suspect could be Susi’s father. He shrugged into his overcoat and set off in the direction
of Kingcombe Point. It was a sunny morning with a suggestion of a nip in the air.
He called in at Miss Drost’s and was told that Susi hadn’t stayed there last night. Fifteen
minutes later he was creeping past his diabolical mother-in-law’s cottage, using
available ground cover, expecting at any moment to hear a stentorian shout of
‘Devoran!’ But all was silent. Perhaps she was already out and about, playing havoc
with the locals’ nerves.
Cheered, he stepped out along the footpath and reentered the forest that extended
almost to Kingcombe Point. The sun produced a pleasant dappled effect on the
undergrowth and he took a few deep breaths. This was doing him good. He should do
it more often. A brisk walk cleared the mind while, with luck, his subconscious was
busy solving the killing of Lionel Slade.
He could not in all honesty say the investigation was making progress. But he
had high hopes of Mother-in-law’s list, and tomorrow he’d start the team working
through the names that didn’t appear on the official list. And there was Dobbin, beavering
away in Victoria. Somehow, Victoria seemed to be the key. Ferris came from
there. Slade and Susi had been moored there.
Susi…. Where was she?
Reluctantly, he faced up to the fact that he must question Susi further. There
were aspects of her behavior that didn’t quite add up. Why hadn’t she told him the
Jackal was her father? Certainly the Jackal had ample motive, if he was the murdering
type. But possibly Susi herself had a motive, painful though the thought was.
Just suppose she was concealing the fact that she’d had a big bust-up with
Slade, and he’d kicked her off the boat? Surely not; she wouldn’t have shown up with
all that shopping if that had happened. Meanwhile the brassbound box had been sitting
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 12
in the fo’c’sle, full of loot of some kind. He only had Susi’s word that it contained discs
and passports and a modest amount of money. It could be stuffed full of ill-gotten hundred-
dollar bills. Susi might have been overcome with temptation and concealed the
box elsewhere, turning on the propane in the hope that Slade would blow himself up
somehow or other, and going shopping as a blind.
Had her innocent appearance at the marina after the big bang been genuine?
Certainly she’d been anxious over the box. In fact the only reason they knew of the
box at all, was because Susi had mentioned it. And her claims of poverty had rung true,
too. No. Susi must be in the clear.
But that didn’t mean the Jackal was.
There was nothing else for it. Someone would have to go to Vancouver and
question him.
Consigning the whole matter to his subconscious again, he reached the point
where the footpath joined the trail to the abandoned lighthouse. He lengthened his
stride. The sun was warm but the onshore breeze was cool; perfect weather for walking.
Emerging from the woods, he paused to scan the widening inlet and the sand bar
that lay submerged across its entrance. At the present low tide the bar was marked by
a line of breaking waves; the channel ran below where he stood, close to the shore and
marked by buoys. That sand bar fascinated him, calling to mind images of tall ships
missing the channel at night, running onto the bar and breaking their backs in the pounding
seas of an onshore gale.
“Hello, Eric,” said a tentative voice.
He jumped, startled. He’d been miles away, years away. Susi stood beside
him.
“Where have you been?” he jerked out. He felt himself flush. That was the
kind of question he might ask Bill, coming in late at night. It was none of his business
where she’d been.
But she took it well. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Sorry about what?”
“I was… in Victoria last night. I should have told Miss Drost but I was
ashamed to come anywhere near here. I’d been so ungrateful.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said awkwardly. “I just wondered…. There were a
couple of outstanding matters…. That big guy in the bomber jacket. He’s your dad,
isn’t he?”
She hesitated. “Well, yes.”
“It would have saved us a lot of trouble if you’d told me.”
Her face clouded over. “I don’t get on very well with Dad.”
“He didn’t like the idea of you going off with Slade?”
“No. But really, it was no business of his. I’m not a child.”
He said gently, “I expect he’s fond of you. By the way, he didn’t seem to have
left a full address at that guest house where he was staying. Can you let me have it?”
