by June Wright
“Got what, boy?”
“The explanation to the answer.”
“Well, that’s fine. Tell me all about it.”
“Drew! Dorothea Brand’s beloved! Andrew Turner. He murdered Athol, because Athol was the cause of Dorothea Brand’s committing suicide. She killed herself because of that brutal review. According to Morton they were planning to be married.”
He leaped up from his chair suddenly and began to pace to and fro. “It all fits in so perfectly. No coincidence, no loose ends and every step reasonable and logical. The only thing I feel sore about is that it was a woman’s intuition that put me on the right track. It was Shelagh’s idea to remove the probable suspects and what remained—the impossible—was the answer. And what could be more impossible than a honeymooning husband putting into the Duck and Dog seemingly on the off chance of getting a room. We know how he arranged for that room to be vacant. A phoney booking under the name of Morton then cancelled at the last minute.”
“And was Mrs Turner a partner to this plot?” asked McGrath.
Charles paused. “No, I don’t think so, but I think she has some suspicions. There were one or two things she said, and her manner was not that of a confident happy bride. Perhaps she was realising that her marriage was part of the scheme. She was her husband’s alibi all the way—from arriving at Dunbavin to the actual killing of Athol. It is my belief he gave her a sleeping drug to cover leaving the bedroom to follow Athol and me. I know he had some tablets, because she gave me one when I couldn’t sleep. But I think she might have recited that poem of Dorothea Brand’s on purpose as a reproach to Turner. It wouldn’t be very pleasant to know that you had been a tool to avenge another woman’s death.”
Suddenly he swung round to face McGrath and said urgently, “Mac, supposing Andrew knows that his wife has guessed! And now—now that she has served her purpose, he might be planning—Mac, you’d better have him picked up pretty smartly. They left Dunbavin, you know. There could be a car accident—perhaps a shooting accident. Come on, Mac! It’s your job now. I’ve named the killer for you. It’s up to you to see he doesn’t kill again.”
But McGrath did not move. “Now, don’t get fussed, boy! Just take your time and tell me more of your notions.”
There was a pause as Charles stared down at him incredulously. “Notions! You mean you don’t—” he stopped, suddenly aware of the fact that McGrath did not believe in his theories and had no intention of being convinced by them.
He still thinks I’m the killer. He lied to me about ringing his wife, and now he’s encouraging me to talk—playing for time until—
Charles pulled himself together. He knew that he was right—that Andrew Turner was the murderer. A desperate cunning took hold of him as he tried to plan a way of escape. He paced about the room again, pretending the excited triumph he had manifested before he realised what McGrath was thinking.
“Notions? You want to hear how I fitted the clues in?” he gabbled on heedlessly, while McGrath never moved his watchful gaze. He spoke about Turner and his probable route after leaving Dunbavin. When he darted into the store-room to consult the map, McGrath followed, his eyes going swiftly over the room to check any possible way of escape. There was a pair of windows but they were very small and set high in the wall and overlooking a sheer drop to a lane below.
Charles gave a quick casual glance at the door where McGrath stood. There was a key on the office side. He picked up a piece of doweling to use as a pointer. “I think Turner will travel in this direction, Mac. He is fairly confident that his tracks are covered; therefore it is all the more important to move in the usual direction instead of arousing suspicion by making straight for the bush. What do you think?”
“I’d say you were probably right,” agreed the detective.
Charles moved the tip of the pointer. He noticed that his fingers were shaking slightly. “In that case, his way would follow the Diallong Highway from Dunbavin. Now, where the heck’s Dunbavin?” He pretended to search for it. After a short hesitation, McGrath came alongside to indicate the position of the town but still staying between Charles and the door.
“Thanks, Mac. Now where do we go from there? Along this way? Yes, that’s probably right. Turner would head towards Cranbilka once the job had been done. But what about this road cutting in? It goes in a straight line, practically to the border. According to my reasoning—if I were in Turner’s shoes, I’d—” The pointer dropped from his hand and rolled along the floor.
