The Kiwi Target

that reached to the edge of the almost-sheer cliff. Ned MacTavish liked his drop of drink now and then, but the constable had never seen him when he was not in possession of himself. A drunken fall, in his considered judgment, was out of the question.
    As soon as Mrs. MacTavish was ready to speak again, he was all attention. “I walked up to the end, and there I saw a break in the hedge. It wasn’t there yesterday.”
    Pettibone felt a chill run through him. "You have called the doctor,” he confirmed.
    “Yes.” As she pronounced it, the word was a dead and empty hull.
    “Please wait for me.” Judging that it would be safe to leave her for a brief interval, Pettibone stepped outside and gave his close attention to the short path that led into the garden. The earth was packed hard and showed no visible traces. In the garden itself the soil had been recently hoed, and footprints were visible. Pettibone dropped to one knee for a closer look; what he saw gave him added concern.
    Walking carefully to one side, he approached the small break in the protective hedge that marked the edge of the garden plot. He counted fourteen broken twigs in the hedge; all of them had been pushed outward. Although there was almost no ground at all between the hedge and the edge of the cliff, Pettibone stepped over, and by holding on to one of the larger hedge plants, he managed to lean far enough out into space to look down.
    Ned MacTavish was halfway down the steep face, where his body had been caught by a small stunted tree that had somehow managed to find a roothold in that dangerous place.
    Prudence demanded that Pettibone go back for a rope and phone for some help from the hotel, knowing that it would be forthcoming at once. But that would take a few minutes, and even that amount of time could be of the essence. Despite the fact that he was in full uniform and wearing brightly shined street shoes, he turned his face toward the cliff wall and began to work his way down. He knew what he was attempting was highly hazardous, but a man’s life could be at stake.
    With great care he descended, fighting for fragile footholds with a full awareness that even a slight misstep would send him °n a two-hundred-foot plunge down onto the rocks below. But he did not yield to fear, for he had no intention of falling.
    When he reached MacTavish, he hooked his left arm around the tough little tree and with his right hand made a swift and expert examination, feeling for a pulse and determining as much as he could about the extent of injuries. He quickly discovered that MacTavish’s spine was broken, undoubtedly from the impact against the tree when he fell. There was no question that he was dead—even the feel of his flesh was cool.
    There was no possibility that Pettibone could climb either up or down with the body; Tarzan could not have accomplished it. He was planning his next move when he heard a shout from above. He looked up with some care and saw the familiar face of Dr. Willis Humboldt, who had many capabilities in addition to his medical expertise. “Shall I come down?” the doctor shouted.
    Rather than announce his findings to the world and possibly to Mrs. MacTavish in particular, Pettibone gestured instead. The doctor understood at once. “I’ll fetch a rope,” he called down.
    Since it was the most prudent thing possible, the constable remained precisely where he was. While he waited, he studied the whole scene and the exact position of the body. It disconcerted him to look down, but he did it because it was his duty.
    In a surprisingly short time the doctor was back. A thin nylon rope began to snake its way down the cliff face. When it was low enough, the doctor put a side whip into it that brought it within Pettibone’s reach.
    It took him only a matter of seconds to tie it expertly under the body’s arms with a slip noose in back. When he had finished, he signaled with his free arm. “Mind the footprints!" he called up.
    “Right,” the doctor responded, and the rope grew tight. Humboldt was not an especially brawny man, but he pulled the body up at a steady pace that did not falter. When the rope came down again, Pettibone tied a bowline-on-a-bight and slipped his arms into the loops. With his safety then virtually guaranteed, he climbed steadily up the almost sheer face without losing his footing even once.
    When he reached the top, the doctor grasped his hand to pull him safely over the edge. “Took a bit of a