Duck Season Death (16 page)

“Is that the best you can do?” Charles asked, after she had got rid of him with charming dexterity.

“Funny little man! I find him rather touching.”

“Where's Harris P. Jeffrey?” asked Charles, taking the magazine from her and flipping over the pages.

“Oh, somewhere around. Not playing because I petted Jerry at breakfast.”

“Another day or so when Jerry discards the romantic sling, you'll discard him.”

“What a beast you are when you try to imitate Athol!”

“Jerry was closer to being an imitation.”

She gave him one of her wide glances, then shivered. “Don't Charles! I knew you'd try to make something out of this morning's shooting, but please don't. You won't get anywhere.”

He regarded her closely for a moment, then asked, “You knew my aunt Paula, didn't you?”

“Slightly,” she agreed cautiously.

“What would you say if I told you that there is a suspicion that she did not die naturally—that Athol might have poisoned her?”

She took a deep breath and sat up tensely. “I'd say I'm not surprised. You know, Chas, it passed through my mind at the time—what I mean is, a man like Athol and her! She was a dreadful drear, you know, and she held the purse strings. A ghastly thing, but you really can't blame Athol, can you?”

Her unconscious callousness sent a wild theory through his mind. Supposing it had been Margot who had poisoned Mrs Sefton. He remembered his suspicion that she was trying to get Athol to marry her. Supposing that when she realised that Athol had no intention of falling in with her plans . . . He glanced down at the slim scarlet-tipped hand resting carelessly on his.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, meeting his gaze limpidly.

He got up, dropping the magazine onto her lap. “Not nice thoughts. Shall I call Wilson back? I rather want to have a talk with Harry Jeffrey before you besot him again.”

He left her and went round the side of the hotel towards the garages. The Turners' utility was standing outside. Andrew had his head under the raised bonnet, revving up the engine, while Frances, with a little frown of concentration on her face, was making a neat job of packing their belongings in the back.

“Are you leaving us?” asked Charles.

She looked up with a start. “Oh—Mr Carmichael! Yes, we're moving on. Andy—that is, we only planned to stay a short time.” She paused, glanced at her husband's back view, then said hesitantly, “I suppose it's all right our going?”

“Quite all right,” said Charles, smiling. “Here, let me lift that bag for you!”

“Thank you. Did you manage to get to sleep?”

“I did—thanks to you.”

“Then—then everything is all right?”

“Hey, Frankie! Switch off, will you?” called Turner.

“Everything is all right as far as you're concerned. When you leave you can forget a place called Dunbavin ever existed. I'm only sorry your honeymoon was so marred.”

“I won't forget you,” she said, breathlessly. “You've been—I'm sorry, Andy, I'm coming!”

Turner put the bonnet down with a bang and wiped his hands on a piece of rag. “What do you want?” he asked Charles truculently.

“Just to say good-bye and good luck and—happier hunting elsewhere.”

“Oh—thanks! But we're not pushing off at once. Frankie's keen to go to this afternoon social in the town. I thought we'd take it in on our way.”

“I'm not a bit keen,” the girl protested. “Really, dear, I'd be quite happy to carry straight on.”

“We were asked to do it, weren't we? Bryce said the invitation included everyone staying here. Okay, that's us. We go—and my wife is going to knock the spots off the rest of them, Mr Carmichael.”

“Oh, are you going to contribute something?”

“I don't want to,” she said, with another fleeting glance at her husband. “You see, back home I used to do a little acting. Very amateurish I know, but—”

“Don't you take any notice of her,” interrupted Andrew. “She's hot stuff. I've seen them laid in the aisles when she puts on a funny sketch.”

“Oh, Andy!” she said deprecatingly. “What are you going to do, Mr Carmichael? Mr Bryce said some sort of lecture.”

“Er—yes. It's just a little talk I've given before on the detective novel.”

“That should be very interesting,” she said politely.

“Mrs Dougall is giving a talk too,” said Charles, nettled by the blank look on Andrew's face. “A tiger shoot in India.”

“Now that should be pretty good,” he said enthusiastically. “I've always wanted to shoot big game. I guess hearing about it will be the next best.”

“Well, I'll let you get on with your packing. By the way, this morning's accident to Jerry—you don't know how it happened, do you?”

There was a short pause before Andrew replied, “No, we don't. Come on, Frankie! Help get the tarpaulin on. Cheer-oh, Mr Carmichael!”

Charles looked at the girl, but she seemed to avoid his eyes. With a puzzled frown he moved away.

He ran the American to earth in the lounge and without preamble said, “I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

Jeffrey pulled a packet of cigarettes from a pocket and flipped one up. “You sure are a persistent guy. I'm not going to act dumb and pretend I don't know what you want to talk about. You still think someone shot your uncle, don't you?”

“Yes, I do. Do you mind?”

“Why should I mind? It's nothing to do with me. Remember I never met Sefton before Saturday night.”

“The continual reminder makes me doubtful on that point. I understand you have a Luger revolver. I'm not interested in how it got past our Customs, but just why did you bring it on a duck-shooting expedition?”

“I didn't know how strict your hunting authorities were here.”

“Meaning that in the States you are permitted to shoot wildfowl with any sort of firearm?”

“I can't say—that is—”

“No, you can't say!” Charles cut in. “And do you know why, Mr Jeffrey? I don't think you've ever been duck-shooting before. Ellis Bryce spotted that at once.”

