Boomerang Page 8

  “Him? Bit of a pansy, I’d say. But he’s strong enough—he pulled me off Bullard with no effort.”

  “They often are,” Miss Eaton said absently.

  * * * *

  Reggie Courtney caught up with Parry just as he was setting off down the hill to join his students.

  “Hi, Keith. Just a minute.”

  Parry paused. “You’re looking worried, Reggie. What’s up?”

  “I am worried. What’s going to happen? The police have searched the whole house...and Bullard. Do you know anything about him?”

  “Not a thing,” Parry said cheerfully. “Look. Reggie, I must rush now or the paying customers will wonder when they’re going to get any help. Just stop worrying. The police will fade away in time and everything will soon be back to normal.”

  Courtney said gloomily, “I doubt if anything will ever be normal again.”

  “See you this evening at dinner.”

  With a casual wave, Parry strode off down the hill towards the harbour. He whistled an old Beatles’ number.

  * * * *

  Miss Eaton found Val Courtney working on her accounts in the office.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I want to take a look at everybody’s room.”

  Val looked harassed. “Must you? Oh, I suppose so—the police have already been through the house, you know.”

  “And obviously not found anything. But I suspect they were looking for a direct link between Bullard and someone he might have known previously. I just want to their, get a better feel for the people involved—and their room can tell a lot about a person’s character.”

  “Whatever you say, Belle. I just want this business cleared up so we can get back to the way we were before.”

  “It would be best if you come with me.”

  Val closed her account book and pushed it aside. “All right then. I don’t suppose any of the doors are locked, but I’d better get my keys.”

  They went through the common room and Val opened the first door on the left. “Jacobi,” she said shortly.

  Sammy was a messy person at home, Miss Eaton observed. Discarded clothing lay across an unmade bed. There was a smell of oil paint and turpentine; half-used paint tubes littered the dressing table.

  Bullard’s room came next; still locked and sealed by the police.

  “Fletcher,” Val announced.

  This was a tidy-room where everything was neatly arranged. Miss Eaton saw a portable typewriter in its case and remembered that the Australian did some writing. An organized man, she thought; ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

  Margo Nicholas’s room was opposite. Here the smell of perfume was strong, and a pack of tarot cards were stacked on the table. All her clothes had been put away and the bed made; the washbasin had been cleaned. There was a lot of cheap jewellery in one of the drawers.

  Miss Eaton passed by her own room and looked into that that shared by Duke and Linda. There were bike and girlie magazines on one side of the double bed; a handbook on painting on the other. The room smelt of tobacco with the window shut; old cigarette stubs filled the ashtray. Linda carried a lot of make-up and a selection of exotic underwear.

  “Do you want to go upstairs?” Val asked.

  “Yes please. Just a minute....”

  Miss Eaton went outside and around the house to look in through the window of George Bullard’s room. She saw an oil painting of red roses in a sunlit garden; probably the last thing he painted. She studied it closely but, apart from impressing her as a nice painting of roses, it told her nothing. His clothes and paints had been put out of sight and the bed was made.

  She rejoined Val, and they went upstairs.

  “This is Keith’s room.”

  Miss Eaton saw a long room, one end of it stacked with canvases, an easel and a table with paints and brushes. The other end contained a bed and wooden chest and an armchair. Shelves held an impressive number of large art books and there were colour reproductions of famous modern paintings on the walls.

  “Quite a library,” Miss Eaton commented.

  “Keith gives talks to various groups. He needs a lot of research material handy.”

  And he liked bright clothes, Miss Eaton noted. One window looked out on the lawn and goldfish pond.

  The cook’s room was small and neat, at the back of the house. There were a couple of cigarette ends in an ashtray on the windowsill, half-hidden by a curtain. The wardrobe contained a surprising number of smart dresses.

  “Good clothes,” Miss Eaton remarked.

  “Oh yes, our Joyce keeps her looks. Must be the Cornish air. When she dresses up on her day off, you wouldn’t know her.”

