Boomerang (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

MISS EATON AGREES

Wilfred and Hilda Keller were taking lunch in the dining room of the Harbour Inn. The tablecloth was white and starched, the glasses sparkled in a beam of sunlight, and the cutlery gleamed.

When the door opened. Hilda said, “Oh, dear—one of your party has just come in.”

Wilfred glanced around. “It’s not George. Jim’s all right.”

Fletcher crossed to them, smiling easily. “G’day, mate. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Keller. Thought I’d have a change from sandwiches today—d’you mind if I join you?”

“Take a seat,” Wilfred invited.

“What’s on the menu?”

“We’re having the fish,” Mrs. Keller said. “It’s caught locally, and I always think it makes such a difference to the flavour when it’s fresh.”

As the waitress appeared, Fletcher ordered. “I’ll take fish—and a pint of lager to go with it.” He turned to Wilfred and made a face. “I got stuck with George—that bloke gives me the needle.”

“An oaf,” Hilda remarked.

“Not a pleasant type,” Wilfred said absently, glancing through his sketchbook.

“D’you mind if I take a look?”

“Of course not, Jim.”

Fletcher turned the pages slowly, studying each charcoal sketch in turn.

“Yeah, you’ve got something all right. I was admiring your pastel of a rock formation yesterday, and I said to myself, that bloke’s got it.”

“He’s very good,” Hilda purred, while Fletcher paused at a black-and-lndigo study of some fishermen’s cottages. “Nice, very nice. “D’you sell much of your work. Wilfred? Ever had a West End showing?”

“Only when my wife’s paid for it.”

“I was happy to do that,” she said quickly.

Fletcher drank his lager as the fish arrived. “What you need is an agent. Someone to push your work—make a name. After that, it’s easy.”

Hilda Keller paused over her food. “You seem to know something about it, Mr.—?”

“Fletcher’s the name. Yeah, I suppose I do—there’s no point in false modesty. I’ve been at it a few years, talking on radio, demonstrating on telly, all around the world. Say, I might be able to fix something for Wilfred. Give him a hand, like....”

* * * *

In the kitchen at Porthcove Studios, Joyce Willis, the cook, flushed with anger as she prepared dinner with Val’s assistance.

“That Bullard person’s never satisfied, is he? No matter what the menu says, he wants steak when we serve fish, and curry when lamb’s on. I don’t know why you let him get away with it, Mrs. Courtney, I really don’t. He’s a pain in the neck.”

Joyce slammed down a saucepan on the stainless steel table.

“Yes, well,” Val said mildly. “I might agree with you—in private—but he is paying, you know. And we do try to give satisfaction.”

Joyce sniffed expressively.

“Satisfaction, is it? That one? Never! No matter what you put in front of him, he’ll want something different. No matter what I cook special for him, he’ll complain. You ought to send him packing, that’s what. I hear things, you know—he’s upsetting everybody.”

She chopped onions rapidly with a sharp knife.

“Mind your fingers,” Val said. “Just try to stay calm.” She sighed, and wished she could send George Bullard packing.

George Bullard moved quietly along the passage in the annexe towards the room that Linda shared with Duke Dickson. Lucky man, he thought enviously; too young to know what he’d got there, too young to appreciate her.

He’d seen her arrive back from the harbour and heard her splashing about in the bathroom, but he wasn’t sure if Duke was in their room or not. Nothing ventured, nothing seen, he told himself.

He paused with his ear against the door. He heard small movements but no voices. He turned the handle and opened the door without knocking.

Linda lay on the bed wearing a pair of bikini pants and smoking a cigarette. When she saw him, she put out her tongue.

“That’s rude,” he said.

A voice came from behind the door. “Seen all you want, you dirty old man?”

Bullard flushed. “I just came to see—”

“I know what you came to see,” Duke said contemptuously. “You can look, and that’s all you can do. Now beat it.”

He gave Bullard the finger.

As Bullard closed the door and went back to his own room, he heard Linda laughing.