Alarm showed in the blue eyes. “What for?”
“He might have seen something. He might be able to help us.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 12
“I see.” There was a long silence. A lone yacht sailed in from the ocean,
brightly-colored spinnaker ballooning, aiming for the channel beside the bar. She said,
“That might have been me and the Ocean Dream. We were about ready for the final
sea trials.”
“You could have been making a big mistake.”
“I would have been. I’m beginning to realize that now. But it doesn’t help the
dream.”
“There’ll be other sailors. Other boats.”
“Not so many as you’d think.”
“So what are you going to do now? Have you come to any decisions?”
She smiled; a rueful smile, but it was something. “First I have to get a job. Dad
wanted me to go back to Vancouver with him, but piss on that for a game. No; I’ve
been putting out a few feelers in Victoria. I’ll get something soon.”
“And meanwhile?”
The full wattage of the blue eyes turned on him. “I’ll come back to Miss
Drost’s.”
FRIDAY AFTERNOON: ON SURVEILLANCE
Bill, his Gran, and the dog Colonel positioned themselves in a niche in the high rock wall
near the muddy head of the inlet, a few yards from the steps to the Globe gentlemen’s
washroom. It was an odiferous spot; the washroom was old, hence the somewhat oldfashioned
terminology of the blue-tiled sign above the entrance. It was detached from
the hotel and much used by the general public, boaters and the like. Responsibility for
cleaning the place had long been a bone of contention between the Globe and the
Council. A friend had told Bill he’d seen Marsha Dobbin and a guy fighting there the
other day. If it was true, Bill pitied the guy.
But now, boredom was setting in. “How much longer, Gran?”
“As long as it takes, young Wilberforce. Any policeman will inform you that
ninety-five percent of surveillance work consists of patience, waiting, and watching. My
father used to speak of spending the night up a tree in Bengal, with no company other
than a goat tethered below as bait. He spoke of the dawn, when the crowns of the
trees turned crimson and the song of the birds arose around him. Then suddenly, all
was quiet. Except for the bleating and the slobbering, and the crunching of bones. The
reward. I envy him the experience.”
“What about the other five?”
“Eh?”
“You said surveillance was ninety-five percent patience and so on. What about
the other five?”
“Actually,” she said after a moment’s thought, “I forget what the other five percent
is. It’s hardly material. When you get to my age, Wilberforce, you’ll learn the
knack of discarding useless trivia. It’s just excess baggage in the journey of life.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 12
“I thought perhaps the five percent was finding another place to surveil from
because the tide’s coming in.”
The old lady consulted her watch. “Five to seven. We have a few minutes yet.
Mark my words, the woman Vinge has a reason for suggesting I attend her meeting at
eight o’clock. It’s to allow her time to brief the members of the James Spooner Appreciation
Society. Well, she shall not be permitted that briefing!”
Colonel, who had been following their gaze, barked suddenly.
An undersized man emerged from behind the row of cottages at the end of the
inlet. He glanced furtively from left to right, crept down the flight of stone steps to
beach level, then disappeared up a narrow alley like a rat up a drainpipe.
“As I thought. He has been spying out the land. I wonder what he’s discovered.
How long have we been here, Wilberforce?”
“Half an hour, I’d say. Maybe less. Time seems to have been passing very
slowly this evening, Gran.” Bill stamped his feet. The wet ground had chilled them
through.
“The fox is going to ground.” The small man reappeared nearby, crossing the
head of the inlet and turning onto Waterside Road toward the Globe Inn.
“We’re going to call him the Fox?”
“If you like. I see no reason why not.”
“But we don’t need to. His name’s Wilf Ferris. He’s supposed to be buying a
boat.”
“Never underestimate the value of security, young Wilberforce. Walls have
ears, and the Fox will bear watching. If he’s buying a boat, why was he lurking near the
Vinge woman’s apartment?”
“You know, Gran, he may not have been lurking. He could have been just
passing by. We can’t see the front door from here.”
“Be that as it may, we must investigate him thoroughly. Aha! Here we are!
