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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 turning a bit on?” Andrew queried, unconsciously imitating Ellis. “Left or right?”

      “L—l—”

      “Left, is it? Thanks, mate. Much obliged.” He drew his head in and put the car into gear, giving Frances a broad wink. Wilson with his solemn face and painful stammer was a terrific figure of fun to him. An inarticulate sound made him turn back. “You were saying?”

      Wilson made a stupendous effort and left out the extraneous words people with impediments will try to use. “Duck-shooting?”

      “That’s so,” returned Andrew, surprised at the sudden clarity. “The wife and I want to put up at the pub for a night or two. We heard there was good sport round these parts.”

      Wilson screwed his head round and blinked in a puzzled fashion at Frances. Maintaining his telegraphic style of elocution, he asked, “Name, Morton?”

      “Turner’s the name. But what’s that to do with you?”

      The other flapped his hands around for a moment. “F-full-up,” he brought out at last.

      “There you are, Andy,” said Frances.

      “You the proprietor?” Andrew asked Wilson, who shook his head. “Then how do you know they’re full up? The season doesn’t open until Monday. Oh, a guest, huh! Well, maybe we’ll go along and enquire just the same. Be seeing you, sport!”

      He tilted his jaw and there was a determined look in his eyes as they came to a narrow dirt road little better than a cart track. A sagging signpost, which Ellis Bryce had had erected in the first flush of inspiration, bore the direction PRIVATE ROAD: DUCK AND DOG INN. He put the car into second as it made its first climb for many miles. “I’m not going to let a little twerp like that put me off. Nosey sort of bloke, wasn’t he?”

      Presently the hotel came into view—a sturdy two-storied building of stone with sprawling additions of sun-blistered weatherboard clinging about it like parasitic growths.

      “Well, this is it! Stay where you are and keep your fingers crossed, honey.”

      “Good hunting, Mr Fixit,” Frances returned brightly. She watched him stride confidently to the open door which was set in the centre of the building between two beds of colourful geraniums. Presently a worried-looking woman with wispy untidy hair and dressed in an overall appeared. Andrew put one hand on his hip and stamped his feet about as he spoke to her, which was how he always stood when he was being aggressive and not quite sure of himself.

      The woman put a hand up to her hair as though making sure it was still untidy, and glanced vaguely in the direction of the utility as she listened. Presently she interrupted the barrage and disappeared into the house. With a wink and a thumbs-up sign at Frances, Andrew followed.

      A few minutes later, he emerged, grinning triumphantly. “Okay, Frankie! I’ve made it. Hop out and I’ll get our stuff.”

      “Andy, you’re marvellous! However did you do it?”

      “Gift of the gab mostly. Though there was a room booked and the people haven’t turned up. Had a telly or something from them only this morning. So balls to that stuttering little chap we met. Will his face be red when he sees us!”

PART TWO

       Murder and Motives

      I

      The flat-bottomed old boat rocked dangerously as Athol Sefton staggered, gave an odd little choking cough, then sagged slowly across the gunwhale. His twelve-gauge double-barrelled Greenet sank into the muddy water, his hand trailing limply after it.

      The two explosions had sounded almost simultaneously. Out of the beat of wings and noises of alarm above the lagoon, a chestnut-breasted teal, caught in flight, had dropped a hundred yards away. It lay floating in eddying circles with its neck askew. Wimpey, one of the spaniels from the Duck and Dog, went out to it almost as soon as it hit the water.

      Charles Carmichael, sitting in the stern of the boat, stared incredulously at the humped figure of his uncle leaning over the side—the

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