Duck Season Death (5 page)

Jeffrey lit another cigarette. His fingers were trembling slightly. “Could be,” he replied. “But I thought you said you started minding your own business at this point.”

“Sometimes the point is marginal. In your case I feel compelled to advise you to keep in part with your environment. In other words, Mr Jeffrey, if you wish to continue—let us say anonymously—you had better go to the Duck and Dog prepared and equipped to shoot ducks.”

The American coughed over his cigarette as a laugh of relief caught him unawares. “Thanks for the tip. It would be sticking my neck way out if I didn't dress and act the part.”

The agent looked gratified, then shook his head. “It is not so much acting and dressing. I'm afraid the fact that you are an
American will make you stand out, so to speak, in the district you intend to visit. The point is, can you shoot?”

His client laughed again. “Sure I can shoot. They taught us to do that sort of thing back in '42.”

“Ah yes, quite! War is a terrible thing,” said the agent with the air of announcing a profound and original truth. “But there is, I believe, a difference between shooting game and—ah—sniping at the enemy. What you need is a shotgun. In order to preserve your anonymity I suggest your purchasing one before you leave town.”

“You're being most considerate,” murmured Jeffrey.

Again the little man looked pleased. “Don't mention it. It's just that I do like a job to be tucked in on all corners, so to speak. Now here is the name of a reliable gunsmith. All the best sportsmen go there, I believe.”

“Why, thanks a lot—”

“You're welcome. It is our aim to give our clients every possible service in order to achieve their objectives—short of murder, of course.” He tittered lightly as he drew out a folded slip of paper. “Now, if you are quite satisfied, Mr Jeffrey, there is just the little matter of our account.”

“I'll settle up right away,” said the American jerkily, turning away from him to take out his wallet.

Money and receipt were exchanged. Then the agent packed up his briefcase and went to the door. “Well, goodbye, Mr Jeffrey—and good luck. I hope you have an enjoyable time shooting ducks.”

V

“Dunbavin!” said Andrew, easing the utility over one of the many bumps of the rough country road. “Look it up on the map, will you, darling? I believe the F. and G. recommend it too.”

Frances unwrapped the map and spread it over her knees, bending forward to hide the small tolerant smile that women smile when they think they know how to manage their men.

Their unconventional honeymoon had started off in New South Wales shooting marauding kangaroos, on which an open season had been declared. Then on further south, where they had tried their luck with the wild pigs that roamed about the Murrumbidgee. Late February found them crossing the Murray into Victoria, where duck-shooting was the next item on Andrew's list.

He slipped a sudden arm about his wife's shoulders. Life was good. Frankie was a grand wife. He had enjoyed teaching her how to shoot, marvelling at her occasional fluke, for he maintained it needed years of practise to become a really accomplished shot. Perhaps he enjoyed her ineptitude even more.

Then there were the warm twilights when they made camp just where they fancied, and Frances squatted over the fire he had lighted cooking kangaroo steak or a rabbit stew, her face intent and shadowy in the firelight. His arm tightened so that she was pulled sideways against him as he thought of the nights hazy with stars when they lay rolled in blankets, Frances small and silent in his arms.

“Look out, Andy!” Frances protested, wriggling free. “You're making me tear the map.”

“To hell with the map,” he replied, and the truck swerved crazily as he gave her a swift kiss. “Happy?”

“Of course. Look, if we follow this road it seems to lead to the main highway to Dunbavin.”

“Okay—we're off to see Dunbavin, Dunbavin the place for ducks!” he sang, leaning forward and putting both hands at the top of the wheel. “You're really happy, Frankie? Like being married to me?”

“Of course,” she said again, sounding surprised. “What silly questions you ask, darling!”

Somehow he felt oddly comforted when she called him that. She had a lovely voice, Frankie had, when she chose to put expression
into it—sort of warm and husky. It must be all the amateur acting she did at home. Everyone used to say that she ought to try her luck in Sydney—study for the stage or try television audition, perhaps go abroad. He was damned thankful she hadn't.

