Duck Season Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

“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.”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œWhy, thanks a lot—”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œI’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
    â€œDunbavin!” 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.
    â€œLook out, Andy!” Frances protested, wriggling free. “You’re making me tear the map.”
    â€œTo hell with the map,” he replied, and the truck swerved crazily as he gave her a swift kiss. “Happy?”
    â€œOf course. Look, if we follow this road it seems to lead to the main highway to Dunbavin.”
    â€œOkay—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?”
    â€œOf 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 expressioninto 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.
    â€œLook!” 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