Duck Season Death (21 page)

“Not definitely. But as it had been his custom to do so over the past few years, I presumed he had gone to Dunbavin. When I arrived here at the office last Friday there was a note on my desk saying he would be away for a week or so. But there was no mention of where he had gone.”

“Then you didn't know that he had booked a flight to Melbourne under an assumed name?”

Miss Smart looked surprised. “No, I didn't. As a rule he asked me to arrange his travelling. But lately there have been sudden lapses from his normal manner.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Charles involuntarily. “Have you any idea what caused these lapses?”

Miss Smart turned the sapphire on her finger reflectively. “Not the precise cause, but I remember he seemed particularly upset one day over a letter in his mail. Then there were occasional telephone calls which seemed to arouse the same agitation.”

“Do you know who could have been ringing Mr Sefton?”

She shook her head. “Mr Sefton received many calls. The letter too must have been in his private mail.”

There was a pause, then Charles asked, “Does the name Morton convey anything to you?”

“I can't recollect anyone of that name being connected with Mr Sefton, not at the moment,” she answered slowly. “Perhaps if I had a little time to ponder?”

“I wish you would. We'll go and get a bite of lunch now and come back later. Ready, Mac?” He picked up his hat and, followed by McGrath, crossed the room. At the door he paused. “Oh, by the way, Miss Smart, I've been telling Mr McGrath here that I've never known you to be stumped. Let's show him how good you can be. Will you trace this for me?”

He came back to the desk, thought for a moment, then scrawled a few hesitant words on the memorandum pad. McGrath was looking over his shoulder in a trice. “Oh, poetry!” said the latter in mock disgust. “Is that all!”

VI

Charles hailed a cruising taxi. “Manonetta's”.

McGrath's eyebrows surged upwards once more. “We're certainly moving in the best circles.”

“Athol always lunched there. You know these calls Miss Smart talked about and the letter?”

“What about them?”

“The person who killed Athol wasn't content to merely murder him. There was a build-up of refined torture in the shape of threatening calls and messages. Margot Stainsbury told me about Athol receiving a phone call when she lunched with him a week or so ago.”

“And you're hoping to trace the call?” asked McGrath sadly. “I wish you luck, boy. I've only known that stunt to come off in books.”

“Oh, shut up about books!” snapped Charles.

Manonetta's, a restaurant of deep carpets, discreet lighting and huge menus, was filled with lunchers who knew the value of being seen in the right places no matter what the cost. They had to wait some time for the head waiter, who looked like a Renaissance prince, to come to them. Charles slipped a note into an unprincely palm. “My name is Carmichael. My uncle, Mr Athol Sefton, always lunched here.”

Head waiters have good memories. “Delighted to see you again, Mr Carmichael. Mr Sefton not with you today?”

“No, but could we have his usual table?”

“Yes, indeed, sir. If you would just follow me?”

He led the way deftly through the crowded room and was about to eject skilfully but gently a pair of brightly chattering females from a centre table when Charles remembered what Margot had said. “No, not here. Last time he had a table in the corner.”

“Pardon! You want his unusual table? Just over here, sir.”

They were settled tenderly into the chairs and the wine waiter was summoned by a lifted eyebrow. “Before you go,” said Charles, “the last time Mr Sefton lunched here, he had a lady with him. A dark, rather striking, lady.”

“Ah, that would be Miss Stainsbury—the model? I recollect perfectly.”

“Good! Do you also recollect Mr Sefton being called away to take a telephone call?”

The head waiter's alertness became clouded. “I regret I do not remember. Gaetano! You heard the gentleman. Do you recall a telephone call to Mr Athol Sefton?”

The wine waiter looked blank for a moment, then light dawned and he spoke in rapid Italian. His superior listened, then glanced at Charles curiously. “Gaetano remembers.”

“He also remembers Mr Sefton was somewhat upset by the call,” suggested Charles.

“Signor Carmichael understands Italian?”

“No, but he's still a smart lad,” vouchsafed McGrath. “Okay, boy, you've made your point. What about eating now?”

“Order what you like and make it for two,” Charles replied absently. His air of abstraction lasted throughout the meal, but did not deter McGrath from enjoying a hearty repast. He declared at the end that if only the Police Department would see its way to providing cost plus expense sheets for its officers, he too would lunch daily at Manonetta's.

“Glad you like it. Come on, if you're still following me. I want to call in at the G. P. O.”

McGrath groaned. “You haven't still got the notion of trying to trace a telephone call, have you?”

“I think they usually keep some sort of record of long-distance calls.”

“What makes you think it might be a trunk-line call?”

“I'll explain when things begin to tie up more—that is, if you want to listen.”

“I'll listen, as long as you don't expect me to believe anything.”

“You consider it's a simpler solution to imagine me guilty, don't you?”

“If I were in your place, I would just admit everything for the sake of peace and quiet. These tortuous investigations of yours are wearing both of us down. What about it, boy?” he added coaxingly.

Charles gave him a burning glance, and the detective raised a pacifying hand. “All right, all right! Let's go and trace a phone call.”

The telephone people were not at all in favour of Charles's request, and were about to issue a firm but polite refusal when McGrath rose nobly to the occasion and produced his police card. At once, a member of the staff was delegated to the search and, in spite of McGrath's pessimism, a slip of paper headed ‘In-Docket' was unearthed in a surprisingly short time. Charles was jubilant and almost embraced the unembraceable-looking female who had produced the evidence.

“Cranbilka!” said McGrath. “That's about two hundred miles south-west from Sydney. Quite a nice little town, I believe.”

