by June Wright
Sitting at the window of her musty little bedroom, Adelaide’s heart suddenly beat fast under her flattened bosom. A flush spread over her thin, sallow face as she thought of how that story might even yet come true—but with a changed and happy ending. For the first time in her life, she found herself wanting to face reality.
The change had taken place suddenly. They had been at breakfast, Mrs Dougall opening the single letter on her plate with the air of one about to deal with a pile of social invitations, and the Major with his red face and bristling white moustache hidden behind the more conservative of the morning papers. In his high, strangulated voice, which always sounded as though his uvula was in the way of his larynx, Major Dougall had said, “I see that fellah has lost his wife. Died—um—let’s see the date—two days ago.”
Adelaide looked up quickly from the unappetising rissoles on her plate. ‘That fellah’ could only be one person. Athol Sefton. Her father had harkened back to him several times during the year, making plain his dislike which was like a nagging tooth to be eased only by being clenched. When her father had finished with the paper, she took it up to her room. There was no doubt at all as to who it was. His querulous, invalid wife was dead. He was free!
“Free at last!” whispered Adelaide exultantly. Suddenly the wife seemed to have been the only obstacle in the way of her happiness.
From that moment on, Adelaide Dougall concentrated on an imaginary situation which to her had now become real. Each word and glance that he had ever given her was pondered upon and built up into occasions of deep significance. Their parting and the past months of separation had been as intolerable to him as they had been to her—of that she became convinced. She even looked for word from him, but when no letter came she told herself that, of course, it would not be proper for him to get in touch with her yet.
But that did not stop her from raking the crowded city streets and passing to and fro in front of the hotel where she knew he stayed when he was in Melbourne. But, of course, he intended waiting until they met again at their first place of meeting—the Duck and Dog at Dunbavin. It was the sort of romantic gesture that she could appreciate, and she began to mark off the dates on her calendar.
Thus, as the weeks went by and became days, Adelaide worked herself up to a feverish, erotic pitch which was as pitiful as it was dangerous.
IV
I should have checked in to a larger hotel, thought Jeffrey. Here I stick out like a sore thumb. Maybe if I talked like some of these Aussies—“Oi’m stying at the Hotel Broight,” he essayed aloud, and made a derisive sound.
‘Stying’ is just about it, he thought, staring at the dirty curtains which shrouded dirtier windows overlooking the rubbish-littered backyard of the hotel. Lying on the bed, cradling a glass of beer on his chest, he remembered the way the chambermaid had said, “You’re an American, aren’t you? Just fancy!” as though he was someone from Mars.
Hell, didn’t they remember the Yanks here? It wasn’t so long ago. Maybe folks’ memories are short when they know they should be grateful. It didn’t seem that long ago to him since they had been here. Camp Pell, they had called it. He had taken a ride out there, just for old times’ sake, to have a look at it—to remember himself as a kid in olive drab, sweating it out in the South Pacific Theatre. The cab driver had asked him if he had ever come up against that American soldier who murdered those three women.
Jeffrey’s body grew taut and his fingers suddenly clenched on the glass. He raised his head and, finishing the beer, set the glass on the bed table which already had a film of dust on it before the ashtray overflowed with his own cigarette ends. He lay back again, his hands under his head and a wry grin on his lips. That’s a word you’ll have to get used to, son, he told himself.
‘But they won’t get me like they got Leonski—I’m not a psychopathic strangler. There’s a difference between murdering for the hell of it and—the bastard, the dirty rotten bastard!’ he thought suddenly, burning up.
Funny how the years hadn’t minimised his fury or mellowed his bitterness. He had carried the injury with him all this time, so that he felt almost that he had grown up with it—that it was as much a part of him and as familiar as his own body. He always knew that one day he would come back to do what he had sworn to do on that reeking, sweltering atoll somewhere in the Pacific where he had received the news. Instinctively his hand crept to his inside coat pocket, encountering first the holster where his Luger lay snug against his side, then the old shagreen wallet where he had kept the letter from that moment outside the master-sergeant’s palm-thatched hut. Return and revenge had been his goal in the same way as other men’s goals were to be president of a company or captain of a baseball team. He had worked towards it, preparing himself both physically and mentally.
Sometimes he had tried to fight against inexorable ambition which kept driving him on, telling himself that the years were passing, what did it matter, what had happened to him had happened to other men and would happen again. But still he went on making plans and marking every saved dollar for a special purpose.
A knock at the door caused him to start up tensely. “Are you there, Mr Jeffrey? There’s someone to see you.”
He guessed who it would be, but still he asked for the name before unlocking the door.
A neatly dressed, middle-aged man, rather like a trusted bank clerk, entered. His small eyes behind bi-focal glasses were both watchful and observant as he was as insistent on checking the American’s identity as Jeffrey had been in checking his. “We have to be very careful in our business, Mr Jeffrey,” he said, more as a statement of fact than by way of apology.
“Sit down,” the other invited, shaking up a cigarette to offer his visitor, “and tell me what you’ve got for me.”