The air was still warm and scented with blossom. The sky was cloudless. Margo and Sammy strolled side by side in the grounds of the studio after dinner.

“I’m beginning to wish I’d never come,” Sammy said gloomily. “George never lets up, does he?”

Margo made a rude noise.

“Ignore him, Sammy. If you let him see he’s getting you down, he won’t stop. Ignore him and he’ll get tired of baiting you and go away.”

“I wish he would. Permanently.”

They walked slowly in a companionable silence, then Margo said. “It’s not only George. It’s this heat wave—we’re just not used to this kind of weather. Everyone’s on edge.”

They circled the goldfish pond set in the lawn and admired the roses. Margo was looking thoughtful.

“Penny for them,” Sammy said.

“Do you sometimes wonder about Jim?”

“The Aussie? He seems all right.”

“I wonder about him. He tells a good story, but doesn’t he lay it on a bit too thick? I wonder if he’s really been outback.”

“It’s a thought,” Sammy agreed. “But does it matter? Where’s the harm?”

Val Courtney relaxed in a comfortable chair in the private sitting room upstairs. She sipped at a glass of white wine and Mozart played softly in the background. Her husband, Reggie, sat opposite, cupping a tumbler of whisky.

It was what they called the quiet hour, before going to bed, when they could forget the day’s cares and unwind. But not tonight.

Keith Parry paced restlessly up and down the carpet between them, waving his arms dramatically.

“I’m fed up with Bullard, I tell you. He’s upsetting the students and ruining my course.” His voice rose shrilly. “The only time I can get any teaching done is when he’s not around. When he’s there, he destroys the friendly feeling I try to build up with the party.”

Reggie sipped his whisky. “A nasty piece of work, all right. Luckily I don’t have much to do with him, but I’ve heard him a couple of times.”

Parry shuddered.

“I get him all the time. He’s a menace, and I’m not sure I can take much more. He poisons the atmosphere.”

“Oh, I expect you’ll manage, Keith. You usually do.” Val forced a smile. “You’ve had difficult students before.”

“Difficult, yes. But no one like Bullard—he’s impossible. I swear he enjoys making trouble. I’m convinced he came here only to cause trouble.”

“That’s going a bit far, isn’t it?” Reggie protested. “I mean, he wouldn’t know anyone before he arrived, would he?”

Parry stopped pacing to brood. “He might. I don’t know. I thank my lucky stars I’ve never encountered him before. He’s a sadist—I’ve never had such an unhappy week.”

Val said, “He’s managed to upset Joyce as well. If she leaves, we’re really in trouble.”

Parry began to pace up and down again, then turned to face her. The Mozart recording came to an end and his high-pitched voice sounded twice as loud in the silence.

“You’re the brains of this outfit, Val. It’s up to you. You’ve got to do something to stop him, or this studio is finished!”

* * * *

Miss Isabel Eaton sat in a swivel chair with her feet on the desk and contemplated her legs below the hem of a brightly coloured dirndl skirt. They reminded her of a pair of hockey sticks.

She poured liquid from a square bottle labelled Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey into a tumbler and sipped. The label was genuine.

At her back, the window was wide open and the dust and heated air and traffic noises of Grays Inn Road came in. Her small office on the third floor smelt of stale cigarette smoke, and the building cleaners had firm instructions not to disturb the layer of dust on a rusting green filing cabinet.

A cigarette burnt itself out in a metal ashtray. Miss Eaton didn’t much care for smoking but it helped the image she was trying to build up. There was a cigarette burn on the desk and the metal waste bin, ex-army supplies like the filing cabinet, overflowed with junk mail. Everything about the shabby office was a pose.

She picked up a much-thumbed copy of
Death Wears Red
Garters
, a favourite Sam Pike novel, and read:

A man came through the door with a gun in his hand. It was a big .45 automatic. There was a streak of red flame and a slug blasted over my head.

Suddenly there was the smell of fear in the room, like sludge from a sewer.

