Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 1 13 страница

recent fit of temper in Peterville was motivated by her anger that the Jackal had killed

her lover.”

“That’s sound enough,” he had to admit. “You know, I wish Susi had told me

she was the, uh, Jackal’s daughter. If she is, of course. It would have cut quite a few

corners. Whatever, I’ll call Dobbin and alert her.”

“However, if Two applies, Susi and the Jackal are unrelated by blood. They

were in partnership, and Susi was the honey trap. She seduced Slade because he’d

made a killing in the stock market and intended to leave the country to avoid Capital

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 11

Gains Tax. The loot is in the form of bearer bonds or possibly cash, in the brassbound

box. They blew up the boat to dispose of Slade. The quarrel in Victoria is because

each believes the other has the missing box.”

“Ye-es,” he said, a little more doubtful. He couldn’t see Susi as a co-murderer.

“I shall have to interview this Jackal. What’s his name?”

“He didn’t tell us, and it didn’t seem appropriate to ask, given the circumstances.

But we found his lair.”

“How on earth did you do that?”

“We shadowed him.”

“Good grief, Bill! He may be dangerous! I mean, your Gran could be right, for

once in her life. He’s killed once; he could kill again.” Oh, God, he was beginning to

sound like one of Bill’s fictional characters. There was something persuasive about this

insanity.

“Gran’s an excellent shadower. Her Indian bearers called her ‘She who is not

there.’”

“You’re sure it wasn’t ‘She who is not all there?’” he asked tiredly. “Anyway,

where exactly is his, uh… where did you follow him to?”

“The Cornubia Guest House on St. Agnes Hill,” Bill said proudly. “See, we’ve

done it all for you.”

THURSDAY MORNING: AT HIGGINS QUALITY YACHTS

Constable Marsh Dobbin was onto a loser. She’d visited three marinas already without

success, and was paying the penalty of poor preparation. What an idiot she’d been!

All she’d had to do, was to ask Susi exactly which marina she and Slade had been

moored at.

Simple enough. But she’d chickened out because of that intangible animosity

she felt in Susi’s presence. Because, frankly, she hated the little bitch’s guts. A girl

doesn’t need a reason for something so fundamental and instinctive. And she’d forgotten

Greater Victoria was a yachting Mecca with countless marinas.... She’d give it a try

for another hour or so, and if she still got nowhere she’d phone Eric.

The next marina she tried appeared to have no staff. The small office was

empty and the docks, although well-furnished with boats, were devoid of mankind.

Perhaps it was coffee time. She’d have to call back later.

She’d hardly got inside the door of the adjacent marina when she realized she

was wasting her time here, too. Big flashy powerboats were all around; lined up beside

the road, propped up in a glitzy showroom, sitting at the docks. Little triangular flags

hung from ropes slung between every vertical structure. Dapper sales staff struck seamanlike

attitudes. This, so the sign said, was SOUTH ISLAND MARINA.

She showed her identification to the owner, one Dexter Cavalier, suave and

immaculate.

“Lionel Slade? An older ketch, you say? Doesn’t sound quite like us, Constable.

Liveaboard? Absolutely not. We don’t allow liveaboards here. Too much trouFoul

Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 11

ble with the sewage, don’t you know?” He wrinkled his nose to indicate what he

thought of sewage and its ramifications.

“Any idea where I might try?”

Cavalier shrugged. “I don’t have a lot to do with the kind of places you’d be

looking at.”

Dobbin couldn’t wait to get out of there. The guy was a snob. He clearly despised

her, having accurately assessed her worth and found it low in carats, in contrast

to his usual visitors. “Thanks for your help,” she mumbled.

And yet there was something about the man. She could have sworn the name

Lionel Slade was not unfamiliar to him. Of course, it could be simply that he’d read

about the explosion in the paper.

Or could it be — as Eric’s delightful young son was fond of saying — something

infinitely more sinister?

Chuckling to herself at the thought of the bookish and imaginative Bill, her mood

improved as she continued the quest. It was a lovely Spring day and Eric had entrusted

her with a mission, and she was going to do her utmost to contribute to the inquiry.

