Duck Season Death (22 page)

‘“Poems of Pain and Peace” form a collection of agonising triteness. Both theme and treatment are of puerile sub-standard and the maudlin emoting, characteristic of a tiresome adolescent'
et cetera et cetera . . . He goes on for a bit more along that line, but here's the last paragraph:
‘Miss Brand
—
I cannot refer to her as the poetess
—
is a young woman who writes these painful pieces
—' note the play on words, Mac—
‘from an invalid chair. Both the lady and her publishers hope to win our intellectual sympathy by exploiting her incapacitated state. It would be far better for the world of letters if the paralysis which, we are told, instigated the desire to write this pretentious mush, would mercifully spread to cut off any further attempts to abuse and distort the already long-suffering name of poetry.'
Nice chap, wasn't he? I bet the poor woman never wrote another line.”

McGrath gave his watch another glance. “Very entertaining. Will you excuse me, boy, if I make a phone call?”

“Go right ahead!” Charles gestured to the phone on the desk.

McGrath gave a sort of sheepish cough. “Well, as a matter of fact, it's the wife I want to ring.”

Charles grinned and got up. “I'll go and see how Miss Smart is getting on.”

“No, don't disturb yourself. I'll make a call from the board outside.”

Charles was left alone until presently Miss Smart entered, holding a typewritten slip. “Here's that list of our subscribers at Cranbilka, Mr Carmichael.”

He seized it eagerly, running his eye down the names. His expression changed ludicrously. “You're sure Morton gave no other name? Have we any other distributing agent in the town?”

“No, he is the only one.”

“Damn!” he muttered in disappointment. “Did Mr McGrath see the list?”

The secretary nodded. “He made no comment.”

There was a long pause as Charles stared ahead, frowning in a mixture of perplexity and irritation.

“Is there anything I can do, Mr Carmichael?”

“Yes,” he exploded angrily. “You can find me the person in Cranbilka who had reason to hate Athol Sefton.”

Miss Smart's brows rose a fraction. “That should be easy,” she declared, leaning over to pick up the book on the desk. “What about this person?”

“Who? What do you mean?”

She leafed through it, looking for a particular page. “There happens to be a poem here about Cranbilka. I thought you knew, otherwise I would have drawn your attention to it earlier. Here it is—‘The Call of Cranbilka'. It reads as though Dorothea Brand lives there.”

Charles snatched the book from her. “By Jove!” he exclaimed on an exhaled breath. “Miss Smart, I can't thank you enough! Get me Morton on the telephone again. I'll speak to him myself. And tell Mac to stop nattering to his wife and to come back here.”

There was an odd expression on the secretary's face. She said carefully, “It wasn't his wife Mr McGrath was ringing, but the police.”

“Well, never mind! Just get me Morton as quickly as you can while I give poetess Brand's opus the closer study it warrants.”

He came across one further clue in the book which, after a moment's consideration, made his eyes gleam with excitement. The call to Cranbilka came through just as McGrath re-entered the room. Charles was far too caught up by his discoveries to observe the watchful gaze which never strayed from him and the tensed, ever-ready set of the detective's solid frame as he seemed to lounge in a chair.

“Mr Morton? My name is Carmichael—associate editor of
Culture and Critic.
I want some information—yes, I know we rang before. This is something different. I've just been glancing through a book of poems by Dorothea Brand and came across one alluding to your town. Is she by any chance a local identity?”

Charles glanced meaningfully across at McGrath as he spoke. He frowned as the answer came over the wire. “What do you mean ‘was'? Has she—what was that? What? Oh!” his voice dropped. There was a pause, then the voice on the line began to speak in a hesitant manner. The expression on Charles's face changed slowly as he listened.

“How very tragic!” he said finally. “But thank you for telling me. No, I certainly promise not to let it go any further. Just one other matter—I was intrigued by the dedication of Miss Brand's book. Do you happen to know—? Yes? Would you mind repeating the name? Thank you!”

Never were the two words more heartfeltly spoken. With a deep sigh that ended in a grin of pure triumph, Charles replaced the receiver.

McGrath's gaze remained unwinking as he asked pleasantly, “Well, boy, what now?”

Charles picked up the open book and read softly, “‘Poems of Peace and Pain and Peace' by Dorothea Brand, dedicated ‘to Drew, my beloved'. Mac, I've got it at last!”

“Got what, boy?”

“The explanation to the answer.”

“Well, that's fine. Tell me all about it.”

“Drew! Dorothea Brand's beloved! Andrew Turner.
He
murdered Athol, because Athol was the cause of Dorothea Brand's committing suicide. She killed herself because of that brutal review. According to Morton they were planning to be married.”

He leaped up from his chair suddenly and began to pace to and fro. “It all fits in so perfectly. No coincidence, no loose ends and every step reasonable and logical. The only thing I feel sore about is that it was a woman's intuition that put me on the right track. It was Shelagh's idea to remove the probable suspects and what remained—the impossible—was the answer. And what could be more impossible than a honeymooning husband putting into the Duck and Dog seemingly on the off chance of getting a room. We know how he arranged for that room to be vacant. A phoney booking under the name of Morton then cancelled at the last minute.”

“And was Mrs Turner a partner to this plot?” asked McGrath.

Charles paused. “No, I don't think so, but I think she has some suspicions. There were one or two things she said, and her manner was not that of a confident happy bride. Perhaps she was realising that her marriage was part of the scheme. She was her husband's alibi all the way—from arriving at Dunbavin to the actual killing of Athol. It is my belief he gave her a sleeping drug to cover leaving the bedroom to follow Athol and me. I know he had some tablets, because she gave me one when I couldn't sleep. But I think she might have recited that poem of Dorothea Brand's on purpose as a reproach to Turner. It wouldn't be very pleasant to know that you had been a tool to avenge another woman's death.”

