Jeffrey’s facial muscles felt stiff as he tried to grin easily. “What are you getting at?”
“Just a little advice, if you don’t think it out of order. Is it your intention, now that we have finished our commission on your behalf, to continue to keep your party under observation?”
Jeffrey lit another cigarette. His fingers were trembling slightly. “Could be,” he replied. “But I thought you said you started minding your own business at this point.”
“Sometimes the point is marginal. In your case I feel compelled to advise you to keep in part with your environment. In other words, Mr Jeffrey, if you wish to continue—let us say anonymously—you had better go to the Duck and Dog prepared and equipped to shoot ducks.”
The American coughed over his cigarette as a laugh of relief caught him unawares. “Thanks for the tip. It would be sticking my neck way out if I didn’t dress and act the part.”
The agent looked gratified, then shook his head. “It is not so much acting and dressing. I’m afraid the fact that you are an American will make you stand out, so to speak, in the district you intend to visit. The point is, can you shoot?”
His client laughed again. “Sure I can shoot. They taught us to do that sort of thing back in ’42.”
“Ah yes, quite! War is a terrible thing,” said the agent with the air of announcing a profound and original truth. “But there is, I believe, a difference between shooting game and—ah—sniping at the enemy. What you need is a shotgun. In order to preserve your anonymity I suggest your purchasing one before you leave town.”
“You’re being most considerate,” murmured Jeffrey.
Again the little man looked pleased. “Don’t mention it. It’s just that I do like a job to be tucked in on all corners, so to speak. Now here is the name of a reliable gunsmith. All the best sportsmen go there, I believe.”
“Why, thanks a lot—”
“You’re welcome. It is our aim to give our clients every possible service in order to achieve their objectives—short of murder, of course.” He tittered lightly as he drew out a folded slip of paper. “Now, if you are quite satisfied, Mr Jeffrey, there is just the little matter of our account.”
“I’ll settle up right away,” said the American jerkily, turning away from him to take out his wallet.
Money and receipt were exchanged. Then the agent packed up his briefcase and went to the door. “Well, goodbye, Mr Jeffrey—and good luck. I hope you have an enjoyable time shooting ducks.”
V
“Dunbavin!” said Andrew, easing the utility over one of the many bumps of the rough country road. “Look it up on the map, will you, darling? I believe the F. and G. recommend it too.”
Frances unwrapped the map and spread it over her knees, bending forward to hide the small tolerant smile that women smile when they think they know how to manage their men.
Their unconventional honeymoon had started off in New South Wales shooting marauding kangaroos, on which an open season had been declared. Then on further south, where they had tried their luck with the wild pigs that roamed about the Murrumbidgee. Late February found them crossing the Murray into Victoria, where duck-shooting was the next item on Andrew’s list.
He slipped a sudden arm about his wife’s shoulders. Life was good. Frankie was a grand wife. He had enjoyed teaching her how to shoot, marvelling at her occasional fluke, for he maintained it needed years of practise to become a really accomplished shot. Perhaps he enjoyed her ineptitude even more.
Then there were the warm twilights when they made camp just where they fancied, and Frances squatted over the fire he had lighted cooking kangaroo steak or a rabbit stew, her face intent and shadowy in the firelight. His arm tightened so that she was pulled sideways against him as he thought of the nights hazy with stars when they lay rolled in blankets, Frances small and silent in his arms.
“Look out, Andy!” Frances protested, wriggling free. “You’re making me tear the map.”
“To hell with the map,” he replied, and the truck swerved crazily as he gave her a swift kiss. “Happy?”
“Of course. Look, if we follow this road it seems to lead to the main highway to Dunbavin.”
“Okay—we’re off to see Dunbavin, Dunbavin the place for ducks!” he sang, leaning forward and putting both hands at the top of the wheel. “You’re really happy, Frankie? Like being married to me?”
“Of course,” she said again, sounding surprised. “What silly questions you ask, darling!”
Somehow he felt oddly comforted when she called him that. She had a lovely voice, Frankie had, when she chose to put expression into it—sort of warm and husky. It must be all the amateur acting she did at home. Everyone used to say that she ought to try her luck in Sydney—study for the stage or try television audition, perhaps go abroad. He was damned thankful she hadn’t.
“Look!” he said suddenly, slowing the utility and lifting one hand to point. “They know we’re coming. They’re up to welcome us.”
A slow-moving formation of ducks appeared in the sky ahead. They seemed to hang immobile before dropping down behind a clump of low trees which hid a lagoon. “They are a good omen,” said Frances and put her hand into his.
Just as the term of endearment had pleased him, so the spontaneous gesture of affection brought a surge of something like gratitude. Impulsively he said, “This pub—the Duck and Dog—what say we put up there for a night or two? I bet you’ve had enough sleeping in the open. What about a change from roughing it?”
“But Andy, we’d never get in. They’re certain to be full up and the expense—”
Andrew was himself again, confident and masterful. “Bet you anything you like I can get us in and hang the expense. Aren’t we on our honeymoon?”
“There is no harm in trying, I suppose,” she returned doubtfully. “And it would be nice to eat a meal someone else has cooked for a change.”
“I’ve no complaints to make about the present cook. We’ll enquire where this joint is when we get to Dunbavin.”
He pressed the car forward over the corrugated road.
“Andy, I’m sure it must be somewhere near here. We’re coming to the main highway and the map says it is this side of the town.”
They glided on to the smooth bitumen. “That’s a relief,” said Andrew. “Hullo! Looks like one of the natives ahead. We’ll stop and see if they talk the same language south of the border.”
It was Wilson, the first guest at Ellis Bryce’s hotel.
“Good-day there!” greeted Andrew. “Can you tell us where to find a pub called the Duck and Dog?”
Wilson struggled with his Adam’s apple, his eyes fixed with intense concentration on the car’s number plate. “There’s a t-t-turn—” and he pointed further along.
“A
