Duck Season Death (14 page)

“Yes, I knew that. I often wondered why Athol had her cremated. Go on!”

“That's about all there is. My job now is either to shut the busy-bodies up or to prove foul play.”

“And now that Athol isn't around you intend to pin Aunt Paula's death on me!”

“Oh, I wouldn't go so far as that—yet!” returned McGrath cheerfully. “Let's say that the questions I intended asking your uncle will now be transferred to you as the—er—next interested party.”

“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 carry-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.”