Duck Season Death

by June Wright

  “Was the pullover exchange the quirk of fate?” asked Charles.

  “How acute you are!” Ellis marvelled. “I was only saying so to our stolid friend McGrath last night; hoping, of course, to inspire a little acuteness into him. That unwinking solemnity and so slow to reply! I tried every way I could to shock him into natural behaviour—even hinting broadly that I agreed with you about Athol’s accident and that, should the effort not be so tedious, it would be well in my powers to find the person who killed him.”

  Charles gave him a withering glance. “You were a fool to talk like that. Don’t you realise what could have happened—what might happen yet?”

  “And I thought you’d be grateful,” said Ellis plaintively. “Admittedly I dislike the idea of being a clay pigeon, but it does help to clarify the position for you.”

  “I don’t need anything clarified.”

  “No, but your friend Mr McGrath might,” said Ellis gently.

  “Well, let this be a warning to you,” said Charles, pointing to Jerry.

  “I think that is all it was meant to be,” Ellis reflected. “Long range and a shotgun. You can’t expect to do the same damage as with—let’s say—a Wilding.”

  “Well, I’m damned glad it wasn’t a Wilding,” protested Jerry, outraged. “I might have been killed.”

  “The thought of such a possibility, my son, appals me,” said Ellis kindly. “Ah, here is your sister, come to put everything to rights and everyone in their places!”

  “I’m going upstairs to get dressed,” said Charles, suddenly conscious of his unshaven, dishevelled state.

  As Ellis had predicted, Margot fussed prettily over Jerry at breakfast, cutting his toast and decapitating his boiled egg. Shelagh had ordered him to Dr Spenser’s morning surgery for a check up on her work which she knew was an unnecessary precaution, and McGrath had offered to escort him.

  “You’re not running out on me, are you?” Charles asked suspiciously, waylaying the detective in the hall.

  “What a thought!” exclaimed McGrath virtuously. “I have a good mind not to ask for a loan of your car. You look like Sunday’s leftovers, boy! Anything troubling you?”

  “Oh, no, not a thing! Here I am, sweating my insides out trying to solve a murder which you think I committed and which no one else thinks happened, and you go off with Jerry to hold his hand.”

  McGrath grinned. “Perhaps if you’d come out with the party this morning, it might have been your hand.”

  Charles’s expression changed quickly. “What did you make of the shooting? Ellis thinks it was intended as a warning to him.”

  “A very whimsical character is Mr Bryce,” said the other, not committing himself. “Well, I’d better collect the patient and make tracks. Want me to do anything for you in the township?”

  “Nothing, thanks—but I’d still like to know why you’re escorting Jerry.”

  “Just out of the kindness of my heart—plus the fact that there are one or two commissions I have to perform.”

  “Commissions for whom?”

  “You, boy! By the way, you don’t happen to have that bullet on you—the one that killed your uncle?”

  Charles stared at him wonderingly. “I have it right here. Why do you want it?”

  “Thanks.” McGrath slipped it into his pocket casually and turned to go.

  Charles caught him by the arm. “Come on, Mac,” he said coaxingly. “What are you going to do with that bullet?”

  “Send it down to Melbourne for a ballistics report.”

  “What sort of report can they give without the gun that fired it?”

  “Oh, I’m sending that along too,” returned the detective easily.

  Charles choked. “You—where—?”

  “Now, take it easy, boy!”

  Charles found his voice. “Where did you discover it and why didn’t you tell me? You know damned well how much finding that Wilding means to me.”

  McGrath cocked an eyebrow. “I told you before, boy, I don’t know anything damned well.”

  “When and where?” Charles demanded in a pent-up voice.

  “This morning—under the front seat of your car.”

  “Yes, I was going to search the cars this morn—what did you say? My car?”

  “You seem amazed,” observed McGrath coolly.

  Charles mouthed and waved his hands like Wilson in one of his spasms while the detective watched him with a detached interest. “A plant!” he pronounced at last.

  “I rather expected you to say that,” McGrath said maddeningly.