  “I’ve seen your room, of course, Val—how long have you been here?”

  “It must be...getting on for twelve years. I suppose you’ll be visiting the Kellers?”

  Miss Eaton nodded. “Yes indeed. I’ll just take a walk down there now.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CUSTOMS AND EXCISE

  Miss Eaton walked slowly down the hill as far as the tearooms. She selected an outside chair beneath a sunshade and ordered a pot of tea.

  While she waited, she studied the harbour and seashore through her binoculars. She had a clear view of the boats in the harbour and the fishermen’s cottages. She could pick out individual painters and the sweep of the sandy bay and gulls swooping over crags of rock.

  After her tea arrived, she turned around to view the studio above her. The upper row of windows showed up plainly. She watched them closely and decided Mrs. Keller was telling the truth when she said she hadn’t been able to recognize the person she had seen. She reminded herself it was still only an assumption that this person had been George Bullard.

  As she drank her tea, she considered her suspects—and had to admit they were all equally suspect. Even the staff could not be eliminated. Reggie was obviously worried. Parry? Bullard would most likely have spent more time needling the tutor than anybody else. But surely an experienced tutor—and he was that; she’d observed for herself that he was good at his job—could handle one awkward student without losing his temper?

  It was impossible to see Joyce in the role of murderer. Val? Ridiculous.... Miss Eaton smiled as she recalled the number of times Sam Pike had found himself at the wrong end of a gun held by the woman who had hired him. The situation had become a cliché in American pulp detective stories.

  She could recall one passage from Bootleg Blonde:

  I turned, and my raven-haired client held a gun in her hand. It was pointed at me, and her face had grown hard and cruel, like a death mask with frostbite.

  “This is the pay-off, shamus,” she sneered.

  I grabbed for my own rod as she squeezed the trigger. I heard the click of the hammer coming down on an empty chamber—natch, I’d emptied it when she went to the powder room—and then I was pumping lead into that gorgeous body....

  Loyally, Miss Eaton put the idea from her. An old girl of St. Agatha’s? Never!

  She drained her second cup of tea and continued down to the Harbour Inn. It was after closing time and customers were coming out. She walked into a cosy bar festooned with nets and illuminated in red and green from ships’ lanterns.

  One of the last to leave the bar, she noted, was vaguely familiar—a man in a blue jersey. Then she remembered he had been aboard the French fishing boat.

  The landlord called, “Sorry, miss, but we’re closed.”

  Miss Eaton smiled. “I’m calling on Mrs. Keller. Is she in her room?”

  He nodded. “First door on the left at the top of the stairs.”

  She went up quickly and tapped on the door. Hilda Keller opened it.

  “It’s me again. We met at the tearooms before lunch—could I come in and speak with you for a moment?”

  “I suppose so—providing you don’t smoke.” Hilda’s tone of voice was grudging. “I can’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke—I’ve only just cured Wilfred of the habit.”

  “I pr
omise I shan’t smoke.”

  “I’ve already had the police here searching. It’s quite ridiculous. Neither Wilfred nor I had ever set eyes on the man before we came here.”

  The room was a double, with a wide bed, large armchairs and an old-fashioned wardrobe; a room for people who could afford to pay extra in the season. Windows overlooked the harbour, framed by lace curtains stiff with starch. They were wide open and a smell of seaweed and the screeching of gulls came in.

  Miss Eaton saw a selection of expensive cosmetics on the dressing table, a lacy black nightdress folded neatly on a pillow. One of Wilfred’s pastel pictures was propped up on a chair.

  She perched on the edge of an armchair and looked around.

  “Yes?” interrogated Mrs. Keller sharply. “What is it you wanted to see me about?”

  “I wondered if you had much to do with the other painters on Wilfred’s course.”

  “As little as possible. We try to keep to ourselves. Such common types, I always think—except for James. He seems truly to appreciate Wilfred’s work. It’s even possible he’ll be able to arrange a London exhibition. A bit of a rough diamond, I fancy, but a cut above the others.