“How can I find out the name of the person who put this call through from Cranbilka to Mr Sefton at Manonetta's?” Charles asked the telephonist.

“That would be quite an impossible task, I'm afraid. The call was made from a public telephone at the local post-office. The chances are very slight that the telephonist on duty would remember—even if she happened to see the caller, which is doubtful.”

Charles thanked her and off they went. “We'll go back to the office now. There are one or two points I want to check—which includes a map—and then I'll start laying some cards on the table.”

There was a map of the eastern States attached to a wall in a small store-room off Athol's office, which was marked with various coloured pins to indicate the circulation centres of
Culture and Critic.

“Now show me this place, Cranbilka,” requested Charles, surveying it.

McGrath traced along a highway leading from the city with his forefinger. “Should be about here, I'd say. Yes, here you are—where the yellow pin is.”

“Not one of our better customers,” was Charles's comment, as he followed the route in his turn. “Aha! That makes Fisherton about the half-way mark.”

“What's Fisherton got to do with things? I thought you were interested in Cranbilka.”

“I'm keenly interested in both places—as I'll explain in a moment. But first I want to see Miss Smart.”

Athol's secretary was seated in her comfortable office dictating into a recorder. She switched it off when the two men entered. “I didn't know you had returned from lunch, Mr Carmichael. I have that information you required.”

“You have? Splendid!”

“Regarding the name Morton—there is only one I can put my finger on at the moment. We have a distributing agent of that name at a country town called Cranbilka.”

Grinning triumphantly, Charles turned to McGrath and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, how am I doing, boy? Pretty good?”

“If you say so,” said McGrath cautiously.

“Miss Smart, I want you to put a call through to this fellow Morton at Cranbilka. Tell him we're running a sort of survey and would like to know the names and something about his subscribers to
Culture and Critic.
I'll be in Mr Sefton's office.”

“Very well, Mr Carmichael,” said the secretary imperturbably. “By the way, I managed to locate that quotation you asked about. You'll find the book of verses on Mr Sefton's desk.”

“Eh? Oh yes, thanks. There you are, Mac! What did I tell you?”

McGrath followed him back to Athol's office. “Why didn't you ask her to get information about Morton? Isn't he the one you want?”

Charles sat down behind the desk. “I don't think so. It is my belief that Morton, our agent for
Culture and Critic,
has also been the agent—probably unwittingly—for the murderer.”

“So you think Sefton was killed by someone from Cranbilka?”

“I am sure of it. That call we traced proves it.”

McGrath did not speak. “Well, doesn't it?” asked Charles irritably, picking up the slim volume of verse Miss Smart had left and snapping the covers open and shut. “Athol was being tormented by threatening letters and calls, one of which we know came from Cranbilka.”

“Why don't you settle for your pal Morton if that is the case?”

“I tell you Morton doesn't exist in this case except as a name. The murderer had to move anonymously and from an association of ideas adopted the name Morton. That is why I have asked Miss Smart to check on our subscribers in the town. You guessed this morning when we were chasing up that address that I was hoping it would be a phoney.”

McGrath continued to look sceptical, but he invited Charles to continue.

“Mac, when you were at school did you ever work from the answer in an algebraical problem?”

“I didn't do algebra,” was the damping reply.

“Too bad!” Charles retorted. “It trains you in clear and logical thinking. Well, this business is like looking up the answer in the back of the book and working to fit it.”

“I've heard about people looking at the back of a detective story.”

“All right—it's like a detective story then. I think—or rather I'm sure—I know who killed Athol. Now I'm making the clues fit. That private detective Harry Jeffrey employed told me he had another client checking on Athol. The case was being handled from here in Sydney, but there was never any personal contact with the client. All business was done by letter and the address to which the investigating reports were sent was to Morton, care of Fisherton post office. Fisherton, you may remember, is on the same highway as Cranbilka.”

“Long way to go to collect his mail,” remarked McGrath.

“But not too long for someone accustomed to travelling the road and desirous of receiving letters anonymously, or parcels of chocolates. See this list I got from that confectioners in Melbourne—again, Morton care of Fisherton.”

“All right,” said McGrath, after a pause. “Who is this person who uses the name of Morton?”

Charles opened the book of verse again, and sat back in his chair at ease. “We'll wait for Miss Smart to bring that list of subscribers. Relax for a moment and I'll read some poetry.”

McGrath put his head on one side. “You seem pretty sure of yourself, boy.”

“I am. Listen—here's that thing Frances Turner recited that I asked Miss Smart to find. I was curious as to where she got it—real high-brow gibberish.”

McGrath listened patiently, his gaze thoughtful as he stared at Charles.

“I bet you don't know what it means either.” He turned a page, read a few more lines, then dwindled off hopelessly. “I can also bet that Athol made mincemeat of this in his review,” he remarked, looking at the title on the spine of the jacket. “‘Poems of Pain and Peace' by Dorothea Brand. Yes, it sounds like a woman, heaven help her!”

McGrath recrossed his legs and fumbled for another cigarette. Charles rang through to the secretary on the house-phone to enquire about the call to Cranbilka, but it had not yet come through.

“Call the exchange and tell them it's urgent,” requested Charles. “By the way, this book of poems by Dorothea Brand—I'd like to have a look at the review. Can you dig it up? It's where? Oh good—thanks!”

He put down the house phone and turned to the title page. “Here's something to while away your boredom, Mac! Athol's unconsidered but frank opinions of the poetess's worth. Miss Smart pastes the reviews in the book. It cuts down filing, says the admirable creature. Listen to this as a fair sample of Athol's venom.