Boomerang (3 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

THE BODY ON THE LAWN

Val Courtney came running across the lawn towards them.

Miss Eaton was mildly surprised, even though some years had passed. At school, Val had been a gangling young girl; she had filled out now and her bones were well-fleshed. She wore a smart business suit.

She arrived out of breath. “Belle?”

“Yes. It appears that your little problem has been solved.”

Val shivered. “Don’t say that...we’ll be ruined.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so. There’s nothing like a nice juicy murder to bring in the cash customers.”

Val turned to the uniformed officer and her voice was firm, almost bossy. “Let her through please, constable—she’s an old friend, staying with me.”

The constable unfastened the chain and Miss Eaton drove her Fiat through and parked at the side of the house. She switched off the engine and got out, leaving Sherry in the car.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Val said. “I simply don’t know what I’m doing or how I’m going to cope. Reggie—my husband—is worried to death. Bullard upset everyone! He deserved to die—a most unpleasant person—but why did it have to happen here?” Her voice ended on a wailing note.

Miss Eaton looked across the lawn to a group in front of the house. An area had been roped off. She saw two police detectives conversing behind a low canvas wall.

Val noticed her gaze, and grimaced. “I suppose you’ll want to see...professional curiosity. I can’t face it.”

But she walked with Miss Eaton towards the scene of the crime.

As Miss Eaton approached, the doctor rose from beside the body sprawled on the grass. Uniformed men were searching among the shrubbery.

The body lay half-hidden by shrubs, away from the oath leading from the car park to the front door of the house. It lay face down and she saw dried blood on the back of the head. In life he had been stout with a neat beard; in death, he seemed to have shrunk and appeared small and insignificant.

A stick, looking like the bent branch of a tree with the bark removed, lay beside the body of George Bullard.

The doctor said, “I don’t have any real doubt, Inspector. The victim was struck down from behind, and his murderer left the weapon here. Curious sort of thing—polished by handling, I’d say.”

The Inspector was big and beefy, his hair streaked with grey. His blue serge suit was shiny with wear.

He asked, “How long since he was killed?”

“Last night, early morning. Roughly, about midnight.”

“Well, I’d better start seeing people.” He addressed the other detective: “Constable, make sure the weapon goes to the lab, though I doubt there’ll be any prints.”

“Aye, sir.” The detective-constable was a young man, a head taller, with a fresh face and ginger hair.

The Inspector looked around and saw Val.

“Mrs. Courtney, I’ll need a room where I can interview people. And a list of residents, staff and—er—artists.”

“I’ll arrange that, Inspector.”

He stared at Miss Eaton. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

Val said quickly, “I asked Isabel down to deal with Bullard—before he died, of course. He was making trouble and, obviously, I didn’t know he...this would happen. She’s just arrived.”

Miss Eaton opened her handbag to take out a card, and the Inspector pounced on her bag.

“What’s this? A gun?” He sounded annoyed. “Do you have a license to carry that?”

Miss Eaton pulled out her Smith and Wesson. “Nope. Figured I didn’t need one.”

The Inspector regarded her with disbelief. “You don’t know you need a license to carry a hand gun?”

He took the gun from her and studied it closely. “A replica!”

The constable covered his mouth with his hand.

“It’s good for my image,” Miss Eaton said, and handed over a business card:

EATON INVESTIGATIONS

Private and Confidential Enquiries

“A private detective, for God’s sake!” The Inspector snorted in disgust. “Just what I need—first, a bunch of artists, and now a female private eye.”

The constable looked as if he were trying to repress a smile.

“Just stay out of my way. This is a murder enquiry. Get under my feet, and I’ll pinch you for obstructing the law.”

“Don’t get tough with me,” Miss Eaton said in a hard American voice.

The Inspector stamped off, and Val took her arm.

“You must stay, Belle—overnight, at least. I insist... coming all this way, and I need moral support. Reggie isn’t a lot of use. I mean—he’s handy about the house and garden, but I have to run everything else. And I’m not feeling up to it at the moment.”

