it was only seven thirty-five. One of these days he’d get Bill to reset the clock for him.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 13
While he lay waiting to hear sounds of life from Bill, he ran through Friday’s
progress in the case, if progress was the appropriate word.
The house-to-house team had worked their way through the lists of those present
at the time of the explosion, plus all those residents of Noss Cove whose cottages
overlooked the marina. The Ident team had been reduced to one man, Tom Farquarson,
whom he’d last seen dismally sieving through a mound of wet black muck in the
marina yard. He’d talked to Red Duffy again, and two members of his staff. He’d
wanted a word with Charlie Hood, but the man had taken the last couple of days off to
visit a sick sister, so Duffy said. It had been a wasted afternoon, but at least they’d
eliminated a few people from involvement….
He dozed.
He awoke with a start. It was past eight. Dobbin was coming around at nine to
report on her trip, and he could smell bacon and sausages frying downstairs again. He
showered quickly, toweled himself off, and became lost in contemplation of his appearance
while running the electric shaver over his face. His hair was definitely thinning. His
chin looked weaker than ever — a shapeless appendage hanging limply below his
mouth like underpants on a laundry line. Maybe he should grow a beard. Too late today,
but maybe he’d make a start tomorrow.
“Dad?” There came a pounding on the door. “What are you doing in there?
Deciding whether to grow a beard? Take a tip from me and don’t. You don’t have the
features for it.”
“No, I’m shaving, if you must know.”
“I’ve cooked our breakfast. I’ll feel insulted if you let it get cold. I’m going to
start mine, anyway.”
He hurried downstairs in his dressing gown to find Bill demolishing a heap of
bacon, sausages and fried eggs. “Constable Dobbin will be here soon.”
“Can I sit in on the debriefing?”
“Only if you keep quiet. No suggestions, no theories. And anything you hear
you keep strictly to yourself. Understood?” The door bell rang. “Get it, please. That’ll
be Dobbin. She’s early.”
But an elephantine trumpeting from the hallway gave him the lie. His mother-inlaw
came stamping into the room.
“Devoran, yesterday I was the victim of a crude insult which I believe may have
legal implications. I am considering taking the matter further.”
Clearly this was going to be one of those mornings. “Please tell me about it.”
“Aren’t you going to write it down?”
“I didn’t bring a notebook to the table. I’m off-duty.”
“On a Saturday morning? Good grief, I don’t know what the Mounties are
coming to!”
Devoran listened carefully while she voiced her grievance. Apparently she’d
been blackballed by some club of May Vinge’s. Perhaps Mrs. Vinge was not all bad,
after all. Obviously Bill knew all about it, because the young wastrel was looking
sheepish. In due course Devoran was able to get a word in edgeways.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 13
“Slander?”
“Precisely. Slander, pure and simple. One black ball is enough, but four is a
calculated insult. I lived in the Colonies for many years, as well you know, and believe
me I know a thing or two about blackballing. We used to do it all the time to keep the
rabble out of the Club. Be that as it may, I am considering bringing charges against the
James Spooner Appreciation Society!”
For a moment Devoran found himself incapable of coherent thought. Was she
serious? A moment’s consideration of her character told him she was. “I’m sorry to
hear about this, Mother-in-law. To think that this kind of thing can happen in a nice little
community like Noss Cove!” He began to warm to his theme. “Slander, now. The rule
is, we must first establish that Mrs. Vinge’s remarks were likely to bring you into hatred,
ridicule and contempt. What exactly did she say?”
“It’s not a question of what she said. They blackballed me, I tell you!”
“In order for you to pursue an action for slander, Mother-in-law, it’s necessary
for them to have publicly insulted you in some way, to put it in simple terms. Blackballing
in such a small group might not be considered actionable.”
“I’m not staying here to be lectured by you, Devoran! I shall consider my options!”
Flushed a choleric pink she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
Devoran hurried upstairs and dressed. When he returned to the kitchen
Bill was washing up, avoiding his eye. Could he reasonably forget Mother-in-law’s
complaint? Probably not; she wouldn’t allow him to. Could he relay the complaint to
Mrs. Vinge and suggest some kind of apology? Impossible; he cringed mentally at the
thought of her response.