  “Now, look here, Mac—I know what you’re thinking, or rather what you’re pretending to think, but I had no idea that bloody gun was in my car. Absolutely no idea! Is that clear?”

  “Whatever you say, boy, but you don’t mind if I have my own ideas on the subject.”

  Charles groaned in despair. “I give up. I’ll shoot myself and leave a letter explaining all.”

  McGrath chuckled. “Oh, don’t do that. The game’s never lost until it’s won, or should that be the other way round?”

  “The way you’re playing it, the game’s to the killer. I looked for help from you, Mac not hindrance.”

  “I’m not hindering you. You keep on going right ahead.”

  “Okay, I will,” snapped Charles. “I’ll find the person who killed Athol and shot at Ellis this morning, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  XII

  It was a bright fine morning and the guests had wandered outside to blink and idle in the sun, leaving the house free for Miss Bryce and Shelagh to tear purposefully through their work. Their energy had inspired Ellis into taking refuge in the bar where he was conducting a desultory stocktaking.

  Mrs Dougall’s platform tones reached Charles’s ears first—“. . . a full moon and just a faint breeze, enough to carry the scent of the prey. Conditions were ideal. Ah, Mr Carmichael, good morning! I was running through the drill for this afternoon. As a literary man, you must tell me what you think of it.”

  “One of these days you really must write your memoirs, my dear,” said Major Dougall, his eyes bulging sycophantically. “I’ll never forget that tiger shoot, and you describe it so well that it seems only yesterday.”

  “I’d rather you described this morning’s duck-shoot,” said Charles.

  The major looked at him as though he had mentioned the blockage in the local sewer. “Disgraceful business! Can’t think what people are coming to nowadays.”

  Mrs Dougall looked at Charles full in the eye. “Lamentable carelessness, but an accident, of course.”

  “Oh, without doubt an accident. Is it tactless to enquire if anyone knows who was responsible?”

  “No one knows and no one wishes to know,” said Mrs Dougall severely.

  “Then I take it you don’t intend to lose sleep over the incident.”

  Before his wife could engage the enemy, Major Dougall broke in with an affable choke. “Nothing ever disturbs my wife’s slumber. Remember that time in Bombay, my dear? We were staying at the Taj and a thief got into our room. I woke up, grabbed him and called the police, but you slept through the whole thing.”

  “How very interesting!” said Charles politely. “You must include the story in your memoirs, Mrs Dougall.”

  He strolled across to where Margot was lounging with careful grace in a cane chaise-lounge and turning over the pages of a fashion magazine in which her own countenance appeared several times. Wilson was hovering about her adoringly.

  “Is that the best you can do?” Charles asked, after she had got rid of him with charming dexterity.

  “Funny little man! I find him rather touching.”

  “Where’s Harris P. Jeffrey?” asked Charles, taking the magazine from her and flipping over the pages.

  “Oh, somewhere around. Not playing because I petted Jerry at breakfast.”

  “Another day or so when Jerry discards the romantic sling, you’ll discard him.”

  “What a beast you are
when you try to imitate Athol!”

  “Jerry was closer to being an imitation.”

  She gave him one of her wide glances, then shivered. “Don’t Charles! I knew you’d try to make something out of this morning’s shooting, but please don’t. You won’t get anywhere.”

  He regarded her closely for a moment, then asked, “You knew my aunt Paula, didn’t you?”

  “Slightly,” she agreed cautiously.

  “What would you say if I told you that there is a suspicion that she did not die naturally—that Athol might have poisoned her?”

  She took a deep breath and sat up tensely. “I’d say I’m not surprised. You know, Chas, it passed through my mind at the time—what I mean is, a man like Athol and her! She was a dreadful drear, you know, and she held the purse strings. A ghastly thing, but you really can’t blame Athol, can you?”

  Her unconscious callousness sent a wild theory through his mind. Supposing it had been Margot who had poisoned Mrs Sefton. He remembered his suspicion that she was trying to get Athol to marry her. Supposing that when she realised that Athol had no intention of falling in with her plans . . . He glanced down at the slim scarlet-tipped hand resting carelessly on his.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, meeting his gaze limpidly.

