The Kiwi Target

that show you described it exactly as it happened. If you’d been on the other side, narrow as the roadway is, it would have been almost impossible, you see. He’d have to have been flung a long way to strike your car ten feet or so farther from the embankment.” Peter drank a little more coffee in silence, then he made a swift decision to take the initiative. “Superintendent, I haven’t heard your name.”
    “Oh, so sorry.Winston, just like Churchill. But that’s where the resemblance stops, I fear.”
    “Nobody has told me anything about the man who fell on my car,” Peter continued. “Naturally, I’m concerned.”
    “Of course you are! And to your credit, too. But we’d rather not say anything about him at the moment.”
    “By which I take it he wasn’t a local man,” Peter said easily. The superintendent gave him a quick, slightly surprised glance. “I did mention that there is more to this than appears. By the way, just what brought you here? We’d like to think it was the beauty of the country. Or are you a keen fisherman?”
    “No,” Peter answered. “I’ve never been fishing.” He relaxed into an easily accepted story. “Recently I went through a divorce that tore me up quite a bit. I wanted to get away for a while, and New Zealand was recommended. So I came.”
    The superintendent ignored a telephone that rang once on the desk. “Let me understand, Peter: you came here for a rest. And you had the means to travel on your own.”
    “That’s about it,” Peter agreed.
    The superintendent finished his cup and then furrowed his brow for a moment. “You know, Peter, I had hoped you might have said something different. It’s true you have a tourist visa, but the word we have is that you were sent here by an American construction company strictly on business. This company is under attack by a major conglomerate, specifically Pricane Industries, and you are in New Zealand to try to gain control of a large block of their stock being held in this country. Now, what do you have to say to that?”

CHAPTER 9

    For two or three seconds Peter shut his eyes to escape from everything around him. He had been caught so totally off guard, his brain was momentarily numb.
    How in hell had he gotten into this mess in the first place? He hadn’t killed anyone. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He had even been praised for bringing the victim right to the hospital. But he had just blatantly lied to a high-ranking police official, and he had no way of denying it.
    The superintendent sat perfectly still, his agreeable cordiality a bitter memory.
    Peter knew he had to say something, find some kind of a defense. “Are you acquainted with a Mr. Ray O’Malley, an attorney?” he asked.
    The superintendent nodded. “I know him well,” he said. “He’s a prominent and very respected man.”
    “Then I assume you’ve spoken with him recently.”
    A shade of hardness crept into the superintendent’s voice. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t. If Mr. O’Malley is engaged in any business dealings with you, he hasn’t disclosed them to us. That would be a breach of professional ethics he’d never commit.”
    “How about a Mr. Bishop?”
    “If we’re thinking of the same man, forget it.”
    That exhausted the possibilities in New Zealand. Peter would have sworn that no one else in the country had any knowledge his mission, but obviously someone did. He made a decision. I want to get my briefcase,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
    Don’t bother; I'll have it fetched.” The superintendent moved to the desk and picked up the phone. As he did so, Peter handed over the keys to the superintendent, who spoke briefly and then left the room.
    Given a few precious moments in which to think, Peter tried to evaluate his situation. He had only been trying to cover his tracks. There was no way he was going to let Pricane find out where he was, and why.
    The only bad thing he faced was the lie he had told, one that business discretion had dictated.
    That thought was still in his mind when the superintendent came back into the room carrying his briefcase. He handed it over and sat down once more. In a surprisingly mild voice he asked, “Is there something you want to show me, Peter?”
    “Yes. It’s a private letter to Mr. Bishop from the head of our company. I hope to hand it to him personally. If not, I’ll give it to Mr. O’Malley. It explains our position.”
    “I understand,” the superintendent