Suddenly he swung round to face McGrath and said urgently, “Mac, supposing Andrew knows that his wife has guessed! And now—now that she has served her purpose, he might be planning—Mac, you'd better have him picked up pretty smartly. They left Dunbavin, you know. There could be a car accident—perhaps a shooting accident. Come on, Mac! It's your job now. I've named the killer for you. It's up to you to see he doesn't kill again.”

But McGrath did not move. “Now, don't get fussed, boy! Just take your time and tell me more of your notions.”

There was a pause as Charles stared down at him incredulously. “Notions! You mean you don't—” he stopped, suddenly aware of the fact that McGrath did not believe in his theories and had no intention of being convinced by them.

He still thinks I'm the killer. He lied to me about ringing his wife, and now he's encouraging me to talk
—
playing for time until
—

Charles pulled himself together. He knew that he was right—that Andrew Turner was the murderer. A desperate cunning took hold of him as he tried to plan a way of escape. He paced about the room again, pretending the excited triumph he had manifested before he realised what McGrath was thinking.

“Notions? You want to hear how I fitted the clues in?” he gabbled on heedlessly, while McGrath never moved his watchful gaze. He spoke about Turner and his probable route after leaving Dunbavin. When he darted into the store-room to consult the map, McGrath followed, his eyes going swiftly over the room to check any possible way of escape. There was a pair of windows but they were very small and set high in the wall and overlooking a sheer drop to a lane below.

Charles gave a quick casual glance at the door where McGrath stood. There was a key on the office side. He picked up a piece of doweling to use as a pointer. “I think Turner will travel in this direction, Mac. He is fairly confident that his tracks are covered; therefore it is all the more important to move in the usual direction instead of arousing suspicion by making straight for the bush. What do you think?”

“I'd say you were probably right,” agreed the detective.

Charles moved the tip of the pointer. He noticed that his fingers were shaking slightly. “In that case, his way would follow the Diallong Highway from Dunbavin. Now, where the heck's Dunbavin?” He pretended to search for it. After a short hesitation, McGrath came alongside to indicate the position of the town but still staying between Charles and the door.

“Thanks, Mac. Now where do we go from there? Along this way? Yes, that's probably right. Turner would head towards Cranbilka once the job had been done. But what about this road cutting in? It goes in a straight line, practically to the border. According to my reasoning—if I were in Turner's shoes, I'd—” The pointer dropped from his hand and rolled along the floor.

Automatically, McGrath stooped to pick it up. At the same instant Charles gave him a violent push which sent the detective sprawling. In another instant he was out of the door, shutting and locking it.

“I won't say I'm sorry about this, Mac,” he called rather breathlessly. “Since you don't believe me in theory, I'll have to bring the killer to you personally.”

A muffled voice said, “You damned young fool—!” But Charles did not stop. He sped through Athol's office, locking the door after him, and out into the reception hall. At Miss Smart's door he paused and put his head in to say, “We're pushing off now, Miss Smart.”

“Very well, Mr Carmichael. When will you be coming back?”

“In a day or so. Look after things as usual until you hear from me. Oh—and by the way—if anyone enquires for Mr McGrath, tell them he'll also be seeing them shortly.” Charles turned his head. “That's about the message, isn't it, Mac?” he asked the empty hall.

Miss Smart made a note on a pad. “I'll do that.”

“Thank you.” Charles closed the door carefully, took a deep bracing breath and fled.

VII

Luck was with him the whole way. There was a taxi just getting rid of its fare outside the building, and the driver was actually agreeable to make the long trip to the aerodrome. At the airport, there was a vacancy on a plane just about to leave for Melbourne.

Trying to settle down to the irksome two-hour flight, Charles set himself the task of calculating how much time he would have. Unless McGrath was extraordinarily lucky—and Charles believed that he had the exclusive right to luck at the moment—he would not escape for some time. Miss Smart believed that he had left the building and would not hear him from the small closed room the other side of Athol's sound-proof office. Even if some of McGrath's detectives arrived, the message he had left would lead them to think that McGrath, for reasons best known to himself, was once again postponing the arrest.

It was dusk once more when the plane circled over Melbourne airport and dropped gently to the tarmac. Feeling tired and grimy, Charles was driven to his flat where he stayed only to shower and change his clothes. Then he took his car out and set it on the route back to Dunbavin. The petrol tank indicator was low, but he drove through the night until the needle barely flickered. Then he drew up on the side of the desolate country road and, dead tired, fell asleep behind the wheel.

The sun was up when he awoke, stiff and chilled. He got out and stamped up and down, swinging his arms and surveying a township which lay in the hollow a mile or so further on. He went back to the car and started to roll it. As it gathered momentum, he jumped in and coasted down the road, coming to a full stop a few yards from the first cottage of the township. There he left the car and went to look for a gasoline station and somewhere to eat.

An hour later he was on his way, a map spread out on the seat alongside. The route he planned was the one he had mapped out
for McGrath, for it still seemed reasonable to him that Andrew Turner would go that way.

The Turners had left Dunbavin late Wednesday afternoon. They probably would not have travelled far before camping for the night. But on the following day—the day Charles and McGrath had spent chasing all over Sydney—they might have covered a considerable distance. With this thought in mind, Charles by-passed Dunbavin and pressed hard on the accelerator.

About eighty miles further on, he slowed down as another small township came into view, with a camping park attached to its sports oval. Here, with fingers crossed for the luck he believed would not desert him, he made some enquiries. To his immense satisfaction he learned that a young couple in a Holden utility truck had spent the night before last at the camping ground.