by June Wright
“I neither shot Athol nor poisoned my aunt,” said Charles emphatically. “I’ve told you why the first is impossible. As for Paula—I haven’t even been in Sydney for a year.”
“Thirteen months,” corrected the detective.
Charles gasped. “You mean you’ve already checked on me?”
“The busy-bodies mentioned your name, though they admitted your aunt seemed fond of you, and quite devoted you were in little attentions—like sending her special chocolates from Melbourne.”
“That’s right,” said Charles eagerly. “I told you I was also fond—” He broke off and stared at the other suspiciously. McGrath’s laconic eye-brow was up. “Oh, I get it,” he said bitterly. “You think I loaded the chocolates with arsenic.”
“I can see this young fellow is going to be a lot of help to me,” McGrath remarked to Shelagh conversationally.
“I think Charles had better help himself first.”
“That’s just what I mean. If he doesn’t want to face a double-murder charge, he had better do something pretty fast.”
“And while I do all the work you’re going to hang around looking on—is that it?” asked Charles.
“Yes, that’s it,” returned McGrath equably. “A cushy job, after all.”
Shelagh looked from one to the other with folded lips. Then she made a sound of exasperation, picked up the tray and went out of the room. “Attractive girl!” McGrath vouchsafed after the door had been banged rather than closed. “Seems rather interested in you too. Doesn’t seem the type to be emoting for nothing.”
“I suggest,” said Charles coldly, “that you keep your revolting innuendos to the subject of murder. Are you really serious about leaving the job of investigation to me?”
“Depends which job you mean. As far as mine is concerned, I could wrap the whole thing up right now. But if your uncle was murdered, then you can’t blame me for having unkind thoughts. We’re simple, direct sort of blokes, we coppers. If a wealthy woman dies in suspicious circumstances, we just turn naturally to the husband to ask questions. If there is no husband, the nearest relative does just as nicely.”
“Well, I’m damned if I will back down now and say Athol was not murdered. Okay—I’ll do what I can, but you’ve got to play fair, Mac. I don’t know how serious you are when you say you suspect me, but there’s to be no prejudice.”
“Fair enough,” the other agreed amiably. “Go to it, boy!”
X
Dinner that night was quite a lively meal. There was an air of tacit celebration about it. What with the good bags obtained at the opening of the season and the result of the inquest, everyone felt at temporary peace with each other. Even Charles’s past behaviour was overlooked, with Mrs Dougall setting the example by addressing him with gracious condescension.
McGrath was accepted without curiosity as someone who had heard by chance that there was a free room at the Duck and Dog. Only Ellis showed any signs of scepticism, making one or two of those quizzical little remarks with which he liked to prove his awareness of anything unusual. “Quite a happy coincidence!” he remarked when McGrath was introduced, “but we don’t hold with coincidences, do we, Charles? Quite against the rules!”
“What rules?” asked McGrath stolidly. He was presenting an amiable, ox-like front to the company which Charles secretly applauded—especially when Ellis’s bland barbs fell short. At first he wondered if Shelagh had told her father of the new guest’s identity, but a hurried consultation with her at the servery window reassured him. In fact, she gave the impression that Charles’s affairs were of less moment than the exact timing of adding a glass of port to the ducks cooked ‘en casserole’.
“I had the misfortune to be waylaid this morning by our good doctor’s wife,” Ellis announced presently. “A truly redoubtable woman! She held me transfixed until she extracted my promise to attend some arty-crafty tea party she is conducting tomorrow.”
“What do you mean—arty-crafty?” demanded Mrs Dougall with a booming, slightly self-conscious laugh. “I met Mrs Spenser too. She wants me to give her guests a talk on some of our Indian experiences. One must do one’s bit, you know.”