“Look!” he said suddenly, slowing the utility and lifting one hand to point. “They know we're coming. They're up to welcome us.”

A slow-moving formation of ducks appeared in the sky ahead. They seemed to hang immobile before dropping down behind a clump of low trees which hid a lagoon. “They are a good omen,” said Frances and put her hand into his.

Just as the term of endearment had pleased him, so the spontaneous gesture of affection brought a surge of something like gratitude. Impulsively he said, “This pub—the Duck and Dog—what say we put up there for a night or two? I bet you've had enough sleeping in the open. What about a change from roughing it?”

“But Andy, we'd never get in. They're certain to be full up and the expense—”

Andrew was himself again, confident and masterful. “Bet you anything you like I can get us in and hang the expense. Aren't we on our honeymoon?”

“There is no harm in trying, I suppose,” she returned doubtfully. “And it would be nice to eat a meal someone else has cooked for a change.”

“I've no complaints to make about the present cook. We'll enquire where this joint is when we get to Dunbavin.”

He pressed the car forward over the corrugated road.

“Andy, I'm sure it must be somewhere near here. We're coming to the main highway and the map says it is this side of the town.”

They glided on to the smooth bitumen. “That's a relief,” said Andrew. “Hullo! Looks like one of the natives ahead. We'll stop and see if they talk the same language south of the border.”

It was Wilson, the first guest at Ellis Bryce's hotel.

“Good-day there!” greeted Andrew. “Can you tell us where to find a pub called the Duck and Dog?”

Wilson struggled with his Adam's apple, his eyes fixed with intense concentration on the car's number plate. “There's a t-t-turn—” and he pointed further along.

“A turning a bit on?” Andrew queried, unconsciously imitating Ellis. “Left or right?”

“L—l—”

“Left, is it? Thanks, mate. Much obliged.” He drew his head in and put the car into gear, giving Frances a broad wink. Wilson with his solemn face and painful stammer was a terrific figure of fun to him. An inarticulate sound made him turn back. “You were saying?”

Wilson made a stupendous effort and left out the extraneous words people with impediments will try to use. “Duck-shooting?”

“That's so,” returned Andrew, surprised at the sudden clarity. “The wife and I want to put up at the pub for a night or two. We heard there was good sport round these parts.”

Wilson screwed his head round and blinked in a puzzled fashion at Frances. Maintaining his telegraphic style of elocution, he asked, “Name, Morton?”

“Turner's the name. But what's that to do with you?”

The other flapped his hands around for a moment. “F-full-up,” he brought out at last.

“There you are, Andy,” said Frances.

“You the proprietor?” Andrew asked Wilson, who shook his head. “Then how do you know they're full up? The season doesn't open until Monday. Oh, a guest, huh! Well, maybe we'll go along and enquire just the same. Be seeing you, sport!”

He tilted his jaw and there was a determined look in his eyes as they came to a narrow dirt road little better than a cart track. A sagging signpost, which Ellis Bryce had had erected in the first flush of inspiration, bore the direction
PRIVATE ROAD: DUCK AND DOG INN
. He put the car into second as it made its first climb for many miles. “I'm not going to let a little twerp like that put me off. Nosey sort of bloke, wasn't he?”

Presently the hotel came into view—a sturdy two-storied building of stone with sprawling additions of sun-blistered weatherboard clinging about it like parasitic growths.

“Well, this is it! Stay where you are and keep your fingers crossed, honey.”

“Good hunting, Mr Fixit,” Frances returned brightly. She watched him stride confidently to the open door which was set in the centre of the building between two beds of colourful geraniums. Presently a worried-looking woman with wispy untidy hair and dressed in an overall appeared. Andrew put one hand on his hip and stamped his feet about as he spoke to her, which was how he always stood when he was being aggressive and not quite sure of himself.