Automatically, McGrath stooped to pick it up. At the same instant Charles gave him a violent push which sent the detective sprawling. In another instant he was out of the door, shutting and locking it.
“I won’t say I’m sorry about this, Mac,” he called rather breathlessly. “Since you don’t believe me in theory, I’ll have to bring the killer to you personally.”
A muffled voice said, “You damned young fool—!” But Charles did not stop. He sped through Athol’s office, locking the door after him, and out into the reception hall. At Miss Smart’s door he paused and put his head in to say, “We’re pushing off now, Miss Smart.”
“Very well, Mr Carmichael. When will you be coming back?”
“In a day or so. Look after things as usual until you hear from me. Oh—and by the way—if anyone enquires for Mr McGrath, tell them he’ll also be seeing them shortly.” Charles turned his head. “That’s about the message, isn’t it, Mac?” he asked the empty hall.
Miss Smart made a note on a pad. “I’ll do that.”
“Thank you.” Charles closed the door carefully, took a deep bracing breath and fled.
VII
Luck was with him the whole way. There was a taxi just getting rid of its fare outside the building, and the driver was actually agreeable to make the long trip to the aerodrome. At the airport, there was a vacancy on a plane just about to leave for Melbourne.
Trying to settle down to the irksome two-hour flight, Charles set himself the task of calculating how much time he would have. Unless McGrath was extraordinarily lucky—and Charles believed that he had the exclusive right to luck at the moment—he would not escape for some time. Miss Smart believed that he had left the building and would not hear him from the small closed room the other side of Athol’s sound-proof office. Even if some of McGrath’s detectives arrived, the message he had left would lead them to think that McGrath, for reasons best known to himself, was once again postponing the arrest.
It was dusk once more when the plane circled over Melbourne airport and dropped gently to the tarmac. Feeling tired and grimy, Charles was driven to his flat where he stayed only to shower and change his clothes. Then he took his car out and set it on the route back to Dunbavin. The petrol tank indicator was low, but he drove through the night until the needle barely flickered. Then he drew up on the side of the desolate country road and, dead tired, fell asleep behind the wheel.
The sun was up when he awoke, stiff and chilled. He got out and stamped up and down, swinging his arms and surveying a township which lay in the hollow a mile or so further on. He went back to the car and started to roll it. As it gathered momentum, he jumped in and coasted down the road, coming to a full stop a few yards from the first cottage of the township. There he left the car and went to look for a gasoline station and somewhere to eat.
An hour later he was on his way, a map spread out on the seat alongside. The route he planned was the one he had mapped out for McGrath, for it still seemed reasonable to him that Andrew Turner would go that way.
The Turners had left Dunbavin late Wednesday afternoon. They probably would not have travelled far before camping for the night. But on the following day—the day Charles and McGrath had spent chasing all over Sydney—they might have covered a considerable distance. With this thought in mind, Charles by-passed Dunbavin and pressed hard on the accelerator.
About eighty miles further on, he slowed down as another small township came into view, with a camping park attached to its sports o
val. Here, with fingers crossed for the luck he believed would not desert him, he made some enquiries. To his immense satisfaction he learned that a young couple in a Holden utility truck had spent the night before last at the camping ground.
A grin of pure conceit crossed his face as the local storekeeper—who was also a caretaker for the park—volunteered further information that they intended making for a town two hundred miles on, in the environs of which they planned to stay. This particular town, Weerundi, was situated on a river which he himself had recommended as excellent for rainbow trout fishing. If Charles wished to meet up with them, he would most likely find them camped on a certain angle of the river three miles out of town—a spot which the storekeeper had gone to elaborate plans to identify as the young pair seemed so interested.
Charles thanked his informant fervently and got back into his car. The storekeeper ambled after him and leaned on the door. “In case they changed their minds, I suggest you make enquiries at Warner’s store. I told them to look up old Bert if they wanted a licence or any tackle.”
