Boomerang (12 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

REVELATIONS

Miss Eaton dominated the room. She had a small table in front of her, and the holiday painters and residents of Porthcove Studios sat on chairs or stools grouped in a half-circle about her. Behind her was an easel supporting Parry’s demonstration painting.

Some were still eating, others held wine glasses. Wilfred, she noticed, was chain-smoking.

From her handbag, Miss Eaton brought a pint bottle of Kentucky Bourbon and half filled a tumbler. She lit a Camel and let it dangle fron her bottom lip. She placed her Smith and Wesson on the table, beside an old newspaper, a piece of rag, and Trewin’s clasp knife.

When she spoke, she used her tough American voice.

“Waal now, all the suspects are gathered and tonight we are going to unmask a murderer. A double murderer. Some of you wanted to shield the person who killed George Bullard—but attitudes have changed since Hilda Keller was pushed to her death. You’re not sure who might be next....”

She paused, and beckoned Margo to take the empty chair next to her.

“Margo Nicholas, a genuine psychic, has agreed to help. Margo....”

Margo held up the hair-brush, and said solemnly:

“This brush is the property of Mrs. Hilda Keller, deceased. What I am about to perform is called ‘psychometry’. Some of you, perhaps, will be familiar with the term. For the benefit of the others, I shall explain.”

Miss Eaton leaned back in her chair, watching faces. Gray’s cheroot had gone out and he chewed the end as he scribbled in his notebook.

“All personal objects handled daily gather some of the aura of the owner,” Margo said. “A psychic can sense this aura—and sometimes get an accurate reading from the object. It can tell me something about the owner. In the case of violent death, I can receive a message from the departed. This may be a cry for vengeance. Sometimes the identity of a murderer may be revealed.”

Someone coughed. Feet shuffled.

“May I have quiet, please? I am going to try for a message from beyond, and I need absolute silence so that I can concentrate. No distractions, if you please.”

The room grew quiet. Gray scribbled furiously. Every eye was riveted on Margo Nicholas as she closed her eyes and took deep breaths.

Miss Eaton studied cach face in turn. Linda clutched Duke’s hand, her face pale. Reggie Courtney looked unhappy. Fletcher shifted uneasily.

Margo seemed to go into a trance and, when she spoke next, it was in a different voice. A disembodied voice.

“I see white mist...the mist clears slowly and I see the figure of a woman...she is sitting high up...now a pair of hands...behind her, a man!”

It seemed as if everyone drew a deep breath at the same time. Tension grew in the studio. The only sound was that of the strange voice coming from Margo’s lips.

“The man moves stealthily...his hands reach out for the sitting figure...and pushes. As she falls, he says, ‘Schmuck’!”

The last word was spoken in an accurate imitation of Sammy Jacobi’s voice.

Sammy leapt his feet, his face flushed and hands gesturing wildly.

“It’s a lie! A lie—I never killed anybody in my life. I swear it!”

On cue, Keith Parry entered the room and placed a box of oil paints on the table in front of Miss Eaton.

He said, “From Sammy’s room, as you instructed,” and took a seat.

Margo came out of her trance and asked, “Did anything happen?”

Sammy looked as if he wanted to bolt, but daren’t.

“Sit down, Mr. Jacobi,” Miss Eaton said sharply.

Reluctantly, he obeyed. Miss Eaton opened the box of paints and took out several fat tubes of new oil colours. Jacobi watched apprehensively as she used Trewin’s clasp knife to slit them open.

Red, blue, and yellow oil paint oozed out onto the sheet of newspaper—and something else. Small, hard objects. She wiped one with a piece of rag till it shone and sparkled. A diamond.

“Stolen in Amsterdam,” she said briskly, “and brought across in the
Jean Michel
.”

Reggie Courtney’s eyes glazed over. He looks as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes, Miss Eaton thought.

“All right,” Jacobi said, standing up. “So I’m a fence—I admit it.... But that doesn’t mean I killed anyone. I swear I didn’t.”

