by June Wright
“Oh, I’m sure he won’t do that,” she replied, without querying what he meant by outlandish notions. “By the way, who was that man who brought Jerry Bryce to the surgery this morning?”
“Fellow by the name of McGrath. Young Jerry did not seem to know much about him. It seems he tagged himself on to Carmichael when he knew there was a room vacant at Bryce’s. Why do you ask?”
Mrs Spenser backed up a step or two to regard the effect of a bowl of dahlias. “I was just wondering. Ethel Motherwell told me this McGrath fellow came to see Tom this morning. He was with him for the best part of an hour. Tom seemed rather upset when he’d gone, but he wouldn’t tell his mother anything. Rather strange, don’t you think?”
“Strange that Sergeant Motherwell managed to hold his tongue for once, or that Mrs Motherwell failed to elicit any information?”
She gave an uncertain smile. “What I meant was why should this stranger McGrath who is staying at the Bryce’s want to visit the police?”
“I haven’t a notion,” returned the doctor shortly, turning to go. But before he left the room he said, “If young Carmichael starts anything, send for me and I’ll come and put a stop to it.”
Charles, however, had been wishing fervently that he had not allowed himself to be inveigled to the Spensers. “I know these would-be intellectual groups,” he remarked gloomily to Shelagh as he helped to clear the tables after lunch. Anyone who wanted to talk to Shelagh was always given some task to perform at the same time. “A bunch of gregarious gas-bags who would be far happier discussing each other’s operations than literature.”
“They do that at the Social Committee meeting,” replied Shelagh, with a smile. “The Reading Circle is an earnest affair.”
“That makes it worse. Earnest people are a blight on the community.”
“I rather admire the characteristic.”
“Then I must try to cultivate it. I would like you to approve of something about me.” He gave her a sidelong glance to gauge the effect of his words, but she went on stacking plates without a change of expression. He tried another gambit as he took one end of the table-cloth she held out silently. “Shelagh, if I told you I was tired, depressed and feel as though I haven’t a friend in the world, what would you say?”
“I’d say you were run-down and need a course of vitamin injections,” she answered briskly.
“Don’t be clinical,” he implored, allowing the cloth to be twitched from his fingers and holding his hands at the ready for another to be tossed to him. “My mental shape calls for a more psychological treatment.”
“You mean womanly sympathy, I suppose. What a pity Mrs Turner has left. She seemed good at that kind of thing.”
He brightened. “I liked the way you said that. There was a faintly jealous note.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said coldly. “And please hurry up with the table-cloth. I’ve got a lot to do before I go out.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Mrs Spenser’s—with you. Someone has to see to it that you behave yourself.”
“You certainly have a lowering effect on a man,” he said doubtfully. “Athol told me you were the hardest nut he ever tried to crack. He called you his brilliant failure.”
“Athol—” she began, and then abruptly changed her tone and subject. “Charles, what are you and McGrath going to do? Jerry was telling me about the scene this morning.”
“That was your respected parent’s doing. He had everyone owning up to a motive for murdering Athol—even your Aunt Grace. Oh, a very humorous man, your father—so puckish!”
“Yes, he can be annoying. Jerry said he left McGrath in Dunbavin.”
“He told me he had some commissions to perform. You know, of course, that he thinks or pretends to think that I murdered both my aunt and Athol—a belief that has been strengthened by his discovery of the missing Wilding rifle under the seat of my car. He intends sending it down to town for a ballistics check.”
The girl looked at him with an anxious frown. “That puts you in rather a bad position, doesn’t it? What are you going to do?”
He threw out his hands in a helpless gesture that, had he but known, made more impression on her than anything he had done or said before. “I just haven’t a clue.”
II
Mrs Spenser advanced with gracious outstretched hands as her guests from the Duck and Dog entered the living room. “How charming of you all to come! Some of your big family are already at home, Ellis.” She indicated the Turners sitting somewhat subdued in a corner and McGrath wedged in a group of Dunbavin intellectuals. “You didn’t tell me you had a police inspector staying with you. He has been entertaining us with some of his experiences. Quite fascinating!”
