CHAPTER ONE

PARADISE LOST

On a Saturday morning in 1949 the following announcement
appeared in an English language Majorca Island newspaper:
MARRIED: The former Alexis J. Smith, American private
investigator and widow of a U.S. Army pilot stationed
in Britain during the war, to Detective Inspector
Harry Hawkins of Scotland Yard, London. The couple
had been on holiday inMajorca prior to their wedding at
ten o’clock this morning in the village of Porto Cristo.

But we weren’t.

Harry and I were not married at ten o’clock that morning
or any other morning, in the village of Porto Cristo or
anywhere
else. It was true, what the paper said about our
vacationing
on the island of Majorca, but that was all.

Our latest caper together, a few weeks earlier in England,
had nearly undone us both, and we needed to escape to
somewhere as far removed from the pressures of our
sometimes
separate, sometimes collaborative cases as we could get.
So we had chosen Majorca in the Mediterranean and the
quaint little fishing village of Porto Cristo.

An enthusiastic London travel agent had said the place
would be perfect, handing us a brochure that described the
village as “colorful, a quiet coastal town dating back to
AD
1
1260, with miles of beach for strolling, or a romantic
dinner
overlooking the breathtaking ocean.”The name Porto Cristo
meant “The Port of Christ,” a name it had acquired at the
time of the Christian invasion. Legend has it that an ox
carrying
an icon of God through the town simply stopped and
refused to go any farther. The people took it as a sign
that
Christ wanted to remain there.

“This place is as close to Paradise as I’ve ever been,” I
sighed, breathing in the soft, sea breeze off the water as
we
strolled hand in hand along the sun-drenched beach.
“Paradise?” laughed Harry. “Isn’t that where Adam and
Eve lived before the Fall in the biblical account of the
Creation? The Garden of Eden, in other words?”

“It’s also a town in Nevada, but I don’t mean either one,
silly! Porto Cristo is our Paradise.Think of it,Harry. No
telephones,
no radios, no newspapers delivered to our rooms.
Nothing but the sound of the waves on the beach.”

“True,” replied Harry. “And no gunfire, either, which
must be a relief to you, in particular.”

He was right about that. There had been a lot of shooting
connected with my most recent assignment in England. I
hate guns; although, as a private detective I am never
without
my little American Derringer, which fits nicely into a
lady’s
purse. Oddly enough, Harry does not carry a gun, though
he has demonstrated often enough that he knows how to use
one. British policeman, and even Scotland Yard detectives,
are not allowed to possess firearms. It is almost
impossible to
imagine our American police and FBI agents hobbled by that
kind of restriction. In my country, guns are as commonplace
as smog in Los Angeles or wind in Chicago. No matter what
side you are on, in the great gun debate, they are part of
the
scene in the “Land of the Free and Home of the Brave.”

The travel agent had been correct about Porto Cristo. It
did seem perfect for us. Everything the brochure said was
accurate, too. The place was ideal for a stroll along the
beach
or a romantic dinner overlooking the breathtaking ocean. At
one such romantic dinner Harry surprised me with a
proposal.
Not that it was all that much of a surprise. We had never
seriously discussed marriage, though it had been in the
back
of our minds for some time. I was the one who was hesitant
about making a commitment. Harry had never been married,
but I had—briefly—to Allen Smith, a young soldier I had
met at a dance early in the war and married a few weeks
later
in a dingy combination wedding and funeral parlor in Reno.

I was barely nineteen; he was twenty-one. It was one of
those
hasty wartime marriages that people entered into on the
spur
of the moment and later regretted. It was all the more
foolish
because I was on the “rebound,” with no hope of marrying
the only man that I have ever really loved. Allen and his
Army
Air Corps unit had gone overseas three days after the
wedding.
Stationed in England, they flew alongside their British
counterparts in the RAF and later took part in the massive
D-Day invasion of Normandy. Many of them, including
Allen, never returned. That was six years ago. To this day
I am
still marriage-shy and afraid of making another mistake.
Of course that’s ridiculous. Dear, stalwart Harry Hawkins
is nothing like my impulsive young husband, whom I barely
knew. Harry and I know each other very well. Maybe too
well. We have worked together on a number of cases and
hold many of the same values, although he is British and I
am
American. And that’s another thing. I worry about our
cultural
differences. In trying to sum up my feelings for Harry,
I know that I am not wildly in love with him, but at least
we
like each other and get along well. Is that reason enough
to
marry? I have always thought that I would hate a “marriage
of convenience,” and that’s what it would be, wouldn’t it?

Ah, but there in romantic Porto Cristo, at dinner
overlooking
the breathtaking ocean, I had said yes to Harry’s proposal.
The next day we had gone shopping for a ring along
the short main street in the village and discovered that
Majorca is famous for its pearl industry. I now wore a
lovely
pearl and diamond ring on my left hand.

Since I had no family, except for a younger sister back
home in the States, we decided to be married right there,
in
a pretty little chapel called Santa Veronica. We visited
the
chapel and met the charming young padre, who wore a long
brown robe with a monk’s cowl. He told us he would be
happy to perform the wedding ceremony, though he wondered
if it would be legal in the US and Britain. We assured
him that we would apply for a proper license when we got
back to England and repeat the marriage vows later. The
date
was set for the following Saturday.