“Of course I’ll stay,” Miss Eaton said briskly. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything. It’s the first time I’ve been involved with murder.”

She returned to her car to collect her case, and let Sherry out. The Blue Persian stalked in a circle, sniffing the air suspiciously.

“Isn’t he a beauty!” Val exclaimed in admiration.

“She,” Miss Eaton corrected.

Sherry crossed the lawn to the pond and stared into the water.

“She’s after the goldfish,” Val said.

“Sherry!”

The cat turned at Miss Eaton’s call, hesitated, then followed her into the house. There was a pay phone and stairs in the hall, a door with the sign
Art Shop
on the left, and another door on the right.

A small man with a gloomy expression came down the stairs. “You’ll be the detective, I suppose. I reckon we’ve got enough of them running around already.”

“That’s not very polite,” Val said. “Belle’s come to help us. My husband, Reggie.”

“Yes, dear. Sorry—er—Belle. I wasn’t thinking.”

A willowy young man moved gracefully along the passage. He wore tailored slacks, an open-necked shirt with a buttercup-yellow scarf about his throat. As he came nearer, Miss Eaton decided he wasn’t as young as he looked. He drawled, “What’s the drill, Val? Do we carry on as usual, or what?”

“Keith Parry, our resident tutor,” Val introduced. “Keith, this is Belle, an old friend of mine.”

Parry showed interest. “Ah, the private ’tec...Reggie mentioned you were coming. A pity you didn’t arrive a bit earlier—we might have avoided this unpleasantness.”

Sherry rubbed herself against Val’s legs and sniffed warily at her husband. As she approached the tutor, her back arched and her tail went up.

Parry sneezed.

“Oh dear...and I like cats. I really do. It’s just that I’m allergic to them. Their fur acts like pollen, and sets off my asthma.”

Miss Eaton said politely, “Some people are like that, unfortunately.”

* * * *

Detective Inspector Reid surveyed the common room that Mrs. Courtney had provided for use as an interview room.

“Right, constable, let’s get organized.” He cleared the table by dumping a pile of art magazines onto an armchair. “I’ll have the table here...one chair each side. Push the other stuff back out of the way.”

Together, they rearranged the furniture to the Inspector’s liking.

“You take a corner seat so you get them in profile. Got your pad and pencil? You take shorthand, I suppose?”

“Yes sir.”

“Right then.”

Reid sat down, facing the door, and gave a brief look around the room. There was a painting of fishing boats entering harbour on the wall.

“The local harbour,” the constable said. “A nice picture.”

“You’re not here as an art critic. Keep your mind on the job.”

Local men, Reid thought, country yokels. Well, he’d show this one how a Scotland Yard man operated. He scanned the list Mrs. Courtney had provided.

“I’ll see—who was it found the body? Mrs. Hilda Keller. Her first. Right, wheel her in, constable.”

CHAPTER SIX

OFFICIAL ENQUIRIES

Hilda Keller marched into the interview room and sat down facing the Inspector. She grasped a handbag in her ample lap.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Inspector, but I’m not accustomed to this kind of situation. I am hardly recovered from the shock.”

“That’s understandable. Will you give your full name and permanent address to the constable, please?”

Reid waited while Detective Constable Trewin wrote down these particulars. Looking at her, he thought: formidable. West End clothes—if not Paris.

“Now, Mrs. Keller,” he said briskly. “I’d like you to tell me, in your own words, exactly how you came to find the body. It was early morning, I believe—and I understand you’re staying with your husband at the inn in the village.”

“I chose to stay at the inn because I like my comfort. I doubt if the accommodation here is first class. When I awoke this morning, Wilfred—my husband—had gone. That’s unusual, so early in the day, so I went looking for him.”

Reid raised an eyebrow. “And you thought he might have come to the studio?”