“So long as it’s only a bit,” murmured Ellis as he turned to Charles. “The things that woman made me promise! She talked down any objections I had before I could even produce them. I found myself finally suggesting all sorts of items to help her wretched soirée, or whatever it is. You, Charles, are to give a talk—your presence here delights her more than it does her spouse. What have you done to offend our medico, I wonder? Of course, it is most regrettable that Mrs Spenser is not able to capture a greater literary lion. She tried so hard on past occasions with your poor Athol. The naughty fellow was quite brutal in his snubs, so do be complaisant like a good chap.” He switched his mocking gaze to McGrath, who was enjoying his dinner solemnly, apparently impervious to his surroundings. “And our latest acquisition to the Duck and Dog! Such a pity that time will not allow us to discover some latent talent which I feel sure lurks behind that phlegmatic exterior—eh, Mr McGrath?”
The detective merely grinned politely and went on masticating.
“Ellis smells something,” Charles muttered in McGrath’s ear as they left the dining room. “Trust him! Look, I’m going to get out of the way. They won’t loosen up while I’m around. This is also a good opportunity to reconnoitre. I want to find that missing Wilding.”
On his way upstairs he met Margot, who had slipped up to her room to do some after-dinner facial reconstruction. “Darling! Long time, no see! Such a messy day for you, poor sweet. They tell me you got boozed.”
“That’s right,” he said wanly. “And now I’m paying for it. Shocking head, so I thought I’d pile in early. Are you going shooting tomorrow?”
She gave a shudder of revulsion. “Never again! I had no idea such early hours existed, except, of course, from the other end. And they do it for fun!”
“Well, don’t let me detain you. Your new beau is waiting for you.”
She smiled complacently. “Harry? Isn’t he a lamb!”
“Jerry seems to consider him more of a wolf. You’d better watch out.”
“Oh—Jerry! I can manage him. By the way, who’s your new chum?”
“McGrath? Just someone I got talking to at the pub in the township. What do you think of him?”
“Well, dear, I don’t want to sound rude, but if he’s not a particular friend of yours I’d vote him a little heavy. Good-night, poor Chas.” She gave him a quick butterfly kiss. “I won’t let them say too many nasty things about you, but you have been an awful ass, haven’t you.”
“I suppose I have,” he agreed humbly. He watched her synthetically graceful figure disappear down the stairs, waited a few seconds and then quietly entered her room. After one quick comprehensive glance round, he set about a systematic and thorough search. Soon he had made a neat survey of the whole room with which, although unrewarding, he felt satisfied as a testing ground. But when several other rooms proved equally fruitless, he began to wonder if he were not behaving like those meddling heroines he deplored in books.
Putting himself in the place of the murderer, Charles could not believe that the Wilding rifle had been thrown away haphazardly into the bush where sooner or later someone would come across it. Far better to hang on to it, and do the throwing away as far from the scene of the crime as possible. Convinced that the person he was up against, who had been so careful and clever in planning Athol’s death, would not make a blunder over the disposal of the weapon, he patiently and painstakingly poked away at beds and pried into cupboards.
The monotony of his search was broken in Harris Jeffery’s room, where he came upon three items of interest. The first was a Luger revolver hanging in a shoulder holster in the wardrobe, but the edge was taken off this discovery by his recalling Wilson making some mention of it. The other two items were contained in an old shagreen wallet which had been slipped into one of the compartments of an airlines c
arry-all.
One was a receipted account for services rendered by ‘Dawson and Stanley, Private Enquiry Agents’, the other a worn and creased letter which bore a Sydney suburban address and was dated June 1943. He read it quickly, despising his own meddling.
‘Harry—if you ever set foot in this country again I’ll beat you to pulp, so help me! You Yanks came over here to help us beat the Nips, not to see how many of our women you could ruin. We thought we could trust you. Barbie swore she could and was always ticking us off if we said anything about you. You skunk—taking advantage of a girl like my sister. Why she couldn’t tell Mum and me instead of doing what she did, we can’t work out. She was always a good kid, too. I bet you put her up to it. She had a lot of pain before she died, but she still would not let anyone say a word against you. I hope the thought of that gives you all the hell you deserve, you mongrel!’ It was signed ‘Mick’.
