Duck Season Death (19 page)

“We'd better not laugh too soon,” said Charles. “I've a notion we're all in for a rubbing.” He turned round to find out who was breathing so heavily on the back of his neck and discovered Sergeant Motherwell watching him. Realising by whose orders he was standing guardian, Charles shot a fulminating glance at McGrath who grinned amiably back at him.

“Darling, we're being butchered to make a Dunbavin holiday,” Margot drifted up to murmur plaintively. “Let's all fume together.”

Loud applause greeted the end of the clever performance. Frances hung her head as Mrs Spenser, who regarded herself as a soul of tact, made a little speech of thanks endeavouring at the same time to smooth down any possible ruffled feathers.

“I have persuaded Mrs Turner to show us what she can really do. She has undertaken to recite a little poem which I am sure will be more in keeping with our little gathering here.” A suitable gravity replaced the audience's rollicking mood at this reproof. Shyly and hesitantly, as though she were in disgrace, Frances began to recite.

“Do you know what it's all about?” asked a voice presently in Charles's ear, leaving a mingled smell of antiseptic and halitosis. Dr Spenser had entered the room with elaborate caution. Seeing Charles, he had come to stand alongside with the intention of dealing firmly with an outburst.

“‘—famished, splintered, white, wrenched from its life, yet dying with grace—'” Frances finished her poem, then scuttled to Andrew's side.

“These literary affairs are rather beyond me,” declared the doctor humorously, to show that he was not afraid to admit ignorance. “My wife is, of course, quite in her element. Here she comes now! My dear, I was asking Mr Carmichael to explain the significance of the verses we have just heard.”

She slapped his hand playfully. “How like you to pretend! They were called ‘The Broken Bough'—lovely, lovely words! What are you hovering around for, Tom Motherwell? I declare I don't know what's got into everyone this afternoon. Will you come up to the table now, Mr Carmichael? It's your turn.”

Rather red around the neck, Sergeant Motherwell retreated. He sat down beside McGrath, and after a whispered consultation which everyone strained to hear, both policemen folded their arms and waited for Charles to begin his talk on The Detective Novel.

Thoroughly versed in his subject, though feeling strangely little of his customary enthusiasm for it, he began with the birth of detective fiction under the authorships of Poe, Conan Doyle and Wilkie Collins, declaring it to be a literary form of high distinction. He sounded so authoritative and easy as he traced the development of the genre down through the years, naming a few classic titles, listing some of the abuses to which it had been subjected and enumerating its tenets, that the members of the Dunbavin Reading Circle sat up ready to be intelligent at question time. Mrs Spenser was immensely pleased with him and forgot her curiosity as to the tension the guests from the Duck and Dog had brought into her living room. She made an enthusiastic speech of thanks at the conclusion of Charles's lecture and then announced coyly that tea and stronger refreshments would be served.

Charles moved thankfully to a quiet corner. Almost at once McGrath appeared beside him. “Hullo, boy?” he greeted him imperturbably. “Have a cup of tea. You've earned it after all that gab.”

“All right, Mac! What's the score? I gather you haven't come to talk about my lecture—not after having set that fool Motherwell on to me all this afternoon.”

McGrath took a noisy sip of tea, set his cup in its saucer and took an outsize bite from a small-sized scone. “You wouldn't want me to make a scene in this high-brow atmosphere, would you? However, you might as well know now as later that I'm getting a warrant issued for your arrest.”

“Oh, now, look here!” said Charles wearily. “A joke's a joke, but—”

“No joke, boy! I know you've been going flat out trying to pin your uncle's murder on the good people, here, but—”

“Good people be damned! Any one of them could have murdered Athol. What about Wilson? And Jeffrey has admitted planning to kill him.”

McGrath shrugged. “We'll wait until after the party. You'd better enjoy what's left of it.” With these ominous words he moved away.

“Charles!”

He turned to find Shelagh standing behind him, and tried to smile. “I've been behaving myself, haven't I?”

A sparkle of something like anger shone in her eyes. “I heard what McGrath said. We must do something quickly. It's—it's absurd that you're in this position.” She drew him further away and spoke in an urgent undertone. “I've got an idea. It might sound crazy, but something you said in your lecture made me think of it.”

“What was that? I can't remember a thing I said—what with Mac watching my every move and Motherwell ready to clap a heavy hand on my shoulder.”

“The process of eliminating the impossible suspects of a murder, so that whatever remains is the answer, however improbable.”

He gazed about the room at the various guests from the Duck and Dog and said bitterly, “I've already tried to make that rule apply. But in this case there's a positive phalanx of probable suspects. Take them away and the answer is impossible.”

She did not speak for a moment; then she said quietly, “Perhaps that is the answer. What could be more impossible than someone
called Morton who booked at the Duck and Dog for the duck season and then did not arrive?”

Slowly and incredulously, Charles turned his head. For a long moment he stared at her, the blank look in his eyes gradually becoming enlivened and alert. “Shelagh! You wonderful girl!” he breathed.

“The booking was made through the Happy Holiday Agency,” said Shelagh. “Then a telegram arrived signed Morton, cancelling it at the last moment.”

There was another long pause as Charles wrestled with a hundred stabbing thoughts, while her expressive eyes encouraged him. He glanced around the room again. “I've got to get out of here,” he decided swiftly, “without Mac catching me. Can you keep him occupied in some way? He's over in the corner with Dr Spenser.”

“I'll try.”

He watched her move slowly across the room as he edged around the outskirts of the crowd. Her usually brisk gait seemed faltering and uncertain. She spoke a few words to Dr Spenser, put one hand up to cover her eyes, then quietly sagged against McGrath.