“That’s what I thought. Yes.”

“And found the body?”

“Yes.” Hilda Keller shuddered. “It was most upsetting. Of course, at first I thought there had been an accident—someone injured or taken ill. Naturally, I approached to see if I could help.”

“Naturally. And—?”

“It was obvious, from the blood on the back of his head...and when I saw who it was....”

“Yes, Mrs. Keller?”

Hilda’s smile was not pleasant. “I stopped worrying, Inspector. I simply thought that dreadful man had got what he deserved. A most unpleasant person.”

“Yes. I gather he was generally disliked. But disliked enough to murder?”

She didn’t answer.

Reid pressed home his point. “Disliked enough to murder?” he repeated. “Surely that would indicate a special kind of hatred?”

“It would seem so, Inspector. One of the painting group staying here must have done it—that’s obvious, I imagine.”

“And then Mr. Jacobi appeared?”

“The Jew? Yes. A common man—he came out of the house and asked what had happened.”

“When did you last see George Bullard alive?”

“Oh, let me think. It must have been a couple of days, at least. I avoided him when I could, but he was persistent in his attentions. Most persistent.”

“That’ll do for now, Mrs. Keller. I may want to see you later.”

As she left the room, Reid sighed. The local man had probably never had a murder enquiry before and wouldn’t be much help.

“Did you get all of that down, constable?”

“Yes sir.”

“Jacobi next.”

When Sammy Jacobi came in and sat down, Reid stared at the swarthy skin and hooknose and wondered. He had a feeling they’d met before.

“I understand you saw Mrs. Keller with the body,” he said abruptly.

“Sort of, Inspector. I just opened the front door, and there she was, bending over him.”

“You were up early then?”

“Earlier than I realized. I knew Jim—Fletcher, that is—was demonstrating boomerang throwing, and I wanted to have another go. But my watch was on the blink so I was too early. Or Jim was late this morning.”

“And what did you think when you saw her?”

Jacobi grinned. “Thought she’d done him in, what else? It was a sure thing someone would the way he went about needling everyone.”

“Including you, of course.”

“True, but we Jews are used to that sort of thing. I didn’t let Bullard worry me—I’ve heard worse in my time.”

“He was killed with a boomerang—or was it a killing stick?”

“I wouldn’t know, Inspector. You’ll have to ask our expert that one.”

“I shall. Right. That’s all for now.”

Reid waited with some impatience for Trewin to complete his notes. The Cornishman was not the fastest writer of shorthand he’d known....

Then he remarked, “Interesting. Jacobi says he saw her bending over the body—and thought she’d done it.”

“The doctor says he was killed late last night,” Trewin objected.

“And Bullard didn’t worry him. I wonder. It could be—perhaps. But I got the impression Jacobi wouldn’t worry a lot if suspicion fell on Mrs. Keller, and that does interest me. I’m sure I’ve seen his face before. I’ll have to check him out with the Yard...all right, constable, I’ll see Fletcher next.”

Jim Fletcher looked unhappy as he walked into the interview room.

“Sit down, Mr. Fletcher,” Reid said blandly. “You’re Australian, I believe? Just give your resident British address to the constable, please. How long have you been in this country?”

“About six months, I reckon.”

“Now, I understand that you’ve identified the murder weapon as one of your boomerangs—”

“Killing stick,” Fletcher corrected automatically.

“Literally, in this case. I’ve heard that you’ve been teaching some of the holiday painters how to throw a boomerang. I’d like you to tell me which of them is good at it.”

“You’re on the wrong track, Inspector. It wouldn’t make any difference—”

Reid interrupted sharply. “I’ll decide that. Just give me the name—or names.”

Fletcher answered with obvious reluctance. “Young Linda. It’s a knack, see? Some people catch on quick, some don’t. She was good from the first go.” Admiration crept into his voice. “A natural.” He paused, then:

“But, Inspector, I insist you listen to me. A killing stick is quite different. A boomerang is only a plaything—abos hunt with killing sticks, and the throwing technique is quite different. You don’t launch one into the air, and it doesn’t return. It travels end over end along the ground.”