“Thank you, no. I don’t care for American cigarettes. Regarding the party you commissioned us to trace,” he went on, pulling out a notebook and turning over the pages. “He left Sydney on the eleven thirty plane this morning and is due to arrive any moment now. He is being met by a man called Carmichael who is his nephew by marriage. His wife, just in case it is of interest to you, died a few months ago. So far we can discover no reservation made for him at any hotel. It is my belief that he will be staying with his nephew who has a bachelor flat just outside the city. I have his address with me if you want it.
“From the evening of the 27th—that is, tomorrow—the party has a booking at a hotel in the country some hundred and fifty miles away. The name of this hotel is the Duck and Dog. It is situated near the town of Dunbavin. Your party usually spends the first part of March there every year for the duck-shooting. We are unable to anticipate his movements further,” the little man concluded, as though defying anyone else to be able.
But I can, thought the American exultantly. Shooting ducks, huh? I know one who is a dead duck right now.
The private enquiry agent went on. “We were uncertain of your precise wishes, Mr Jeffrey, but following the general tone of your instructions we took the chance on booking you in at the same hotel. I trust we acted correctly?”
“Fine!” said Jeffrey, trying to keep the note of reckless triumph out of his voice. The whole business was turning out better than if he had planned it.
The agent gave a little deprecatory cough. “Naturally we do not enquire into our clients’ intentions, or the outcome of the work they ask us to undertake—” he paused, his small shrewd eyes on the American’s face.
The other said sharply, “Yes, go on!”
After a pause, the agent said, “Very often after much careful and discreet work on our part, our clients undo it all by behaving foolishly.”
Jeffrey’s facial muscles felt stiff as he tried to grin easily. “What are you getting at?”
“Just a little advice, if you don’t think it out of order. Is it your intention, now that we have finished our commission on your behalf, to continue to keep your party under observation?”
Jeffrey lit another cigarette. His finge
rs were trembling slightly. “Could be,” he replied. “But I thought you said you started minding your own business at this point.”
“Sometimes the point is marginal. In your case I feel compelled to advise you to keep in part with your environment. In other words, Mr Jeffrey, if you wish to continue—let us say anonymously—you had better go to the Duck and Dog prepared and equipped to shoot ducks.”
The American coughed over his cigarette as a laugh of relief caught him unawares. “Thanks for the tip. It would be sticking my neck way out if I didn’t dress and act the part.”
The agent looked gratified, then shook his head. “It is not so much acting and dressing. I’m afraid the fact that you are an American will make you stand out, so to speak, in the district you intend to visit. The point is, can you shoot?”
His client laughed again. “Sure I can shoot. They taught us to do that sort of thing back in ’42.”
“Ah yes, quite! War is a terrible thing,” said the agent with the air of announcing a profound and original truth. “But there is, I believe, a difference between shooting game and—ah—sniping at the enemy. What you need is a shotgun. In order to preserve your anonymity I suggest your purchasing one before you leave town.”
“You’re being most considerate,” murmured Jeffrey.
Again the little man looked pleased. “Don’t mention it. It’s just that I do like a job to be tucked in on all corners, so to speak. Now here is the name of a reliable gunsmith. All the best sportsmen go there, I believe.”
“Why, thanks a lot—”
“You’re welcome. It is our aim to give our clients every possible service in order to achieve their objectives—short of murder, of course.” He tittered lightly as he drew out a folded slip of paper. “Now, if you are quite satisfied, Mr Jeffrey, there is just the little matter of our account.”
“I’ll settle up right away,” said the American jerkily, turning away from him to take out his wallet.
Money and receipt were exchanged. Then the agent packed up his briefcase and went to the door. “Well, goodbye, Mr Jeffrey—and good luck. I hope you have an enjoyable time shooting ducks.”
V
“Dunbavin!” said Andrew, easing the utility over one of the many bumps of the rough country road. “Look it up on the map, will you, darling? I believe the F. and G. recommend it too.”
Frances unwrapped the map and spread it over her knees, bending forward to hide the small tolerant smile that women smile when they think they know how to manage their men.
Their unconventional honeymoon had started off in New South Wales shooting marauding kangaroos, on which an open season had been declared. Then on further south, where they had tried their luck with the wild pigs that roamed about the Murrumbidgee. Late February found them crossing the Murray into Victoria, where duck-shooting was the next item on Andrew’s list.
He slipped a sudden arm about his wife’s shoulders. Life was good. Frankie was a grand wife. He had enjoyed teaching her how to shoot, marvelling at her occasional fluke, for he maintained it needed years of practise to become a really accomplished shot. Perhaps he enjoyed her ineptitude even more.
Then there were the warm twilights when they made camp just where they fancied, and Frances squatted over the fire he had lighted cooking kangaroo steak or a rabbit stew, her face intent and shadowy in the firelight. His arm tightened so that she was pulled sideways against him as he thought of the nights hazy with stars when they lay rolled in blankets, Frances small and silent in his arms.
“Look out, Andy!” Frances protested, wriggling free. “You’re making me tear the map.”
“To hell with the map,” he replied, and the truck swerved crazily as he gave her a swift kiss. “Happy?”
“Of course. Look, if we follow this road it seems to lead to the main highway to Dunbavin.”
