress reached the bar and asked for a double Scotch, which she downed in a couple of gulps. Her eyes full of tears, she squeezed her hands together to avoid trembling. At this juncture Anthony Stamp arrived. Twist had already noticed his superb build and deep-set eyes. An Adonis with flowing locks, he was wearing shorts and a flowery shirt and holding a beach towel. He had been about to favour the actress with his most dazzling smile when he noticed her distress.

  “Rachel, what’s happened?” he asked in his throaty voice.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” he repeated, pointing to the scratch on her shoulder.

  The young woman swallowed several times, and with an effort held back her tears.

  “I . . . I wanted to talk to him . . . and . . . and—”

  The words wouldn’t come out, and she broke down in sobs. Anthony tried to take her in his arms, but she pulled away and strode resolutely into the hotel lobby. The actor watched her, perplexed, and decided that he, too, needed a double Scotch. After emptying his glass, he went to find the young woman.

  It all happened so quickly that Dr. Twist didn’t have time to order his thoughts. Almost immediately afterwards, however, he was able to follow the rest of the conversation in the utmost detail. For the actress’s room, which faced south, as did the terrace, was immediately above where Twist was sitting and the windows were wide open.

  The unintentional eavesdropping caused the elderly detective considerable embarrassment, and he was not alone, to judge from the expression on his neighbours’ faces.

  “What’s the matter?” he heard the young actor repeat in an insistent tone.

  “I don’t know . . . I don’t know anything anymore,” sobbed Rachel Syms. “But I do know that I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!”

  “Did you tell him about us?”

  “Yes, and he saw red. He insulted me, he even hit me. But I wasn’t going to take it.”

  “Right. I’m going to have a few words with him.”

  “No, Tony, don’t go. He . . . he—”

  “Anyway, we need to get things straight.”

  “Tony, Tony, I beg you. Don’t go!”

  There was the sound of a door slamming, and shortly afterwards Dr. Twist saw the young actor leave the hotel lobby. He was still carrying the beach towel, but perhaps only out of habit, for nothing in his manner suggested he was going for a dip. Still in a fury, he strode determinedly across the terrace and disappeared down the steps leading to the beach road.

  When he reappeared a quarter of an hour later, his expression had changed completely. Clearly bewildered, his features drawn, he asked the barman to call the hotel owner, adding in a subdued voice that Mr. Portman had just had an accident.

  An ambulance arrived shortly afterwards. Early in the afternoon, a police car drew up in front of the hotel. A little later, Charles Cullen was asked if he would care to join Inspector Christopoulos at the Blue Lagoon cove, where Mr. George Portman had had a fatal accident on the dangerous path bordering the shoreline. At the time, that was all that Dr. Twist knew, but at teatime his friend sought him out in the hotel lounge.

  “Our premonitions were unfortunately correct,” he announced sadly. “What we feared has happened. Sometimes, my dear Twist, I wonder if life is preordained. That accident is very strange. It happened in circumstances in which the police here, quite rightly, suspect something worse—”

  “Murder, to be precise,” cut in the detective.

  Charles Cullen nodded, wiping his damp brow with the back of his hand.

  “It’s a delicate matter, because all those involved are British subjects—and pretty well-known ones. When the local inspector in charge of the investigation heard about my past, he quickly asked for my help.”

  “What have you found?”

  “The circumstances are quite clear. Portman went down to the cove with his wife at nine-thirty. After a quarrel, Rachel left him down there. Scrambling along that tricky path, no doubt in an angry mood, his foot slipped and he fell, cracking his head fatally on a rock. That’s where Anthony found him stretched out on the path, dead. According to him, it had happened only shortly before, because the body was still warm. And that was confirmed by the medical examiner.”