Margo Nicholas looked unhappy.

Miss Eaton tapped her Smith and Wesson to remind them who was in charge.

“Sit down!” She waited till he was seated again. “But a strong motive, if Bullard had got onto you and exerted pressure. But there are others here with, perhaps, an equally strong motive for murder....”

* * * *

Frank Trewin sat quietly on a chair behind tbe door in Miss Eaton’s room in the annexe. The door was ajar so he had a view of the passage. He waited.

He’d come in from the garden, unobserved, while everyone was at dinner, obeying the instructions Miss Eaton had given over the phone.

Inspector Reid was at Red Wheal, no doubt basking in glory after returning the stolen Gauguin. Trewin doubted if Miss Eaton would get a mention. So, if she came up trumps again, he’d arrest the murderer himself.

She was good, no doubt about it. He felt mounting excitement and wondered what she had in mind.

Presently he heard footsteps. The door of the common room opened and Parry stepped into the corridor. Trewin held his breath and watched.

Parry went into Jacobi’s room and came out carrying a box of oil paints. Just what Miss Eaton had told him would happen.

Parry went back through the common room and Trewin padded silently after him. The tutor waited outside the door of the studio.

Jacobi’s voice came: “Schmuck!”

Parry walked into the studio.

They’re all there now, Trewin thought, set up for whatever surprise she’s going to spring.

Quietly he sneaked up and opened the door a fraction. He heard Miss Eaton talking in her American voice.

“Mr. Keller, of course, was enjoying a liaison with Joyce—and would have lost a comfortable living if his wife had found out. Joyce hoped to marry Wilfred, I believe. Either of them has a strong motive for murder if Bullard had discovered them together—and don’t forget that Hilda was also murdered.”

Joyce gave a little sob. “I never did!”

Miss Eaton paused, took a sip from her glass of bourbon and lit a fresh cigarette. Sherry jumped onto her lap, sniffed at the glass and settled down.

“Then there are Val and Reggie Courtney. Val asked me to get rid of Bullard for them—they were scared that his unpleasantness would lose them business. This motive applies to Mr. Parry. Not only did part of his income derive from this studio, but he had also put money of his own into the business.”

Parry grinned easily. “I wish I’d thought of it,” he murmured. “I’d have finished off George a lot earlier in the week.”

Miss Eaton ignored the interruption.

“There’s Duke, with a police record of violence. He flared up quickly when Bullard made a pass at Linda. He might easily have lost control a second time. And Linda might have felt threatened when he asked her to pose in the nude—perhaps she was afraid it wouldn’t stop at posing. Let’s not forget she was the only visitor any good with a boomerang.”

Miss Eaton chain-lit another cigarette, coughed, and stubbed out the old butt. Gray scribbled in his notebook.

“Which brings us to the obvious suspect—Mr. Fletcher. An expert with both a boomerang and killing stick, the actual murder weapon. And suspected by the Australian police of being a conmon—”

Wilfred gave a start.

“—a strong motive if he was planning to con money out of Mrs. Keller, and Bullard found out about him.”

“You can’t prove anything,” Fletcher said angrily. “Why should I kill Hilda, if you’re right?”

“Someone killed them both,” Miss Eaton said. “And for a good reason. But we mustn’t forget our psychic, Margo Nicholson. Known to the police as a fortune-teller and in some trouble in the past when one of her clients took her own life. Perhaps Bullard knew about this and she didn’t want it to come out here.”

She paused.

“All potential suspects, each with his or her own motive for murder.” She looked around the half-circle of faces, studying expressions. “I don’t think I’ve forgotten anyone....”

Val looked worried; had she guessed something? Wilfred moved away from Fletcher and sat with his arm around Joyce. Eyes watched her warily.

“Obviously someone has been lying,” Miss Eaton said. “Then came the theft of a picture from Red Wheal, a big house not far from here. A valuable Gauguin, the owner claimed. Remember that Duke’s bike was missing that night—and ths police laboratory proved it had been in the grounds at Red Wheal.”

