youngest of the group, barely 20, was December.
Fowler had attempted to track them all down for the reunion which he planned and had come close to succeeding. He’d showed Rand a chronological list of the names:
January—Colonel Brantly-Stowe (deceased)
February—George Fowler
March—Gregor (deceased)
April—Bruno Norman
May—Sir Kenneth Kellman
June—Karl Maass
July—Elizabeth Fowler (nee Smith)
August—Miss Robinson (in New York)
September—Ourson (deceased)
October—Carruthers (missing)
November—Rand
December—Amy Sargent
“I managed to round up seven of twelve,” Fowler had told Rand. “That isn’t too bad after twenty years. After all, three are dead and Miss Robinson’s in America. Carruthers is the only one I couldn’t locate.”
And so the seven had assembled—with cabled regrets from Miss Robinson—at the little hotel on the Cornwall beach that Fowler remembered fondly from summer vacations with his wife. There were plenty of quaint residents, he assured them, but even he could not have predicted the dead whale on their very first night, swept onto the beach not 200 yards from the hotel …
“He’s dead, all right,” Rand repeated. “Murdered.
Bruno Norman’s great bulk moved into the room. “We can see that. Stabbed in the back with a fishing knife.”
Rand nodded. The little German was huddled into a corner of the room, as if he had been fleeing from his attacker when death caught up with him. “Who found the body?”
“I suppose I did,” Mrs. Fowler said. She had aged into a handsome woman, despite a little nervous gesture of her hands. Rand had never known any of the Berlin people well in the old days, since his job was in London with Miss Sargent, but he remembered having liked Elizabeth Fowlers—Elizabeth Smith, then—from their first meeting.
“Were you alone?”
“I knocked on the door to see if he wanted to join us for breakfast. The door was ajar, and he was—the way you see him now.”
“No one heard any sound of a struggle?” Rand asked.
They all shook their heads. Sir Kenneth Kellman volunteered, “The woman who owns this place has telephoned the police. They should be here soon.”
George Fowler had hesitated in the doorway, and now he entered. “I—I think it might be wise if we don’t give the reason for our gathering here—the reunion and all that. The newspapers would make too much out of it. Don’t you agree, Rand?”
“You’re probably right. He walked to the window and stared out of it for a moment, watching the morning crowd near the beached whale. Out over the water a haze of clouds was beginning to bunch. Then he turned to them again—to Fowler and his wife, to Amy and Bruno Norman and Sir Kenneth. “One of us killed him, you know. Nobody else here even knew him.”
“Robbery,” Bruno insisted. “It must have been robbery.”
“With the room as neat as this? With Karl obviously opening the door to his killer in the middle of the night or early in the morning? His wallet is still on the table there, untouched.”
“One of us six?” Amy asked. “Why, that’s impossible! None of us has even seen Karl in twenty years.”
“I know that,” Rand said. “But sometimes a motive for murder can last for twenty years.”
They sat down to wait for the police.
It was sometime after noon when Rand found himself alone on the beach with Amy. The police had come, the body had been removed, and the usual questions had been asked. They showed amazingly little interest in the group of friends gathered for a spring vacation at Cornwall, and even less interest in the little German who had been stabbed in the back. Perhaps if he’d been British there would have been more concern.
“Robbery,” one of the policemen had decided. “Some noise scared the killer off before he could get the wallet. Don’t you worry, we’ll find the bloke.”
And so Karl Maass had been removed in an ambulance, and all traces of him were blotted
Fowler had attempted to track them all down for the reunion which he planned and had come close to succeeding. He’d showed Rand a chronological list of the names:
January—Colonel Brantly-Stowe (deceased)
February—George Fowler
March—Gregor (deceased)
April—Bruno Norman
May—Sir Kenneth Kellman
June—Karl Maass
July—Elizabeth Fowler (nee Smith)
August—Miss Robinson (in New York)
September—Ourson (deceased)
October—Carruthers (missing)
November—Rand
December—Amy Sargent
“I managed to round up seven of twelve,” Fowler had told Rand. “That isn’t too bad after twenty years. After all, three are dead and Miss Robinson’s in America. Carruthers is the only one I couldn’t locate.”
And so the seven had assembled—with cabled regrets from Miss Robinson—at the little hotel on the Cornwall beach that Fowler remembered fondly from summer vacations with his wife. There were plenty of quaint residents, he assured them, but even he could not have predicted the dead whale on their very first night, swept onto the beach not 200 yards from the hotel …
“He’s dead, all right,” Rand repeated. “Murdered.
Bruno Norman’s great bulk moved into the room. “We can see that. Stabbed in the back with a fishing knife.”
Rand nodded. The little German was huddled into a corner of the room, as if he had been fleeing from his attacker when death caught up with him. “Who found the body?”
“I suppose I did,” Mrs. Fowler said. She had aged into a handsome woman, despite a little nervous gesture of her hands. Rand had never known any of the Berlin people well in the old days, since his job was in London with Miss Sargent, but he remembered having liked Elizabeth Fowlers—Elizabeth Smith, then—from their first meeting.
“Were you alone?”
“I knocked on the door to see if he wanted to join us for breakfast. The door was ajar, and he was—the way you see him now.”
“No one heard any sound of a struggle?” Rand asked.
They all shook their heads. Sir Kenneth Kellman volunteered, “The woman who owns this place has telephoned the police. They should be here soon.”
George Fowler had hesitated in the doorway, and now he entered. “I—I think it might be wise if we don’t give the reason for our gathering here—the reunion and all that. The newspapers would make too much out of it. Don’t you agree, Rand?”
“You’re probably right. He walked to the window and stared out of it for a moment, watching the morning crowd near the beached whale. Out over the water a haze of clouds was beginning to bunch. Then he turned to them again—to Fowler and his wife, to Amy and Bruno Norman and Sir Kenneth. “One of us killed him, you know. Nobody else here even knew him.”
“Robbery,” Bruno insisted. “It must have been robbery.”
“With the room as neat as this? With Karl obviously opening the door to his killer in the middle of the night or early in the morning? His wallet is still on the table there, untouched.”
“One of us six?” Amy asked. “Why, that’s impossible! None of us has even seen Karl in twenty years.”
“I know that,” Rand said. “But sometimes a motive for murder can last for twenty years.”
They sat down to wait for the police.
It was sometime after noon when Rand found himself alone on the beach with Amy. The police had come, the body had been removed, and the usual questions had been asked. They showed amazingly little interest in the group of friends gathered for a spring vacation at Cornwall, and even less interest in the little German who had been stabbed in the back. Perhaps if he’d been British there would have been more concern.
“Robbery,” one of the policemen had decided. “Some noise scared the killer off before he could get the wallet. Don’t you worry, we’ll find the bloke.”
And so Karl Maass had been removed in an ambulance, and all traces of him were blotted
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