  “The Jew is polite but...really I mean, one can’t possibly allow oneself to be involved with a tradesman. As for that dreadful lout in the leather jacket—so unsuitable for such a pretty girl—his fingernails are black! And that awful woman smothered in cheap scent and artificial jewellery...well, really.”

  Snob, Miss Eaton thought, and said, “I do like this painting of your husband’s. So nice to be able to recognize the subject—and the boats do look as if they’re floating in water.”

  “Yes. He’s very good and one day the critics will admit it. Real painting, I’m glad to say, is coming back into fashion after all that abstract rubbish.”

  Mrs. Keller fingered her moustache and said, abruptly. “I’m thinking of leaving here. I’ve told Wilfred—he can’t afford to get mixed up with a murder. Bad for his reputation.”

  “The police won’t allow that I’m afraid,” Miss Eaton said mildly. “In their view you are both suspects.”

  “Suspects!”

  “Yes. Can you remember which window it was where you saw the intruder?”

  “Window? Window...the last one at the end. On the right-hand side of the house.”

  “Could you make a guess please? Did the figure look more like a man, or a woman?”

  “Does it matter?” Mrs. Keller asked irritably. “I couldn’t tell—it could have been either. Now, if you’ve finished...?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve finished,” Miss Eaton said sweetly. “But the police haven’t. I do recommend that you keep yourself available if you wish to avoid trouble.”

  She went downstairs and out into the sunshine, thinking: the last window on the right was in Keith Parry’s room.

  She strolled along the stone quay, looking at the boats. The French fishing boat was still in harbour but she saw no sign of the man in the blue jersey. Sammy, she noted, had moved further along the quayside to try his hand at drawing a boat that had been hauled up out of the water.

  As she stood there, enjoying the view, a man in uniform bustled up. His voice had a snap to it and his words poured out in a quick gabble, as if they were all joined together.

  “I am an officer of the Customs and Excise and it is my duty to ask if you have taken anything from any boat? Do you object to my searching your handbag?”

  Miss Eaton was taken aback. “Do you have some identification?”

  The fussy little man produced an official-looking card in a plastic wallet.

  She looked closely at it, and replied, “No objection.”

  She watched his face as he opened her handbag and found the Smith and Wesson. He looked startled and held it gingerly.

  “It’s only a replica,” she informed him kindly.

  He looked relieved, went through her bag more cautiously and handed it back.

  “Where do you come from?”

  “London.”

  “Are you intending to stay long at Porthcove?”

  “A few more days. I’m with Val Courtney, up the hill at the studio.”

  “I see. An artist.” He paused. “But you’re not painting....”

  “I’m not an artist. I’m an old school friend of Mrs. Courtney.” An idea began to form in Miss Eaton’s head. She smiled and asked pleasantly, “Is there much smuggling here?”

  “A little, sometimes. But, of course, they don’t always sail into harbour. This is a routine check. We keep an eye on foreign boats—and anyone lingering near them.”

  “Like me. Well, thanks....”

  From the harbour, Miss Eaton walked around the headland and along the shore. She walked quickly, ignoring the heat. She was excited.

  Smuggling. Suppose Bullard had been involved? Or had he stumbled on a gang by chance? That would provide a strong motive for murder.

  She’d never been happy with the idea that someone was sufficiently upset by Bullard’s barbed remarks to actually kill him. Unless, as in Duke’s attack, they simply lashed out in anger. But the killing stick had been locked away in Jim’s car—and that meant premeditation.

  She reached Parry, where he was commenting on Margo’s latest effort—a study of the cliff face—and paused to ask:

  “Is anything missing from your room, Keith? Anything moved, or out of place?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Not that I’ve noticed. I don’t keep much of value there anyway—apart from my paintings, that is. Why?”

  “Mrs. Keller seems sure it was at your window that she spotted the intruder.”

  Parry laughed. “Always assuming she didn’t imagine it. But I’ll take a closer look now that you mention the matter.”