There was only one way out.
And coincidentally the doorbell rang as he was making the decision. He
opened the door to find the subject of his thoughts standing there, looking large, competent
and successful, every inch the ideal person to tackle May Vinge and wheedle some
kind of explanation out of her.
Soon the three sat around the table. Dobbin flipped open her notebook and
began to describe her investigations in Victoria.
They listened in comparative silence, apart from the occasional sharp intake of
breath and mutterings of ‘As I suspected,’ from Bill. Dobbin concluded, “Before I left
Victoria, I checked on 1832 Filbert Street. Nobody was there. It was all locked up
and I could see a pile of mail on the floor through the letterbox. It might be worth looking
through. Mostly fliers, though. I can get the Victoria police to check, if you like.”
When Dobbin had finished, closing her notebook gently and awaiting their response,
Devoran jumped in before Bill could open his mouth.
“Thanks for an excellent report, Constable. Perhaps we should consider each
of our suspects in turn now, should we? Since almost everyone on Vancouver Island
had the opportunity to commit this crime, we should concentrate on those with known
motives. First, Sturgess.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 13
“The male suspect in the blue bomber jacket,” Bill explained to Dobbin, “otherwise
known as the Jackal, and now confirmed to be father of Susi.”
“Sturgess?” Dobbin queried. “His name is Sutcliffe, surely? Has he been operating
under an alias?”
“No, it’s Susi whose name is false. She explained it to me. It was to make it
more difficult for her father to trace her. It makes sense. Now, we haven’t been able
to get hold of Sturgess to question him, but maybe you can pop over to Vancouver on
Monday and take care of that aspect. And check with Records; he may have form.
So, at present all we know is that he’s Susi’s father and he lives in Vancouver with her
mother. Motive? He objected strongly to Susi’s liaison with Slade, and has been
known to quarrel violently with the victim. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that
he killed Slade to free his daughter from what he saw as a dangerous relationship.”
“Vile clutches,” Bill murmured. “That would have incensed Susi, and sure
enough, Gran and I saw them quarreling in Peterville.”
“Thank you, Bill. You do remember you agreed to keep your mouth shut?
Now, opportunity. There were three separate murder attempts, each on a Sunday, although
the preparation could have been carried out on the Saturday. One every four
weeks. Nine weeks ago, five weeks ago, and the successful one last weekend. Sturgess
has stayed for various short periods at the Cornubia Guest House in Victoria. I
checked with Mrs. Partington there, and his dates of stay include those three weekends.
Maybe a coincidence, maybe not. We should ask ourselves why the attempts were
always at the weekend, which suggests someone living some distance away with a
weekday job. Sturgess retired last year so he had no need to confine himself to weekends.
And we have no hard evidence against him, but then we have no hard evidence
against anyone else, yet. We have to keep him in mind. And we have to consider Susi
as a suspect too,” he added reluctantly. “She had the opportunity; but the motive?”
“The nearest and dearest is always the most likely.”
“Thank you, Bill, but I think we need a bit more than that.”
Dobbin spoke up. “I got the impression in Victoria that Slade was a crook who
preyed on women in some way involving money. People have been looking for him.
He may have passed them off to Miss Sturgess and others as clients, to avoid embarrassment.
And if Miss Sturgess was in love with him, she could have been, uh—”
“So besotted that she was blinded to his faults?”
“Exactly, Bill. And then something happened. She discovered something that
she couldn’t forgive. So she killed him.”
“After two botched attempts?” Devoran said doubtfully. “Sure, she could have
untied the ropes the time the boat fell over. But she might have drowned herself during
the second attempt.”
“I thought we’d established that the boat couldn’t sink any further. It was resting
on the bottom, right? She could have known that would happen. She’d been living
on the boat at all states of the tide and she must have been familiar with the depth under
the keel.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 13
“But the cabin doors had been jammed. We know it was a deliberate attempt
because of the evidence of the through-hull fitting. If she’d wanted to fake the sinking
she wouldn’t have bothered with the peg and all that. She’d have simply sneaked into
the engine room during the night and opened the sea-cock. No, Marsha. She had no
good reason to sink the boat. She’s off the hook for that one, so far as I’m concerned.”