Charles thanked him again and thought what a wonderful place the country was. Any stranger in the district stood out like men from Mars, and their movements were automatically under surveillance. So intent was he on catching up with his quarry that it did not occur to him that he was a figure of interest and speculation too.
It was after midday when he left the camping ground. Back on the main road, he set the speedo climbing, making as good progress as the rugged surface of the secondary highway allowed. Towards evening he arrived at Weerundi, and drove slowly down the main street looking for Warner’s store.
He was fortunate in finding it still open, the proprietor having been detained by a haggling buyer after fishing rods.
“Excuse me,” said Charles, not disposed to being delayed at this juncture of the chase. “I’m in rather a hurry.”
The buyer, a big man in grey flannels and a polo neck pullover, looked him over, then said grudgingly, “See what he wants then, Bert, I’ll wait.”
“Thanks,” Charles acknowledged briefly and then addressed Bert. “The camp caretaker at Boyes told me to look you up. I’m looking for some—ah—friends of mine by the name of Turner—a young married couple. He said they would probably call here to obtain a fishing licence. Have you seen them?”
Bert pondered the question, rubbing his nose. “A young pair? Big, set-up fellow and a little, sort of softly spoken woman? Driving a Holden ute? Can’t say as how their name was Turner though.”
“It sounds like them. Your friend mentioned a spot on the river where he advised them to try their luck. Which road do I take?”
Bert massaged his chin. “I guess old Joe meant Angler’s Point. You take the track behind the R. C. Church—rather a rough sort of road. It follows the river. If they’re still there, you can’t miss them.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Charles as he turned away. Then he thought of something else. “By the way, where is the police station in this town?”
There was a pause as Bert glanced over at the other customer, who had suddenly stopped making imaginary casts with the willow rod. “Police station? You want to know where the police station is? Why, that’s just around the corner from here. But I reckon you won’t find the sergeant in just now.”
“I don’t want to see him right away. Probably later—in fact, quite definitely later,” Charles corrected himself, and then left the shop.
Dusk was now falling—a slow-encroaching film that is the beginning of the night-time in the country. Charles swerved and bumped over the narrow dirt track which led out to Angler’s Point. Presently he saw a Holden utility backed in among the trees on the bank of the stream the track had been following. He drew up on the side of the track, switched off the engine and climbed out.
It was a still, quiet, warm evening. He could hear the splash and trickle of the water, and the hum of late summer insects. Advancing quietly towards the utility, he looked in the cabin. An ignition key dangled from the dash-board, its label bearing Turner’s name and address. He felt a stab of anger when he saw the name Cranbilka, and remembered how hard he had worked to get hold of that name.
The scrub was thick, but he pushed his way through it as quietly as he could to where the ruddy glow of a fire was just visible. He could see a figure squatting beside it, and presently recognised Frances Turner. She was wearing faded jeans and a tartan shirt, and was busy scraping and filleting a fish. The fire shone on her intent little face. Charles thought she looked extraordinarily small and vulnerable. He glanced around carefully, but of Andrew there was no sign.
Suddenly Frances looked up. “Who’s there?” she asked, her hands straining to the gun propped against a nearby tree.
Charles stepped out. “Don’t be frightened,” he said quietly.
She gave a gasp when she recognised him, followed by a hasty glance over her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
“Where is your husband?”
“Andy? He is down at the river—fishing. What do you want with him?”
Charles came nearer. “I think you can guess,” he said gently.
She looked up at him in silence for a moment. “I don’t know what you mean. Why have you followed us like this? Is there—is there anyone else with you?”
“No, I’m alone. If you are thinking of McGrath, I left him locked up in an office in Sydney.”
“Locked up—! Are you joking at me? What were you doing in Sydney?”
“Discovering the identity of my uncle’s murderer.”