“Sammy has admitted he rode a motor-cycle in his youth—but, of course, most people could manage it if they had to.”

Reggie Courtney looked nervous.

“I learnt that George Bullard worked as a valuer of paintings and had previously visited Red Wheal—and he claimed the Gauguin to be a worthless forgery! I wondered why a forgery would be stolen, and why only that one picture should be taken.”

Miss Eaton took another sip from her glass, and swallowed.

“Incidentally, I found the stolen picture and Inspector Reid has returned it to the owner. It seemed to me that no art thief was likely to throw a valuable painting over the cliff into the sea...so it had to be a forgery!”

She put Sherry on the floor and rose to her feet. She took a palette knife from Sammy’s box.

“And who do we know who can paint in the style of different modern artists?”

She turned to the demonstration painting on the easel and began to scrape away half-dry oil paint to reveal white primer and, underneath that—

As another painting began to show, Keith Parry swore and came to his feet and ran for the door.

Fletcher reached under his jacket, brought out a boomerang and threw it. The missile hit the back of Parry’s head and sent him stumbling into the arms of Frank Trewin. Trewin snapped handcuffs on him.

* * * *

After Trewin had taken Parry away, Miss Eaton sat in the Courtney’s private lounge. Sherry lapped contentedly at a saucer filled with her favourite drink.

Val seemed stunned.

“It was Sherry who first made me suspicious,” Miss Eaton said. “She doesn’t take to doubtful characters, I’ve noticed—and she didn’t like Parry at all.”

Reggie moistened his lips ond looked away from his wife.

“It’ll come out at the trial, I suppose. We were in it together. Not the murders—selling fake masterpieces. Keith painted them—he had a knack for what he called ‘creative copying’. From my time in the art shop, I had the contacts—mostly American.”

“He painted one a year—in winter, while he was staying here. Val didn’t know anything about it and, of course, we got big money for them.”

“The painting of Mr. Jarvis’s, I assume, was an early one?” Miss Eaton asked.

“Yes, his first attempt. That’s why he felt he had to get rid of it, I suppose. It wouldn’t stand up to a knowledgeable critic—as Bullard proved. And it was too close to Porthcove to take any risk after Keith killed him.”

“Yes, Bullard was snooping around upstairs one day. He must have found another forgery and recognised the style of painting.”

“It was a Braque,” Reggie said dully. “A good one.”

Miss Eaton sipped her sherry.

“So he threatened to expose Parry. I don’t think he would have tried blackmail. He just liked to needle people. Possibly Parry offered him money to keep quiet. Bullard would have laughed at that. He wanted the fun of exposing someone—so Parry killed him.”

Reggie licked his lips. “What am I going to do now?”

“Parry will talk,” Miss Eaton said briskly. “For Val’s sake, I suggest you leave the country. I shall waive my fee—after all, I’ll get a substantial reward for the return of the stolen diamonds. I’m not an expert on art frauds, but I assume the police must treat it as a crime.”

Val took her husband’s hand and held it tightly. “We’ll go abroad together, and make a fresh start somewhere.”

“And Joyce and Wilfred will marry and live happily ever after,” Miss Eaton said, and sighed. “On Hilda’s money.”

She put down her empty glass and picked up Sherry. “I’ll stay overnight and leave in the morning—if I’m still welcome?”

“Of course,” Val said quickly. “I asked you to investigate. You did it for me, and St. Agatha’s. You weren’t to know how it would turn out.”

She began to cry, and Miss Eaton went downstairs to her room. It had been a successful case and she could look forward to seeing Gray’s story in the
Herald
, yet she felt depressed.

Tomorrow she would buy the new Sam Pike novel to cheer herself up.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in Brighton in 1920, and living most of his life in Kingston upon Thames, Surrey, SYDNEY JAMES BOUNDS, 86, died November 24, 2006, after battling cancer.