And the time is seven-oh-two. Mark my words, Wilberforce, this is the Victoria contingent
arriving!”
A car drew to a halt at the head of the inlet. Three women emerged and, chattering
busily, made their way toward the steps below Mrs. Vinge’s apartment.
“Right,” snapped Gran, all action. “There’s no time to lose. You will take
Colonel and await me on the wharf at the Globe. You will find it an excellent spot for
observing the Vinge apartment. I will join you back there. If my suspicions are correct
they will find a reason for getting rid of me, so I shall not be long. Here,” she pressed a
five-dollar bill into his hand. “Buy yourself a Coca-cola.”
So saying, she splashed energetically across the mud.
FRIDAY AFTERNOON: THE SPOONER SOCIETY AT BAY
May Vinge had made up the Hideaway bed in her living room, which was the best she
could do for overnight guests. Brenda would have to stay at the Globe as usual. Actually,
thought May with some distaste, Brenda seemed to prefer it. She was younger
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 12
than the rest of them, and cast in a different mold. May had long suspected that she
was a regular in the bar of the Globe on Society weekends and did not always sleep
alone. She didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the little group, only partly because she
never forgot what was trumps. Anthea Lee and Janine Richards could share the Hideaway
bed.
She’d made the ham sandwiches and laid out the trolley with the coffee maker.
The ladies liked their coffee, although later in the evening they generally switched to
drinks involving gin.
May had also prepared her briefing on the subject of the unspeakable Adelaide
Rooke-Challenger. On no account must she be allowed to join the little group. For
one thing, she’d take over, and May did not like being taken over. And for another, it
was just possible that she knew more than anyone else about James Spooner, and that
could prove embarrassing.
They’d handled similar situations before, in the early days when they had described
themselves as a bridge group, and had been plagued by people wanting to join.
And so the James Spooner Appreciation Society came into existence, on the grounds
that nobody, surely, appreciated James Spooner. It had been May’s idea, and she was
quite proud of the air of exclusiveness it lent her little group.
She had prepared the props. On the card table sat a little blue pouch that had
once contained a bottle of Crown Royal Rye Whisky. Also provided were four further
scrota each containing one black ball and one white; actually adapted moth balls. They
ponged a bit, but a good coat of paint had taken the edge off that.
All that remained was to ensure that just one of the group was nominated to do
the blackballing. It was too insulting to show four black balls and let the applicant think
that nobody liked her. Much better to send her away happy, secure in the knowledge
that there was only one hostile person in the group and that three people did like her.
And this was particularly important in the case of Mrs. Rooke-Challenger who, May
suspected, could make a powerful enemy.
And here came the ladies. She assembled her face into a welcoming smile and
flung open the door.
“Lovely to see you all!” she cried.
This was not strictly true, as she immediately realized. Because pounding grimly
up the steps behind the others came the squat figure of the appalling Mrs. Rooke-
Challenger. Horrors! How could she brief everyone now?
“I thought we said eight o’clock, Mrs. Rooke-Challenger.”
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger smiled in crocodilian fashion. “Perhaps we did say
eight. I’m afraid that when one reaches my age, one’s memory can play tricks. It’s a
terrible thing, age. Wasn’t it General de Gaulle who said old age is a shipwreck? Quite
so. I was taking a stroll — it’s good for my arthritis — when I happened to see your
friends arriving. So I thought you must have said seven. Not that it matters, since we’re
all here.” She thrust a hand in the direction of the others. “Adelaide Rooke-Challenger
at your service!”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 12
Brenda Moore, Anthea Lee and Janine Richards introduced themselves, with
slightly puzzled glances at May.
“Adelaide is another James Spooner enthusiast,” she said brightly. “She’s applying
for membership of our little group.”
This did nothing to reassure the three. “That’s nice,” Anthea said vaguely.
Seizing the moment when Mrs. Rooke-Challenger turned to peer into the
kitchen, May frowned at them. They frowned back, uncomprehending. Good grief,
couldn’t the fools just play along? And in due course that dreadful old freak would be
out of the way and things could return to normal.
