The Isle of Devils (31 page)

Bey grinned sardonically. “Really, Doctor? You may have been shaken for a moment, but you rapidly sprang into action to first examine Dumas’ body and then tend to the stricken Mrs. Foster. Why do you think that is?”

“Unfortunately, I have seen my share of dead men before, both during my medical training and then on the battlefields of Afghanistan. My nerves have been hardened.”

“Exactly,” responded Bey with a flourish of his hands.

“Are you saying that you were a soldier, Mr. Bey?”

“Not at all. But the railway profession is hardly a safe one. I have seen some terrible injuries in my time at the scenes of railway smashes. Limbs hacked from bodies, so that only red spongy surfaces remain. Whole bodies so mangled that you could hardly tell that it was even a man, and not some mute beast. As you say, eventually your nerves become hardened. Although the discovery of a dead man was certainly a surprise, he looked rather peaceful compared to some of the sights that I have seen.”

I nodded slowly. “I would agree with that assessment.”

Bey continued. “Doctor, I noticed that you are suffering from a recent injury. I highly recommend a stint in a Turkish bath. It is highly restorative.”

This was a suggestion that I had not previously considered. “Have they
one
in Bermuda?”

Bey shook his head. “Alas, no. Not that I have found. But if you were to return to London, you will find many there. I recommend Urquhart’s or Nevill’s. Either will give you a fresh starting-point, a cleanser of your system.”

“Thank you for that counsel, Mr. Bey. I may seek one out upon my return.”

Dunkley interrupted this tangential exchange. “I was noticing your evil eye, Mr. Bey,” said the constable, indicating the man’s necklace. “Do you intend harm to someone?”

Bey raised his hand to the pendant. “Ah, you refer to my
nazarlık.
This is no weapon, Constable, it is a ward. It fends off negative energy from jealous gazes.”

“But it is Turkish, is it not?”

Bey shrugged. “Of course. So is the
hookah
you will find in my attaché. But neither is responsible for the death of Mr. Dumas.”

Dunkley reached into his bag and pulled forth the burnt slipper. “Tell me, Mr. Bey, is this your slipper?”

“No,” he rapidly replied.

Dunkley’s eyebrows rose. “How can you be so certain? Surely you must own a pair of Turkish slippers?”

“Of course I do. I own a pair very similar to those. They are in my room now. Perhaps you would care to see them?” said he, gesturing to the door.

“A man can own two pairs of slippers,” observed Dunkley.

Bey smiled. “I am a poor engineer, Constable, not the Sultan of Turkey. I do not travel with giant chests and trains of servants. One pair of slippers is all that I could manage to fit in my simple luggage.”

“But we have only your word for that. Perhaps you would care to try it on?”

“And if I did, what would that prove?” scoffed Bey. “That I have the same size foot as a thousand other men upon this island? This is not
La Cenerentola
!”

Dunkley frowned. “I do not follow you.”

Bey shook his head exasperatedly. “The opera by Rossini, how do you call it in English… Cinderella!”

Dunkley pursed his lips, perhaps unwilling to admit his ignorance of the stage. “But you admit that they are Turkish slippers?”

“In fact, Constable, I do not,” replied Bey. “I believe that what you are holding is a Persian slipper.”

Dunkley frowned again. “Are they not the same?”

“Not at all!” said the man, heatedly. “The Ottoman Empire never conquered the Persians. Thus, our traditions differ. While both slippers have a pointed toe, the style of embroidery is vastly dissimilar.”

“I see,” said Dunkley dryly, the skepticism plain in his voice. “And tell, Mr. Bey, were you previously acquainted with any of the other guests of the Globe, including the dead man?”

“No, I have never seen Dumas before in my life.” His tone was emphatic.

“But you are sharing the garret room with Mr. Delopolous, are you not?” said Dunkley, consulting Mrs. Foster’s map.

Bey shrugged. “I am not yet employed by the Central Pacific Railroad, Constable, and it is still a long journey to California. I must be careful with my funds, so as to not exhaust them prematurely. The garret room was the cheapest accommodation offered by Mrs. Foster, and I have never been averse to boarding with others.”

Dunkley grunted unhappily at this reasonable response, and switched gears, asking Bey to write the same statement as the others. After inspecting the man’s handwriting, Dunkley dismissed him. Bey rose from the settee and, with a very courteous air, nodded his head to us before passing out through the door. 

“What do you think, Doctor?” said Dunkley, irritably.

I shook my head. “All of his answers appeared very reasonable. I admit that the slipper is a potential link to him, but without the missing half of the pair, it is hardly conclusive. He has no apparent motive, and since he shared a room, his companion will likely be able to offer him an alibi.”

“He admitted to being in Paris for some time. He could have met Dumas there.”

“True, but if everyone who has ever visited Paris is a suspect, then our list will be long indeed.”

“I suppose that you are correct, Doctor. Well, let us check out his alibi then. I think Mr. Delopolous should be next.”