I dived across the blonde on the bed—she was a genuine blonde, I noticed in passing—and slammed into the mobster. He bounced off the wall and slumped to the floor....

The obligatory blonde; the real life of a private eye was never like that. Miss Eaton reflected sadly. She never ended up in bed with a hunk of man, nor had she ever been slugged in a dark alley or fired a shot in anger.

The telephone rang and she put on her tough American voice to answer.

“Eaton Investigations.”

“Belle? It’s Val Courtney. Val, from St. Agatha’s—the name was Forbes then. Remember?”

Middle-age dropped away from Miss Eaton along with her tough accent. St. Agatha’s College for Young Ladies, gym tunics and the class bell, hockey and sausage-rolls in the dorm after lights out....

“Of course I remember, Val! How are you? Are you in London?”

“I’m harassed, and speaking from Porthcove in Cornwall, along the coast from Penzance. My husband, Reg, and I have a studio here, and we need advice. I read somewhere that you’re running a private detective agency and thought you might know the answer.”

“Glad to help an old girl.”

“We’ve got a problem student—George Bullard by name—a most obnoxious person who upsets everyone. I’ve asked him to leave and he simply laughed at me, and I’m at my wit’s end.”

“I’ll soon get rid of him for you,” Miss Eaton said.

She had a vision of getting out of London in a heat wave to a cool breeze off the sea.

“Oh, I do hope you can.”

Miss Eaton said. “Nothing to it. I’ll run down and sort out this Bullard for you.”

* * * *

“You what?”

Reggie Courtney looked at his wife in astonishment. His voice was unusually sharp.

“A detective? Coming here? Why on earth did you do that?”

They had met at the bottom of the staircase in the hall. Val coming down to go to the kitchen, Reggie coming in from the garden and going upstairs to wash.

‘’You heard what Keith said. He wanted me to do something about Bullard.”

“That’s true. But he didn’t mean you to call in the police. You know Keith—he’s artistic, he dramatizes. One awkward student won’t ruin us.”

“Well, Bullard refused to leave. And Belle isn’t police—she’s a private investigator.”

Reggie relaxed but still looked doubtful. “She might upset the students, all the same. Nobody likes a snooper. Don’t forget they’re our bread and butter.”

“I’m sure they’ll be as pleased to see the last of Bullard as I’ll be.”

“I don’t doubt that, but—”

“I was at school with Belle. She was always reading those dreadful American stories about private eyes and finding out things for us. I’m sure she’s very good, and won’t upset anyone.”

Reggie Courtney sighed. “And she’s coming?”

“Yes. You’ll see, she’ll know how to handle George Bullard.”

CHAPTER FOUR

WILFRED GOES MISSING

When Miss Eaton arrived at the converted mews off Chelsea Reach she had made her home, she began to pack a suitcase.

Sherry, a large blue Persian cat, prowled around her restlessly. Sherry knew her mistress was going away, and protested loudly.

“Stop it, Sherry. You’re coming too.”

Miss Eaton opened a bottle of dry sherry and poured a little into a saucer. The Persian purred and rubbed silky fur against her legs; she was one cat who liked her tipple. She lapped delicately until the saucer was clean and curled up in her basket to sleep it off.

Miss Eaton’s home, unlike her office, was spotless. Behind glass in a row of bookcases reposed her personal library of
Sam
Pike
novels, and an almost complete collection of
Black Mask
detective magazines.

She packed a tracksuit and swimming costume, her Smith and Wesson and binoculars. She showered and inspected her slight figure in the mirror; fit at forty, and her sharply pointed nose might be taken as an indication of her chosen profession.

She dressed for comfort and carried the cat basket, with Sherry still asleep, out to her car. She returned early, to get her case and an early
Sam Pike
novel,
Model for Murder
, and locked up.