“I believe you threw a boomerang at Bullard. Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Could have been—he saw it coming, and ducked.”

Reid made a small smile. “And now you’re telling me that only you can handle a throwing stick.”

“Probably I am—here. And don’t think I don’t know that makes me your number one suspect. It’s my stick, and I know how to use it, but—”

“But you’re going to tell me anyone could have used it as a club, Mr. Fletcher. I accept that. The stick was in your car, and the car was locked.”

“Right on.”

“When did you last see it?”

“Yesterday morning. When I returned the boomerangs we used before breakfast.”

“So it could have been taken any time during the day?”

“I guess so.”

“Who knew about the killing stick?”

“Anyone who was boomerang-throwing early in the mornings. Most of our group, that is. Except Wilfred—and Duke.”

Reid studied the gaunt face beneath close-cropped hair.

“Do you have any enemies, Mr. Fletcher? Is there anyone here who doesn’t like you?”

“Not that I know of. We’re strangers—just met for the first time.”

“I wonder if that’s true?” Reid spoke his thought aloud, almost absently. “You were up late this morning?”

“Yeah, a boozy night, I’m afraid.”

“Did you see Bullard late last night?”

“No.”

“That’s all for the moment. Ask Mrs. Courtney to step in, please.”

Reid thought: might as well see what Trewin makes of it. If he can think, that is.

“Well, what d’you say, constable?”

“Someone deliberately used the stick to throw suspicion on Fletcher?”

“It’s one possibility. Why use the killing stick at all? There must be plenty of other weapons around. Could be it was just handy, of course—anyone can break into a car these days.”

“It could cut down the number of suspects, sir.”

“Obviously—”

Valerie Courtney walked in and sat down at the table across from the Inspector. Her face had lost colour. She folded her hands in her lap and sat motionless, obviously striving to remain outwardly calm.

“First of all, Mrs. Courtney, I’d like Bullard’s home address and anything you know about him. Anything at all. Has he been here before?”

“Really, Inspector—do you seriously believe I would have allowed him to come a second time?”

“I suppose not,” Reid admitted. “An awkward customer, I gather.”

Val gave him a wan smile. “To put it mildly, I’m surprised he wasn’t murdered long ago if he carried on like that all the time.”

“That’s something we’ll be looking into.”

“He gave an address in Birmingham—I have details in the office—but I know no more about him. We don’t go into personal details, although Keith—Parry, our resident tutor—likes us to ask what painting experience the students have. Bullard claimed to have a lot of experience.”

“We’ll be investigating his background, of course,” Reid said. “I suppose it could be an outsider—someone who followed him here. Did he know anyone here before he arrived?”

Val shook her head. “They’re all first time students at Porthcove.”

Reid took his time filling a pipe while he watched her.

“So you asked this private detective—Eaton—to come here. Why? Who first suggested this? What did you think she could do?”

“I phoned Belle because I thought Bullard would get the studio a bad name if he weren’t dealt with. He upset the other students, and we can’t afford that sort of reputation. When I asked him to leave, he laughed and said it was just a bit of fun—that he’d paid for two weeks and intended to stay the full time.”

“And Miss Eaton? Where does she come in?”

“I felt desperate. Keith said I’d got to do something because Bullard was ruining his class. Reggie isn’t much use when it comes to sorting out trouble. I remembered an article I’d read about Belle being a private investigator, and thought she might have come up against a similar situation in her job. So she might know a way of handling it. Of getting rid of him.”

She shuddered.

Reid puffed on his pipe with an appearance of satisfaction. “I’ll see your husband next.”

While they waited, Trewin ventured, “Could be a motive there. If Bullard was putting students off. The studio’s livelihood. I wonder how this place stands financially?”