“How remiss of me!” said Ellis smoothly. “I really guessed something of the kind, you know, Charles.”
Mrs Spenser transferred her clinging hand. “Welcome to our little group, Mr Carmichael. We are looking forward so much to your talk. Such a stimulating and provocative subject, the—ah—roman policier! My dear Mrs Dougall!”
Mrs Dougall extended a hand like a Headquarters C.O.’s wife visiting a hill station. “Did I understand you to say that man is a detective?”
“Why, yes. Didn’t you know?”
“Jumbo, did you hear that? One certainly rubs shoulders with the strangest people nowadays. Adelaide, have you those albums? Just a few photographs I have brought along to pass around as I give my lecture.”
“Well, come along everybody, and we’ll get down to work,” cried Mrs Spenser, clapping her hands.
“The identity of your friend has shaken us all,” Ellis murmured in Charles’s ear, as their hostess moved on to greet the others. “Tell me—is it going to be like one of those books you review? After amassing a weight of evidence quite unknown to the hapless reader, the great detective stands up at a most fortuitous gathering of the suspects and points the accusing finger. The guilty one, like a good sportsman, acknowledges his guilt by either swallowing the cyanide tablet hidden in his signet ring or by blowing his brains out with his pistol disguised as a pipe.”
“How I’d like that finger to be pointed at you!” rejoined Charles, dividing his scowl equally between Ellis and McGrath, who raised a laconic hand at him in greeting.
Ellis slapped his pockets. “No gun, and I left off carrying cyanide after my first successful murder. Of course, there is always the crashing leap through the window, but what hope has one of breaking one’s neck amongst Mrs Spenser’s flowers? It shall have to be an attempted getaway, foiled by the stalwart arms of Tom Motherwell who has been warned of the possibility and is stationed outside.”
He broke off and gave a sound of mild surprise. “Well, well! I never thought the devil would appear in the guise of our worthy sergeant.”
A hush fell over the room as Sergeant Motherwell came in, tightly uniformed and looking self-conscious with a certain air of importance. After a word to Mrs Spenser, he crossed to where McGrath was sitting and handed him a folded piece of paper. McGrath glanced at it casually, smiled affably at the ring of curious faces about him, then put it in his pocket.
Quelling an impulse to rush over and enquire what was going on, Charles strolled to the back of the room where Margot Stainsbury had signalled to him. Mrs Spenser had taken up her position at the opposite end, flashed a presidential smile around the gathering and announced the meeting of the Dunbavin Reading Circle open.
“Charles,” said Margot carefully. “What have we got ourselves into? How has it all come about? I’ve got the craziest feeling it must be a dream.”
“More like a dashed nightmare. Just another thing we’ve got Athol to thank for.”
“Athol—Chas, you’re not going to do anything silly here, are you? You and that McGrath person?”
He pretended not to hear as he watched Mrs Dougall being guided to the speaker’s table amid clapping led loudly by Major Dougall. Under cover of the applause, McGrath leaned back in his chair a
nd spoke to Shelagh who was sitting beside him. Soon Mrs Dougall was booming away about hot Indian nights and the sounds of the jungle and passing out slightly dimmed and dog-eared photographs. Charles found Shelagh handing him a picture of a slimmer Major Dougall standing triumphantly beside a supine carcass.
“McGrath said to tell you the bullet matched Father’s Wilding,” the girl whispered. “Tom Motherwell just brought word.”
“Ah—so he agrees now that Athol was murdered! It’s a pity he didn’t take my word for it in the first place.”
She made no rejoinder, apparently intent on Mrs Dougall’s discourse. Presently, giving a sidelong glance, Charles caught her troubled gaze fixed on him.
“What is the matter? What else did McGrath say?”
“He said that you still topped his suspect list. Charles, what are you going to do? He can’t really mean that.”
“Oh yes he can,” he muttered back grimly, only partly comforted by her concern.
