Boomerang

by Sydney J. Bounds

  The obligatory blonde; the real life of a private eye was never like that. Miss Eaton reflected sadly. She never ended up in bed with a hunk of man, nor had she ever been slugged in a dark alley or fired a shot in anger.

  The telephone rang and she put on her tough American voice to answer.

  “Eaton Investigations.”

  “Belle? It’s Val Courtney. Val, from St. Agatha’s—the name was Forbes then. Remember?”

  Middle-age dropped away from Miss Eaton along with her tough accent. St. Agatha’s College for Young Ladies, gym tunics and the class bell, hockey and sausage-rolls in the dorm after lights out....

  “Of course I remember, Val! How are you? Are you in London?”

  “I’m harassed, and speaking from Porthcove in Cornwall, along the coast from Penzance. My husband, Reg, and I have a studio here, and we need advice. I read somewhere that you’re running a private detective agency and thought you might know the answer.”

  “Glad to help an old girl.”

  “We’ve got a problem student—George Bullard by name—a most obnoxious person who upsets everyone. I’ve asked him to leave and he simply laughed at me, and I’m at my wit’s end.”

  “I’ll soon get rid of him for you,” Miss Eaton said.

  She had a vision of getting out of London in a heat wave to a cool breeze off the sea.

  “Oh, I do hope you can.”

  Miss Eaton said. “Nothing to it. I’ll run down and sort out this Bullard for you.”

  * * * *

  “You what?”

  Reggie Courtney looked at his wife in astonishment. His voice was unusually sharp.

  “A detective? Coming here? Why on earth did you do that?”

  They had met at the bottom of the staircase in the hall. Val coming down to go to the kitchen, Reggie coming in from the garden and going upstairs to wash.

  ‘’You heard what Keith said. He wanted me to do something about Bullard.”

  “That’s true. But he didn’t mean you to call in the police. You know Keith—he’s artistic, he dramatizes. One awkward student won’t ruin us.”

  “Well, Bullard refused to leave. And Belle isn’t police—she’s a private investigator.”

  Reggie relaxed but still looked doubtful. “She might upset the students, all the same. Nobody likes a snooper. Don’t forget they’re our bread and butter.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be as pleased to see the last of Bullard as I’ll be.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but—”

  “I was at school with Belle. She was always reading those dreadful American stories about private eyes and finding out things for us. I’m sure she’s very good, and won’t upset anyone.”

  Reggie Courtney sighed. “And she’s coming?”

  “Yes. You’ll see, she’ll know how to handle George Bullard.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WILFRED GOES MISSING

  When Miss Eaton arrived at the converted mews off Chelsea Reach she had made her home, she began to pack a suitcase.

  Sherry, a large blue Persian cat, prowled around her restlessly. Sherry knew her mistress was going away, and protested loudly.

  “Stop it, Sherry. You’re coming too.”

  Miss Eaton opened a bottle of dry sherry and poured a little into a saucer. The Persian purred and rubbed silky fur against her legs; she was one cat who liked her tipple. She lapped delicately until the saucer was clean and curled up in her basket to sleep it off.

  Miss Eaton’s home, unlike her office, was spotless. Behind glass in a row of bookcases reposed her personal library of Sam Pike novels, and an almost complete collection of Black Mask detective magazines.

  She packed a tracksuit and swimming costume, her Smith and Wesson and binoculars. She showered and inspected her slight figure in the mirror; fit at forty, and her sharply pointed nose might be taken as an indication of her chosen profession.

  She dressed for comfort and carried the cat basket, with Sherry still asleep, out to her car. She returned early, to get her case and an early Sam Pike novel, Model for Murder, and locked up.

  As she drove out of London, Sherry dreamed of fat mice in a cat Heaven in the back of the small Fiat saloon. Miss Eaton drove along the M3 motorway into the west country through the early evening. She felt relaxed and drove at an unhurried pace

  She stopped at a motel outside Exeter and booked a room for one night. There was no hurry. She regarded this job as a bit of a holiday, a chance to gossip about old times with Val. Bullard would be no problem.