“Okay—we’re off to see Dunbavin, Dunbavin the place for ducks!” he sang, leaning forward and putting both hands at the top of the wheel. “You’re really happy, Frankie? Like being married to me?”
“Of course,” she said again, sounding surprised. “What silly questions you ask, darling!”
Somehow he felt oddly comforted when she called him that. She had a lovely voice, Frankie had, when she chose to put expression into it—sort of warm and husky. It must be all the amateur acting she did at home. Everyone used to say that she ought to try her luck in Sydney—study for the stage or try television audition, perhaps go abroad. He was damned thankful she hadn’t.
“Look!” he said suddenly, slowing the utility and lifting one hand to point. “They know we’re coming. They’re up to welcome us.”
A slow-moving formation of ducks appeared in the sky ahead. They seemed to hang immobile before dropping down behind a clump of low trees which hid a lagoon. “They are a good omen,” said Frances and put her hand into his.
Just as the term of endearment had pleased him, so the spontaneous gesture of affection brought a surge of something like gratitude. Impulsively he said, “This pub—the Duck and Dog—what say we put up there for a night or two? I bet you’ve had enough sleeping in the open. What about a change from roughing it?”
“But Andy, we’d never get in. They’re certain to be full up and the expense—”
Andrew was himself again, confident and masterful. “Bet you anything you like I can get us in and hang the expense. Aren’t we on our honeymoon?”
“There is no harm in trying, I suppose,” she returned doubtfully. “And it would be nice to eat a meal someone else has cooked for a change.”
“I’ve no complaints to make about the present cook. We’ll enquire where this joint is when we get to Dunbavin.”
He pressed the car forward over the corrugated road.
“Andy, I’m sure it must be somewhere near here. We’re coming to the main highway and the map says it is this side of the town.”
They glided on to the smooth bitumen. “That’s a relief,” said Andrew. “Hullo! Looks like one of the natives ahead. We’ll stop and see if they talk the same language south of the border.”
It was Wilson, the first guest at Ellis Bryce’s hotel.
“Good-day there!” greeted Andrew. “Can you tell us where to find a pub called the Duck and Dog?”
Wilson struggled with his Adam’s apple, his eyes fixed with intense concentration on the car’s number plate. “There’s a t-t-turn—” and he pointed further along.
“A turning a bit on?” Andrew queried, unconsciously imitating Ellis. “Left or right?”
“L—l—”
“Left, is it? Thanks, mate. Much obliged.” He drew his head in and put the car into gear, giving Frances a broad wink. Wilson with his solemn face and painful stammer was a terrific figure of fun to him. An inarticulate sound made him turn back. “You were saying?”
Wilson made a stupendous effort and left out the extraneous words people with impediments will try to use. “Duck-shooting?”
“That’s so,” returned Andrew, surprised at the sudden clarity. “The wife and I want to put up at the pub for a night or two. We heard there was good sport round these parts.”
Wilson screwed his head round and blinked in a puzzled fashion at Frances. Maintaining his telegraphic style of elocution, he asked, “Name, Morton?”
“Turner’s the name. But what’s that to do with you?”
The other flapped his hands around for a moment. “F-full-up,” he brought out at last.
“There you are, Andy,” said Frances.
“You the proprietor?” Andrew asked Wilson, who shook his head. “Then how do you know they’re full up? The season doesn’t open until Monday. Oh, a guest, huh! Well, maybe we’ll go along and enquire just the same. Be seeing you, sport!”
He tilted his jaw and there was a determined look in his eyes as they came to a narrow dirt road little better than a cart track. A sagging signpost, which Ellis Bryce had had erected in the first flush of inspiration, bore the direction PRIVATE ROAD: DUCK AND DOG INN. H
e put the car into second as it made its first climb for many miles. “I’m not going to let a little twerp like that put me off. Nosey sort of bloke, wasn’t he?”
Presently the hotel came into view—a sturdy two-storied building of stone with sprawling additions of sun-blistered weatherboard clinging about it like parasitic growths.
“Well, this is it! Stay where you are and keep your fingers crossed, honey.”
“Good hunting, Mr Fixit,” Frances returned brightly. She watched him stride confidently to the open door which was set in the centre of the building between two beds of colourful geraniums. Presently a worried-looking woman with wispy untidy hair and dressed in an overall appeared. Andrew put one hand on his hip and stamped his feet about as he spoke to her, which was how he always stood when he was being aggressive and not quite sure of himself.
The woman put a hand up to her hair as though making sure it was still untidy, and glanced vaguely in the direction of the utility as she listened. Presently she interrupted the barrage and disappeared into the house. With a wink and a thumbs-up sign at Frances, Andrew followed.
A few minutes later, he emerged, grinning triumphantly. “Okay, Frankie! I’ve made it. Hop out and I’ll get our stuff.”
“Andy, you’re marvellous! However did you do it?”
“Gift of the gab mostly. Though there was a room booked and the people haven’t turned up. Had a telly or something from them only this morning. So balls to that stuttering little chap we met. Will his face be red when he sees us!”
PART TWO
Murder and Motives
I