Mrs Dougall came to the end of her tiger hunt and waited for the applause, displaying both rows of her dentures which looked like trophies of the same shoot. Still clapping, Mrs Spenser came to stand beside her and presently raised her hands for silence. “Well, I’m sure we all enjoyed that most interesting talk. And now for something in a lighter vein from Mrs Andrew Turner. I understand this will take the form of—what was it again, Mrs Turner?”
Frances gave a shy murmur and shrank back in her corner. Her husband nudged her sharply. “It’s a kind of sketch. She takes people off,” he announced. “Go on, Frankie!”
Momentarily diverted from his predicament, Charles braced himself to listen to a few shoddy imitations of well-known film stars. Frances stood in front of the table, staring about the room as though stricken with stage-fright. Then quite calmly she moved the table to one side, flicking at it with an invisible duster and talking about her actions in complaining half-sentences.
Shelagh stirred and murmured in a quivering voice, “Good heavens! It’s Aunt Grace! She even looks like her.” Almost at once a ripple of amusement went through the audience. As the impersonation was recognised, Frances slipped into another. She seemed to grow taller and carried her head at a quizzical tilt. The bored, half-supercilious tones were uncanny in their likeness to Ellis Bryce. From the back of the room, Jerry let out an unfilial guffaw which ricocheted back as the girl started slouching about with hands in invisible pockets and denouncing the world.
“We’d better not laugh too soon,” said Charles. “I’ve a notion we’re all in for a rubbing.” He turned round to find out who was breathing so heavily on the back of his neck and discovered Sergeant Motherwell watching him. Realising by whose orders he was standing guardian, Charles shot a fulminating glance at McGrath who grinned amiably back at him.
“Darling, we’re being butchered to make a Dunbavin holiday,” Margot drifted up to murmur plaintively. “Let’s all fume together.”
Loud applause greeted the end of the clever performance. Frances hung her head as Mrs Spenser, who regarded herself as a soul of tact, made a little speech of thanks endeavouring at the same time to smooth down any possible ruffled feathers.
“I have persuaded Mrs Turner to show us what she can really do. She has undertaken to recite a little poem which I am sure will be more in keeping with our little gathering here.” A suitable gravity replaced the audience’s rollicking mood at this reproof. Shyly and hesitantly, as though she were in disgrace, Frances began to recite.
“Do you know what it’s all about?” asked a voice presently in Charles’s ear, leaving a mingled smell of antiseptic and halitosis. Dr Spenser had entered the room with elaborate caution. Seeing Charles, he had come to stand alongside with the intention of dealing firmly with an outburst.
“‘—famished, splintered, white, wrenched from its life, yet dying with grace—’” Frances finished her poem, then scuttled to Andrew’s side.
“These literary affairs are rather beyond me,” declared the doctor humorously, to show that he was not afraid to admit ignorance. “My wife is, of course, quite in her element. Here she comes now! My dear, I was asking Mr Carmichael to explain the significance of the verses we have just heard.”
She slapped his hand playfully. “How like you to pretend! They were called ‘The Broken Bough’—lovely, lovely words! What are you hovering around for, Tom Motherwell? I declare I don’t know what’s got into everyone this afternoon. Will you come up to the table now, Mr Carmichael? It’s your turn.”
Rather red around the neck, Sergeant Motherwell retreated. He sat down beside McGrath, and after a whispered consultation which everyone strained to hear, both policemen folded their arms and waited for Charles to begin his talk on The Detective Novel.
Thoroughly versed in his subject, though feeling strangely little of his customary enthusiasm for it, he began with the birth of detective fiction under the authorships of Poe, Conan Doyle and Wilkie Collins, declaring it to be a literary form of high distinction. He sounded so authoritative and easy as he traced the development of the genre down through the years, naming a few classic titles, listing some of the abuses to which it had been subjected and enumerating its tenets, that the members of the Dunbavin Reading Circle sat up ready to be intelligent at question time. Mrs Spenser was immensely pleased with him and forgot her curiosity as to the tension the guests from the Duck and Dog had brought into her living room. She made an enthusiastic speech of thanks at the conclusion of Charles’s lecture and then announced coyly that tea and stronger refreshments would be served.