And here was just the kind of marina she was looking for. A seedy, run-down

place with sagging floats lined with listing old derelicts looking as though the next high

tide would cover them over. The office at the top of the ramp was little better than a

hut, quite similar in appearance to the temporary structures the liveaboards had erected

on the decks of their boats in a forlorn attempt to keep the rain and the rats out. A

peeling board indicated that she’d arrived at HIGGINS QUALITY YACHTS. She

hauled the teetering door open. A small window beside the door was the only light

source.

A gnome-like creature peered at her from the darkness within. He sat behind a

high counter so that only his head could be seen. He was eating a banana. He raised

his eyebrows in surprise and interrogation as she entered.

“Wha ya wa?”

He was not the type who would respond to the standard police approach. A

verbal disguise was required. “Actually I’m looking for a friend of mine. Lionel Slade. I

believe he moored his boat here a few months back.” After which Dobbin stepped

back into the fresh air around the doorway. The air in the hut was not conducive to

sustained life.

He swallowed. “Lionel, what you say?” He was regarding her with a manic

interest, as though conflicting thoughts were warring within his narrow skull.

“Slade. A ketch, Ocean Dream. Something around forty foot.”

“Yeah, Ocean Dream. He’s gone somewhere up-Island. He owes you

money?”

“Uh, no.”

“Bastard owes me money.” His face twisted in grief. “Two months moorage he

owes me, the mother. And you’re a friend of his?”

“Well, no, I’m not really a friend of his. Actually, I don’t like him very much.

He can be a bit weird, sometimes. Never quite trusted him.”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 11

The gnome was nodding vigorously in agreement. “All kinds of people been

asking for him. You know what I think? He’s done a runner. He’s probably in Tahiti

by now.”

“Very likely. So who else has been asking for him?”

“Quite respectable women you’d think would know better. And men.”

“Respectable men?”

He glanced at her suspiciously, wondering if she was pulling his leg. “All kinds.”

Questioning people never came easily to Dobbin. She had a horror of appearing

rude. She might have blamed St. Mary’s lessons in etiquette, except that Eric

seemed to have the same problem. She was beginning to wish she’d revealed her true

identity at the outset. “What kinds of things did they ask about him?”

“Mostly where he’d gone. He used to have an office here in town, see? But he

closed it down. I guess he wouldn’t leave a forwarding address, not if there was something

iffy about his trade, but people find out, eh? So they come here bothering me.

Like you have.”

“What was his business, by the way?”

“Dunno. Nothing to do with me.”

“Do you have the old address?”

“No good to you now. It’s all closed down.” Relenting, he struggled to his feet

and pulled a grubby card from a box. “1832 Filbert Street, Victoria. There you go.

And see this?” He laid the card on the counter. “There’s the moorage he owes me.

Two months, for Chrissake. I can’t afford to lose two month’s moorage, not with business

the way it is.”

She jotted down the address in her notebook.

He watched her and the notebook cunningly. “Reporter, are you?”

“Marsha Dobbin, Island Review. But I assure you I did, uh, do know him.”

Oh, God, she was getting in deep.

“Walter Higgins.” He extended a paw across the counter, suddenly animated.

“Shit, you’re a fine figure of a woman.” His eyes were alight with senile lust. He

gripped her hand firmly.

Dobbin swallowed her astonishment. She must have been twice his size. She

pried her hand free and essayed a winning smile. If he was willing to talk on this basis,

then so be it. And a compliment was a compliment; there was no reason why this

dwarfish little fellow should be a worse judge of womankind than any other man.

“Thank you,” she said, warming to the little runt. He couldn’t be all bad. Good grief,

Eric had never offered her any such compliment. In this new atmosphere of mutual esteem,

she decided to allow him a modicum of enlightenment. “Lionel Slade died, you

know.”

He took it hard. “Shit. Bang go my moorage fees.”

“It was in the papers. His boat exploded. A bit of a mystery, as a matter of

fact; it’s being treated as a possible homicide. So I’m doing a follow-up story on the

motive behind it.”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 11

“Then you’d best come in and sit down.” As her eyes became accustomed to

the dim light she observed two old wooden chairs behind the counter, each topped with

a stained cushion. She lowered herself cautiously into the nearest. Higgins shuffled past

and took the other. She noticed a crude table with two well-used mugs, a battered

electric kettle, an open jar of instant coffee, and a can of evaporated milk with two

holes punctured in the top, each ringed with a furry green crust.