“You command a fine view from here,” said the old freak. Having sized up the
kitchen she had moved to the picture window.
“I can see most of what goes on in the community.”
“Including the Globe, I see. And Duffy’s Marina.”
“It’s quite useful. I can see my boat from here.”
“You must have seen the explosion last Sunday.”
It was comical, the searching glance the old lady gave her, almost as though she
suspected May had been involved. “We were at your son-in-law’s lecture, but we certainly
heard it.”
“You were all at the lecture, then?”
“Yes. Terrible thing, Mr. Slade getting killed like that.”
“Terrible,” Brenda Moore echoed.
“Apparently it was a propane leak,” Anthea Lee said.
“Dangerous stuff, propane,” May said. “I use an alcohol stove on my boat. It
can flare up sometimes, but at least you can douse it with water.”
“You seem to know a lot about propane,” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger said keenly.
“I know enough not to have it on my boat.” May was getting tired of all this.
“Now, shall we have a nice cup coffee?”
A more general conversation ensued, during with Mrs. Rooke-Challenger appeared
to be clumsily checking alibis for the dates when Lionel Slade had experienced
his various brushes with death. May noticed the old lady’s irritation level rise until she
finally snapped, “Let’s talk about James Spooner, shall we? It’s what we’re here for,
isn’t it?”
May had not been looking forward to this moment. Topping up the cups of
coffee, she said lightly, “Well, actually, Adelaide, you’re not strictly a member of the
Society yet. There are formal procedures to be gone through.”
“Well, surely there’s nothing taboo in talking about the damned fellow?”
“We prefer to do things properly.” May was alarmed to see that Mrs. Rooke-
Challenger’s color had risen with the frustration of the past few minutes until now she
was brick-red and tense. “Can I interest you in a ham sandwich?” she asked.
“Argh! Can’t stand pigs. And don’t you have anything stronger than this
damned coffee?”
Looked at another way things were going rather well. By the time this was
over, the horrible old woman would have no desire to join the Society, anyway. Why
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 12
had she come, then? Was it all a charade for the purpose of some silly amateur investigation?
“We don’t usually open the bar until we play cards.”
“Let’s play cards, then!”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Rooke-Challenger, but we can’t play until you’ve been
formally admitted as a member of our Society.”
“Society? You call this a Society? There are only four of you, for God’s
sake!”
Brenda Moore spoke up unexpectedly. “We have forty-three members in Victoria
alone. Many of our larger cities have branches. I believe I’m correct in saying that
Toronto has over a hundred members. I’m the secretary of the Victoria branch, and
believe me May is quite right in abiding by the rules of the Society. You have to be so
careful these days. One false move and you’ve let the riffraff in.”
It would have been awkward if Mrs. Rooke-Challenger had had a stroke there
and then, in the living room. For a moment the issue looked in balance. Quickly May
said, “There’s no harm in a brief discussion of James Spooner. Then Mrs. Rooke-
Challenger will be more able to assess our procedures and learn something of our
methods. Perhaps we should start by discussing that paper you were preparing for the
newsletter, Brenda. What was it? Oh, yes. ‘The influence of Francis Bacon on the
writings of James Spooner.’”
“Of course,” said Brenda. She may not have been out of the top drawer, but
she was quick on the uptake. She took a spring-bound notebook from her handbag
and opened it. “‘Influence of Francis Bacon. Now, it is often thought that Francis Bacon—’”
“Wait a minute, Brenda. We have a chance of hearing a fresh viewpoint here.
Perhaps Adelaide should give us her ideas on the subject before she hears ours. Adelaide?”
The old lady, whose color had been improving, snapped, “I can’t think at this
hour without a gin-and-tonic in my hand. The sun’s over the yardarm, woman!”
May considered the matter. Probably most Societies were targets for crank
applicants who wanted to impose their private agendas, and Mrs. Rooke-Challenger
was a prime example of such a crank. They’d humored her long enough. “Everyone in
favor?” she asked. “We’ll hold the ballot, then we’ll all have a little drinkie.”