In the meantime I went shopping for a dress, recalling
that I had been married the first time in a short, powder-
blue
suit with matching hat and a white orchid pinned to my
shoulder. The image made me shudder. I wanted something
as different from that outfit as Porto Cristo was from
Reno!
Of course it would not be proper to wear a traditional
white
gown for a second wedding, so after a day of looking in
every
shop on the main street, I selected a long, Spanish-style
dress
in pale pink, with a fitted bodice and three-tiered skirt,
along
with a white lace mantilla to wear over my head and
shoulders.
The pale pink color showed off the tan I had acquired
in the time I had spent in the Mediterranean sun. My
normally
honey-blonde hair had bleached out almost to gold. I
had to frown at my own image in the shop’s wavy mirror to
disguise how pleased I was. Other store patrons were
“oohing” and “aahing,” making me feel like a model on the
runway of a fashion show. I certainly did not feel like
that
teenager in her short, powder-blue suit and hat with a limp
white orchid pinned to her shoulder!

On Saturday morning I was getting into the dress in my
room at the small inn where we were staying, when there was
a knock at the door.

It was Harry. He said a telegram had arrived from
London, forwarded from Scotland Yard. It was for me.

“For me? Who even knows I’m here?”

I felt a rush of panic. It could not be good news, I was
certain
of that. Quickly tearing open the envelope I stared at
the message inside before handing it silently to Harry.
It read: CAN YOU COME IMMEDIATELY (stop)
MOTHER VERY ILL (stop) NEEDS YOU DESPERATELY
(stop) MARY.

Harry frowned. “Mary?”

I had a hundred thoughts buzzing around in my head
and didn’t even hear the question.

“Lexie?”

“What?”

“Who is Mary?”

“My sister.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“My only sibling. Six years younger than I am.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I mean about your mother.”

“You needn’t be. My sister didn’t send this telegram.”

“Why do you think that?”

“It says ‘mother is very ill,’ that’s why.”

“Well? Maybe she is.”

“Hardly. She died three years ago.”

“Ah. Then who…?”

“Who sent the telegram? Good question.”

“What are you going to do?”

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror above the small
vanity table. The pink dress, the white mantilla over my
head
and shoulders, which I had loved up until ten minutes
earlier.
Now I thought I looked ridiculous. I was already peeling
off
the mantilla, back in detective mode.

“I’ll have to go, of course.”

“Go? Go home, you mean? To the States?”

“Yes. I’ve got to find out who sent that wire and what it
means.”

“Wait.Why don’t we find out what Scotland Yard knows
about it, before we go off the deep end.”

So like Harry! Careful to think through every step before
taking it. And so unlike me, always leaping in with both
feet
before even testing the water. Had it been unrealistic to
think
we could ever be a couple, bound together in Holy
matrimony,
with all our differences? Maybe it was an omen, the
telegram coming when it did, a warning from the gods not
to go through with the wedding. That must be it. Dazzled by
this romantic little village, I had not been seeing things
clearly. I’d had a narrow escape.

Or had I?

A different thought occurred to me now: Fool! One of these
days Harry is going to get tired of waiting for you. An
attractive
man like him isn’t going to hang around forever, no matter
how
devoted he is. But I pushed all thoughts aside and returned
to
the present problem.

“All right. See if you can find a telephone in this
godforsaken
place, and try to put a call through to London.”

I saw his expression change. What I had been calling “our
Paradise” ever since we got here I now deemed a
“godforsaken
place,” and it was evident that it hurt him. Whoever sent
that
telegram had either done me a great favor or ruined my
life.
But which was it?

When Harry came back to my room, almost an hour
later, I was packed and ready to go. I had changed into a
traveling
suit and left the pale-pink dress and white mantilla on
the bed, a present for the Spanish maid.

“Well? Were you able to talk to London?”

“Yes, there was a telephone with international service in
the police station. I got through to Scotland Yard and the
communications office that received the wire from the
States.”

“It did come from home, then.”

“Right. Sacramento, California. It was addressed to you,
with instructions to forward through me. Whoever sent it
must have known how to reach you.”

I asked impatiently, “And that’s all you were able to
learn?”

“Not quite. I also ran it past our cryptology section, to
see if the message might be in some kind of code.”

“And?”

“It wasn’t. None they could discern on short notice,
anyway.”

I sighed. Of course I knew that Harry and his contacts at
Scotland Yard had done everything they could do, but I was
still left with nagging, unanswered questions. Someone
wanted or needed me to come home immediately, but who?
The reason given—that my mother was ill—was obviously
phony. Nothing but a red herring. I knew it, and the sender
surely knew it, too, which only added to the mystery.
I briefly considered that it might be a trap. It wouldn’t
be
the first time I’d been lured into a dangerous situation.
Even
so, I had to risk it.

“Well, that settles it. I’ve got no choice. I’ll have to
go.”

Harry knew it was useless to argue. “I’ll come with you,
shall I?”

“No, Harry. Honestly, there’s nothing you could do over
there. Why don’t you stay here and enjoy the rest of your
holiday?”

Even as I said it, I knew what an absurd suggestion that
was. Could he enjoy being here without me? No more than I
could enjoy being here without him, I suspected. Seeing
other
couples strolling hand in hand along the beach and having
romantic dinners overlooking the breathtaking ocean would
only be a reminder of our lost paradise here in Porto
Cristo.

“At least let me accompany you as far as London.”

I started to protest, but he said, “I’d rather. With you
gone, I might as well go back to work at the Yard.”

“All right. But before we leave, someone has to tell the
padre that we won’t be keeping our appointment with him
this morning.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll do it,” he said a little sadly.

Later, while checking out at the desk downstairs in the
small lobby, I glanced at a newspaper left open to the
Personals Page. It was there that I read the announcement
of
our marriage, which supposedly had taken place that morning
in the Santa Veronica chapel. It must have been written
much earlier by some overeager reporter in order to get the
“facts” into the announcement column while there was still
room.

At that moment I felt a little like Mark Twain, who, upon
reading his own obituary in a London newspaper, sent a
cable
to the Associated Press which read: THE REPORTS OF MY
DEATH ARE GREATLY EXAGGERATED.