Boomerang

COPYRIGHT INFO

Copyright © 2008 by the Estate of Sydney J. Bounds

Published by Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidebooks.com

DEDICATION

To the memory of John Birchby

CHAPTER ONE

UNPLEASANTNESS AT PORTHCOVE

George Bullard breezed into Porthcove, whistling an old-fashioned tune. He was starting two weeks’ holiday and intended to enjoy every minute of it. Even if some other people didn’t.

He swung his Volvo across the road and into the driveway under a sign that read Porthcove Studios and braked in front of a large house built of grey stone. The house was old with a new extension added at the seaward end and a broad expanse of lawn. There was a pond in the centre of the lawn.

Three people stood in the shade of the front porch. The welcoming committee, Bullard thought as he got out. A late afternoon sun still blazed over the clifftops and he could smell the sea below.

A small man with plain features stepped into the sunlight. “I’ll help with your luggage and park your car.”

Bullard tossed him the keys. “Fine. I’ve always wanted a slave.”

The woman holding a clipboard frowned slightly. “I’m Val Courtney. And you are—?”

“George Bullard. The one and only.”

“Welcome, Mr. Bullard, and I hope you’ll enjoy your stay with us. You’re in room number two. My husband, Reggie, will show you the way.”

“The accommodation is first class, I hope? And the food too—I warn you, I’m first class at complaining.”

Bullard dumped a large suitcase on the ground and followed that with a folding easel, a box of paints and an assortment of primed canvases.

“If you damage anything,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll sue.”

The third person moved leisurely out of the porch. He was slender with blond hair and a silk scarf at his throat and moved like a dancer.

“I’d like to introduce your tutor for the course.” Val said. “Keith Parry.”

“Never heard of him. Not an R.A., are you?”

Parry said calmly, “You’re right, I’m not.”

Bullard turned to Reg Courtney and snapped his fingers. “All right, let’s get organized. Forward march!”

Reggie picked up the heavy suitcase and led the way and Bullard followed with his painting gear. Beyond the front door was a hall with a pay-phone and stairs leading to the upper part of the house.

Reggie went through a doorway on the right. “This is the common room.”

There were armchairs grouped about a large television set and a pile of art magazines on a table.

Reggie opened the far door leading to the new annexe and struggled down a passage with the suitcase. Bullard strolled along behind, smiling to himself.

The door of the first room stood open and another holiday painter was sorting through his equipment.

Bullard paused in the doorway and glared at a man with swarthy skin and a hooked nose.

“Don’t tell me,” he said loudly. “I’ve been put next to a ruddy jewboy!” His voice held a cutting edge of contempt. “What are you selling, Ikey? Never mind the cut, feel the quality—I’ll complain to the management.”

The man turned to face Bullard.

“Schmuck!” he exclaimed, and slammed the door.

George Bullard chuckled.

Reggie said, without expression, “You’ll have to see Val if you want another room.”

“Don’t bother. I’m going to have some fun with our sheeny friend.”

Reggie carried the suitcase into room number two.

Bullard paused in the doorway, sniffing the air. “What, no air conditioning?” He put down his gear, opened the window and looked out at the garden.

“Bathroom at the end of the passage,” Reggie said. “Dinner’s at seven. To reach the dining room, go back to the hall and turn right—it’s the first door on the left.”

After Reggie had gone, Bullard soaked in the bath and changed into casual clothes. He took his time arriving at the dining room; he’d found, on similar occasions, that he could upset staff and disrupt service by being deliberately late.

He heard a cheerful chatter as the other painters in the party introduced themselves. When he strolled in, he saw there were two tables; a long one for the students and a second, smaller table placed close to the kitchen door for Val, her husband, and the tutor.

The Jewish man sat next to a tall man with cropped greying hair. There was a young and pretty blonde in jeans and teeshirt with a surly youth wearing a leather jacket. And a middle-aged woman with long black hair, brass earrings and a gaudy dress.