The four members seated themselves around the card table. Mrs. Rooke-
Challenger sat on the chesterfield goggling at them toadlike. A hushed silence came
over the gathering. They dipped their hands into their bags and peered inside, fumbling
with the moth balls. They glanced shiftily at one another, and at Mrs. Rooke-
Challenger. They each took a moth ball from a bag, holding it in a clenched fist so that
the color could not be discerned, and transferred it to the empty bag in the center of the
table. May watched the other’s faces, trying to divine their thoughts. They sat back
looking cleansed, as though they’d confessed and got a load of sins off their minds.
“Please approach the table, Mrs. Rooke-Challenger,” May commanded.
“I’m quite comfortable where I am, thank you very much.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 12
“If you insist.” May tipped up the bag.
Four black moth balls rolled across the table.
It was a moment of the purest embarrassment. Mrs. Rooke-Challenger’s face
turned a bluish tinge and she lurched threateningly to her feet. The members of the
James Spooner Appreciation Society regarded one another in horror. Never before
had a slight of such magnitude been visited on an applicant. Someone had blundered,
surely? In the speechless search for a scapegoat May saw their eyes turning on her. A
hissing sound escaped Mrs. Rooke-Challenger as she came to the boil.
“You swine!” she shouted. “You blackguards! Right, I’ll remember you people.
Don’t think you’ll get away with this! You’re not fit to lick the boots of a woman
like me! Did you really think I was interested in joining your crackpot Society? Oh, my
goodness no. You’re nothing but a pathetic bunch of buffoons droning on about a
third-rate writer nobody’s ever heard of, or wants to hear of. You’re a total waste of
time and space, every man jack of you! Good riddance to you all!” So saying, she
snatched up the moth balls and flung them violently across the room, stamped to the
door and left, slamming it behind her.
By Society standards, what broke out next was bedlam. Voices were raised
and accusations were leveled. May’s friends were quite unreasonable about the whole
fiasco and seemed intent on laying the blame at her door.
In the end she shouted, “It’s all very well for you three. You don’t have to live
in this goddamned place! That old fool has a lot of influence around here!”
“You should have primed us, May,” Brenda said, getting her bit in as May was
overtaken by a paroxysm of coughing. “You could have called us yesterday. I blackballed
the old girl because I was frightened nobody else would!”
“So did I,” Janine said.
“Same here,” Anthea said.
May recovered, eyes streaming. The bottle tinkled against the glass as she
poured herself a restorative gin. “All right. I didn’t call you because I didn’t expect any
problem. I was going to discuss the whole thing when you arrived. Good grief, it
seemed simple enough! We’ve done it before. One of us would be nominated as the
blackballer. But that old fool arrived early. Since we didn’t have the chance to discuss
it, I naturally assumed you would leave the blackballing to me, as chairwoman.”
“I couldn’t take that chance,” Brenda said. “In the absence of clear instructions
from the chair I used my initiative.”
“So did I,” Janine said.
“Same here,” Anthea said.
“OK. OK. Let’s agree that due to unusual circumstances we screwed it up. It
won’t happen again. From now on, if there’s any question of blackballing an applicant,
it’ll be done by me and me alone. OK?”
“No, that’s not fair, May,” Brenda protested. You might be happy with someone,
but I might not be. You’re saying you’re the only one to have a vote.”
“Well, what the hell do you suggest?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 13
“As chairwoman you should always whiteball. We three will vote according to
our consciences.”
May conceded. “All right, whatever you want.” She drained her glass. “For
God’s sake, let’s have a little drinkie and get on with some cards, shall we? I’ll be
goddamned glad to have a hand of cards to look at for a change, I can tell you. That
old gargoyle’s face is imprinted on my retinas.”
It shows how involved they’d become in the whole Society rigmarole that they
were surprised to hear Brenda say:
“It’s hardly likely to happen again, is it?”