“That’s something else we’ll be looking at.” Reid said. Perhaps Trewin was capable of learning after all.

“Parry suggested Mrs. Courtney do something—”

“So perhaps she did.”

When Reggie Courtney came in and sat down, he wore a look of weary resignation.

“I’d like you to tell me whatever you can about George Bullard.”

Courtney pulled a face. “I didn’t have much to do with him, luckily, but I heard things. A nasty piece of work.”

“You’re a sort of general handyman here?”

“You’ve got it in one. Val runs the place really—I don’t have a head for business.”

“Is the house locked up at night?”

“Never. These people are on holiday and if they want a late night out, they’re entitled to it. Not much crime around here anyway—burglary, I mean.”

“Did you know this Eaton woman was arriving?”

“Val told me after she’d invited her. I was a bit surprised.”

“Did you approve?”

Courtney shrugged. “It’s up to Val. What she says goes, more or less. I stay with the odd jobs and Keith does the tutoring.”

Reid knocked out his pipe.

“All right, I’ll see the tutor next. Parry, isn’t it? He should be able to tell us something—he was in contact with Bullard every day.”

When the door closed, Trewin said, “Nothing much there.”

Reid bared his teeth. “Not unless they’re in it together.”

Keith Parry glided into the room like a ballet dancer coming on stage. He tossed back floppy straw-coloured hair and put on a brave smile as he took the seat opposite the Inspector.

“But of course I shall co-operate in every way. This unpleasantness really must come to an end.”

“First off, did you know Bullard from before? Or any of the students?”

Parry lifted his hands in horror. “Bullard? Never! I’d have resigned first. All these students are new to Porthcove. I suppose—though I doubt it—that anyone of them might have known Bullard before, but the only one—or should I say two?—I knew are the Kellers. She’s got money, in case you didn’t know, and Wilfred is serious about painting. They move from one course to another through the season. I met Wilfred when I was tutoring in Warwickshire.”

Reid asked, “Is there anyone you can think of who might have lost his cool with Bullard?”

“Anyone? My dears, everyone!” Parry’s hands fluttered like butterflies. “Such a dreadful person—he was spoiling my class, I tell you. He upset—deliberately, I’m certain—everybody in turn. Including Val. And our cook. A simply awful person. It’s a great pity no one killed him before he arrived here.”

Reid’s gaze moved to the painting on the wall. “One of yours?”

“Yes, indeed. One of my better efforts, I think. If you’re interested, the asking price is two hundred.”

“I’m not that interested. Was Bullard any good as a painter?”

“He wasn’t bad,” Parry admitted. “One of the more experienced students. He’d obviously done quite a lot of painting, but he wasn’t as good as he thought he was.”

He frowned, and asked: “What can I do, Inspector? Can I continue with the class? Take them out sketching?”

Reid looked thoughtfully at the light blue eyes, the blond hair.

“I don’t see why not—after my questioning is completed. Of course, no one must leave here without my permission, and everyone must be prepared to answer further questions, as necessary. But I don’t see why you shouldn’t get on with your job.”

“That’s a relief. The atmosphere is so depressing now. If I can get them outside in the sun, painting again, I’m sure they’ll soon forget this nasty business.”

“I shan’t,” Reid said. “I’m hunting a murderer.”

“But it’s good riddance to bad rubbish,” Parry objected. “You really should award a medal to whoever did it.”

Reid’s smile was bleak. “The police aren’t allowed to take that attitude, officially. When did you last see George Bullard alive?”

“Ooh!” Parry’s hands fluttered again. “It must have been, let me see...after dinner I gave a demo. He was there—somewhat subdued, I thought, if that means anything. Afterwards, he stopped me as I came out of the studio. I was going upstairs to my room—it’s private, you understand, otherwise I’d get no rest at all. Someone is always wanting something....”

He drew a deep breath. “Yes, that’s when it was. Bullard stopped me in the passage to ask for a private talk.”