Bullard said, “Hello, hello, hello. What’s for dinner?” He wrinkled his nose. “Not fish?”

“Local fish,” Val Courtney said. “Fresh today.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” Bullard said loudly. “Fresh from the fridge!”

“And the salad is grown in our own garden.”

“Salad? Rabbit food—never touch it.”

“If you’ll state your requirements,” Val said coldly, “I’ll arrange it. We try to please everyone.”

“Steak. With jacket potatoes.”

“Very well, Mr. Bullard. It would help if you could be on time for meals as we’ve only a small staff.”

She went into the kitchen to speak to the cook.

After dinner, Keith Parry stood up. “We’ll all meet in the studio—it’s opposite, just across the passage—for an introductory chat.”

As they left the dining room, Bullard spoke to the tall man. “I’d recognise that accent anywhere. Australian, aren’t you?”

“Right on, mate. Fletcher’s the name.”

“Bullard. I imagine your grandparents were convicts then? Botany Bay, and all that. Do they still flog prisoners down under?”

Fletcher said, “Up yours, Jack,” and walked away.

“George, not Jack, old boy.”

Grinning, George Bullard entered the studio. It was a long room containing easels and stools, each with a rest for a drawing board. In one corner was an electric kiln, and an unfinished mosaic lay spread out on a table.

Keith Parry said, “Please leave the kiln alone, Mr. Bullard, I’m firing clay tesserae as an experiment.”

Gradually, the holiday painters gathered. Val Courtney brought in coffee on a tray and went out again.

Parry said, briskly: “Everyone settled? Good. First of all, I’m Keith. I hope we’ll all be on first name terms—it’s so much friendlier, I feel.”

Bullard leered. “Especially with the ladies.”

“I want each of you to enjoy these two weeks, to leave here having made new friends and learnt something. Now I’d like you to introduce yourselves and tell me what medium you’re using.”

Bullard got in first.

“I’m George, and I paint in oils—the only possible medium for any serious painter. I’m good. If you’re busy, Keith, I can help out.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary...and ladies first, please.”

The pretty blonde girl said eagerly, “Linda. I’ve brought watercolours, but I’m a complete beginner. This is the first time I’ve been on a sketching holiday.”

“Then I’ll give you extra attention.”

“Me too,” Bullard said.

Parry ignored him. “Does your boyfriend paint, Linda?”

“No, Duke’s just keeping me company. I was too nervous to come here on my own.”

“You won’t be on your own for long,” Bullard said with a smirk.

The woman who looked like a gypsy said, “Margo. I like to use a mixture of different media—crayons and ballpoints and wash and well, just any old thing that comes to hand. Chalk and pencil and the end of a brush dipped in ink.”

“Yes, it’s possible to get some interesting effects that way.”

“Call me Jim,” the Australian drawled. “I do a bit of everything, but it’s mainly drawing that interests me.”

“Fine, Jim.”

“Sammy,” the Jewish man said. “I paint in oils too and I want to concentrate on boats. Harbour scenes—that sort of thing.”

“You’ve come to the right place, Sammy. Porthcove has a fine old Cornish harbour and fishing boats still work from here.” Keith Parry paused. “That’s it then. Val runs a small shop in the hall where you can buy paints, brushes and paper if you run out.”

“I bet she does,” Bullard said. “Anything to get more money out of us.”

Parry continued as if he had not been interrupted.

“Breakfast at eight. We’ll meet at nine-fifteen and walk down to the harbour together. There’s one more to join our group—Wilfred. I’ve met him before, and he uses pastel. He’s staying at the Harbour Inn with his wife.”

“Bit of a snob, is he?” Bullard jeered.

“I’ll be giving a demonstration one evening this week,” Keith Parry said. “And, George, it would help if you could say nice things sometimes.”

“Not nearly so interesting though,” George Bullard said, and laughed.

* * * *

Linda Snow was up early next morning. She left Duke, her boyfriend, in bed, lit a cigarette and went through to the hall. The front door was open and she heard voices outside.