Before he could offer her a mug of coffee she said, “It would be very useful if

you could tell me about his visitors. About how many were there?”

“They was always coming.”

“Any in particular? Persistent ones?”

He thought about it, brow creased. “Yeah. There was an old lady, oh, seventy

years old or more. She came two or three times, asking if he’d come back. When he

left here, it was after office hours, see? And when I found him gone, I reckoned at first

it was just sea trials. Never told me he was pissing off for good. Otherwise I’d have

got the moorage fees off him, eh? The last time the old girl came round, she started crying.

Terrible, it was. I brought her in and gave her a mug of coffee. She didn’t even

drink it. She just sat there right where you are, crying and muttering.”

“What did she mutter?”

“Didn’t make no sense. Just things people mutter to themselves, like ‘What am

I going to do now?’ and ‘I’ve been such a fool,’ and so on. I began to wonder if Slade

was a bit of a goddamned shyster. This was before we got word he’d been seen offshore

heading north, eh? Then I knew he was a goddamned shyster.”

“Did the old lady leave a name?”

“Nah. I asked her, mind. Always willing to oblige a lady. But off she went

each time, almost like she was ashamed. I wondered if Slade was one of those shits

who, like, make up to old ladies and squire them round and get money off them, a….

What’s the word?”

“Gigolo?”

“That’s it, a gigolo. Because the women were mostly older than him, see? And

then there was that nasty little rat-faced guy. Persistent, uppity little shit. Nothing

ashamed about him.”

This began to sound familiar. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“Just: Where was Slade? And I tell you something. I noticed him hanging

around a couple times even before Slade left. He never spoke to him; never went onto

the dock like the others did. Just looked across from the shore and then pissed off

down the road.”

“His name wasn’t Wilf Ferris, by any chance?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Wilf Ferris. I wondered if he was a reporter as well.”

“Have you seen him since?”

“Nah.”

“Any others?”

“Well, there was the black chick, of course. Caw!” he uttered a croak of lechery.

“Lovely bit of stuff. But that was before he left. And the guy who was always arFoul

Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 11

guing with her, he came before. Big fellow. Had a hell of a row with Slade too, one

day.”

“What about?”

“Dunno. I thought they were coming to blows, but the black chick stepped in

and the other fellow pissed off. Shouting over his shoulder.”

“Threats?”

“Yeah. But that’s the way it is around here. Mostly liveaboards here, eh?

Cramped together in a boat, it’s human nature they fight, eh? Mark my words, Miss,

there’ll be murder done one day.”

THURSDAY MORNING: THE CORNUBIA GUEST HOUSE

Devoran reported in to Inspector Lockhart at Peterville, who was reading a pamphlet

on retirement annuities and seemed quite satisfied with his progress on the case, which

was more than Devoran was himself. Then he went in search of the Cornubia Guest

House and the Jackal, who might be Susi’s father, or then again might not. As he

climbed St. Agnes Hill he found himself planning his approach, as though a plan were

needed, and thus his thoughts drifted onto the subject of his mother-in-law. She would

have had a plan, no doubt. She would most likely have taken a room under a false

name and wormed her way into the Jackal’s confidence; but that was hardly acceptable

police procedure.

He paused beside a lamppost tried to clear his head of these flights of fantasy.

He was a police officer, for God’s sake, on his way to question a suspect. Not the

Jackal or any other member of the canine species, but plain Mr. Sutcliffe, father of Susi

Sutcliffe. All he had to do was ring the doorbell.

But when he arrived at a sign hung from a gibbet reading CORNUBIA GUEST

HOUSE, Mrs. Beryl Partington, VACANCIES, he hesitated again. It was a very old

building, probably heritage. Visions of a formidable landlady dressed in black, dark hair

scraped back into a greasy bun, rose before him. He’d met one such, as a kid on holiday

up-Island with his parents. Mrs. Pinchbeck. She’d traumatized him for life.

