Duck Season Death (20 page)

“Oh, so it was Judd who let you in. Did you tell him you were a policeman?”

“No, just an old pal. Sit down, boy, and ease that mean look off your face.”

“I don't take kindly to this intrusion, Mac. If you are looking for the coffee, try the cannister marked ‘coffee'. It is rather unusual for you to deviate from the obvious.”

“Funny thing, but my wife keeps anything
but
what is labelled in these tins. That's women for you. They never act according to the rules.”

Charles began to slice bread to put in the toaster. “So we're going to discuss women, are we?”

“Just a passing comment. Here, wrap your stomach round this.”

Charles surveyed the proffered plate and suddenly laughed. “Do you usually serve bacon and eggs before making an arrest?”

“Only to my pets,” returned McGrath equably, taking his place at the table. “Talking of women and the way they disregard the generally accepted, Miss Bryce certainly caused you to break out in a rash.”

“The woman's touch was evidently what I needed,” said Charles, getting up to take the percolator off the fire. “Pass your cup over.”

“Thanks. While you're up, get some more butter, will you?”

“Go easy or there won't be any left over for breakfast. I take it you will be here for breakfast?” added Charles sardonically.

“I'll be here,” agreed McGrath cheerfully, “but don't let me disturb you. I've slept on worse beds than that couch of yours in the living room.”

“Allow me to offer my bed. I'll take the couch.”

“Very good of you, I'm sure, but I wouldn't consider accepting such a sacrifice.”

“You mean you want to be between me and the exits,” said Charles dryly.

“There might be something in what you say too,” nodded the detective affably.

“Mac, you've got to give me a chance. I've got the craziest notion that I'm on the right track at last over this business.”

McGrath heaved himself up to pour more coffee. “I'm giving you more chances than I ever gave anyone before, boy. You won't mind if I hang around while you play your games? I've got my own neck to think of, you know.”

“You stay around and I'll present the murderer to you on a platter,” Charles promised.

They finished their meal together amiably and cleared up. Then Charles found blankets for his guest, and went off to shave and bathe. On his way back from the bathroom, he put his head into the living room and spoke the thought that had come to him under the shower. “George Washington slept here! Athol used that couch just before we went to Dunbavin.”

“He did? Wouldn't he take your offer either?”

“No, he seemed to want to keep me under his eye as much as you do now. I trust you don't intend popping in and out to see if I'm asleep?”

“Sefton did that, did he? Well, you couldn't blame him for being jumpy, could you?”

“I know what inference I should draw from that, but I've got my own ideas.”

“They'd better be good,” declared McGrath on a mighty yawn. “Good-night, boy! Don't use the drain-pipe outside your window like a good chap.”

“It would be beneath my dignity. Good-night, Towser—and don't bark at every noise.”

At breakfast the following morning, Charles said grudgingly, “You may as well know—I've booked a flight to Sydney this morning. I suppose you'll want to tag along.”

McGrath looked up placidly from a plate of cereal. “It'll be nice to see the old home town. What would you be wanting to do in Sydney, boy?”

“Never mind! Hurry up, I've got a job to do in Melbourne first.”

“What sort of job?”

“You work it out. I can't help your looking over my shoulder all the time, but I'm damned if I'm going to give a word-for-word explanation.”

“Okay—keep your shirt on! I thought maybe I could save you some trouble.”

“Well, that's a change,” remarked Charles acidly.

In the city, he sought out the holiday booking office which handled Ellis Bryce's erratic affairs. “The Duck and Dog Hotel? queried the clerk, when Charles said he wanted some information. “They're pretty well booked up for the moment.”

“Yes, I know,” said Charles impatiently. “I'm staying there.”

The clerk looked bewildered. “What information is it you were wanting then?”

“I want to know the address of some people called Morton who made a reservation through this office and then did not arrive. At the last moment there was a vacant room.”

“A vacant room?” repeated the clerk, shocked. “Mr Bryce did not advise us of this.”

“Oh, he let some casual tourists have it. Can you get that information immediately? It's very important and I'm in a great hurry.”
There was a telephone on the counter nearby and Charles reached for it. “Do you mind if I use your phone?” he added, dialling rapidly.

“You know, boy, you remind me of someone out of the movies,” murmured McGrath admiringly.

“Well, that's a change from being likened to someone out of a book,” retorted Charles. “I assure you I am not trying to emulate either—Hullo? I want to speak to Mr Stanley, please.”

“Would this be of interest to you, sir?” interrupted the clerk, sliding across the counter a letter to which the duplicate of a receipt was clipped. “The booking was made by mail with a deposit enclosed. We sent an endorsement and a receipt back.”

“Thanks—is that Mr Stanley? Carmichael speaking. Did you—Oh, nice work! Just a minute—I want to write it down.”

“Allow me!” McGrath offered his fountain pen.

“What was it again, Stanley?” Charles held the pen poised on the letter in front of him, ready to jot down notes. “Yes, I remember the case you mentioned—and you say there was someone else after Athol, as I thought? What? The same name and address? That's interesting. Yes—yes—what!”

“Take it easy!” advised McGrath, amused though baffled.

Charles lowered his voice. “Say that again, will you, Stanley—right! And the address? That means your Sydney associate never had any personal contact with the client? Well, thanks very much—you've been a great help. No, I don't think I'll need anything more. Eh?. Oh—er—thanks! Good-bye.” Charles put the receiver back and, grinning from ear to ear, said inanely, “He wished me every success.”