“Unless she hoped Slade would be drowned,” Dobbin suggested.
“He’d have woken up when the water reached him. She’d have had to knock
him out or something. But she didn’t.”
Bill suddenly exclaimed, “Wait a minute! We’ve been—”
“Bill! I warned you!”
“Sorry, Dad, but this is important. We’ve been assuming all along that all the
murder attempts were the work of the same villain. But suppose there were two unconnected
villains. Or even three. Giving us three unconnected murder attempts. The
plot thickens, doesn’t it!”
“Jesus, Bill, it’s thick enough already.”
“No, Dad. Just suppose Slade’s been such a villain, I mean such an unmitigated
scoundrel, that several people are after him independently, all plotting his demise!
This plants the idea in Susi’s mind. She’s already seen Slade for the rogue he is.
So she piggybacks on the other attempts, as it were. She carries out the last, successful
attempt. Who had a better opportunity for turning on the propane? She could have set
it up the previous night. Not bad, eh?”
Bill had a knack of making things sound insanely feasible. Devoran remembered
the arrival of Susi at the gates of Duffy’s Marina. Her reaction; not just to the
death of Slade, but to the destruction of Ocean Dream.
“She’s sunk, isn’t she? She’s underwater, all blown apart.” She was lamenting
the death of a dream. But perhaps the dream had died a few weeks previously.
Perhaps the loss of the boat affected her more deeply than the loss of Slade….
“She may have gone off Slade a bit. She as much as said so,” he admitted at
last. “But if she was going to kill him, she’d have chosen a more foolproof method. She
couldn’t have known he’d ignite a propane leak.”
Dobbin said, “Why don’t we just pencil her in as a possibility, pending further
inquiries?”
“Sounds good.”
“Let us now consider the Fox,” Bill said.
SATURDAY MORNING: THE THINK-TANK — 2
“All right,” Devoran said wearily, “who the hell is the Fox?”
“You know him as Wilf Ferris, Dad. He’s otherwise known as the Fox.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He was glad to get off the topic of Susi and
her father. “OK, so we’ll talk about Wilf Ferris. He says he’s looking for a boat, but
that’s a lie; he’s been hanging around here for weeks. And he’s obviously interested in
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 13
Slade, because Constable Dobbin says he was haunting the marina where Slade was
moored in Victoria. You say he’s still here, Bill?”
“He was noted during our Friday surveillance.”
“Was he here on each of our three weekends, Constable?”
“I, uh, don’t know. I didn’t ask him. I had to cut the questioning short, for
various reasons. I’ll get onto it again tomorrow.”
This uncertainty was not like Dobbin. “Where’s he from, anyway?”
“It’ll be in the Globe’s register. By the way,” she said hastily, “he thought Slade
may have been trying to pull an insurance fraud that went wrong.”
“Slade didn’t have insurance.”
“Oh, well. So much for that theory.”
“Meanwhile let’s look on Ferris as a suspect.”
“But if he’d killed Slade, wouldn’t he have left the neighborhood by now?”
Dobbin asked.
“He might have thought it would look suspicious if he left right after the death.
On the other hand, he could have other reasons for staying around. I wonder if he’s
connected with anyone at the marina.”
“A hired killer!” Bill exclaimed. “He’s a hit man, waiting to collect the payoff.
You must check police records and ascertain whether he has form.”
“We should do that anyway,” Dobbin agreed.
Matters were getting out of hand, as usual. Bill was taking over. It was time for
Devoran to assert himself, but he didn’t have much in the way of ideas. “Be quiet,
please, Bill. Put some more coffee on, if you want to make yourself useful.”
“Jeez, Dad!”
“Now, the only people at the marina on a daily basis are the two hippies Royboy
and Rasha, Red Duffy and Charlie Hood, and four full-time marina employees.