She jumped up and moved out of the firelight. “That is nothing to do with—with Andy,” she said in her breathless, husky voice. “I can’t think how—”
“Yes, you can! You’ve suspected all along that Andy killed Athol, haven’t you?”
She bent her head and did not reply.
“Before he married you, Andy was in love with another girl in Cranbilka. Her name was Dorothea Brand and she wrote poetry. She had a volume published which Athol panned with more than his usual unpleasantness, making some wounding personal remarks which led her into taking her own life. After pursuing a cat-and-mouse torment, Andy finally ran Athol to earth at Dunbavin and killed him.”
A long, shuddering sigh broke from the girl and she suddenly covered her face with her hands. Charles crossed to her quickly and put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t be distressed,” he said quietly. “Be brave and face the facts—shocking though they are.”
He continued to hold her while she trembled and cried noiselessly against him. She felt little and light and helpless. He put his arms around her slim body to support her more firmly, and she clung to him like child.
“Frances!” he spoke her name without meaning to, and she gave a child-like gulp of surprise and raised her head.
For a moment she stood in his arms silently, and she whispered hopelessly, “What am I going to do?”
“You must get away from your—from Andrew as quickly as you can. You’re not safe if he knows you suspect him. I don’t want to sound brutal, you poor little thing, but it is obvious he only married you for an alibi.”
“You mean he would—he might—?” Charles nodded grimly and felt her shudder again.
“And you—what about you?” she asked, gripping the lapels of his coat with both hands. “What are you going to do?”
He hesitated for a moment. “I’m going to stay here to meet him.”
“No, Charles, you mustn’t! Let’s slip away at once without seeing him.”
He clasped her narrow wrists and gently put her away from him. “I’ll be all right. I must stay. In some way or other, I’ve got to get him to admit his guilt. You see, the police think I killed Athol. This is my only chance.”
“I won’t leave you.”
He felt in his pocket, drew out his car key and put it into her hand. “Take my car. It’s down the track a bit. Go into the town and find the police station. It’s round the corner from the store where you got
your fishing licence. Tell the sergeant everything and bring him back here. If, by then, I haven’t been able to—” he broke off and walked away from her to the other side of the clearing. Through the trees, he could see the faint glimmer of the stream and a shape moving along the steep, rock-strewn bank.
“Hey, Frankie!” came the faint call. Charles glanced over his shoulder. The girl had gone.
VIII
He went back to the fire, threw some twigs on it and waited. He could hear Andrew Turner clambering up the bank, and presently he appeared through the trees, dangling a pair of fair-sized trevally from one hand.
“Here’s supper and breakfast, Frankie. Your old man has certainly got the game beaten.”
“Good-evening, Turner!” Charles said from the shadows.
“Who’s that?” asked the other quickly. “Oh, it’s you, Carmichael. What on earth are you doing here? Hey, Frankie—guess who’s blown in.”
“Frances has gone,” said Charles, advancing nearer the fire.
“Oh, you’ve seen her, have you? Where’s she gone?”
“Into the town.”
“She didn’t say anything about going. What’s she gone there for?”
“I told her to go. I want to have a talk with you—alone!”
“What about?” Turner asked defensively.
“Dorothea Brand,” replied Charles quietly.
The other man seemed to stiffen. Then he began to dismantle his rod, concentrating on the task. “Has Frances been talking about Dorrie? She was her sister, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. I first came across the name by reading a review Athol Sefton wrote of her book of poems. I made a few enquiries and learned about the—the subsequent tragedy.”
“The old bastard!” exclaimed Turner violently. He appeared suddenly to realise what he had said and gave an uneasy laugh. “I suppose he had to write something. I can’t understand why Dorrie took it so much to heart. She was a funny kid—frightfully highly-strung and sensitive. I suppose writing poetry—”
His voice dwindled away as Charles kept staring at him steadily. “I don’t get what this is all about,” he went on, more aggressively. “Why have you chased us all this way to talk about Dorrie? What have you been saying to my wife that she has gone off like this?”