  As she dropped off to sleep, with Sherry on the bed at her feet, Miss Eaton wondered idly what was happening at Porthcove.

  * * * *

  George Bullard chuckled to himself as he wiped his brushes. He was alone in the grounds of Porthcove Studios. His easel was set up in the shade, and trees screened him from any casual eye.

  He was reasonably pleased with the result he had captured in oils: the bloom of dark red roses against the pale yellow of sunlit grass.

  Pleased, too, with the way he had stirred things up during the last few days. It always amazed him how easy it was to upset people.

  He looked towards the house. Parry and the rest of the holiday painters were down at the harbour. Courtney had gone too. Fish again for dinner he thought; I’ll have a moan about that. Val was shopping in Penzance.

  The only sound was a drone of bees over the flowerbeds on a sleepy afternoon. There was no traffic about. The part-time gardener was in the greenhouse at the rear of the studio. The cook, he’d learnt, invariably took an afternoon nap.

  “A chance to take a quick look around,” he thought, and walked around the pond towards the front porch. He whistled an old-fashioned tune under his breath.

  “Never know what I might find....”

  * * * *

  Hilda Keller sat beneath a sunshade at a table outside the tearooms between the inn and the studio. The afternoon was hot and she ate strawberries with cream as she studied the view through binoculars.

  They were, of course, essential for bird watching—and useful for keeping an eye on Wilfred. Where, she wondered, was her husband at this moment?

  The tearoom, halfway up the hill, was an ideal spot for observing the coastline. There was a clear view of the harbour and pink-and-blue cottages below.

  She could see some of the painters at work and watched their tutor move briskly from one to another. The blonde girl was alone near the rocks that jutted out from the headland. Sammy had set up his easel on the quay close to the fishing boats. There was no sign of Wilfred.

  She focused on a chough, a crow-like bird with a red bill, as it wheeled above the cliffs.

  She turned in her chair and looked up at the studio. She could see only the roof of the building, and the upper row of windows. There was somebody at one of the windows. Staff, she imagined. She’d heard that the top floor was private and off-limits to students, so it couldn’t be Wilfred.

  Hilda sighed and put her binoculars away. She got to her feet and began a slow descent to the village.

  She couldn’t hurry; she was too heavily built for that—and no beauty. She knew Wilfred had married her for her money and didn’t care. He was her husband; she loved him and intended to keep him.

  She reached the cottages and moved along the quay, lips pursed and handbag swinging. Sammy was painting a group of boats in the harbour. She didn’t like talking to a Jew, but he might know something.

  “Have you seen my husband?”

  At least Jacobi was polite. “Not since lunch. We split up, you know, and find our own subjects.”

  Hilda walked on, beyond the harbour, to where Keith Parry was demonstrating the use of water colour to Linda.

  “Keep your washes broad. Sketch in the subject lightly—ignore finicky detail.”

  She felt a sense of relief that, at least, Wilfred wasn’t chasing this girl. Sometimes she imagined he had a roving eye.

  “Have you seen Wilfred?”

  Parry glanced up from t
he sketch.

  “Not yet, Mrs. Keller. It takes time to get around to everyone. Do you have any idea of the subject he was going for this afternoon?”

  Hilda shook her head and turned back to where the gypsy-looking woman was drawing a view of some cottages.

  Wilfred wasn’t with her and she hadn’t seen him since lunchtime.

  She couldn’t see that nice Australian, either. Perhaps he and Wilfred were together.

  Hilda kept looking.

  * * * *

  After dinner, they met in the studio. Keith Parry had arranged a large sketchpad on an easel, and held a handful of brushes. He had paints already squeezed onto a palette.

  The group sat on stools in a semi-circle about him.

  “Everyone comfortable? Good. I shan’t spend long over this demonstration, just long enough to give you a few ideas. I hope. I’ve noticed during the last few days that some of you are stuck doing the same kind of thing over and over again. And it really is a good idea to experiment a bit.”

