The Kiwi Target

Pettibone said in crisp tones, and hung up.
    Almost immediately there was another call. As soon as Peter answered, the woman on the line became suspicious. “This isn’t Constable Pettibone.”
    “No, ma’am, I’m assisting him. My name is Ferguson.”
    “Constable Ferguson, quite by accident I saw something last night. It isn’t much, but I think Constable Pettibone should know.”
    “By all means; thank you for calling. What shall I tell him?” Bit by bit he extracted the woman’s story. She was a widow who lived at the south end of tiny Russell. She had gone to bed early but being unable to sleep had gotten up to make herself a cup of tea. While drinking it, she had seen a yellow car, possibly a Ford, hit a rill in front of her house. All the local people knew it was there, but the yellow car had hit it hard enough to bounce on its springs. Normally she would have forgotten it, but after hearing about the death of poor Ned MacTavish . . . “
    Peter thanked her and promised to relay the information as soon as possible. When the phone rang again, the voice on the line was male and American. “Excuse me,” the caller began, “but I’ve just heard some disturbing news. I’m told that a gentleman I know, Mr. Ned MacTavish, has met with a serious accident.”
    Peter was careful. “Are you a member of the family, sir?”
    “No. My name is Kincaid. Mr. MacTavish and I were engaged in a business transaction. Is it true that he’s dead?”
    Clearly Kincaid already knew. “Yes, it is. We understand that he fell from a cliff in the back of his garden.”
    “How is Mrs. MacTavish?”
    “As well as could be expected.” That was safe enough.
    Peter was noting down the call when Pettibone strode into the station. He listened to Peter’s report, then picked up the telephone and put in a call to the inspector at Whangarel.
    “Pettibone here,” he said. “I have some preliminary information on the homicide last night. Fairly late in the evening the victim, MacTavish, went for a walk in his garden. He had been offered a business proposition and wanted to ponder it in the open air. Being very tired, his wife went immediately to sleep. She didn’t miss him until morning.
    “While he was in his garden, MacTavish was attacked by two large and powerful men, who threw him over a cliff at the back of his property. In the doctor’s opinion death was instantaneous. I’ve established that the villains were not local men. They came and went by car. I have reason to believe that they had never before been in Russell.”
    Pettibone paused to listen.
    “Yes, sir,” he continued. “I was just coming to that. They were in all probability driving a yellow Ford Cortina, obviously a rental car. I expect to learn the plate number shortly.”
    As he listened once again, Pettibone showed the faintest signs of annoyance.
    “That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’ve only begun my investigation. Now, if you don’t mind, I have several things to do.” He hung up and turned to Peter. “I fear that I’ve quite spoiled your holiday,” he said, and left.
    It was late afternoon when Pettibone came back. He was about to make another telephone report to his superior when Superintendent Winston walked into the room.
    Winston stood rubbing his hands together, suggesting to Peter that he belonged in a Dickens novel. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. “I hear we have some trouble.”
    Constable Pettibone revealed his vast experience by saying nothing, an example Peter was glad to follow. After a second or two had passed, the superintendent turned to Pettibone and put a direct question. “Orin, aren’t things getting a bit thick for you?”
    The constable’s eyes flashed a look that stopped just short of indignation. “Definitely not!” he retorted. “If I require assistance, I will ask for it.”
    Winston smiled, almost to himself, as if he had tested the waters and found them as expected. “Then perhaps you’ll fill" me in on how things stand.”
    “There are two major considerations here with which we have to deal,” Pettibone began. “The murder of Ned MacTavish has demanded my first attention. He was a greatly respected man here, and before his death I would have said that he had no enemies. I regret that we no longer have a hangman to deal with his killers after I catch up with them.”
    “You’re not alone,” Winston said. “Go on.”
    The second matter is the motive for the crime. I know better than