§

Dunkley rose from his seat and walked over to the door. Opening it, he peered into the packed dining room. “Mr. Delopolous, would you join us, please?

The man arose and followed Dunkley back into the parlor. As he sat down, I studied his appearance. He was a short, stout man, with a powerful frame. If his name was not enough of a clue, his olive skin and coal-black hair was completely consistent with his proclaimed country of origin. As I had noted previously, his face was strong yet deeply lined in the areas where it was visible, for a large bristling black beard covered much of it. His ears were remarkable for a peculiar flattening and thickening, and the right had a distinctive mark that suggested it had once been pierced for an earring, was no longer present. When I first laid eyes upon the man I had thought that his dark eyes sparkled animatedly, but now they appeared hooded with dread. I watched his crinkled hands, which he nervously clenched in a spasmodic fashion. His clothes were the same he wore every time I had seen him; the old navy pea jacket over a red-and-black check shirt, with a coarse red scarf was loosely wound around his neck, and denim trousers slipped into heavy boots. If he owned another outfit, I had yet to lay eyes on it.

Dunkley commenced the questioning in his typical fashion. Delopolous rummaged in his coat pocket for a moment, and then handed his identity papers over to the constable. Dunkley looked at them for a moment before asking, “You are Aristides Delopolous, born 1846, Athens, Kingdom of Greece?”

The man made a sort of hiccoughing noise in his throat before answering. “No.”

Dunkley eyebrows shot upwards. “No?”

The man stammered to correct himself. “I mean, yes, my name is Aristides Delopolous, but I was not born in Athens.”

“Then why does your passport make this claim?” asked Dunkley severely.

“I was actually born in
Iraklion
, Crete.”

“I still fail to see why you have falsified your passport, sir!”

Immediately the answer came to me. “Crete is not part of Greece, Constable,” I interjected. “It is under the control of the Ottoman Empire.”

Delopolous nodded angrily. “We are Greeks in our hearts. Someday we will break free from their yoke and join our countrymen.”

“So, this entire passport is falsified!” exclaimed Dunkley.

Delopolous shook his head vigorously. “Not entirely, sir. My mother is from Athens. She is a Kratides, a proud clan hailing from the capital. From her, I claim my citizenship as a Greek.”

“It is highly irregular, Mr. Delopolous!”

“Yes, sir, that is why I wanted to bring it to your attention immediately. If you were to check upon my background, I did not want you to think that I was being dishonest with you.”

Dunkley nodded reluctantly. “That was wise. I am still considering whether I need to report you to the authorities at Hamilton. You entered our country under false pretenses.”

“Whatever you think is best, sir. I will accept your judgment. It is true that I refuse to admit to being a citizen of the Ottoman Empire. But I am not a murderer,” said the man, passionately.

“I don’t recall saying that you were, Mr. Delopolous,” replied Dunkley, evenly.

“Isn’t that why you are questioning everyone in the hotel? Are we not all suspects?”

“Perhaps,” replied Dunkley, calmly. “Or perhaps I already know the identity of the murderer, but wish to have all of the evidence in place for my report.”

“You do?” said the man, his eyes opening wide. “One of the guests?” he asked breathlessly.

“Perhaps,” answered Dunkley, nodding. “Perhaps. Tell me, Mr. Delopolous, did your bunk-mate in the garret, Mr. Bey, ever leave your room last night?”

The man seemed to consider this question. “No, I do not believe so.”

“What about whil
st
you slept? Could you swear that he did not leave between midnight and two in the morning?”

“On a normal night, I would not be able to say, as I am an extremely sound sleeper. It used to be a jest amongst my shipmates that once in my hammock only the watch bell could ever wake
me during the night. I would not
startle even if the ship was fetched up on a reef. But last night I lay awake, for my lumbago was bothering me too much to sleep. It was not until very late, around four in the morning, when I finally fell asleep. He may have left after that, but not before.”

“I see,” said Dunkley, plainly dejected at the thought that at least one suspect appeared to have an iron-clad alibi. “And what is your occupation, Mr. Delopolous?”

The man shrugged. “I have done many things in my life. For many years I was a sailor. Eventually I grew weary of picking my salt meat out of the harness cask and I jumped ship in Dantzig, never looking back. Recently, I have earned my keep by engaging in the sport of gentlemen.”

“Boxing?” exclaimed I, dubiously.

He nodded vigorously. “You do not have to be tall to be a successful boxer, Doctor. You must be quick and strong. I am both. I was once light-weight champion of New York City. Furthermore, your Marquess of Queensbury may have codified the modern British rules, but we Greeks invented the sport…
pygmachia
, we call it. Towards the end of the
Iliad
, Homer depicts boxing as one of the funeral contests held in honor of the fallen Patroclus. And of course, it was part of the original Games at Olympia, which some are now trying to revive in Athens. So no country produces superior pugilists to those of Greece.”