I’ve talked to them all and I’ve mentioned Ferris, but nobody seems to know anything
about him.”
“Meanwhile we have the women asking after Slade in Victoria,” Dobbin said.
“What about them?”
“They were mostly elderly, you said. I can’t see them as suspects, whoever
they are. And nobody reported any old ladies hanging around Duffy’s. Either they’re
victims of Slade’s business dealings in which case they might have motives but no
known opportunity, or they, uh, support your Victoria man’s gigolo theory.”
“Charlie Hood was in Victoria on Thursday,” Dobbin said thoughtfully. “He
seemed best buddies with a marina owner there.”
“Duffy told me he was visiting a sick sister,” Devoran said.
“So he lied to get a bit of time off. He’s not the first.”
“Didn’t you say he was the one who found the main propane tank was turned
on, Dad?” Bill called over his shoulder as he busied himself at the kitchen counter.
“That doesn’t sound like a guilty man to me.”
“If he hadn’t found it, someone else would.”
“He could have turned it off before they looked. Same with the burners.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 13
“Maybe, but I’m not going to rule him out. He and Red Duffy both had the opportunity,
and they both have a possible motive. Slade was talking about bringing an
action against the marina as a result of the boat falling over on the ways. That might well
have put Red Duffy into bankruptcy, and Charlie Hood out of a job. I asked a few
questions around, and it seems Duffy isn’t paying his bills. He’s on the brink.”
“But he’d have been insured against accidents in the yard, surely,” said Dobbin.
“Accidents, yes. Vandalism, no. I checked his policy yesterday afternoon.
The insurance company are calling it vandalism on Slade’s boat so they won’t pay for
that. They’re willing to negotiate on the other two that got knocked over, but not for
the full cost of repairs because they say the cost was indirectly incurred due to vandalism.
Duffy’s livid, because he’s brought it on himself. He’d told everyone the Ocean
Dream had been correctly shored up by his men when it left the water. As it probably
was. Therefore, say the insurance company, vandalism must have taken place otherwise
the boat would not have fallen over.”
“It’s logical,” Dobbin said. “Bad luck for Duffy, though. He should have
blamed his own men from the outset.”
“He was thinking of the marina’s reputation. Anyway, the damage was structural
and big-time. The interior had to be stripped and a lot of the hull’s framing replaced.
Slade and Duffy had a hell of a row about it, and in the end Slade got a bill for
around fifty thousand dollars. He had to pay up, otherwise Duffy wouldn’t have put the
boat back in the water. But he was threatening to sue Duffy for a hundred thousand.”
“If Slade could come up with fifty thousand to pay off Duffy,” Dobbin said, “he
couldn’t have been short of ready cash. I wonder how much was in his brassbound
box.”
“And Slade’s threat of legal action gives Duffy a sound motive for murder. In
fact, Duffy may have figured he only had two options. Murder Slade, or go under.”
Bill resumed his seat at the table when the coffee began to drip through the filter.
“If Duffy killed Slade to escape bankruptcy, that accounts for murder attempt Three.
But it means he couldn’t possibly have carried out murder attempt One, because that’s
the reason he was facing bankruptcy. So like I said before, the three murder attempts
are not all the work of the same villain.” He sat back, basking in the admiring silence
that followed.
“Or Duffy is innocent on all counts,” Dobbin said reluctantly.
“This is getting too complex for me,” Devoran grumbled. “Let’s talk about
Charlie Hood. Now, Hood has no share in the business. It’s owned by Duffy one hundred
percent. But that doesn’t mean Hood is in the clear. He obviously likes the boat
business; the man positively breathes enthusiasm. He wouldn’t want the yard to go under.
Duffy might have made him business promises in return for a few minutes work on
Slade’s boat last Saturday night.”
“And he had the opportunity, like almost everyone in Noss Cove,” Dobbin said.
Devoran sighed. “Do we have any other potential killers at large?”
“The hippies,” Bill said.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 13
SATURDAY MORNING: THE THINK-TANK - 3
“The hippies? We haven’t found a motive for them yet,” Devoran rose wearily, brought
the coffee jug and topped up the mugs of Dobbin and himself. Bill shot him an aggrieved
look, so he half-filled his son’s mug. Bill shouldn’t be drinking so much coffee
at his age, Devoran felt. It made the lad talkative.
