Gary Corby - Death Ex Machina

“Romanos grew his hair long to tell the world that he didn’t need to mourn for money. It’s the fashion among actors who have regular work,” Petros said. He sounded sad.

I realized the opposite was also true. That an actor with ragged hair was telling the world that he needed the extra work. Which must surely tell against him when he applied for a part. Which would force him to do more mourning. This acting seemed a hard business.

Petros must have read my thoughts. He said, “A man has to eat. And feed his wife. And his children if he has any.” He sounded defensive.

I said, “I understand, Petros.”

“It takes a certain skill to pretend you mourn the death of someone you’ve never met.”

“I’m sure it does.”

“It’s an acting skill,” he insisted.

“Yes.”

I felt sorry for Petros and all the others in his house. I thought they must have a difficult time explaining to their children what they did for a living, and why their hair was always shorn and ragged. I wondered if the other children taunted them in the street. But then I knew the answer. Of course they did.

“What will you do now?” I asked.

“We might have to leave Athens.”

“Why?”

“The landlord’s heard that Romanos is dead. He says we are bad luck. He wants us to leave his house.”

I winced. The landlord was right. A dead body on the premises, particularly a murdered one, depressed property values, and people didn’t forget that sort of thing. It reminded me that we would have the same problem when I put Diotima’s house up for sale, something that I still hoped to avoid. There’d been a murder there too, years before. It would reduce the price we could get for the place.

Petros sighed. “I suppose it’s for the best. It’s not like we’re getting work here.”

I made a snap decision.

“Petros, I might know of a house for you,” I said.

“What’s this?” he said, surprised.

I looked at Diotima.

My wife knew what I was thinking. She nodded. “Whatever you say, Nico.”

I said to Petros, “We own a house that’s available for rent.”

“You do? You, personally?”

“Yes.”

“How much would you charge?”

“It’s free,” I told him.

Petros blinked. “This is impossible.”

“I am offering you the use of our house, which stands empty this moment. You can move in this afternoon if you like.”

“Why would you do this for us?” he asked suspiciously.

“It’s, uh, not in very good condition.” I admitted.

I explained about the mice, the rats, the roof, the puddles when it rained, the holes in the walls, the broken furniture. I hoped that with tenants in, I could delay the day when we would have to sell. The Phrygians would at least prevent the place from falling apart further.

I finished with, “So you see, this is no bargain. I am offering you the use of our house, at zero rent, but you’ll have to do some work to make it habitable.”

I could see Petros visibly relax once he understood what was in it for me.

“I see,” he said. Petros rubbed his chin while he thought.

“I accept, of course. We’ll never get a better offer.”

“Petros, will your family be all right?” Diotima asked, concerned. “Nico didn’t exaggerate when he described the house.”

“Do not worry for us. I think you will find that we Phrygians are very inventive people.”

Investigation is as much about finding inconsistencies in the witnesses as it is about finding clues on the ground. The funeral had provided our first real break in the case.

As we left the cemetery I said, “Did you hear what I heard?”

Diotima nodded. “Romanos didn’t recommend his own family for the third actor role.”

“Even though they’re desperate for work,” I added.

“And he lied to Petros about it.”

Romanos had not only failed to recommend his own family for the third actor’s job, he had actively recommended someone else, and then avoided telling Petros what he had done.

There was another possibility. I said, “Either that, or Petros lied to us when he implied Romanos lied to him.”

“That’s convoluted,” Diotima said. “Why would Petros do such a thing?”

“I don’t know.”

Up until now, Romanos had seemed a perfectly ordinary man, if you didn’t count the fact that he was dead. Now suddenly the dead man was exposed in what looked like a piece of chicanery, for no reason I could think of.

“Why would Romanos turn against his family?” I asked. “They seem happy to me.”

“Should we challenge Petros about this?” Diotima asked.

I considered the idea. “No, I have a better idea. Let’s ask him. ” I pointed down the road, to the distantly retreating back of Kebris. He had been the only other theater person who had stayed for the funeral. We ran to catch up with him.

I said, “Kebris? We haven’t spoken before, but we’re the investigators looking into the death of Romanos.”

“Yes, I recognized you at the funeral,” he said.

I’d seen before, when he first joined the cast, that Kebris was an old trouper. Now he looked like an old and very tired trouper. I looked about for a place to sit and saw a roadside tavern, a small one of the sort run by poor families. They had bashed a hole in their front wall through which to serve drinks to people who stood in the street. They had even placed a few stools and a table under a ramshackle awning. Diotima and I led Kebris to the table and I bought us all wine. It wasn’t particularly good wine, but it was wet and it refreshed our informant.

“This must all be difficult for you,” I said to him as he drank.

“Death happens,” he said. “I’ve seen enough of it. Would that I could see no more.”

“You’ve had another loss?” I intuited.

“My wife of forty years,” he said.

The pain in his eyes was there to see.

“She died last year. Such a pretty young thing when I met her. She was a farmer’s daughter. But she was willing to go on the road with a man like me, who could offer her nothing but constant travel and hard work and life in a tent. I promised her when I had enough money that I’d retire. We could live in one place and never have to travel again. Well, I did, and the next year she was dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

He sighed. “As I said, death happens.”

“So you were at a loose end when they asked you to join the company. I guess it took your mind off things.”

He shrugged.

“I admired the way you attacked the part,” Diotima told. “They said you learned it faster than anyone could believe possible.”

“That was sheer good luck. Or bad luck, rather. But the fact is, I already knew the lines.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. Then, “Say that again?”

“Romanos taught me the lines.”

“That was after Phellis had his fall,” I said, and waited for him to agree with my correction.

“No, it was before.”

“Are you sure ?” I asked.

“Of course I’m sure!” Kebris looked at me as if I were an idiot. He knew the difference between one day and another.

The old actor said, “I was having dinner with Romanos one night. We were friends, you see. We had toured together. After my wife died he made a point of visiting me often. I appreciated that. After he won the part in Sisyphus he was very excited. He said he felt this was his big chance.”

I nodded. “It was. But then it all went horribly wrong. How did he come to ask you to learn his part?”

“One night, after rehearsals had begun, he suddenly asked me. When I asked why, he said it was in case anything happened to him.”

“He used those exact words?”