As she drove out of London, Sherry dreamed of fat mice in a cat Heaven in the back of the small Fiat saloon. Miss Eaton drove along the M3 motorway into the west country through the early evening. She felt relaxed and drove at an unhurried pace

She stopped at a motel outside Exeter and booked a room for one night. There was no hurry. She regarded this job as a bit of a holiday, a chance to gossip about old times with Val. Bullard would be no problem.

As she dropped off to sleep, with Sherry on the bed at her feet, Miss Eaton wondered idly what was happening at Porthcove.

* * * *

George Bullard chuckled to himself as he wiped his brushes. He was alone in the grounds of Porthcove Studios. His easel was set up in the shade, and trees screened him from any casual eye.

He was reasonably pleased with the result he had captured in oils: the bloom of dark red roses against the pale yellow of sunlit grass.

Pleased, too, with the way he had stirred things up during the last few days. It always amazed him how easy it was to upset people.

He looked towards the house. Parry and the rest of the holiday painters were down at the harbour. Courtney had gone too. Fish again for dinner he thought; I’ll have a moan about that. Val was shopping in Penzance.

The only sound was a drone of bees over the flowerbeds on a sleepy afternoon. There was no traffic about. The part-time gardener was in the greenhouse at the rear of the studio. The cook, he’d learnt, invariably took an afternoon nap.

“A chance to take a quick look around,” he thought, and walked around the pond towards the front porch. He whistled an old-fashioned tune under his breath.

“Never know what I might find....”

* * * *

Hilda Keller sat beneath a sunshade at a table outside the tearooms between the inn and the studio. The afternoon was hot and she ate strawberries with cream as she studied the view through binoculars.

They were, of course, essential for bird watching—and useful for keeping an eye on Wilfred. Where, she wondered, was her husband at this moment?

The tearoom, halfway up the hill, was an ideal spot for observing the coastline. There was a clear view of the harbour and pink-and-blue cottages below.

She could see some of the painters at work and watched their tutor move briskly from one to another. The blonde girl was alone near the rocks that jutted out from the headland. Sammy had set up his easel on the quay close to the fishing boats. There was no sign of Wilfred.

She focused on a chough, a crow-like bird with a red bill, as it wheeled above the cliffs.

She turned in her chair and looked up at the studio. She could see only the roof of the building, and the upper row of windows. There was somebody at one of the windows. Staff, she imagined. She’d heard that the top floor was private and off-limits to students, so it couldn’t be Wilfred.

Hilda sighed and put her binoculars away. She got to her feet and began a slow descent to the village.

She couldn’t hurry; she was too heavily built for that—and no beauty. She knew Wilfred had married her for her money and didn’t care. He was her husband; she loved him and intended to keep him.

She reached the cottages and moved along the quay, lips pursed and handbag swinging. Sammy was painting a group of boats in the harbour. She didn’t like talking to a Jew, but he might know something.

“Have you seen my husband?”

At least Jacobi was polite. “Not since lunch. We split up, you know, and find our own subjects.”

Hilda walked on, beyond the harbour, to where Keith Parry was demonstrating the use of water colour to Linda.

“Keep your washes broad. Sketch in the subject lightly—ignore finicky detail.”

She felt a sense of relief that, at least, Wilfred wasn’t chasing this girl. Sometimes she imagined he had a roving eye.

“Have you seen Wilfred?”

Parry glanced up from the sketch.

“Not yet, Mrs. Keller. It takes time to get around to everyone. Do you have any idea of the subject he was going for this afternoon?”

Hilda shook her head and turned back to where the gypsy-looking woman was drawing a view of some cottages.

Wilfred wasn’t with her and she hadn’t seen him since lunchtime.

She couldn’t see that nice Australian, either. Perhaps he and Wilfred were together.

Hilda kept looking.

* * * *

After dinner, they met in the studio. Keith Parry had arranged a large sketchpad on an easel, and held a handful of brushes. He had paints already squeezed onto a palette.

The group sat on stools in a semi-circle about him.

