The Kiwi Target

short drive back to the luxurious home where Peter found himself installed as a guest. Martha greeted him warmly and guided him into a small, beautifully furnished bar. She served three highballs at a comfortable table where the three of them could sit together.
    “Have you heard from Ray?” her husband asked.
    “Yes. He’s arranged to have Peter’s things sent over on the late afternoon plane. They’ll be delivered here.” She paused a moment and then added. “He wants us to . . . explain things to Peter.”
    “I agree that we should,” Edmund said. “Go ahead.”
    Martha turned her glass slowly on the table. “Peter, William Oldshire was my father—your grandfather. He came here from England over sixty years ago. He worked hard, managed his affairs well, and built up a considerable holding in land and other assets.”
    She stopped and looked at Peter, who was sitting with his hands clasped, his elbows on the arms of his chair, listening to her.
    “My mother died, as Harriet did, quite early; Dad didn’t pass away until a little over two years ago. He always planned to divide his estate equally between his two children—Harriet and me. When Harriet died, he let his will stand, because he knew that Harriet had a son.”
    A thin film of moisture began to form on Peter’s brow. He swallowed hard and waited to hear more.
    In a quiet voice Martha continued. “When the will was probated, all we had was your name, Peter Ferguson. That wasn’t enough for us to find you, although we did try.”
    She looked at her husband, who understood and took over. “It was very widely known hereabout that we were looking for a Peter Ferguson—the right Peter Ferguson, that is. It was in all the papers. Because, you see, you’ve inherited from your grandfather one of the finest stations here on the South Island.”
    Peter shut his eyes tightly and tried to comprehend what he had just been told. His palms were suddenly very moist.
    “So you see why Ray wanted to be sure that your wife, I mean your former wife, no longer has any claim on you,” Martha added.
    For some moments Peter was almost numb. He had heard what they had said, but he could not believe a word of it. To reassure himself, he asked, “I’ve inherited a farm?”
    “Not a farm, Peter, a station. It’s up Lake Wakatipu, not too far from Castle Peak. You can understand now why Ray wanted to meet you. And why everyone in Queenstown was so interested in knowing if you are the missing Peter Ferguson.”
    A very simple question came to him, and he asked it. “Is anybody there?”
    “Yes,” Edmund answered. “It’s in use right now and turning a good profit. Ray made a deal with a very capable station owner nearby to operate it until you could be located. His name’s Jack McHugh. He’s a fine fellow, completely trustworthy, and you’re going to like him when you meet him.”

CHAPTER 12

    As he sat in the dining room of the Duke of Marlborough Hotel waiting for his breakfast to be served, Ted Kincaid was in very good humor. He had had an excellent night’s sleep, and the day ahead of him promised to be most interesting. He always enjoyed exploring new places, and the little community of Russell had some unusual assets.
    Almost as soon as he had arrived in New Zealand, he had hired a private investigative firm to ferret out the address and as much other information about the elusive Mr. Bishop as it could get.
    The kit that Lloyd had given him included a full survey of the principal New Zealand tourist attractions and the state of their development. Pricane had commissioned the survey with a strict provision of secrecy. The final report was less than sixty days old.
    Kincaid was not a man to waste time. While he had to wait for the necessary information about Bishop, he began work on his other assignment. The survey report had rated the Bay of Islands the best undeveloped tourist attraction in the country. The semitropical climate combined with the spectacular scenery were said to be unbeatable.
    After he had finished his breakfast, he dropped two dollars on the table, despite the fact that tipping was severely discouraged, and walked into the lobby. A quite attractive girl who had been waiting got to her feet and approached him. “Mr. Kincaid?”
    “Yes.”
    “You booked with Susie’s Tours, I believe.”
    “That’s right.”
    “I’m Susie.”
    “Fine,” Kincaid said. “Are you set to go?”
    “Whenever you’re ready.”
    In response