  He got up, dropping the magazine onto her lap. “Not nice thoughts. Shall I call Wilson back? I rather want to have a talk with Harry Jeffrey before you besot him again.”

  He left her and went round the side of the hotel towards the garages. The Turners’ utility was standing outside. Andrew had his head under the raised bonnet, revving up the engine, while Frances, with a little frown of concentration on her face, was making a neat job of packing their belongings in the back.

  “Are you leaving us?” asked Charles.

  She looked up with a start. “Oh—Mr Carmichael! Yes, we’re moving on. Andy—that is, we only planned to stay a short time.” She paused, glanced at her husband’s back view, then said hesitantly, “I suppose it’s all right our going?”

  “Quite all right,” said Charles, smiling. “Here, let me lift that bag for you!”

  “Thank you. Did you manage to get to sleep?”

  “I did—thanks to you.”

  “Then—then everything is all right?”

  “Hey, Frankie! Switch off, will you?” called Turner.

  “Everything is all right as far as you’re concerned. When you leave you can forget a place called Dunbavin ever existed. I’m only sorry your honeymoon was so marred.”

  “I won’t forget you,” she said, breathlessly. “You’ve been—I’m sorry, Andy, I’m coming!”

  Turner put the bonnet down with a bang and wiped his hands on a piece of rag. “What do you want?” he asked Charles truculently.

  “Just to say good-bye and good luck and—happier hunting elsewhere.”

  “Oh—thanks! But we’re not pushing off at once. Frankie’s keen to go to this afternoon social in the town. I thought we’d take it in on our way.”

  “I’m not a bit keen,” the girl protested. “Really, dear, I’d be quite happy to carry straight on.”

  “We were asked to do it, weren’t we? Bryce said the invitation included everyone staying here. Okay, that’s us. We go—and my wife is going to knock the spots off the rest of them, Mr Carmichael.”

  “Oh, are you going to contribute something?”

  “I don’t want to,” she said, with another fleeting glance at her husband. “You see, back home I used to do a little acting. Very amateurish I know, but—”

  “Don’t you take any notice of her,” interrupted Andrew. “She’s hot stuff. I’ve seen them laid in the aisles when she puts on a funny sketch.”

  “Oh, Andy!” she said deprecatingly. “What are you going to do, Mr Carmichael? Mr Bryce said some sort of lecture.”

  “Er—yes. It’s just a little talk I’ve given before on the detective novel.”

  “That should be very interesting,” she said politely.

  “Mrs Dougall is giving a talk too,” said Charles, nettled by the blank look on Andrew’s face. “A tiger shoot in India.”

  “Now that should be pretty good,” he said enthusiastically. “I’ve always wanted to shoot big game. I guess hearing about it will be the next best.”

  “Well, I’ll let you get on with your packing. By the way, this morning’s accident to Jerry—you don’t know how it happened, do you?”

  There was a short pause before Andrew replied, “No, we don’t. Come on, Frankie! Help get the tarpaulin on. Cheer-oh, Mr Carmichael!”

  Charles looked at the girl, but she seemed to avoid his eyes. With a puzzled frown he moved away.

  He ran the American to earth in the lounge and without preamble said, “I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

  Jeffrey pulled a packet of cigarettes from a pocket and flipped one up. “You sure are a persistent guy. I’m not going to act dumb and pretend I don’t know what you want to talk about. You still think someone shot your uncle, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. Do you mind?”

  “Why should I mind? It’s nothing to do with me. Remember I never met Sefton before Saturday night.”

  “The continual reminder makes me doubtful on that point. I understand you have a Luger revolver. I’m not interested in how it got past our Customs, but just why did you bring it on a duck-shooting expedition?”

  “I didn’t know how strict your hunting authorities were here.”

  “Meaning that in the States you are permitted to shoot wildfowl with any sort of firearm?”