Stifling his misgivings, he rang the bell.

After a moment a shadow became visible through the opaque glass panels in the

door. The door opened revealing a plump woman wearing an apron.

“Mrs. Pinch— I mean, Mrs. Partington?”

“That’s right, dear.”

“You have a Mr. Sutcliffe staying here?”

“I’m afraid I never divulge information about our guests. I run a very respectable

establishment and I value my guests’ privacy.”

“I’m the police. Staff Sergeant Devoran.”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 11

“Oh. That’s all right, then. Come in, dear. You’re in luck. I was just going to

have a cup of tea.”

“Really, Mrs. Partington, you should ask for identification. I could be anyone.”

Bright eyes regarded him appraisingly. “I know a good man when I see one.

One has to be a fair judge of character, running a B&B, don’t you think?”

Feeling complimented, he trailed after her into a hallway paved with red tiles.

There was a wealth of brown paint on the woodwork, some of it stippled to represent

wood grain. An earthenware pot with a huge and leafy plant in it stood near the door.

It was all terribly reminiscent of that long-ago family holiday. They made their way

through a dining room where two men sat at separate tables, finishing their breakfast.

One of them looked like a typical commercial traveler, wearing a blue suit shiny at the

elbows, burnishing his already clean plate with a crust of bread. He looked up and

nodded briskly as they passed.

The other, in a gray open-necked shirt, head down and slashing at a fried egg,

was the Jackal. He didn’t look up. They went through to the kitchen.

Devoran shut the door behind him and said quietly, “Well, that’s one question

answered, anyway.”

“What question was that, dear?” She turned from taking cups from a cupboard

and regarded him in slight puzzlement. She was as far removed from Mrs. Pinchbeck

as he could imagine; a woman of medium height, about his own age, slightly plump with

a fine pair of breasts shoving mightily at the front of a pink flowered dress. Her eyes

were big and round and blue and her cheeks were rosy. She spoke with a pronounced

English accent. He felt sexually threatened and began to wish he’d brought Dobbin.

“Oh, I see,” she said. Her gaze had passed on to a shelf beside him, on which stood a

number of family photographs; a couple of young girls in school uniforms; one of the

girls now older and dressed as a nurse; a wedding group featuring a younger and very

attractive Mrs. Partington beside a tall, fair young man; and another of an older man,

head and shoulders.

“Yes, I’m a widow,” she said in a confirmatory tone. Devoran wondered why

she thought he’d guessed that from the photographs. Or why it would even interest him.

Was he giving out some kind of pheromonic signal? No, she’d had a black matte put

around the picture of the older man. What an odd thing to do! Did one grieve forever?

She answered his unasked question brightly. “He was taken from me four years ago.

Botulism; you can never really trust home-canned salmon, can you? Still, mustn’t bitch

and complain. Life goes on, that’s what I always say.”

He watched suspiciously as she filled a floral teapot with boiling water. It all

looked clean enough in here, but you never could tell. “Actually, that wasn’t what I

meant,” he said quietly. “I was referring to Mr. Sutcliffe.”

“What Mr. Sutcliffe would that be, dear?”

“Well, the one in the dining room, of course. Before I talk to him, maybe you

could tell me a bit about him.”

“You’ve got it wrong, dear. There’s no Mr. Sutcliffe staying here.”

“But I just saw him.”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 11

“No, that was Mr. Whitelegg. Or Mr. Sturgess.”

So the Jackal was traveling under a false name! Interesting. “The one in the

gray shirt.”

“Mr. Sturgess. A nice gentleman. From Vancouver.”

Sturgess, Sutcliffe. When people choose aliases they always use their real initials,

so Bill had told him. “How long has he been here?”

“Oh, he comes and he goes. Usually he comes at weekends. His daughter

stays now and then, too. Beautiful girl. He arrives Fridays and goes home Sunday afternoons.

But he’s been here all this week so far; that’s unusual. He leaves today;

that’s unusual too.”

“When did he first start coming?”

“Oh, perhaps a couple of months ago, maybe more. I could look it up in the

book, if you like.”

“Later. I’d like a word with him first.”