  “For this demo, I’m using acrylic paints. These are quick drying, and useful for outdoor work. So, a few sketches in different styles, which you can try for yourselves later. It can help you get out of the rut, like this....”

  He propped a colour print of Porthcove harbour on a second easel.

  “This is something I did a few years ago. Now, as Cézanne might have seen it.”

  Parry sketched in a few cubes and cylinders in warm and cool tones, tore off the sheet and began again.

  “This time, van Gogh.”

  The harbour reappeared, now constructed of vigorous swirling brushstrokes.

  “Or Paul Klee.”

  Another sheet, an abstract with lines like hieroglyphs.

  “Matisse.”

  The harbour appeared as a design in one plane with pure colours and arabesque lines.

  Parry washed out his brushes.

  “Do you see? It’s the same scene all the time—but looked at in a different way. Tomorrow, I’d like each of you to look at your subject with a fresh eye. Experiment. If you tackle an old theme in a new way, I’m sure you’ll find it exciting. And you’ll go back with some fresh ideas to develop at home.”

  Parry looked at his class. Linda appeared doubtful. Margo was flushed.

  “Nothing to say, George?”

  For once, George Bullard kept quiet. He looked thoughtfully from the different sketches, to Keith Parry, and smiled.

  It was not a nice smile.

  * * * *

  Linda heard Duke’s bike revving up and hurried through the common room to the hall carrying a crash helmet. Val Courtney was locking the door of the art shop, and Linda said:

  “We’re having an evening out. Duke says there’s a roadhouse on the way to Penzance, so we’re going for a drink and dance.”

  “That’s fine,” Val said, smiling. “It’s your holiday—enjoy yourselves.”

  Duke Dickson appeared in the doorway in black leathers.

  “Yeah, I’ve been exploring while Linda was painting. We might be late back, okay?”

  “Of course. We don’t lock the front door—there’s no need to around here. Just don’t make too much noise as you come in. Remember, other people are sleeping. And turn off the lights, please.”

  “You bet,” Duke said, and grinned. “We’ll be like a couple of mice.”

  * * * *

  Bullard watched Duke and Linda leave on the Kawasaki, and Val Courtney go upstairs. Fletcher had gone down to the inn. Parry was still cleaning up in the studio, and Sammy and Margo were in the common room; the door was shut but he could hear their voices.

  He waited in the hall, jingling coins in his pocket.

  When Parry came out of the studio, Bullard stopped him.

  “I’d like to have a chat with you sometime. In private.”

  “Yes, all right.” The tutor forced a smile. “Any time. That’s what I’m here for—to help with any problems you have.”

  George Bullard smiled.

  “Oh, it’s not my problem,” he said lightly. “Shall we say, in an hour’s time? It’s a pleasant evening. We might even take a gentle stroll while we chat....”

  * * * *

  Miss Eaton drove towards Porthcove.

  After leaving Exeter, she took the A30 to Penzance, and then a local road that resembled a switchback. It dropped into a series of small bays and then climbed steeply up again. The road was narrow and bordered by greystone walls.

  The morning sky remained clear and bright with sunlight and there was little traffic, except for a tractor that delayed her until it turned into a field.

  A farmer’s dog ran alongside the Fiat, barking furiously until Sherry sat up and spat at it. This really was a delightful piece of rural England, Miss Eaton thought with approval.

  Presently she came to a sign that read: Porthcove Studios. She slowed to turn into the driveway, and was forced to use her brakes.

  There was a chain across the entrance and a uniformed constable standing beside it.

  “Sorry, miss,” the constable said, “but you can’t come in here.”

  Miss Eaton put on her Sam Pike voice. “Is that so? Waal, let me tell you I’m expected by Mrs. Courtney.”

  “The Inspector’s orders, miss. No one in, no one out.”

  “Inspector? Say, what’s going on here?”

  “This,” the constable said officiously, “is the murder scene. An artist named Bullard has got himself killed.”

  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.”