The woman put a hand up to her hair as though making sure it was still untidy, and glanced vaguely in the direction of the utility as she listened. Presently she interrupted the barrage and disappeared into the house. With a wink and a thumbs-up sign at Frances, Andrew followed.

A few minutes later, he emerged, grinning triumphantly. “Okay, Frankie! I've made it. Hop out and I'll get our stuff.”

“Andy, you're marvellous! However did you do it?”

“Gift of the gab mostly. Though there was a room booked and the people haven't turned up. Had a telly or something from them only this morning. So balls to that stuttering little chap we met. Will his face be red when he sees us!”

PART TWO

Murder and Motives

I

The flat-bottomed old boat rocked dangerously as Athol Sefton staggered, gave an odd little choking cough, then sagged slowly across the gunwhale. His twelve-gauge double-barrelled Greenet sank into the muddy water, his hand trailing limply after it.

The two explosions had sounded almost simultaneously. Out of the beat of wings and noises of alarm above the lagoon, a chestnut-breasted teal, caught in flight, had dropped a hundred yards away. It lay floating in eddying circles with its neck askew. Wimpey, one of the spaniels from the Duck and Dog, went out to it almost as soon as it hit the water.

Charles Carmichael, sitting in the stern of the boat, stared incredulously at the humped figure of his uncle leaning over the side—the result of the second shot. The bright stain spreading over Athol's shooting jacket held his bemused gaze.

Presently all became still again. The birds had made off and the boat stopped its crazy movement. The spaniel bitch came swimming back with the dead bird in her jaw. She nosed around the limp, trailing hand and made whining sounds. Receiving no response, she swam to Charles. He released the bird and flung it distastefully on the bottom of the boat. Then he climbed along the tilted boat and with much effort managed to turn the body over. Athol's eyes were open and glazing fast. There was a frothy stain on his lips and the blood on his jacket was starting to congeal. He had been shot under Charles's gaze, standing up to fire at the ducks.

Cautiously, Charles stood upright so that he was head and shoulders over the thicket of reeds into which they had pushed the boat. He gave an apprehensive look around, ready to duck for cover, but apart from the birds settling on the further end of the lagoon, there was no sign of movement. The scene was as desolate and uninviting in his eyes as when, less than an hour earlier, feeling cold, sleepy and irritable, he had crept with Athol through the low-lying scrub with a gun under his arm. He had not seen the sense of getting up at an ungodly hour just to bring down a few ducks before anyone else, but Athol had insisted upon his companionship.

Now look what has happened, thought Charles—so staggered by the turn of events that he felt a puerile indignation.

In spite of his absorption in fictional crime, an interest amounting almost to an intellectual passion, it was to come to him only slowly that the shot which had killed Athol had not been the accidental firing of a careless gunman, but the well-aimed shot of a marksman.

Leaving the boat wedged in the reeds, he made his way across the marshy ground to the track which led to the road. From there he jog-trotted the mile and a half back to the Duck and Dog.

The hotel was in the depths of early Sunday silence, the rising sun striking the mellow old stone. He went through the empty ground floor, past the stairs, to a door which led to one of the weatherboard annexes. Ellis Bryce had his bedroom there, because he did not see the point of climbing up and down stairs any more than being an unnecessary distance from the bar.

He came to the door in pyjamas, yawning and stretching. “Ah—good morning, Mr Carmichael! I won't ask what I can do for you because I never do anything for anyone—least of all at this hour. In fact, I leave all complaints to my sister, Grace.”

“I don't know if you will regard it in the nature of a complaint,” said Charles light-headedly, “but my uncle is dead.”

Ellis Bryce dropped his arms slowly and his brows went up. “Dear, dear! Poor Athol! I'm sorry to hear that. Heart, I suppose.
I must say I thought he looked and behaved muchly the same last night—how the dear fellow loved to churn the party up—but Shelagh mentioned something about his not looking so well. You might not know my daughter properly yet, Mr Carmichael, but what she says is always accurate. A most efficient girl!”