Hell, didn’t they remember the Yanks here? It wasn’t so long ago. Maybe folks’ memories are short when they know they should be grateful. It didn’t seem that long ago to him since they had been here. Camp Pell, they had called it. He had taken a ride out there, just for old times’ sake, to have a look at it—to remember himself as a kid in olive drab, sweating it out in the South Pacific Theatre. The cab driver had asked him if he had ever come up against that American soldier who murdered those three women.
Jeffrey’s body grew taut and his fingers suddenly clenched on the glass. He raised his head and, finishing the beer, set the glass on the bed table which already had a film of dust on it before the ashtray overflowed with his own cigarette ends. He lay back again, his hands under his head and a wry grin on his lips. That’s a word you’ll have to get used to, son, he told himself.
‘But they won’t get me like they got Leonski—I’m not a psychopathic strangler. There’s a difference between murdering for the hell of it and—the bastard, the dirty rotten bastard!’ he thought suddenly, burning up.
Funny how the years hadn’t minimised his fury or mellowed his bitterness. He had carried the injury with him all this time, so that he felt almost that he had grown up with it—that it was as much a part of him and as familiar as his own body. He always knew that one day he would come back to do what he had sworn to do on that reeking, sweltering atoll somewhere in the Pacific where he had received the news. Instinctively his hand crept to his inside coat pocket, encountering first the holster where his Luger lay snug against his side, then the old shagreen wallet where he had kept the letter from that moment outside the master-sergeant’s palm-thatched hut. Return and revenge had been his goal in the same way as other men’s goals were to be president of a company or captain of a baseball team. He had worked towards it, preparing himself both physically and mentally.
Sometimes he had tried to fight against inexorable ambition which kept driving him on, telling himself that the years were passing, what did it matter, what had happened to him had happened to other men and would happen again. But still he went on making plans and marking every saved dollar for a special purpose.
A knock at the door caused him to start up tensely. “Are you there, Mr Jeffrey? There’s someone to see you.”
He guessed who it would be, but still he asked for the name before unlocking the door.
A neatly dressed, middle-aged man, rather like a trusted bank clerk, entered. His small eyes behind bi-focal glasses were both watchful and observant as he was as insistent on checking the American’s identity as Jeffrey had been in checking his. “We have to be very careful in our business, Mr Jeffrey,” he said, more as a statement of fact than by way of apology.
“Sit down,” the other invited, shaking up a cigarette to offer his visitor, “and tell me what you’ve got for me.”
“Thank you, no. I don’t care for American cigarettes. Regarding the party you commissioned us to trace,” he went on, pulling out a notebook and turning over the pages. “He left Sydney on the eleven thirty plane this morning and is due to arrive any moment now. He is being met by a man called Carmichael who is his nephew by marriage. His wife, just in case it is of interest to you, died a few months ago. So far we can discover no reservation made for him at any hotel. It is my belief that he will be staying with his nephew who has a bachelor flat just outside the city. I have his address with me if you want it.
“From the evening of the 27th—that is, tomorrow—the party has a booking at a hotel in the country some hundred and fifty miles away. The name of this hotel is the Duck and Dog. It is situated near the town of Dunbavin. Your party usually spends the first part of March there every year for the duck-shooting. We are unable to anticipate his movements further,” the little man concluded, as though defying anyone else to be able.
But I can, thought the American exultantly. Shooting ducks, huh? I know one who is a dead duck right now.
The private enquiry agent went on. “We were uncertain of your precise wishes, Mr Jeffrey, but following the general tone of your instructions we took the chance on booking you in at the same hotel. I trust we acted correctly?”
“Fine!” said Jeffrey, trying to keep the note of reckless triumph out of his voice. The whole business was turning out better than if he had planned it.
The agent gave a little deprecatory cough. “Naturally we do not enquire into our clients’ intentions, or the outcome of the work they ask us to undertake—” he paused, his small shrewd eyes on the American’s face.
The other said sharply, “Yes, go on!”
After a pause, the agent said, “Very often after much careful and discreet work on our part, our clients undo it all by behaving foolishly.”
Jeffrey’s facial muscles felt stiff as he tried to grin easily. “What are you getting at?”
“Just a little advice, if you don’t think it out of order. Is it your intention, now that we have finished our commission on your behalf, to continue to keep your party under observation?”
Jeffrey lit another cigarette. His fingers were trembling slightly. “Could be,” he replied. “But I thought you said you started minding your own business at this point.”
“Sometimes the point is marginal. In your case I feel compelled to advise you to keep in part with your environment. In other words, Mr Jeffrey, if you wish to continue—let us say anonymously—you had better go to the Duck and Dog prepared and equipped to shoot ducks.”
The American coughed over his cigarette as a laugh of relief caught him unawares. “Thanks for the tip. It would be sticking my neck way out if I didn’t dress and act the part.”
The agent looked gratified, then shook his head. “It is not so much acting and dressing. I’m afraid the fact that you are an American will make you stand out, so to speak, in the district you intend to visit. The point is, can you shoot?”
His client laughed again. “Sure I can shoot. They taught us to do that sort of thing back in ’42.”
“Ah yes, quite! War is a terrible thing,” said the agent with the air of announcing a profound and original truth. “But there is, I believe, a difference between shooting game and—ah—sniping at the enemy. What you need is a shotgun. In order to preserve your anonymity I suggest your purchasing one before you leave town.”
“You’re being most considerate,” murmured Jeffrey.
Again the little man looked pleased. “Don’t mention it. It’s just that I do like a job to be tucked in on all corners, so to speak. Now here is the name of a reliable gunsmith. All the best sportsmen go there, I believe.”
“Why, thanks a lot—”
“You’re welcome. It is our aim to give our clients every possible service in order to achieve their objectives—short of murder, of course.” He tittered lightly as he drew out a folded slip of paper. “Now, if you are quite satisfied, Mr Jeffrey, there is just the little matter of our account.”
“I’ll settle up right away,” said the American jerkily, turning away from him to take out his wallet.
Money and receipt were exchanged. Then the agent packed up his briefcase and went to the door. “Well, goodbye, Mr Jeffrey—and good luck. I hope you have an enjoyable time shooting ducks.”
V
“Dunbavin!” said Andrew, easing the utility over one of the many bumps of the rough country road. “Look it up on the map, will you, darling? I believe the F. and G. recommend it too.”
Frances unwrapped the map and spread it over her knees, bending forward to hide the small tolerant smile that women smile when they think they know how to manage their men.
Their unconventional honeymoon had started off in New South Wales shooting marauding kangaroos, on which an open season had been declared. Then