The Kiwi Target

well out of Greymouth and on his way.
    He was halfway through an early breakfast when he was told that there was a gentleman in the lobby to see him.
    The gentleman in question proved to be a uniformed constable come to escort him back to the police station. Peter excused himself and took a deliberate ten minutes to finish eating, partly because he wanted the food but more to make it clear to any watchers that he was not in custody.
    While the constable waited a little longer, he brought down his bag and checked out. His bill had already been paid, including a small bar tab. He loaded his gear into his car and with the constable beside him drove the two blocks back to the police station under a sour overcast.
    Sergeant Holcomb was back at his desk; as Peter came in, he stood up. “Good morning,” he said. “Inspector Jarvis will be right down.” The way he spoke suggested that things were not too bad.
    A few seconds later Jarvis came into the room, fresh and immaculate. “The superintendent is here,” he said. “If you’ll just come with me . . .” He left the phrase unfinished as he turned and led the way to the staircase. On the second floor he walked partway down a short corridor and indicated an office door.
    As Peter went inside, a man rose quickly from behind the desk to greet him. The superintendent was slightly under his own height and carried an extra few pounds, but they were well distributed, and the custom-tailored suit he wore disguised them effectively. His face was smooth and clean shaven with a touch of ruddiness that suited him well. The thing that immediately impressed Peter was the agreeable manner in which he came forward; it made things better at once.
    “Mr. Ferguson, good morning,” he said. “It was most kind of you to stay over to see me.” He motioned toward the other side of the office, where there were two semi-comfortable chairs with a small table between them. As he sat down, Peter was grateful that this man apparently understood his predicament and would not be holding him responsible for it. “Terrible thing that happened to you,” the superintendent said as soon as they were seated. “It must have given you a very nasty turn indeed. But you kept your head all right: trying to help that poor fellow the best way you could.”
    The door opened, and a uniformed officer came in with a tea service. It was much better china than had been used downstairs, and the sugar was not caked in the bottom of the bowl. As Peter accepted his cup, he was pleasantly surprised to find that it contained coffee.
    “Now,” the superintendent said, “I realize what an inconvenience this is for you. I do apologize. However, there’s a bit more behind it than may appear, so I do have to lay on an investigation. Since you’re already here, I thought it best that we have a little chat before you go on your way.”
    “I’ll tell you anything I can,” Peter said.
    “Good, very good.” The superintendent had some more of his tea. “Just one or two things I’d like to clear up so that we needn’t trouble you again—if possible. You’re not really accustomed to driving on the left.”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “Does it trouble you?”
    “Yes, of course it does. Not only staying on what is to me the wrong side of the road, but driving from the right-hand seat. All my judgments about right and left side clearances are thrown off.”
    “Yes, yes—a good point that,” the superintendent agreed. “I have the same trouble in the States. Now, let me make a little guess. You were alone in your car, and there was no other traffic in sight. When you came to that straight stretch where the accident occurred, you allowed yourself for just a bit to drive on the right—sort of worked off the awkward feeling, as it were. Right?”
    There was no way Peter could deny that. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “It was wide open at the time, and I couldn’t see any possible harm.”
    ”I might have done the same thing myself,” the superintendent said. “Jarvis did notice that you had been on the right-hand side of the road and in view of what happened, he wondered about it.”
    “How did he know?” It wasn’t a prudent thing to ask, but he couldn’t help himself.
    The superintendent refilled his cup from the pot. “More coffee, Peter? Oh, I see you’re not finished yet. Quite simple, really. The man came off the bank on the east side of the road onto the bonnet of your car. There are some marks