Charles moved thankfully to a quiet corner. Almost at once McGrath appeared beside him. “Hullo, boy?” he greeted him imperturbably. “Have a cup of tea. You’ve earned it after all that gab.”
“All right, Mac! What’s the score? I gather you haven’t come to talk about my lecture—not after having set that fool Motherwell on to me all this afternoon.”
McGrath took a noisy sip of tea, set his cup in its saucer and took an outsize bite from a small-sized scone. “You wouldn’t want me to make a scene in this high-brow atmosphere, would you? However, you might as well know now as later that I’m getting a warrant issued for your arrest.”
“Oh, now, look here!” said Charles wearily. “A joke’s a joke, but—”
“No joke, boy! I know you’ve been going flat out trying to pin your uncle’s murder on the good people, here, but—”
“Good people be damned! Any one of them could have murdered Athol. What about Wilson? And Jeffrey has admitted planning to kill him.”
McGrath shrugged. “We’ll wait until after the party. You’d better enjoy what’s left of it.” With these ominous words he moved away.
“Charles!”
He turned to find Shelagh standing behind him, and tried to smile. “I’ve been behaving myself, haven’t I?”
A sparkle of something like anger shone in her eyes. “I heard what McGrath said. We must do something quickly. It’s—it’s absurd that you’re in this position.” She drew him further away and spoke in an urgent undertone. “I’ve got an idea. It might sound crazy, but something you said in your lecture made me think of it.”
“What was that? I can’t remember a thing I said—what with Mac watching my every move and Motherwell ready to clap a heavy hand on my shoulder.”
“The process of eliminating the impossible suspects of a murder, so that whatever remains is the answer, however improbable.”
He gazed about the room at the various guests from the Duck and Dog and said bitterly, “I’ve already tried to make that rule apply. But in this case there’s a positive phalanx of probable suspects. Take them away and the answer is impossible.”
She did not speak for a moment; then she said quietly, “Perhaps that is the answer. What could be more impossible than someone called Morton who booked at the Duck and Dog for the duck season and then did not arrive?”
Slowly and incredulously, Charles turned his head. For a long moment he stared at her, the blank look in
his eyes gradually becoming enlivened and alert. “Shelagh! You wonderful girl!” he breathed.
“The booking was made through the Happy Holiday Agency,” said Shelagh. “Then a telegram arrived signed Morton, cancelling it at the last moment.”
There was another long pause as Charles wrestled with a hundred stabbing thoughts, while her expressive eyes encouraged him. He glanced around the room again. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he decided swiftly, “without Mac catching me. Can you keep him occupied in some way? He’s over in the corner with Dr Spenser.”
“I’ll try.”
He watched her move slowly across the room as he edged around the outskirts of the crowd. Her usually brisk gait seemed faltering and uncertain. She spoke a few words to Dr Spenser, put one hand up to cover her eyes, then quietly sagged against McGrath.
In an instant the room was in confusion and Charles, grinning in admiration at the best interpretation he had ever seen of the oldest trick in the world, slipped quietly out.
III
Lights were beginning to wink when Charles reached the outer suburbs of Melbourne, and the haze over the city was shot with mauve from advertising signs. With an anxious glance at his wrist-watch, he pulled up at a public telephone booth, thumbed hastily through the dog-eared directory and, dialling a number, prayed for luck to favour him. At the lifting of the receiver he sent his coppers rolling. “I want to speak to either Mr Dawson or Mr Stanley.”
“This is Stanley speaking.”
“My name is Carmichael. A client of yours—Mr Harris Jeffrey—gave me your name. I’ve come down from the country to see you on a matter of great importance.”
“You are fortunate to have caught me, Mr Carmichael. It’s well after consulting hours.”
“Well, put in some overtime. I’ll be there within half an hour.” Charles replaced the receiver, rubbed his hands gleefully and went back to his car.
Twenty-five minutes later he was on the fourth floor of a block of offices in the heart of the city, knocking on the frosted glass panel which bore the words DAWSON AND STANLEY—PRIVATE ENQUIRY SPECIALISTS—AFFILIATIONS IN ALL STATES AND OVERSEAS.