  “I can’t say—that is—”

  “No, you can’t say!” Charles cut in. “And do you know why, Mr Jeffrey? I don’t think you’ve ever been duck-shooting before. Ellis Bryce spotted that at once.”

  “Yes, it was quite smart of me,” agreed Ellis, coming into the room laden with various bottles and glasses. “The bar is what can only be termed a shambles. Shelagh has just been in to tell me that I have bitten off more than I can chew, so I thought I’d come in here and try drinking more than I can swallow instead. Do help yourself to whatever you can find, and tell me what progress you have been making, my poor Charles. From the baffled expression on your face and the distinctly guarded one on Mr Jeffrey’s I should say no progress at all. I feel almost constrained to render you further assistance.”

  “Very good of you,” said Charles dryly. “I don’t doubt your ability, Ellis, merely your methods. And remember Jerry won’t be always around to exchange pullovers.”

  “Charles is not a bit grateful to me for playing clay pigeon this morning,” Ellis complained to the American. “My idea—I get these extraordinary flashes of genius—was to make you come out into the open, to force you into declaring yourself, so to speak.”

  XIII

  The American rose slowly from his chair. “Say, wait a minute! What do you mean—make me come into the open? I didn’t shoot at Jerry this morning.”

  Ellis regarded him blandly. “You didn’t? You’re absolutely sure of that?”

  “Dead sure!” snapped Jeffrey.

  “What an apt epithet! Charles, why are you goggling in that foolish way? Do give Mr Jeffrey a drink. He seems a trifle distracted.”

  “I’m not surprised,” replied Charles, finding his voice.

  “Okay Bryce! Cut the funny stuff and let’s have it. So you think I shot Jerry in mistake for you. I suppose that’s because you were shooting off your mouth last night about discovering Sefton’s killer. You think you’re so damn clever, but you seem to forget I never met Sefton before three days ago. Why should I want to kill a perfect stranger?”

  Ellis eyed him critically. “It is evident even to an average intelligence that your insistence that you and Athol were perfect strangers is a shade too insistent. I’m surprised that Charles has taken so long to bypass the obstacle. I think the connection between you was a mutual acquaintance. Athol may not have known you, but you knew of him very well indeed.”
<
br />   “Is he right, Jeffrey?”

  “My dear Charles, of course I’m right. I’m never wrong in anything to which I bend my brain. There’s no use looking for corroboration from Mr Jeffrey. He won’t give it and I find your attitude an insult.”

  “I’m not talking—yet,” said the American grimly. “Go on, Bryce.”

  “The mutual acquaintance was, I should say, a woman. Knowing Athol, that goes without saying, don’t you agree, Charles?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw Jeffrey’s hand tighten on the glass he held. “It is possible,” he agreed briefly.

  “Now, there were three types of women Athol dabbled in. There was the willing victim, the sophisticated dodger—the charming Margot once belonged to that group—and lastly the foolishly innocent. From my observance of Mr Jeffrey, I should say that the female who formed the connection between him and Athol belonged to the last group. I trust you can follow me, Charles?”

  “Quite easily. You are about to suggest that Jeffrey’s motive for murdering Athol was revenge for wronging a girl he was in love with.”

  Ellis made a moue of distaste. “You think such a conclusion unworthy of me? Commonplace though it is, you must admit that it has been a motive for murder from time immemorial.”

  “Oh, I admit it all right. But what about you, Jeffrey?”

  The American was silent for a moment. Suddenly he gave a short reckless laugh and Charles saw pain in his eyes. “You’re pretty smart, aren’t you, Bryce! Okay, I’ll tell you how I come to be here. You’ll probably find it an amusing story—a real slab of honky-tonk that you’ve seen in the movies or read in a hundred books. But it wasn’t cheap and phoney at the time, sweating it out up there on the Islands. It was heartbreakingly real—and it still is to me.”

  “You fell in love with this female during the war? Why ever didn’t I think of that! The wartime touch is just the last thing needed to complete the trite picture—a backcloth of bombs and blackout.”