Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

I moved toward him, taking a deep breath. In the light that came through the open door, I saw that the forehead of his handsome face was furrowed in genuine or pretended concern. His brown beard, a little longer than Pericles’, was as well groomed as the curved eyebrows above his large, wide-spaced eyes. Not one’s idea of a murderer.

“Nicias has much to be offended at,” I said. “He has been murdered. Probably here at the theatre.”

Sophocles did not move. He stared at me. “Kleides,” he said finally, “surely you are... but no, how could you be mistaken about such a thing.” He shook his head. “How? Who?”

“And why?” I said. “Pericles has asked me to inquire into the matter.”

“Of course. You are best at such work. But why did you send for...” He paused again. “Oh, yes. Of course.” He nodded, his quick intelligence understanding. “I did announce last night that I was coming over to the theatre for some scrolls. In fact, Nicias had sent a message that he wanted to meet me here. And so he did. But when I left him, he was most alive. Angry, but alive.”

“What did he want?”

“He urged me to select him as my main actor for next year’s Great Dionysia.”

“Well, I know...”

Sophocles held up his hand, stopping me. “More than that, Kleides. He threatened that if I did not announce the choice soon, he would spread the rumor that I had influenced the judges this year, worked to get those I knew on the selection lists.”

I nodded. “You didn’t, of course.”

“A statement, Kleides, or a question?”

I smiled. “I am a Sophist, Sophocles. I distinguish between what I know and what I believe. I know that you influenced the judges by the brilliance of your plays. But I don’t know that you didn’t use other influences, though I believe that you did not.”

“I did not, Kleides.”

“What did you say to Nicias?”

“Very little. I laughed and told him to lock the skene when he left. He is an actor. He has a key. Then I left.”

“Leaving him behind, angry but alive?”

“Yes. I swear. That is true. But then, you Sophists, above all, know that language can be used in the service of truth or lie.”

“Yes. As a sword might be used to imitate a death, as in your play, or to truly kill someone.”

“By all the gods, Kleides. Are you saying that the sword I used in the play was the murder weapon?”

“Perhaps. It is not here now.”

“But who has taken it?” He held up his hand again. “A stupid question. The murderer, of course. But you are sure it is gone?”

I gestured at the walls. “Wouldn’t it be hanging on the wall?”

“Normally,” Sophocles said, “while we are rehearsing. But once the festival is over, we put the props in a chest and retrieve them when we have opportunity.” He moved to the left side of the skene, bent over, and yanked open a chest. He pulled out a sword and turned to me.

I am ashamed to say that, for a moment, I measured the distance to the open door, wondering how fast I could run out and up the wooden seats to safety.

Sophocles held the sword out to me.

I took it. “I need to see it in the light,” I said, moving toward the open door, Sophocles following.

I stepped out and onto the little slope that led to the great circle of the theatre. I lifted the sword and examined it in the sunlight. I could find no stain upon it. It would have been wiped clean by the murderer, but blood tended to leave traces on metal no matter how vigorous the rubbing. I turned to Sophocles and showed him the sword. “No blood. This was not the murder instrument.” I felt immensely relieved. It was unlikely that Sophocles had come to the theatre last night armed against Nicias. He would have had no knowledge of what Nicias wanted. Unless Nicias had said so in his message.

“Sophocles,” I asked, “was anyone else at the theatre last night?”

“No,” he said. “I saw no one. Only...” He stopped.

“Who? You must tell me.”

“I saw friends. But they were not in the theatre. They stopped me nearby to tell me that Nicias had on the evening of the procession bragged that he would act in my plays next year and that we would win, guaranteed.”

“Who?” I asked again, already knowing who might have warned Sophocles of the slanderous tongue of Nicias.

But Sophocles did not answer at first. “Sophides,” he said finally. He was staring at the sword.

“Let me see it,” he said.

I took a deep breath, assured myself that I could run faster than Sophocles, as I did at the gymnasium, and handed him the sword.

He ran his hand over the handle. “I just noticed. This isn’t the sword I bought at the forger’s shop for the play. The one I bought had rings of gold down the entire handle. I wanted the gold to gleam in the suicide scene. This handle has the rings only partway down and they are not gold. It was made by the same forger. You see his mark here, and it is close to the one I bought, but not exactly. I never noticed during the performance, so commanding was Tidius.”