FRIDAY AFTERNOON: A REPORT ON THE SPOONER FIASCO
The sound of a slamming door and a shout of ‘Faugh!’ carried clearly across the inlet to
Bill’s observation post at the Globe wharf. At first it seemed to be a classic example of
Gran storming out of somewhere in a temper; he’d heard it before, many times. But she
hadn’t appeared around the corner. Doubtless she was listening to the response to her
departure, ear pressed to the door. Wily old bird. There were no flies on Gran.
After a while he saw her descending the steps, and soon she joined him. “How
did it go, Gran?”
“A preliminary skirmish,” she snarled, “and mark my words, Wilberforce, they
haven’t heard the last of me. The name Vinge will henceforth be mud in Noss Cove. I
have never encountered a more abysmal display of bad manners, and I’ve lived among
some pretty strange people in my life, I can tell you. But that confounded coven over
there takes the biscuit!”
“They saw through your ruse and threw you out?”
“They did not throw me out. I left of my own free will, appalled by the barbarity
around me.”
“By which time you’d unmasked Mrs. Vinge?”
But the old lady had stomped off into the bar. Moments later she returned
clutching a glass of clear fizzy liquid with a slice of lemon floating in it. “Ah, that’s better.
I couldn’t even get a drink out of those cheapskates over there. No, Wilberforce, I
was not able to unmask the Vinge woman, I’m sorry to say. For the dates in question
she has cast-iron alibis.”
“But—”
“Yes, I am aware that there is no clearer indication of guilt than the cast-iron
alibi. But one gets a gut feeling about these things. Those are very ordinary women
playing at secret societies. I’ve seen it all before. The secret handshakes, the rituals,
the passwords. The very dreariness of their existence compels them to invent a fantasy
world in which they can behave like gods. It’s quite pathetic. And one would think
they could pick a more suitable raison d’être than the scribbling of an obscure novelist….
Which reminds me….”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 13
She dug into her handbag and pulled out a spring-bound notebook. “I took the
liberty of borrowing this during the confusion. It belongs to the woman who calls herself
Brenda Moore. I believe we shall find it of some interest.”
She placed the notebook on the table and opened it. Bill peered over her
shoulder. The old lady uttered an exclamation and began to flip rapidly through the
pages.
“I draw your attention to the strange contents of this notebook.”
“But the pages are blank.”
“That is what is strange.”
This exchange seemed oddly familiar to Bill. Where had he come across it before?
A barking dog came into it somewhere. “Invisible ink?” he suggested.
“I think not. Aha! Here’s something.”
It was on the last page; a column containing words and numbers in an indecipherable
hand. “Can you read it, Gran?”
“I cannot, neither will I try. It is clearly in code. I shall pass this notebook on to
the proper authorities — in this case your father, unfortunately. I have learned enough
from it. It speaks volumes.”
“But it’s empty except for one page.”
“Precisely.”
“So what volumes does it speak, exactly?”
“It purports to contain notes for an article on James Spooner for the national
newsletter. Can you believe there is a national newsletter devoted to that hack? Well, I
certainly cannot. The woman Moore pretended to read from these blank pages to the
assembly. What does that tell us, Wilberforce?”
“She was playing a very deep game?”
“Well, certainly, but more importantly that she took me for a fool. And in so
doing, she made the biggest mistake of her life.”
“Perhaps she just hadn’t got round to writing the article yet, and she didn’t want
to face the wrath of Mrs. Vinge.”
She nodded. “I should like to think so, for her sake. But I have an unpleasant
feeling about this, Wilberforce. I’m beginning to wonder if her reading was not the only
charade taking place in the Vinge apartment today.”
“What other charade was there?”
“All in good time.” And the old lady sipped her drink thoughtfully, baleful eyes
fixed on the tall building across the inlet.
SATURDAY MORNING: THE THINK-TANK — 1
Devoran awakened with a weekend feeling. Did he actually need to get out of bed immediately?
He glanced at the LCD display on his bedside clock, went through the calculations
to allow for daylight saving and the last couple of power outages, and decided
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