“Everyone comfortable? Good. I shan’t spend long over this demonstration, just long enough to give you a few ideas. I hope. I’ve noticed during the last few days that some of you are stuck doing the same kind of thing over and over again. And it really is a good idea to experiment a bit.”

“For this demo, I’m using acrylic paints. These are quick drying, and useful for outdoor work. So, a few sketches in different styles, which you can try for yourselves later. It can help you get out of the rut, like this....”

He propped a colour print of Porthcove harbour on a second easel.

“This is something I did a few years ago. Now, as Cézanne might have seen it.”

Parry sketched in a few cubes and cylinders in warm and cool tones, tore off the sheet and began again.

“This time, van Gogh.”

The harbour reappeared, now constructed of vigorous swirling brushstrokes.

“Or Paul Klee.”

Another sheet, an abstract with lines like hieroglyphs.

“Matisse.”

The harbour appeared as a design in one plane with pure colours and arabesque lines.

Parry washed out his brushes.

“Do you see? It’s the same scene all the time—but looked at in a different way. Tomorrow, I’d like each of you to look at your subject with a fresh eye. Experiment. If you tackle an old theme in a new way, I’m sure you’ll find it exciting. And you’ll go back with some fresh ideas to develop at home.”

Parry looked at his class. Linda appeared doubtful. Margo was flushed.

“Nothing to say, George?”

For once, George Bullard kept quiet. He looked thoughtfully from the different sketches, to Keith Parry, and smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

* * * *

Linda heard Duke’s bike revving up and hurried through the common room to the hall carrying a crash helmet. Val Courtney was locking the door of the art shop, and Linda said:

“We’re having an evening out. Duke says there’s a roadhouse on the way to Penzance, so we’re going for a drink and dance.”

“That’s fine,” Val said, smiling. “It’s your holiday—enjoy yourselves.”

Duke Dickson appeared in the doorway in black leathers.

“Yeah, I’ve been exploring while Linda was painting. We might be late back, okay?”

“Of course. We don’t lock the front door—there’s no need to around here. Just don’t make too much noise as you come in. Remember, other people are sleeping. And turn off the lights, please.”

“You bet,” Duke said, and grinned. “We’ll be like a couple of mice.”

* * * *

Bullard watched Duke and Linda leave on the Kawasaki, and Val Courtney go upstairs. Fletcher had gone down to the inn. Parry was still cleaning up in the studio, and Sammy and Margo were in the common room; the door was shut but he could hear their voices.

He waited in the hall, jingling coins in his pocket.

When Parry came out of the studio, Bullard stopped him.

“I’d like to have a chat with you sometime. In private.”

“Yes, all right.” The tutor forced a smile. “Any time. That’s what I’m here for—to help with any problems you have.”

George Bullard smiled.

“Oh, it’s not my problem,” he said lightly. “Shall we say, in an hour’s time? It’s a pleasant evening. We might even take a gentle stroll while we chat....”

* * * *

Miss Eaton drove towards Porthcove.

After leaving Exeter, she took the A30 to Penzance, and then a local road that resembled a switchback. It dropped into a series of small bays and then climbed steeply up again. The road was narrow and bordered by greystone walls.

The morning sky remained clear and bright with sunlight and there was little traffic, except for a tractor that delayed her until it turned into a field.

A farmer’s dog ran alongside the Fiat, barking furiously until Sherry sat up and spat at it. This really was a delightful piece of rural England, Miss Eaton thought with approval.

Presently she came to a sign that read:
Porthcove Studios
. She slowed to turn into the driveway, and was forced to use her brakes.

There was a chain across the entrance and a uniformed constable standing beside it.

“Sorry, miss,” the constable said, “but you can’t come in here.”

Miss Eaton put on her Sam Pike voice. “Is that so? Waal, let me tell you I’m expected by Mrs. Courtney.”

“The Inspector’s orders, miss. No one in, no one out.”

“Inspector? Say, what’s going on here?”

“This,” the constable said officiously, “is the murder scene. An artist named Bullard has got himself killed.”