On the lawn, Jim Fletcher was demonstrating boomerang throwing to Margo and Sammy.

Linda’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Can I have a go?”

Fletcher smiled. “Too right you can, Linda.”

She dropped her half-smoked cigarette and trod it carefully into the grass.

The Australian showed her how to grip the curved wooden missile and positioned her, one foot in front of the other, turning her to take advantage of the early morning breeze.

“When you throw, use the wrist. Like this.” He demonstrated with a flick of his wrist. “Remember, it’s all in the wrist action.”

Linda gripped the boomerang at one end, took three or four quick steps forward and flicked it. A breeze caught the crescent of smooth wood and lifted it. It sailed up into the sky and began to curve back towards her.

“Don’t take your eye off it,” Fletcher called. “Don’t try to catch it—get ready to duck.”

Linda watched the boomerang coming back and turned to watch its flight. She was poised ready to duck, but it brought up short and dropped at her feet.

“Good on yer!” Fletcher exclaimed. “The sheila’s got the knack first go.”

“This is a nice idea,” Keith Parry said as he joined them on the lawn. “I can see you people are getting on well together.”

“Throw again, Linda, while you’ve got the knack of it.”

She flicked her wrist and the boomerang sailed up and away and began its return flight. Then she noticed George Bullard coming out of the house, a stout figure with a neat dark beard. He bustled over the grass towards them, his eyes gleaming.

“What’s this then? A new toy for the kiddies? Haven’t you lot grown up yet?”

Jim Fletcher looked at him and looked away. He bent over to retrieve the boomerang, calculated a trajectory and flicked it into the air. The swiftly rotating wood swooped and rose on a current of air. Travelling fast, it came hurtling back.

Fletcher stepped neatly aside and it passed him by.

Bullard saw the approaching boomerang only at the last moment. He tried to step back in a hurry, tripped and fell flat on his face. The missile passed over his prone body.

When he got up, his face was red. He wiped dew from his clothes with a handkerchief. “You lunatic! You—you dangerous idiot!”

Sammy laughed as Bullard stalked away. Parry frowned and glanced at his watch. “Almost time for breakfast,” he said.

Fletcher was smiling as he collected his boomerang. They all walked with him to his hatchback, and Margo said with satisfaction. “That’s made my day, that has.”

Fletcher unlocked his car and tossed the boomerang onto the back seat.

“What are those?” Linda asked, pointing at at two wooden sticks.

“Those are the real thing,” Fletcher said. “What you sailed this morning are toys—George was right about that, at least.”

He picked up one of the sticks to show them. It was over a metre in length and looked like the branch of a tree with the bark removed and worn smooth by handling. There was a slight curve to it that was not as pronounced as the curve in a boomerang. The wood was hard and the stick heavy.

“These are what the abos use to hunt with—killing sticks.”

“Do they return too?” Linda asked.

Fletcher shook his head. “They’re not meant to. When one of these hits a ’roo, that animal is meat. A killing stick has a different action from a boomerang. It doesn’t go through the air, but end over end along the ground.”

Casually, Fletcher tossed the stick into the back of his car.

Keith Parry said. “I hope you keep your car locked, Jim. Those things look lethal to me.”

Fletcher seemed mildly irritated. “I’ve just explained—they are. And I’m not stupid, you know.”

He locked the car and they went in to breakfast.

CHAPTER TWO

MY FAVOURITE CORPSE!

After breakfast, Linda carried her sketching gear around the side of the house to the car park. ‘Duke’ Dickson was checking the oil and tyres of his Kawasaki 750.

“Oh, there you are, Duke. I’m just off. I’ve remembered where I saw Jim—it was on television.” Linda sounded excited. “I knew I’d seen him somewhere before. He was talking about koala bears.”

“Yeah? He gets around, that Aussie. Nice bloke though—not like George.” Duke spat on the tarmac. “I’ll murder that arrogant pig before we leave. I can just see it happening.”

