Boomerang. Sydney J. Bounds
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his face contorted in fury.
“Keep your hands off my girl-friend, or I’ll kill you!”
“You, and whose army?”
Duke balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into Bullard’s stomach. As he doubled over in pain, Duke’s arm lifted to strike again. But before the blow could land, someone gripped his arm.
“Cool it,” Keith Parry said.
“Yeah, cool it,” Linda echoed. “I can look after myself.”
“You know I don’t like you playing around with other blokes, Linda.” Duke allowed himself to relax, then shrugged. “Okay, but if George takes one more step out of line, I’ll flatten him.”
Parry released Duke and helped Bullard upright. “You really should think before you open your mouth. George.”
Duke stared thoughtfully at Parry as the tutor helped Bullard into the house.
“That Mr. Keith now, he looks a bit of a poof, but he’s got a grip all right. Of course, he took me by surprise.”
“Of course,” Linda said sarcastically. “Now can we drop this macho stuff?”
Sammy Jacobi and Fletcher were watching, with quiet amusement, as Margo read the tarot cards on the writing table in the common room. She was telling Linda’s fortune.
“I see trouble in your life. It will come quite soon—but it will pass, and I see unity with your beloved.”
After dinner, Parry had suggested they relax for an evening. This, after all, was a holiday and not intended to be all work.
The armchairs were deep and comfortable, there was a selection of light reading in the bookcase and a film showing on the television.
George Bullard strolled in.
“The gypsy’s warning,” he said contemptuously. “That old con game—I didn’t think anyone fell for that line any more. Crystal balls, seances and table-turning. Nothing but a bag of tricks—talk about getting money under false pretences.”
“No money is involved,” Sammy said. “Linda asked Margo to read the cards for her.”
“That’s right,” Linda said. “It’s only a game really. Everyone reads what the stars foretell in the newspapers, don’t they?”
“I don’t,” Bullard sneered.
“Perhaps you should,” Margo said quietly. “Perhaps it might change your attitude if you knew what was in store for you.”
“Rubbish!” Bullard sniffed the air. “My God, woman, do you bathe in that cheap scent? Try soap and water.”
“Excuse me, Linda.”
Margo Nicholas leaned forward, brass bangles jangling, and seized Bullard’s wrist. She stared intently into his palm and spoke in a mystic tone.
“I see...I see a deal of unpleasantness. First it moves out from you...a dark cloud obscuring your lifeline. Then it returns, like a boomerang.”
Bullard jerked his hand away from her as if scalded. He scowled, and blustered, “A lot of rubbish.”
He opened the hall door and paused in the doorway. “Jim, I’m going down to the inn for a drink. Care to join me?”
Fletcher said solemnly, “Sorry mate, but you know I don’t drink.”
Bullard went out, slamming the door, and Linda giggled.
“Damn,” Fletcher said. “I intended to go out for a drink later. I don’t suppose there’s another pub within miles.”
Margo looked at Linda, her expression grave. “It’s nothing to laugh at child. I truly am psychic.”
Sammy said, “If I made a habit of murdering people, George would be my favourite corpse.”
* * * *
The Harbour Inn was not busy when George Bullard pushed open the door and walked in. The landlord, plump and bespectacled, polished glasses behind a bar lit by ships’ lanterns. A few locals played dominoes under hanging fishnets decorated with blue-green glass floats.
In a corner seat, Wilfred Keller and his wife sat having a quiet drink.
“That dreadful man is here,” Hilda said in a carrying voice.
Bullard smiled as he headed straight for them.
“Saw your sketch today, Wilf, old boy.” There was condescension in his voice. “Not bad, not bad at all. If you want my advice—” Hilda Keller rose to her feet and said loudly, “My husband does not require instruction from you. He is a great artist.”
“Not that great,” Bullard said. “Not as good as me, in fact.”
“Come. Wilfred.”
Hilda swept majestically past Bullard, hand on her husband’s arm, steering him towards the staircase leading up to their private room.
Bullard watched them go, laughing, then called out, “Goodnight, horse-face—goodnight, lap-dog!”
He strolled to the bar.
“Whisky, landlord, a double. No watering it now, and no short-changing me.”
“I shouldn’t keep my customers if I did that, sir.”
Bullard stood at the bar counter, sipping his drink. A few feet away, a man wearing a blue jersey that smelled of fish watched him steadily.
The man moved closer and asked in accented English; “You are, perhaps, a painter, m’sieur?”
“I am a painter,” Bullard agreed. “And you’re a damned Frog!”
He swallowed his whisky and walked towards the door.
The French fisherman stared after him.
CHAPTER THREE
MISS EATON AGREES
Wilfred and Hilda Keller were taking lunch in the dining room of the Harbour Inn. The tablecloth was white and starched, the glasses sparkled in a beam of sunlight, and the cutlery gleamed.
When the door opened. Hilda said, “Oh, dear—one of your party has just come in.”
Wilfred glanced around. “It’s not George. Jim’s all right.”
Fletcher crossed to them, smiling easily. “G’day, mate. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Keller. Thought I’d have a change from sandwiches today—d’you mind if I join you?”
“Take a seat,” Wilfred invited.
“What’s on the menu?”
“We’re having the fish,” Mrs. Keller said. “It’s caught locally, and I always think it makes such a difference to the flavour when it’s fresh.”
As the waitress appeared, Fletcher ordered. “I’ll take fish—and a pint of lager to go with it.” He turned to Wilfred and made a face. “I got stuck with George—that bloke gives me the needle.”
“An oaf,” Hilda remarked.
“Not a pleasant type,” Wilfred said absently, glancing through his sketchbook.
“D’you mind if I take a look?”
“Of course not, Jim.”
Fletcher turned the pages slowly, studying each charcoal sketch in turn.
“Yeah, you’ve got something all right. I was admiring your pastel of a rock formation yesterday, and I said to myself, that bloke’s got it.”
“He’s very good,” Hilda purred, while Fletcher paused at a black-and-lndigo study of some fishermen’s cottages. “Nice, very nice. “D’you sell much of your work. Wilfred? Ever had a West