Maurice Walsh - Nine Strings to your Bow

“That was my impression. I had breakfast with him.”

“You did not gouge any small talk out of him?”

“Two useful words at a time.”

“When I came here first I did my best to make him talk. After that I got to like his silences—a comfortable old grizzly to live with, and Johan Bartley talks enough for two.”

“That’s a loyal woman.”

“Sure—if she would not croon over me.”

There was a short silence before Con again spoke.

“What have you on this afternoon?” he asked then. “Could I do some fishing?”

“Taking time off?” Peter laughed.

“You might think so,” Con said. “Any chance of a real fish?”

“Salmon.” Peter shook his head. “Not enough rain, but you could try. We’ll get Barbara and Hughes to come along.”

“I brought a few flies with me,” said Con. “You might look them over and pick one or two for the Doorn water.”

Con reached across the paper twist. Peter opened the top and inserted a careful finger and thumb. The fly he brought up was big and gaudy. He looked curiously at Con.

“It is a salmon fly,” he conceded, “but you did not expect to rise a fish with it in June water?”

“An ig’orant cuss, ain’t I? On the big side?”

“By a mile.”

The second was just as big. He brought the fly up to his eyes, spread the wing, and examined the set of the barb and loop. Then he stared up at Con, and his eyes were hard and wide and blue.

“You are a quick worker, Mr. Madden,” he said. “I’ll say that for you.” He laid three flies on his palm and pointed a finger at them. “A Jock Scot, a Silver Doctor and a Popham, but jungle cock swopped for Chinese pheasant.”

“They look over-winged to me,” Con said judiciously.

“Maybe! I dressed them. My own tricks and variations.” His finger pointed out. “The set and knots and wax, and the way I turn the loop skeways.”

“You lost them somewhere.”

“They were lifted, and you know it. In that fishing book that went missing that—that bad morning a year ago.”

“It was a valuable book?”

“The contents were. The book was a nuisance—as big as a street directory. My father’s—and I had a sentiment about it.”

“I know where to look for your book, and I know where to put a finger on a certain man. We are moving nicely, Mr. Falkner, but I cannot tell you any more for the present.”

“That goes with me,” Peter said. “I have to apologize to you, Mr. Madden. In falling for your proposal I had no illusions about success. At the back of my mind I knew that I would have to carry on against something that will not give a man a hold. But, now, I have a sneaking hope that you will come back some day with the bacon on you.”

“Ready for hanging,” Con said.

“Gosh, son! I believe in you. This is the place I want to work for, to root for. You clear my name and watch me make Danesford a place worth living in for the men and women who work on it. Mark you! for the people who do the work. I have no use—”

“Easy all!” cried Con. “To-night about midnight, over a drink, I’ll go to the mat with you on sociology.”

Peter stepped back and considered the big lazy smooth-faced man. “Appearances are deceptive, big fellow,” he said, “but you’ve got the goods on you somewhere.” He grinned. “Should I call you Con or Cornelius?”

“You are aiming towards a thick ear, young Peter. Only one man calls me Cornelius, and I can’t stop him.”

Peter flexed his arms. “Right! In a month’s time I might call you Cornelius for devilment. At your service, Con. What can I do for you?”

“Take me fishing this afternoon,” Con told him. “My real object is to get you and Everitt and Miss Aitken into a quiet place and hold converse with you.”

Peter looked up at him quickly, and Con nodded. “Yes, I am taking you three into my confidence.”

“That is good hearing. You don’t know—”

“I do. You were afraid, and are now relieved. We four make the working team. There may be another at a distance, but he need not concern you. Don’t let your cousin, Tobias, come along this afternoon!”

“Don’t need to. He’s off at the West Coast tournament—golf, you know! He is a whale at golf.”

“Are you going to make him hum too?”

“I’ll kick him out on his ear, if he keeps on sponging on Barbara,” said Peter.

“Just one other item,” Con said, straightening lazily from the fork. “Do you tote a gun?”

“Should I?” Peter asked.

“Have you one?”

“Best automatic there is—Toronto made. Barbara had it, but I saw it back in the desk drawer this morning.”

“There is no danger, I think,” said Con slowly, “but we can’t make too sure. Don’t you prowl about much in lonely places, but if you have to, take along the gun. I am taking one too. That’s all!”

II

The Doorn is an excellent fishing river. It is famed for spring salmon and autumn grilse, and the sea trout keep coming in and up from June onwards, but this is not a fishing record. The four young or youngish people landed three nice sea trout. Con caught two; Barbara the other; Peter, the best angler there, only wet a line occasionally. Hughes Everitt did not fish at all, and came trailing along with the picnic tea basket.

About five, Barbara made tea.

Barbara looked good in her breeches and knee boots, a new measure of contentment in her dark eyes. A tan greyhound sat couchant at her side and Barbara was pleased with Peter to-day. The rigid line of his mouth had softened, and his eyes were no longer watchful.

She could not understand the presence of this Mr. Con Madden. She thought she knew all of Peter’s friends by name or in person. Her curiosity got the better of her. She said:

“Peter, you have a secret life?”

“Which one?”

“The one out of which Mr. Madden has stepped—as a Nemesis or something.”

“That gate-crasher! Ain’t you, Con?”

“When you come to think of it, I am,” Con agreed. “I gather that the time has come to hold forth. Peter and I plotted to bring you out here to talk and be talked to. I’ll do the talking to begin with. I talked to Peter for a day last week and he agreed to bring me down here to do a job of work. Now you know?”

“A job of work?” Barbara repeated.

“I am only the junior partner in a firm of two in a small private detective organization. A sort of a freelance organization, and we sometimes choose our own cases. The Aitken case is a famous one—”

“Notorious is the word,” Peter amended.

“Notorious for its mishandling. My partner and I had a look at it from various angles, and we decided that it was a case made to order. That is all.”

Barbara pointed a finger at him. “Mr. Madden, you would not have got into touch with Peter unless you were convinced of his innocence?”

“It is like this,” said Con. “The firm decided that Peter was a thoroughly incompetent practitioner of murder as a fine art, or that there was a nigger in the woodpile who lacked subtlety. It would be nice exercise to bring that nigger into the open.”

“Then you must assume that Peter is not guilty,” persisted Barbara.

“He assumes more than that, Barbara,” said Hughes Everitt. “He must assume that you and I are guiltless also, otherwise he would have told us nothing. What is on your mind, Mr. Madden?”

“Co-operation,” Con told him. “I want an exchange of confidences. This is a case for team-work, and I cannot choose a better team than Peter and his two best friends.”

“You have enlisted an accomplice, Mr. Con Madden,” Barbara said.

“I am entirely on Peter’s side,” Hughes Everitt said, “but I do not know you, Mr. Madden. If I think you are running around in circles I shall tell you so.”