In an instant the room was in confusion and Charles, grinning in admiration at the best interpretation he had ever seen of the oldest trick in the world, slipped quietly out.

III

Lights were beginning to wink when Charles reached the outer suburbs of Melbourne, and the haze over the city was shot with mauve from advertising signs. With an anxious glance at his wrist-watch, he pulled up at a public telephone booth, thumbed hastily through the dog-eared directory and, dialling a number, prayed for luck to favour him. At the lifting of the receiver he sent his coppers rolling. “I want to speak to either Mr Dawson or Mr Stanley.”

“This is Stanley speaking.”

“My name is Carmichael. A client of yours—Mr Harris Jeffrey—gave me your name. I've come down from the country to see you on a matter of great importance.”

“You are fortunate to have caught me, Mr Carmichael. It's well after consulting hours.”

“Well, put in some overtime. I'll be there within half an hour.” Charles replaced the receiver, rubbed his hands gleefully and went back to his car.

Twenty-five minutes later he was on the fourth floor of a block of offices in the heart of the city, knocking on the frosted glass panel which bore the words
DAWSON AND STANLEY—PRIVATE ENQUIRY SPECIALISTS—AFFILIATIONS IN ALL STATES AND OVERSEAS
.

“Are you Stanley?” he asked the discreet-looking little man who answered. “I rang a little while ago. Thank you for waiting.”

“Come into the inner office, Mr Carmichael. Am I right in presuming you are the late Athol Sefton's nephew?”

Charles followed him into a quiet, comfortably furnished room. “How did you know I was related to Athol Sefton?”

The little man tutted in self-reproach. “A regrettable lapse in discretion. But he has been in my mind continually since I saw in the papers that he had met with a fatal shooting accident. Please accept my condolences.”

“Oh—er—thanks very much. As a matter of fact it is connected with my uncle's death that I want to consult you. You see, it is my belief—now somewhat belatedly shared by the police—that Athol was not accidentally shot, but deliberately and cleverly murdered.”

“Dear me, what a shocking thing!” exclaimed Stanley. “A dreadful thing! And you say Mr Jeffrey sent you to us? Is he in some kind of—ah—trouble?”

“He could be. He is one of a group of people at the Duck and Dog hotel near Dunbavin where I was staying with my uncle; each one of them had an excellent motive for murdering him.”

The agent blinked at him nervously. “We have severed our connection with Mr Jeffrey. And I assure you in a case of murder—”

“I didn't come here on Jeffrey's behalf,” Charles assured him. “But on my own. I want some information and I think you might be able to help me.”

Stanley regarded him warily. “What sort of information, Mr Carmichael?”

Charles leaned across the desk. “Mr Jeffrey employed you to trace my uncle's movements up to the time he went to the Duck and Dog. Is it possible that you might have been spying on Athol for yet another person's benefit? Someone other than Jeffrey knew that my uncle would probably purchase a gun for duck-shooting at a certain place in the city.”

The agent raised a pained hand. “Not spying, I beg of you. We are a reputable organisation. Yes, there have been occasions prior to Mr Jeffrey's instructions when we have been asked to enquire into your late uncle's affairs.”

“What were those occasions?”

“Let me see now.” Stanley rose and went to a filing cabinet in a corner of the room. Presently he drew out a folder and turned over its contents. “There was an investigation job we did for a finance group Sefton was trying to interest in some project, but that was quite some years ago. Oh—and here are two divorce cases we worked on.”

“I know about them,” said Charles impatiently. “I want information a bit more up-to-date. Those divorces were over and done with before his wife died.”

“His wife? Now that would be your Aunt Paula, would it not? Would you be interested in knowing we were once asked to do a little job on Mrs Sefton?”

“When was this?” asked Charles quickly, wondering why the agent was regarding him so coyly.

“About a year ago. Our Sydney associates wrote asking for information about a certain party for a client of theirs who wanted a full report on Mrs Sefton. I have their letter here.”

“Who was the certain party?”

Stanley coughed and looked away. “You might recall that I knew who you were when you stepped into this office.”

“You mean I was the party you investigated?”

“I assure you there was nothing of a derogatory nature in the report we sent back to our associates. Your character and mode of living seemed quite blameless and your relations with your aunt of the most amiable. In fact, ‘devoted' was the word I used while describing such little attentions as your habit of sending chocolates to Mrs Sefton.”

Charles jumped from his chair. “You say you told your Sydney client I sent Aunt Paula chocolates? Quickly—what was the name of the client?”

“I'm afraid I can't tell you, but I daresay I can find out. I'll ring our Sydney office first thing in the morning. At the same time, I can enquire if there was anyone else interested in Athol Sefton's duck-shooting expedition to Dunbavin. How will that suit you?”

Charles curbed his impatience. “I'll call you early in the morning. Thanks for your help.”

Stanley accompanied him to the door. “You haven't told me, Mr Carmichael, just why you want this information. Surely the police—”

“The police should be doing this work, you mean? I couldn't agree with you more, but it so happens that they consider I shot Athol and poisoned my aunt as well.”

IV

After calling at an interstate airline terminal to book a seat on the morning plane to Sydney, Charles drove out of the city toward his bachelor flat. Once Dawson and Stanley provided the necessary information he intended to call on their mysterious Sydney client.

A mouth-drooling smell of frying bacon wafted to greet him as he let himself into his flat. He paused, sniffed it happily, then frowned and banged the doors shut.

“Is that you, boy?” called a voice, as he strode through the living room to the kitchen. “How do you like your eggs?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

McGrath, a tea-towel pinned around his waist, waved an egg at him then broke it over the frying pan with a flourish. “Cooking our supper. That porter of yours is an amiable bloke. He let me have some bread and a bottle of milk. The rest of the stuff I found in the 'fridge.”