Charles made a face of distaste and put the letter back carefully. Was it because of this letter that Jeffrey had come back to Australia? With such a threat hanging over him, it seemed hard to believe. And for what reason had Jeffrey employed the services of a private enquiry agent? Shrugging in a puzzled way, Charles put the room to rights and went out.
He had spent quite a considerable time going over the American’s belongings, but there remained only one more room to search—Adelaide Dougall’s. This was comparatively simple for Adelaide’s belongings were meagre. There was still no sign of the missing Wilding and by now Charles had given up hope of finding it in the house. He planned a search of the hotel environs in the morning.
In a drawer of Adelaide’s dressing-table, he came across a folio of loose sheets written over in a round unformed hand and paused to glance through her literary efforts. He decided that if they were worth anything, he might do something about getting them published in order to make up a bit for Athol’s beastliness to the poor woman. He read through a couple of stories objectively, then shook his head. The last story in the folder was unfinished. Adelaide must have been writing it only recently. Giving her every chance, he began to read.
Presently he raised his head, bundled the folder back into the drawer and hurried out of the room. There was just time to get inside his own door when the other guests came trooping upstairs to bed.
“Hey, Mac!” he called softly as the detective passed.
“Yes, what do you want?”
Charles pulled him in and shut the door, saying indignantly, “You don’t mean to say you were going to bed without conferring!”
“Well, I was,” admitted McGrath dampingly. “It’s nearly eleven and I’m booked to shoot ducks at dawn. What do you want to confer about?”
“What do I want—? Well, that’s rich, that is! I want to know if you picked up anything. I haven’t been inactive up here.”
“Haven’t you?” asked McGrath, surveying Charles’s pyjamas laid out on the bed with a bedazzled eye.
“Well, what do you think of them?”
“Who? Oh, the other guests? They seem the usual amiable assortment you find at any country pub.”
“Did they talk about Athol or me?”
“You were both mentioned now I come to think of it.”
“What was said? Come on, man! What’s the matter with you?”
“Maybe it’s those stripes of yours. Cover them up, will you, before I develop a tic.”
“Oh, don’t talk rot,” said Charles in disgust. “Listen, I managed to search the bedrooms. I think I know why that American chap has something on his mind. Did you know he’s toting a Luger? Then there’s the Dougall girl. She writes stories. I read one that she must have started after Athol disillusioned her—you never saw so much vitriol. I’d say she had it in her to kill him.”
McGrath rubbed his chin. “That the dowdy woman with the glittering eye? Looks a bit round the bend?” Charles nodded. “And she can shoot too. The three of them can. If only I could find that bloody rifle. Come on, Mac, bend your brain. Where would you hide a stolen rifle?”
“Why ask me?” the other drawled. “You should know.”
Charles gazed at him blankly before light dawned. “Oh, you are not still on that tack, are you? You know damn well I didn’t even want to shoot Athol like some of the others around here.”
“I don’t know anything damn well,” returned McGrath amiably, “but it’s nice to know you’re trying to dig up information to clear yourself. Keep it up, boy. Do you mind if I push off now? I’d like to be fairly fresh for the sport tomorrow.”
“If you happen to get shot,” said Charles roundly, “it will be your just deserts and I won’t lift a finger to do anything.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s likely to happen. After all, you won’t be there.” McGrath caught the pillow Charles threw at his head, returned it deftly and went out.
Charles’s emotional state after this encounter was not conducive to sound slumber. He spent part of the night lying awake apostrophising with eloquent invective McGrath, Athol, Shelagh and anyone else whose mental image came before him. In a vain effort to atrophy his feelings, he turned over the review books belonging to Athol. But when he read on one of the publisher’s slips a message which ran ‘Pan this, Athol, and I’ll shoot you!’ He threw them to the floor, slumped on his bed and groaned loudly and unheedingly.
From this lonely pastime, he was aroused by a light knock at the door. A happier gleam came into his eye and he sat up. “Who is it?”
A soft voice said anxiously, “It’s Frances Turner. Are you all right, Mr Carmichael? I thought I heard you call out.”
“You can come in. I was groaning, not calling out.”