“We haven’t found a motive for the hippies because we haven’t found the sea
chest,” Bill said rapidly, bearing out Devoran’s coffee concerns. “Here’s my hypothesis.
Sometime on Saturday Rasha and Royboy have a lovers’ tiff. She accuses him of sitting
around drinking beer and smoking pot all day, and he accuses her of the same thing.
Escalation takes place. Ancient grievances are brought forth. A period of vicious exchanges,
maybe even violence, is followed by mutual sorrow and brooding, and eventually
remorse. ‘What are we doing with our lives?’ cries Rasha. I can hear her now.
‘You’re right, we’re frittering away our precious time in idleness,’ wails Royboy. ‘Dear
God, what assholes we are!’”
“Language, Bill, please.”
“Royboy’s language, Dad, not mine. ‘We must lift ourselves out of this morass!’
says Rasha, clinging to him. ‘We owe it to ourselves as human beings.’ Then she lowers
her voice in conspiratorial fashion. ‘And a few yards down the dock is the wherewithal.’
‘The wherewithal?’ repeats Royboy, puzzled. ‘The treasure of Lionel Slade.
I’ve seen it in his forward cabin, a brassbound sea chest. I didn’t measure up cushions
for nothing, Royboy. I kept my eyes open. Now, here’s my plan.’” Bill leaned back,
drinking deeply from his mug. “Need I say more?”
“I think you need to, Bill. They could have stolen the box without killing Slade.”
“I have the answer to that. ‘But must we kill Slade?’ cries Royboy, aghast.
‘Slade and Susi both,’ she replies. ‘Otherwise the survivor will cause a hue and cry, and
the chest will be sought. But if they are both dead, we will be the only people who
know of the chest. And by then it will be safely stowed away in our chain locker under
an old tarpaulin. So do this thing, Royboy, if you account yourself a man. If not, you
will see me no more.”
“But they didn’t kill Slade and Susi, uh, both.”
“They assumed they’d be together. They didn’t know Susi wouldn’t be
around.”
“OK. It has a certain persuasiveness,” Devoran admitted. “But then, most of
your theories do. And everybody can’t be a murderer. And there’s still the matter of
the How. They could have turned on the propane, sure. But how did they ignite it when
Slade was in the boat?”
“Don’t you think your attitude is a tad negative, Dad?”
“OK, what would your next step be?” he asked tiredly. It was useless to try to
exclude Bill from any discussion. He should have learned that by now.
“Obtain a search warrant! Ransack their boat!”
“On what grounds?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 13
“Suspicion of murder, obviously!”
Dobbin said quietly, “I still think they could have stolen the box without committing
the murder. They’re simply not murdering types, from what I’ve seen of them. The
box was a huge temptation, and they could have been so stoned that they didn’t think
too clearly about any fingers pointing at them.”
Devoran stared at her. “ Et tu, Dobbin? You really think they have the box on
their boat?”
“We haven’t found it anywhere else, have we? And it’s a valuable item, according
to Susi. And big enough to be obvious, if anyone had tried to carry it out
through the marina yard. It would certainly be worth stealing. The way I see it, either it
was smuggled away by boat, or it’s in Serendipity. ”
“Good grief!” He considered it. If Dobbin thought it was a possibility, then he
was inclined to go along with her. “But we’d never get a search warrant.”
“Leave the ransacking in my hands,” said Bill. “As a civilian, I’m not hog-tied by
police regulations. And I’m under age, remember? I’m bulletproof.”
“I will not leave it in your hands. I will not spend the next week worrying about
having to arrest my own son for breaking and entering. We will do this through the
proper channels or not at all.”
“I must say, that’s a rather bureaucratic reaction, Dad, when I’m offering to put
my liberty on the line.”
“Any other suspects?” Dobbin asked hastily.
“I think we’ve covered the principals,” Devoran said. “But let’s keep open
minds, for God’s sake!”