  Miss Eaton continued along the sand until she reached the steps cut into the face of the cliff and started up. It was a steep climb and the steps were narrow; obviously they would be dangerous in wet weather. But a quick way up or down for smugglers.

  She wondered about Wilfred and Hilda. Staying at the Inn by the harbour made them strong suspects. Suppose Bullard had seen something and tried blackmail? Or he could he have been one of the gang and tried a double-cross? Could there be a second gang involved? A hi-jack?

  She reached the top of the steps and the cliff walk, and could see the studio not far away.

  What was being smuggled? Marijuana? Something small presumably. Gems?

  A memory nagged at the back of her mind, something she had read recently but couldn’t recall immediately. She felt annoyed with herself. It was something she would have to check out.

  When she arrived at the studio, she used the pay-phone in the hall to call Geary in Birmingham. He was a private investigator she’d used before to save herself a journey to the Midlands.

  “Mr. Geary? Miss Eaton. I need some background on George Bullard—”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got yourself mixed up in murder, Isabel?” Geary chuckled.

  “I’ve been retained to investigate.”

  The voice on the phone became serious. “Well, look after yourself. There’s a killer loose—and it’s a police job anyway. What d’you want to know?”

  “Anything you can get me quickly. His job. Was he married? Who benefits? His style of living, just general background stuff.”

  She gave the number of Porthcove Studios.

  “Try to get back to me tomorrow, will you?”

  “I’ll try—and you owe me one.”

  Miss Eaton got into her Fiat and drove away. She turned onto the main road and put her foot down. In Penzance, she stopped once to ask the way to the Public Library. She found the reading room and began to go through back issues of the Daily Independent, searching for that elusive memory.

  She turned pages, scanning rapidly, going back day by day until—

  GREAT DIAMOND THEFT

  “A daring robbery was carried out in Amsterdam yesterday, when diamonds estimated to be worth a quarter of a million pounds wer
e stolen from the House of Hertman.

  “A police spokesman said that so far no trace of the thieves or the missing gems had been found, but several lines of enquiry were being pursued.

  “It is thought that the diamonds may already have been smuggled out of the country....”

  Miss Eaton sat back in her chair with a feeling of satisfaction. Diamonds, worth a fortune, smuggled out of Holland—and into Porthcove? It was possible, she decided.

  She made brief notes, returned the file of newspapers and went out to her car. As she drove back to the studio, her thoughts revolved around the reward offered for information leading to the recovery of the stolen gems.

  She parked the Fiat and hurried around the corner of the house, knowing she was late for dinner. She saw Sherry on the lawn, crouched beside the pond and trying to hook out the fish with her paw.

  “Sherry! Stop that!”

  The Persian looked around guiltily as Miss Eaton crossed the grass. Goldfish swam peacefully in green water, big fat goldfish....

  An old Sam Pike novel, Shroud for a Stripper, flashed into her mind. Sam was on the trail of a ransom in emeralds and no one seemed to know where they were hidden. He was interviewing one of the suspects....

  She was stacked like a cardsharp’s deck—and kept goldfish?

  I reached into the tank and scooped out one of the smaller fish lying on the bottom. The reddish-gold body squirmed in my hand and I felt something hard under the flesh. I took out my knife and slit open the fish—a sparkling green emerald tumbled out.

  Mary-Jo came at me like a hopped-up tarantula, and I stuck the knife in her....

  Miss Eaton knelt on the grass beside the pond and thrust her hand underwater. She caught one of the fish and felt it gently. Soft. She put it back and tried another, and another.

  Beside her, Sherry purred in ecstasy. Miss Eaton had probably tried most of the goldfish before she gave up. No diamonds.

  Sherry looked at her with a disgusted expression.

  Miss Eaton arrived late for dinner, which she had alone.

  “Sorry I’m late, Joyce. I had to go into Penzance. Where is everyone?”

  “That’s all right, Miss. Val and her husband are upstairs. Mister Keith is in the studio, giving one of his demonstrations.”