She put her head in, surveying him doubtfully. “Are you ill? Is there anything I can do?”
Her air of concern was easy on Charles’s jaundiced gaze and wounded spirit. “No, there’s nothing you can do. I can’t sleep, that’s all.”
“Oh, how wretched!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “Have you—”
“Yes, I’ve tried a sedative, reading and counting sheep. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Please go back to bed.”
She cast an anxious look over her shoulder. “Andy’s got some special sleeping tablets. Let me get you a couple.”
“They’re certain to have no effect on me,” said Charles in martyred accents. “So please don’t bother. I’ll just lie here and wait for the dawn.”
She smiled a little. “It’s quite a wait. You might as well try them. Andy has made me take them before this and they’re marvellous. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She returned presently carrying a tumbler of water. “Here they are! Swallow them down and let me straighten your bed.”
“Very good of you,” Charles mumbled as he gulped.
“That’s all right. I know what it’s like not being able to sleep.” She pulled and tucked deftly and thumped up his pillows, her face grave and kind.
Charles suddenly knew how it was patients so often fell in love with their nurses. A certain type of nurse, he thought darkly, remembering Shelagh. “That’s just wonderful!” he announced, as she smoothed the sheet under his chin, then stood surveying him as though she’d like to find more to do. “Were you a nurse, by any chance?”
She shook her head. “No, but I looked after my invalid sister for many years. You can’t help finding out how to make people comfortable. Now you just relax and I’m sure you’ll drop off soon.”
“Andy’s a very lucky man,” said Charles.
She turned back from the door, smiling shyly at the compliment. She then said seriously, “Don’t think worrying thoughts. It’s worry that keeps you awake—and bad memories. Good-night!”
“Good-night!” echoed Charles. What a nice little woman, he thought, putting out a hand to switch off the lights. Too bad that lout will never appreciate her. Such a nice, understanding, womanly, little—Charles rolled over and fell fast asleep.
XI
The strident sound of a car engine with an open throttle taking
the rise up to the hotel awakened Charles the next morning. He got up and went to the window. Ellis had planned to conduct his guests further afield than Teal Lagoon. The ducks had been frightened away from there and it would be some days before the decoys would coax them back again. Charles dimly remembered hearing the departure of the party in the Bryce station wagon.
Presently the Turners’ utility came into view, driven by Ellis with Jerry alongside. It drew up under Charles’s window. “Is anything the matter?” he called sharply, as Ellis opened Jerry’s door and proceeded to help him out.
Ellis looked up. “The very person I want to see! Come on down, my dear fellow.”
Charles hurried on his dressing-gown and went downstairs. The Bryces were in the hall, Jerry with one arm supported by his other hand. There was blood on the upper sleeve of his yellow pullover and he looked more than ordinarily stormy.
“He got into someone’s range of fire,” explained Ellis. “Just a graze or two—nothing serious—but such a coincidence, don’t you agree, Charles? Do you know, I have the oddest feeling that here, but for a quirk of fate, am I.”
“I wish you’d stop talking and help me out of this,” said Jerry, trying to ease his way out of his pullover.
“You render assistance, Charles. I’ll go and find Shelagh. An admirable girl in crisis. The sight of blood may turn some people squeamish, but to my daughter it is a challenge.”
“He’s been talking like that all the way back,” said Jerry. “We left the station wagon for the others.”
“What on earth possessed you to get ahead of the guns?”
“I didn’t get ahead,” he returned indignantly. “We were all spread around the Upper Lagoon. That fool Dougall’s idea—he said we’d bag more if we separated.”
“Then you don’t know who did it?”
“If I knew that,” declared Jerry roundly, “I’d be peppering someone’s backside right now.”
“Shelagh’s coming,” announced Ellis, coming back, “plus a bowl of water and a dozen other accoutrements. My poor Jerry, what an unpleasant mess! I must say I’m glad you were so insistent on my handing over your pullover. Never mind, you can wear a sling and Margot will change the range of her gaze. I understand slings have the most devastating effect on females.”