WEEK 2: SUNDAY NIGHT: A SHOT IN THE DARK
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger awakened with the feeling that she’d only closed her eyes five
minutes ago. She squinted at her illuminated alarm clock, a retirement present from the
Officer’s Mess. It was just after eleven o’clock. Good grief, was this to be a night of
insomnia? Clearly the stiff slug of Johnny Walker she’d drunk before retiring had not
done its job.
Wait a moment....
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. The vague memory of a half-heard sound
came back to her. A stealthy rustle, such as a young subaltern might make as he stole
through the bushes toward her window. She always slept with the window open; it was
healthier that way. And this was Vancouver Island rather than India or Africa, so she
didn’t bother with a screen.
Which meant the bastard could climb straight through and have his way with
her....
Well, she’d cool his ardor.
Climbing carefully out of bed she crept toward the corner of the bedroom nearest
the door, where she kept her twelve-bore. The short journey took longer than expected
as she stubbed her toe painfully on one of the bed’s legs, a diabolical steel wheel
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 14
with little jutting brake levers like daggers. She’d taken issue with that leg on previous
occasions, and even attacked it with a hammer, but the brake levers had resisted her
blows.
“God damn it all to hell!” she whimpered as she limped onward, her hand clo sing
over the barrel of the twelve bore. She always kept the gun loaded, but broken
open. It was safer that way. She snapped the gun into readiness and took up a strategic
position at the window, peering into the darkness.
All was silence out there, but she knew she hadn’t imagined the stealthy rustle.
Not for nothing had she become known as The Eyes that never Close in the Officers’
Mess, since that episode with the randy young subaltern.
Then, out of the blackness came a tremulous whistling. The notes were so
shaky and inappropriate that at first she couldn’t identify the tune the whistler was attempting.
Then the memory came back to her from over the years. A furlough in London,
a visit to the Theater Royal, Drury Lane with the Brigadier, and a magnificent black
chappie standing beside a pile of bales, singing his heart out.
The unknown prowler was trying to whistle Old Man River, and making a
damned poor job of it, too.
The whistling improved as the perpetrator gained confidence, but never got beyond
the first few notes, repeated endlessly. It was enough to drive a woman crazy.
With a shout of “Faugh!” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger flung the gun on the bed, struggled
into her dressing gown, thrust her feet into slippers, recovered the gun and stormed out
into the night.
Crouching low — it was essential to minimize the target one presented — she
scuttled along the driveway and reached the small turning area at the end of Waterside
Road. The whistling was coming from further down the road. Probably some drunk
from the Globe walking it off. She relaxed slightly. She’d let the fellow reach her, then
put the fear of God into him.
At that moment a terrified female scream rang through the wooded hillside to
her right. She swung the gun around, finger on both triggers.
A second later she heard a male bellowing from the same direction. Then a
crashing through the undergrowth, coming closer. The female scream was repeated.
And from Waterside Road, a female cry of “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”
Either murder was being done out there, or people were going to pieces the
way civilians did in a crisis. Or both. The calm hand of authority was required immediately.
Uttering a stentorian shout of “Halt, or I fire!” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger stepped
forward into the road, wishing she’d brought a flashlight. At least her eyes were becoming
more accustomed to the darkness and she could make out the shapes of the
trees against the sky. The crashing and snapping of bushes took her back to her sojourn
in Africa, when careless native bearers had sent a herd of buffalo stampeding in
her direction. She’d often wondered if they’d done it on purpose; they were a surly
bunch. And now, faced with a similar situation, she reacted in similar fashion.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 14
As a dark shadow leaped down the bank onto level ground she fired both barrels
of the shotgun into the air.
With a howl of fright the dark shadow fled.
There followed a short period of wild screeching as angry and in some cases
injured rooks winged away to safer roosting places.
Then silence fell for a moment.
As Mrs. Rooke-Challenger’s hearing recovered, she began to hear hysterical
voices further down Waterside Road. It seemed that those responsible for the disturbance
were holding an informal debriefing. Tearful voices were raised, frightened questions
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