Bounds’ first published short story was a supernatural tale, ”Strange Portrait” in 1946, and he went on to sell hundreds of stories and forty-two novels in a lifetime of writing. He became a very successful children’s writer, and appeared in dozens of junior magazines, annuals and anthologies. He also wrote more than two dozen comic book scripts. Alongside this work he published scores of adult dark fantasy and science fiction stories. His science fiction appeared in the US magazines
Other Worlds
and
Fantastic Universe,
and more widely in the UK, in
New Worlds, Science Fantasy, Authentic, Nebula,
the John Spencer paperback magazines,
Vision of Tomorrow,
and
Science Fiction Monthly
. Supernatural magazine appearances included
Fantasy Tales, Fantasy Annual
and other small press magazines, but most of his best supernatural tales appeared in the long series of ghost and horror anthologies published by Fontana, edited by Mary Danby and R. Chetwynd-Hayes. Particularly outstanding were “The Circus”, which was adapted by George Romero for American TVs
Tales from the Dark Side
, and “The Mask,” which was adapted for UK radio. A generous selection of the best of these stories is to be found in the two-volume collection, THE BEST OF SYDNEY J. BOUNDS (Wildside Press, 2002, edited by Philip Harbottle).

In recent years, along with science fiction, Bounds continued to write new supernatural stories, appearing regularly in each issue of FANTASY ADVENTURES (Wildside Press, edited by Philip Harbottle.) His dark fantasy stories there included “Writer for Hire” (#2, 2002), “The Ballet of the Cats” (#3, 2003), “The Wall” (#5, 2003), “The Excavation” (#6, 2005), “The Trunk” (# 7, 2003), “Dreamboat” (#9, 2004), and “Victim” (#11, 2004). The final 13
th
issue of this magazine featured seven of his last stories. His horror story anthology appearances include “Homecoming” in MOONLIGHT ONLY (2002), “A Taste for Blood” in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF VAMPIRES (2004), “The Circus” in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF NEW TERROR (2004), and “The Night Comers” in GREAT GHOST STORIES (2004), and “A Little Night Fishing” in TALES TO FREEZE THE BLOOD (2006) all edited by Stephen Jones.

Bounds published more than forty novels, beginning with a detective thriller in 1950, A COFFIN FOR CLARA aka CARLA’S REVENGE, but soon switched to writing SF and westerns, most notably his “Savage” series, begun in 2000, with the eighth and last novel, SAVAGE RIDES WEST appearing posthumously in 2007. He also returned to writing detective novels, and amongst his later titles were THE CLEOPATRA SYNDICATE (1990 Italian, 2007 English), ENFORCER (2005), THE GIRL HUNTERS (2005), and BOOMERANG (2008).

Novels of SF interest include DIMENSION OF HORROR (1953), THE MOON RAIDERS (1955), THE WORLD WRECKER (1956), THE ROBOT BRAINS (1957), revised as MISSION OF THE BRAINS (2009), THE PREDATORS (1977 Italian, 2002 English), and STAR TRAIL (1978 Italian, 2003 English).

The best of Bounds’ novels are set to be reprinted by the Borgo Press, beginning with THE WORLD WRECKER, together with some new posthumous SF novels

It has been a privilege for me to act as Bounds’ agent, and occasionally, to collaborate with him. A recent highlight has been the conclusion of a deal for the sale of the film rights to one his best short stories (‘The Animators’, 1975) to a leading British movie company, Qwerty Films. The film went into production in 2011, directed by Ruairi Robinson, with a screenplay by long-time Bounds fan Clive Dawson....

In addition to his own writing, Bounds worked as a Tutor for a Writing School for many years, and this was work he loved, encouraging and helping new authors to break into print. Just three days before he died, he learned of, and gave his blessing to, the inauguration of the “Best Newcomer—the Sydney J. Bounds Award” given annually by the British Fantasy Society.