Linda laughed. “I don’t let George worry me because I can see through him. He enjoys needling people. He does it deliberately. You shouldn’t let him upset you.”

Duke grunted.

Sammy, strolling around the corner, murmured, “Easier said than done.” He stood admiring Duke’s motorcycle. “I used to ride a Triumph when I was young—getting too old for that now.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Duke said. “You’re never too old to ride—have a nice day, Linda.”

Linda and Sammy set off down the hill towards the harbour, following the rest of the sketching party. Keith Parry and Bullard were leading. Margo and Jim Fletcher dropped back.

“Keith’s got lumbered,” Margo said, and made a face. “I like men, but George is one I can do without.”

Where the hill curved towards the sea, set back from the road, a cottage advertised:

Cornish Cream Teas

Strawberries

“I’ll be calling in there,” Linda said.

Margo sighed. “I suppose I will, too, even though I shouldn’t. I just love cream but it’s no good for my figure.”

Sammy beamed at her. “Your figure’s fine,” he said gallantly.

The hill dropped away steeply and tarmac gave way to cobblestones as they entered the village. It was small, consisting of a few fishermen’s cottages with pink walls and blue window frames grouped about the harbour. The road joined the quayside, and there was a church on one corner and the inn opposite.

Parry and Bullard waited outside the inn. As the others arrived, a man and woman came out together. The man was dapper and his casual clothes expensively tailored. He carried a folding easel and a large box of pastels.

“Morning, Wilfred,” Parry said briskly. “Nice to see you again. Good morning, Mrs. Keller.”

Wilfred Keller’s wife was large and heavily built. Her homely face was adorned by a faint moustache and her town clothes out of place in a fishing village.

George Bullard stared at Wilfred, then at his wife, and whistled.

“Well, well, what have we here? A lap dog? Wilfred—a real pip-squeak of a name. And you madam—is this the best you could buy in the way of a man?”

Mrs. Keller glared at him, her face gradually turning scarlet. She gave a snort, turned on high heels and retreated inside the inn.

Bullard laughed.

Wilfred Keller regarded him with distaste. “I’d be careful if I were you,” he said mildly. “Hilda doesn’t appreciate that kind of remark.”

Bullard winked. “Wealthy, is she? Just the job, Wilf, old boy. Why work when you can live on some old bag, is what I say. Good luck to you.”

“Cut it out, George,” Keith Parry said sharply. “All right, spread out and begin sketching. I’ll work my way around to each of you in time.”

* * * *

At lunchtime they drifted, like iron filings to a magnet, back to the Harbour Inn. Val Courtney had provided sandwiches and they took glasses of beer to the seats outside. A striped awning gave shade from the sun.

Margo fanned herself with a sketchpad. “Another scorcher!”

“It’s a real heat-wave, this summer,” Sammy agreed.

Jim Fletcher had brought two large glasses out with him. He downed one and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It’s warm,” he admitted. “But for real heat you have to go to the desert in Western Australia. Reckon that’s why Aussies drink so much beer—that and the short drinking hours.”

“What’s it like Down Under?” Linda asked. “Duke had the idea of emigrating at one time.”

Fletcher considered for a moment. “Duke would do all right, I reckon. Things are looser there, more easy-going—know what I mean? A fellar who can adapt can survive anywhere.

“Take me, now—I’ve done a bit of everything in my time. Radio DJ. Pilot with the Flying Doctor Service. Driven a beer truck across the desert—I can tell you, we like our beer.”

He proved his words by half-emptying his second glass.

“’Course you can get stuck in a dry river bed—just let your tyres down and inflate ’em the other side. Yeah, I’ve worked as a stockman and uranium miner. Didn’t fancy that for long—too risky with all that radiation stuff floating around. You name it, and I’ve done it, you bet.”

They were fascinated by Jim Fletcher’s reminiscences—all except George Bullard.

He sneered. “It must be the black blood in you. I expect your grandfather slept with an aborigine.”