“Take him into the residents’ lounge, dear. It’s nice and quiet in there. I’ll bring

you a pot of tea and some nice salmon sandwiches.” Suddenly her eyes widened even

more than normal, as the significance dawned. “Has he done something wrong? Why

did you call him Mr. Sutcliffe? Is he traveling under an alias? What’s he done?”

Devoran reassured her quickly. In a moment she’d be bemoaning this blot on

her nice respectable establishment. “Nothing, Mrs. Partington. He may have been a

witness to an accident at Noss Cove, that’s all. You mentioned his daughter. Did she

stay here last Saturday night, by any chance?”

But she was now possessed by an unhealthy excitement, breasts expanding and

contracting rapidly. “Noss Cove? Where that poor man was blown to bits? Terrible

thing!” She grasped his arm as if for support. Hastily he opened the door to the dining

room.

It was empty. The Jackal had flown. “Which is his room?”

“Number Four. But he might have gone altogether. I mean gone home. I did

tell you he was leaving today, didn’t I? He’d brought his bags down and paid up before

breakfast. People often do that, you see, to save time.”

He sprinted up the stairs, verified that Number Four was empty, sprinted down

again and out into the street. His quarry was nowhere in sight. He ran back into the

house. “Where do your guests park their cars?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have a car park of our own, dear.”

“Yes, OK, so where would the Jackal have parked?”

“The Jackal?”

“I mean Mr. Sutcliffe… uh, Mr. Sturgess.”

Mrs. Partington was hugging herself with delight. “He’s otherwise known as the

Jackal? How exciting! To think I’ve had the Jackal under my roof. Oh, I wish Deirdre

was here.”

“Where does he park his car?”

“Down the road and first left, I expect, dear, toward the old railway line.”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 12

He sprinted off down the hill, very conscious of the curious glances of

passersby. Running in the street was all a matter of dress. If he’d been wearing jogging

gear, nobody would have given him a second glance. But in plain clothes, it wouldn’t

have surprised him if some public-spirited citizen brought him down with a heavy rugby

tackle. He tried a few experimental feints and swerves. They resulted in a spate of

near-collisions and shouts of ‘Look where you’re going, can’t you!’ Mortified, he

rounded the corner at the foot of the hill and slowed to a walk.

A small blue car was heading toward him.

He stopped, peering, trying to identify the driver through the glinting windscreen.

As the car passed he saw it was indeed the Jackal at the wheel.

He froze. The car slowed at the junction with St. Agnes Hill. Now was his

chance. A few quick steps and he could be battering at the roof with his fists, calling on

the Jackal to stop and get out, and place his hands on the hood and his feet apart. The

Jackal, white-faced and trembling, would emerge and comply. Devoran would then run

his hands expertly over his body, extracting the wicked-looking little automatic from his

inside pocket.

“I take it you have a license for this weapon, sir?” he would say.

But the car moved forward, turned left onto St. Agnes Hill, and accelerated

away. Well, to hell with it. He’d talk to Susi instead, if he could find her in town.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON: A FAMILIAR FACE IN VICTORIA

Marsha Dobbin ate a pub lunch in Victoria and considered the situation. She could

visualize the disappointment on Eric’s face when she presented her report based on the

morning’s activities. What had she achieved, exactly? Not much. She’d identified one

man interested in Slade: Wilf Ferris. And it was possible that the man who had quarreled

with Slade was the man they’d seen at Duffy’s Marina; the one Eric had called her

about, who might be Susi’s father.

What else? An unknown quantity of women had visited HIGGINS QUALITY

YACHTS; in the end she’d beaten Higgins down to a mere seven, but it might have

been less. Of Slade himself she’d learned nothing.

She sipped her drink; a glass of Labatt’s. She was trying to acquire a taste for

beer. Eric usually drank the stuff and seemed to like it, so it couldn’t be all bad. She

gazed idly around the pub, trying to feel the relaxed contentment that Eric always

seemed to feel in such places. But she couldn’t. The place was a dump and the customers

looked threatening. The beer tasted like nitric acid, the shepherd’s pie had been

overcooked to the extent that the meat resembled Higgins’s clumped coffee crystals,

and instead of the traditional jolly smiling bartender there was a girl who seemed to

spend most of her time on the telephone….

