The Kiwi Target

course.”
    “At the moment our company, Swarthmore and Stone, is directly under the gun of a particularly ruthless corporate raider.”
    “You mean Pricane Industries?”
    “Yes. If they can take over Mr. Bishop’s holdings, we’re done for. I know you’re his attorney and principal adviser.”
    “That’s true.”
    “I came to New Zealand to present our case to you and, if possible, to Mr. Bishop personally. I’ll wait as long as necessary if you’ll be kind enough to defer any decision concerning Mr. Bishop's stock until after we’ve met.”
    O’Malley hesitated only a moment. “All right, I’ll accept that,” he said. “May I make a suggestion?”
    “Please do.”
    “You might as well enjoy yourself while you’re here. Our West Coast is quite a remarkable, unspoiled region. I’ll arrange a rental car for you if you’d like to drive over to see it. By the time you’re back, we should be able to sit down together.”
    “It’s a deal,” Peter said.

    The police investigation at the site of the R and R Lodge was prompt and thorough. The ashes had hardly cooled before an expert team went to work. Within an hour definite evidence was found confirming that it was a case of arson. Once that was established, a number of other avenues of investigation were opened up.
    Every regular patron of the Lodge was interviewed, while Henry Cartright, the licensee, was talked with at length. It was very quickly proven that the business had been sound and profitable, so any question of deliberate destruction for the sake of the insurance was ruled out.
    After all of this work had been done, there was a conference that included Constable Grady, who had the most intimate knowledge of the area and the people concerned; Sergeant Tapui, a Maori, who had done much of the field work; and Inspector Roderick Jones, who was in charge of the investigation.
    When tea had been set out all around from the serviceable if not elegant facilities at the station, Jones called on Grady first for his opinion.
    “I can’t see Cartright involved in arson,” he said. “The evidence is all against it. Also, I’ve known the man for some time, and I’d vouch for him.”
    “I agree,” Sergeant Tapui said.
    “The insurance people are of the same opinion,” Inspector Jones added. “So I think we can take it as given that Mr. Cartright is not our arsonist.”
    “Also, sir,” Grady added, “I believe we can exclude local res- ■dents, as well as the regular patrons of the Lodge.”
    In his report Inspector Jones set down the details of the investigation and added the opinion that no local people had been responsible for the arson. Since the two Australians who had called at the pub shortly before the fire both had extensive criminal records, suspicion pointed very strongly toward them.
    The superintendent who reviewed it concurred. The word was passed to all stations to be on the alert for the wanted men. If located, they were to be handled with maximum care.

    While sitting quietly in a corner of the Mountaineer bar, Peter did some careful thinking. He was definitely upset by the delay in seeing O’Malley; his mind kept conjuring up various disasters that could occur before he could complete his mission. At the same time, he could see a benefit: by keeping him waiting this way, O’Malley was being put under a certain obligation.
    He had agreed to listen to what Peter had to say. He might even pave the way for a personal meeting with Bishop. If that became a reality, then any delay would be justified.
    As far as going up the West Coast was concerned, he was not too enthusiastic. Queenstown was an ideal place to rest and wait. Also, in the back of his mind he had the thought of asking Jenny Holbrook out.
    But O’Malley had suggested the West Coast trip; if he turned the idea down, it might not sit too well. O’Malley had even offered to arrange for a car. Obviously, he had no choice: thank God he had had enough sense to see that.

    In the morning a solid breakfast and three cups of coffee got him in gear for the day. He packed his bags, checked out, and was waiting when a little red Ford Cortina pulled up in the small parking lot.
    The road map was simplicity itself—a sheet of paper that showed the single highway up the West Coast of the South Island and the few other roads that fed into it.
    “There’s a government-owned tourist hotel at Franz Josef, where you may want to spend the night,” the driver said. “Take