“I expect he did,” Fletcher said. “But these days, the abos have another problem. Their kids sniff petrol, and that can be deadly.”

He drained his glass and began to sing in an exaggerated accent:

“We three Kings of Bankstown Square

We sell ladies underwear

So fantastic

No elastic

Only a dollar a pair....”

Bullard picked up his easel and paint-box. “I’m not stopping here to listen to a drunken slob.”

“It’s time you were all back at work,” Keith Parry said.

Margo Nicholas toiled slowly up the hill on the way to the studio with Sammy. Her sketching bag felt heavier than it had on the way down that morning.

“Let’s stop at the tea-rooms for a cuppa,” Sammy suggested.

“I think we’d better,” she said. “I hadn’t realized Cornwall was like this. It’s going to kill me if we have to walk up this hill every day.”

“There is a bus,” Sammy said. “I’ll find out what time it runs.”

“Sounds like a good idea.” Margo wondered if he was getting interested in her. She quite liked the little man, and her stars indicated a new romance.

They reached the cottage in the bend of the road and took an outside table, dropping their gear beside their chairs.

“Nice view of the harbour from here,” Sammy said.

Margo kicked off her sandals and wiggled her toes. “Am I glad to rest my feet?” She lit a cigarette, inhaled, and sighed. “My clothes are sticking to me. The first thing I do when we get back is to take a bath.”

The waitress arrived and Sammy said, “Two strawberry teas, with extra cream.”

“I shouldn’t really.” Margo protested.

“Nonsense. All this walking will keep you in trim. Anyway, I prefer a woman with something to get hold of.”

Sammy propped his small canvas against a spare chair and looked glumly at it. “Not exactly an old master.”

Margo said loyally, “It’s not that bad. After all, this is our first day, and you’ll improve with practice. I must say, Keith is very helpful.”

“He’s all right. How did you get on?”

Margo flipped open her sketchbook as their tea arrived.

“That’s great,” Sammy enthused. “Wish I had your talent.”

“We each do what we can.” Margo helped herself liberally to cream and popped a strawberry into her mouth.

“I like boats,” Sammy said. “Only I can’t draw very well. And this is a good place for boats...there’s only one fly in the ointment.”

“I know what you mean. George.”

A fire blazed up in Sammy’s eyes. “A ruddy Jew-baiter! And an artist—I’d never have believed it.”

Margo helped herself to more cream. “Forget him. These strawberries are lovely, Sammy—eat up. I’m psychic, and I’ve a feeling about George. No good will come to him, I’m sure.”

George Bullard stood outside the front porch at Porthcove Studios just before dinner and watched young Linda walk across the lawn towards him. He had been studying a flowering shrub and deciding in his mind how he would paint it.

Linda Snow wore tight-fitting jeans and a teeshirt and her walk had a sensuous hip-swinging style. Duke didn’t know what he had there, Bullard thought; it took a mature man to appreciate this girl.

“Hi, beautiful,” he said as she approached. “How about posing in the nude? You’d make a great model and this outdoor sketching isn’t really me.”

She stared blankly at him. “Pardon?”

“We’ll make up a kitty to pay you something. I’m sure all the men would chip in.”

Linda tossed her blonde hair. “Get lost!”

A hand gripped him from behind and swung him around. Bullard saw Duke Dickson, his face contorted in fury.

“Keep your hands off my girl-friend, or I’ll kill you!”

“You, and whose army?”

Duke balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into Bullard’s stomach. As he doubled over in pain, Duke’s arm lifted to strike again. But before the blow could land, someone gripped his arm.

“Cool it,” Keith Parry said.

“Yeah, cool it,” Linda echoed. “I can look after myself.”

“You know I don’t like you playing around with other blokes, Linda.” Duke allowed himself to relax, then shrugged. “Okay, but if George takes one more step out of line, I’ll flatten him.”

Parry released Duke and helped Bullard upright. “You really should think before you open your mouth. George.”