“Fancy! Now that was nice of him! Is Stanley his Christian or surname?”

“Oh, I forgot you are not as advanced in this case as I am. Dawson and Stanley are the private enquiry agents Harry Jeffrey used to trace Athol.”

“Don't be cocky, boy,” drawled McGrath.

“I've got every reason to be. The information he provided ties up with this.” He picked up the letter lovingly and folded it carefully away into his wallet. “You don't mind, do you?” he asked the bewildered clerk disarmingly.

“Er—no. I suppose not.”

“That's fine. Come on, Mac! I want to buy some chocolates before we catch that plane.”

V

Three hours later McGrath was trailing Charles around the streets of another city. “Pavements are the same anywhere,” the detective complained. “And I thought I'd given up pounding them years ago. Don't your feet hurt?”

“Nope!” replied Charles cheerfully, but he hailed a taxi coming down from King's Cross.

“Where to now?” asked McGrath, loosening the laces of his shoes with an agonised expression.

Charles gave an address to the driver. “We're going to call on the people who booked that room at the Duck and Dog.”

“It's to be hoped you find them in after coming all this way.”

Charles did not reply. He pulled out a cigarette and smoked rapidly, sitting forward on the seat as the taxi sped along the steep curving streets.

Presently McGrath observed, “Why don't you relax, boy? You're making me nervous.”

Charles laughed shortly. “You show the quaintest humour. Okay, driver, this looks like it.”

“I can read too, mate,” said the man in an injured tone, as he pulled the wheel around. What number was it you wanted?”

“Forty-three. Should be up the other end.”

They cruised slowly down a plush-looking residential street, lined with modern mansions set in half-grown landscaped gardens.

“Classy quarter,” remarked McGrath on a yawn.

“Yes. You couldn't possibly be suspicious about an address like this, could you?”

The street ended in a small headland overlooking the harbour. The taxi pulled up at the railing erected to check the unwary. “Looks like your number should be just about where the breakers are,” was the driver's comment. “Sure you've got it right, mate?”

“Turn around and drive down the other side slowly,” Charles ordered, checking the address on the letter. “Street numbers get haywire sometimes.”

Shrugging, the man reversed and turned, while Charles craned out the window. “Any luck?” asked McGrath, when they reached the end again.

Charles settled back in his seat once more. “No luck. All right, driver, back to town.”

“You don't seem overly disturbed at missing your party, boy.”

“No, I'm not,” said Charles exuberantly.

“Cracking hardy, or did you perhaps expect it?”

Charles looked at him. “You're quite a bright bird when you take your head out of the sand. The people called Morton who booked at the Duck and Dog never had any intention of turning up, because in simple fact they didn't even exist.” When the detective made no comment, he added, “I want to look in at Athol's office now. Perhaps you'd like to see your own people? Could I drop you anywhere?

“You wouldn't be wanting to get rid of me, would you?”

“Now, whatever gave you that idea?”

“Perhaps I was being oversensitive,” the other rejoined, equally bland. “Tell me, how does that classy magazine of yours function with its managing editor dead and its sub-editor on the run?”

“It functions very smoothly in the hands of an efficient female, appropriately named Miss Smart. The only woman Athol never tried to undermine.”

“I take it she was more necessary to his business life than to his sex life. How did the lady like the arrangement?”

“I never heard her complain. She is one of these career-minded women who are never stumped when it comes to their jobs. I must try and catch her out on something we heard at that ridiculous party of Mrs Spenser's.”

The head office of
Culture and Critic
was rather like a hotel suite. Lushly carpeted, discreetly lighted and bearing on its elegant walls blown-up photographs of the great and small in the world of the arts, it drew a soft, rude whistle from McGrath.

“Athol always believed in keeping up appearances,” declared Charles with a grin. “Hullo, Miss Smart! Surprise!”

A woman about forty with the appearance of a well-groomed racehorse had emerged from an inner room to answer to the muted chime bell. Her blue-rinsed grey hair clung as smoothly to her skull as the black suit was moulded to her strictly controlled figure. A touch of lace on her blouse and a large sapphire ring on one white but capable hand were her only concessions to charm. She greeted Charles calmly and said the right number of words in the right manner about Athol's death.

Charles introduced McGrath. “Come into Athol's office, Miss Smart. There are a few things I want to talk about. You may be able to help.”

“Certainly, Mr Carmichael. I think you'll find everything has been running smoothly here. I have been making a day-to-day report since I heard about Mr Sefton's accident.”

“It's not the magazine I want to talk about, but Mr Sefton himself. Mac, for Pete's sake stop gaping and sit down!”

“Sorry, boy. I'm over-awed by the way the other half work.”

“Could I fix you gentlemen a drink?” suggested Miss Smart.

The yellow went out of Charles's eye. “An excellent notion. We could both do with one.”

When she had trod noiselessly over the deep grey carpet to a cocktail cabinet on the other side of the room, McGrath said in an appreciative undertone, “I must mention this lay-out to the Commissioner at our next Heads of Department conference. He is always calling for suggestions to facilitate smoother organisation.”

After she had presented the men with a long tinkling glass apiece, Miss Smart merged herself into the background. The phone on Athol's immense desk rang a couple of times, and after the second call, she told the switch-girl to take messages as there was an important meeting about to commence. Charles took the hint, drained his glass, and said briskly, “I want to know everything you can tell me about Mr Sefton's behaviour prior to his departure from Melbourne. First of all, Miss Smart, did you know he intended going duck-shooting?”