Which gave her an idea.

“Can I borrow your phone book for a moment?”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 12

Without pausing in her conversation with someone called Norm, the girl slapped

the phone book onto the bar counter. Dobbin flicked through the pages. Slade had

closed his office three or four months ago. He would still be listed.

And sure enough, there he was. Lionel Slade, financial adviser, 1832 Filbert St.

Financial Adviser…. Well, that was one mystery solved. Or was it? Financial

Adviser covered a lot of murky alleys.

She looked up Wilf Ferris, but there was no entry under that name. Ferris was

a puzzle. What had he been doing here? One thing was certain. The horrible little man

had been lying through his teeth at Duffy’s. He’d had no intention of buying a boat. He

was there on — and again Bill’s vocabulary popped into her mind — nefarious business,

which had to do with Slade. Another talk with Ferris was indicated, and this time

she’d cover herself against any allegations of brutality. Maybe carry a hidden tape recorder.

Or maybe she had enough evidence to bring him in officially. After all, he had

lied to her.

Feeling much happier she returned to her table. Her used plate and cutlery

were still there, greasy and unappetizing. Well, she wouldn’t have to look at them for

long. She took another sip of beer, gagged slightly and abandoned it, then stood and

gathered up her coat. As she surveyed her exit route, she noticed a man on the other

side of the room, also standing and about to leave. He looked familiar. Where had she

seen him before?

She allowed the door to shut behind him, then followed, fighting back heartburn.

He’d turned right, and was striding easily down the street toward the waterfront. He

was dressed in a well-cut suit and carried a briefcase, and yet…. The context was all

wrong. The last time she’d seen him he’d been….

Wearing casual boating gear. T-shirt and jeans.

Good grief, it was Charlie Hood from Duffy’s Marina!

After a moment he turned into South Island Marina, the posh lair of Dexter

Cavalier. Without hesitation he opened the showroom door and entered. Through the

glass she saw Cavalier greet him with a handshake and a clap on the shoulder. Chuckling

and pawing at each other, they turned and disappeared into Cavalier’s office.

She moved on. Perhaps she had something interesting to report to Devoran.

Perhaps the trip hadn’t been wasted after all.

FRIDAY MORNING: A MEETING NEAR KINGCOMBE POINT

The following morning Devoran arose to an aroma of bacon and eggs. Suddenly he felt

good. This sometimes happened, and he’d often tried to analyze why. Was it because

he’d slept well, or was it because he’d eaten the right foods yesterday, or was it because

he was pure in mind? Or was he a manic depressive, as his boss had once suggested?

He showered quickly and sketchily, pulled on some clothes and hurried downstairs.

Bill stood at the stove, jiggling a frying pan. “Top of the morning, Dad!”

“We only have bacon and eggs at weekends.”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 12

“Which shows the kind of rut a fellow can get into. But that’s OK, I’ll eat it all

myself. You can have Honey-coated Sugar Puffs.”

He was being somewhat ungracious. “No, it’s fine. Thanks very much. Uh, is

there some specific reason for this feast?”

Bill regarded him with an infuriatingly sympathetic look. “I thought you might

need cheering up. Finding out Susi’s the Jackal’s daughter, maybe. It’s a bit of a

shock, eh? I mean, a jerk like that. How did he handle himself at the interrogation?”

“I missed him,” he muttered. “He’d left by the time I got there.”

“So where’s Susi?”

“Good grief, Bill, how should I know? I’m not her keeper. She’s a grown

woman. She can look after herself, can’t she?”

“She’ll need money for food and digs. Of course, she probably wheedled some

money out of the Jackal, if he’s her father. And if he isn’t, she’ll find other ways, a

good-looking chick like that….” His voice trailed away suggestively. He scooped the

bacon and eggs onto plates and put them on the table. “You must look on the bright

side. All is not lost. She could come knocking at the door any moment.”

But she didn’t. In due course Bill left, supposedly for school. Devoran needed

a walk to get his thoughts in order. Bill was right. It had been a shock to find a prime

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