Duke stared thoughtfully at Parry as the tutor helped Bullard into the house.

“That Mr. Keith now, he looks a bit of a poof, but he’s got a grip all right. Of course, he took me by surprise.”

“Of course,” Linda said sarcastically. “Now can we drop this macho stuff?”

Sammy Jacobi and Fletcher were watching, with quiet amusement, as Margo read the tarot cards on the writing table in the common room. She was telling Linda’s fortune.

“I see trouble in your life. It will come quite soon—but it will pass, and I see unity with your beloved.”

After dinner, Parry had suggested they relax for an evening. This, after all, was a holiday and not intended to be all work.

The armchairs were deep and comfortable, there was a selection of light reading in the bookcase and a film showing on the television.

George Bullard strolled in.

“The gypsy’s warning,” he said contemptuously. “That old con game—I didn’t think anyone fell for that line any more. Crystal balls, seances and table-turning. Nothing but a bag of tricks—talk about getting money under false pretences.”

“No money is involved,” Sammy said. “Linda asked Margo to read the cards for her.”

“That’s right,” Linda said. “It’s only a game really. Everyone reads what the stars foretell in the newspapers, don’t they?”

“I don’t,” Bullard sneered.

“Perhaps you should,” Margo said quietly. “Perhaps it might change your attitude if you knew what was in store for you.”

“Rubbish!” Bullard sniffed the air. “My God, woman, do you bathe in that cheap scent? Try soap and water.”

“Excuse me, Linda.”

Margo Nicholas leaned forward, brass bangles jangling, and seized Bullard’s wrist. She stared intently into his palm and spoke in a mystic tone.

“I see...I see a deal of unpleasantness. First it moves out from you...a dark cloud obscuring your lifeline. Then it returns, like a boomerang.”

Bullard jerked his hand away from her as if scalded. He scowled, and blustered, “A lot of rubbish.”

He opened the hall door and paused in the doorway. “Jim, I’m going down to the inn for a drink. Care to join me?”

Fletcher said solemnly, “Sorry mate, but you know I don’t drink.”

Bullard went out, slamming the door, and Linda giggled.

“Damn,” Fletcher said. “I intended to go out for a drink later. I don’t suppose there’s another pub within miles.”

Margo looked at Linda, her expression grave. “It’s nothing to laugh at child. I truly am psychic.”

Sammy said, “If I made a habit of murdering people, George would be my favourite corpse.”

* * * *

The Harbour Inn was not busy when George Bullard pushed open the door and walked in. The landlord, plump and bespectacled, polished glasses behind a bar lit by ships’ lanterns. A few locals played dominoes under hanging fishnets decorated with blue-green glass floats.

In a corner seat, Wilfred Keller and his wife sat having a quiet drink.

“That dreadful man is here,” Hilda said in a carrying voice.

Bullard smiled as he headed straight for them.

“Saw your sketch today, Wilf, old boy.” There was condescension in his voice. “Not bad, not bad at all. If you want my advice—” Hilda Keller rose to her feet and said loudly, “My husband does not require instruction from you. He is a great artist.”

“Not that great,” Bullard said. “Not as good as me, in fact.”

“Come. Wilfred.”

Hilda swept majestically past Bullard, hand on her husband’s arm, steering him towards the staircase leading up to their private room.

Bullard watched them go, laughing, then called out, “Goodnight, horse-face—goodnight, lap-dog!”

He strolled to the bar.

“Whisky, landlord, a double. No watering it now, and no short-changing me.”

“I shouldn’t keep my customers if I did that, sir.”

Bullard stood at the bar counter, sipping his drink. A few feet away, a man wearing a blue jersey that smelled of fish watched him steadily.

The man moved closer and asked in accented English; “You are, perhaps, a painter, m’sieur?”

“I am a painter,” Bullard agreed. “And you’re a damned Frog!”

He swallowed his whisky and walked towards the door.

The French fisherman stared after him.