The Kiwi Target

chance, didn’t you?” he remarked.
    Pettibone had no time for trivialities after what he had read in the soil just inside the hedge. “He’s dead,” he confirmed.
    “Yes.”
    “It’s murder, then,” the constable announced. “I’d appreciate ¡t if you’d look after the necessary procedures, and Mrs. MacTavish. I have a lot to do.”
    While the doctor went to his car to get a covering sheet for the body, Pettibone took out his notebook and began to draw a detailed sketch. When he had completed it, he returned to his own car and came back with a small camera. He took several close-up photographs of the break in the hedge and of the soft ground just in front of it. He focused carefully and adjusted each exposure to insure that the results would be clear and sharp.
    By the time he had finished, several other people had appeared on the scene, not to gape but to assist however they could. Two of the men helped load the body into the back of the doctor’s station wagon. There were some urgent questions Constable Pettibone wanted to put to Mrs. MacTavish, but he elected to forgo them until even more pressing matters had been dealt with first.
    He drove back to the police station, then walked quickly to the hotel next door and spoke with the owner. “Mr. Young,” he said without preamble, “I need to talk with you immediately in confidence.”
    “Understood. Go ahead.”
    “Ned MacTavish is dead, killed by persons presently unknown. What do you know about any plans to build a new hotel here?”
    “Nothing but rumors,” Young answered. “A lot of them have been floating around—you must have heard them.”
    “Earlier I noted a visitor here: American, male, forty-five to fifty. Five-eleven, twelve stone or a bit more, very well dressed.”
    “Mr. Theodore Kincaid,” Young said. “He dined one evening with Superintendent Winston.”
    “Then we will have a full book on him,” Pettibone declared.
    Winston is a sound man, very sound indeed. Now, I need help >n locating two men, both quite large and heavy, one wearing a size twelve boot, the other thirteen or better. That’s all the description I have so far.”
    Wait a moment,” Young said. “I’m almost sure that Kincaid went up to see Ned one evening. I know for a fact that he showed unusual interest in the bluff area where Ned lived.”
    Pettibone had his notebook out at once. “Mr. Kincaid’s occupation?” he asked.
    “President of an American construction company.”
    “Aha! That would put him in opposition to the others who are reputed to be trying to buy in up here. Do you know his present whereabouts?”
    “He left no address.”
    “Winston will know,” Pettibone declared without hesitation. “Thank you. Speak of this conversation with no one.”
    He returned to the police station, called Whangavel, and reported. “I have a definite homicide with two suspects involved. Both are large men, probably weighing over sixteen stone. The victim is Ned MacTavish, sixty-six, sober, of good reputation, clean record. He leaves a widow who is presently being seen to by neighbors. MacTavish was pushed to his death over a cliff behind his home. His property has been sought by at least two outside interests, reputedly to build a luxury hotel on the site.”
    He listened to the inspector on the line and responded to a question. “No, thank you, no assistance is needed. I shall conduct the investigation myself with every expectation of success.” Having nothing more to say, he hung up.

CHAPTER 24

    In late morning a Norman Islander lined up a short runway that belonged to Mount Cook, dropped its flaps, and landed with smooth efficiency. As soon as the two engines were shut down, the passengers began to deplane. Two elderly ladies went inside the tiny terminal looking for facilities; the rest stood waiting for the small bus that would take them into Waitangi and to the Russell ferry. They had all noted the American and his obviously kiwi girlfriend, but if they had any thoughts concerning their relationship, they kept them to themselves.
    Within five minutes the bus rolled in. It dropped off some passengers for the return flight and gathered up its new load. As it made its way through the countryside, the flora everywhere gave evidence of a warmer and more gentle climate. At the end of its run the bus came down a moderate grade and pulled up at the ferry pier.
    With Jenny’s help Peter collected their baggage and bought tickets for the trip