“Yes, it was quite smart of me,” agreed Ellis, coming into the room laden with various bottles and glasses. “The bar is what can only be termed a shambles. Shelagh has just been in to tell me that I have bitten off more than I can chew, so I thought I'd come in here and try drinking more than I can swallow instead. Do help yourself to whatever you can find, and tell me what progress you have been making, my poor Charles. From the baffled expression on your face and the distinctly guarded one on Mr Jeffrey's I should say no progress at all. I feel almost constrained to render you further assistance.”

“Very good of you,” said Charles dryly. “I don't doubt your ability, Ellis, merely your methods. And remember Jerry won't be always around to exchange pullovers.”

“Charles is not a bit grateful to me for playing clay pigeon this morning,” Ellis complained to the American. “My idea—I get these extraordinary flashes of genius—was to make you come out into the open, to force you into declaring yourself, so to speak.”

XIII

The American rose slowly from his chair. “Say, wait a minute! What do you mean—make me come into the open? I didn't shoot at Jerry this morning.”

Ellis regarded him blandly. “You didn't? You're absolutely sure of that?”

“Dead sure!” snapped Jeffrey.

“What an apt epithet! Charles, why are you goggling in that foolish way? Do give Mr Jeffrey a drink. He seems a trifle distracted.”

“I'm not surprised,” replied Charles, finding his voice.

“Okay Bryce! Cut the funny stuff and let's have it. So you think I shot Jerry in mistake for you. I suppose that's because you were shooting off your mouth last night about discovering Sefton's killer. You think you're so damn clever, but you seem to forget I never met Sefton before three days ago. Why should I want to kill a perfect stranger?”

Ellis eyed him critically. “It is evident even to an average intelligence that your insistence that you and Athol were perfect strangers is a shade too insistent. I'm surprised that Charles has taken so long to bypass the obstacle. I think the connection between you was a mutual acquaintance. Athol may not have known you, but you knew of him very well indeed.”

“Is he right, Jeffrey?”

“My dear Charles, of course I'm right. I'm never wrong in anything to which I bend my brain. There's no use looking for corroboration from Mr Jeffrey. He won't give it and I find your attitude an insult.”

“I'm not talking—yet,” said the American grimly. “Go on, Bryce.”

“The mutual acquaintance was, I should say, a woman. Knowing Athol, that goes without saying, don't you agree, Charles?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw Jeffrey's hand tighten on the glass he held. “It is possible,” he agreed briefly.

“Now, there were three types of women Athol dabbled in. There was the willing victim, the sophisticated dodger—the charming Margot once belonged to that group—and lastly the foolishly innocent. From my observance of Mr Jeffrey, I should say that the female who formed the connection between him and Athol belonged to the last group. I trust you can follow me, Charles?”

“Quite easily. You are about to suggest that Jeffrey's motive for murdering Athol was revenge for wronging a girl he was in love with.”

Ellis made a moue of distaste. “You think such a conclusion unworthy of me? Commonplace though it is, you must admit that it has been a motive for murder from time immemorial.”

“Oh, I admit it all right. But what about you, Jeffrey?”

The American was silent for a moment. Suddenly he gave a short reckless laugh and Charles saw pain in his eyes. “You're pretty smart, aren't you, Bryce! Okay, I'll tell you how I come to be here. You'll probably find it an amusing story—a real slab of honky-tonk that you've seen in the movies or read in a hundred books. But it wasn't cheap and phoney at the time, sweating it out up there on the Islands. It was heartbreakingly real—and it still is to me.”

“You fell in love with this female during the war? Why ever didn't I think of that! The wartime touch is just the last thing needed to complete the trite picture—a backcloth of bombs and blackout.”

“Shut up, Ellis! Please go on, Jeffrey.”

“Yes, I fell in love with an Aussie girl like so many of our chaps did. I wanted to marry her, but she wanted to wait until the war finished. She said she had to be sure—she did not want to be tied down until things were more settled. She was a Sydney girl, working as a typist with some public relations outfit. She used to tell me about her job and the chap she was working for, a man called—Athol Sefton.” He paused before going on. “Well, the time came when we were sent away from Sydney and up to the Islands.
I didn't know when I'd see Barbie again, but she promised she'd wait. She said not to worry about her going around with other chaps, because her job didn't give her much time anyway. That was all right, but on the transport going north I happened to overhear her boss being discussed. Some of our officers had been entertained by Sefton in Sydney and the way they talked about him made me a bit uneasy about Barbie. I kept thinking about a pretty kid like her being in close contact with such a wolf, and had made up my mind to write asking her to take another job when I had a letter from her brother.” Jeffrey paused again, tossed off his drink and went to refill his glass.

“Jeffrey, I'm sorry,” said Charles quietly. “I saw that letter. I was snooping through the bedrooms and came across it.”

The American looked across at him impersonally. “Then you know what happened. Bryce's guess was right in part. What he doesn't know is that I was blamed for Barbie's death. I never told the brother of what I suspected—that Athol Sefton was to blame. I kept quiet on purpose because almost at once I made up my mind to kill Sefton. Someday, somehow, I was going to make him pay for what he had done to Barbie and me. I didn't care how long it took. Time wasn't going to lessen my hate. Even now, when he's dead, I still loathe him as much as I did all those years ago.

“After the war I was sent straight back to the States. I saved until I knew I had enough money for my purpose. First of all I had to find proof of Sefton's guilt. For that I got in touch with a private detective agency in Sydney who managed to find out a few damning details to write me in America. Then I flew over here and got them to trace Sefton's whereabouts and future movements. I got a final report from their Melbourne representative. Sefton was going duck-shooting at a place called Dunbavin. The set-up seemed almost too good to be true. I even had a chance to get a look at this man I had sworn to kill for years. I saw you too,” he added to Charles, “at that store where you were buying guns. The agent told me to go there. I think he was hinting I might see Sefton there.”