Boomerang Read Free Page B

doorway. “Jim, I’m going down to the inn for a drink. Care to join me?”
    Fletcher said solemnly, “Sorry mate, but you know I don’t drink.”
    Bullard went out, slamming the door, and Linda giggled.
    “Damn,” Fletcher said. “I intended to go out for a drink later. I don’t suppose there’s another pub within miles.”
    Margo looked at Linda, her expression grave. “It’s nothing to laugh at child. I truly am psychic.”
    Sammy said, “If I made a habit of murdering people, George would be my favourite corpse.”
    * * * *
    The Harbour Inn was not busy when George Bullard pushed open the door and walked in. The landlord, plump and bespectacled, polished glasses behind a bar lit by ships’ lanterns. A few locals played dominoes under hanging fishnets decorated with blue-green glass floats.
    In a corner seat, Wilfred Keller and his wife sat having a quiet drink.
    “That dreadful man is here,” Hilda said in a carrying voice.
    Bullard smiled as he headed straight for them.
    “Saw your sketch today, Wilf, old boy.” There was condescension in his voice. “Not bad, not bad at all. If you want my advice—” Hilda Keller rose to her feet and said loudly, “My husband does not require instruction from you. He is a great artist.”
    “Not that great,” Bullard said. “Not as good as me, in fact.”
    “Come. Wilfred.”
    Hilda swept majestically past Bullard, hand on her husband’s arm, steering him towards the staircase leading up to their private room.
    Bullard watched them go, laughing, then called out, “Goodnight, horse-face—goodnight, lap-dog!”
    He strolled to the bar.
    “Whisky, landlord, a double. No watering it now, and no short-changing me.”
    “I shouldn’t keep my customers if I did that, sir.”
    Bullard stood at the bar counter, sipping his drink. A few feet away, a man wearing a blue jersey that smelled of fish watched him steadily.
    The man moved closer and asked in accented English; “You are, perhaps, a painter, m’sieur?”
    “I am a painter,” Bullard agreed. “And you’re a damned Frog!”
    He swallowed his whisky and walked towards the door.
    The French fisherman stared after him.

CHAPTER THREE
    MISS EATON AGREES
    Wilfred and Hilda Keller were taking lunch in the dining room of the Harbour Inn. The tablecloth was white and starched, the glasses sparkled in a beam of sunlight, and the cutlery gleamed.
    When the door opened. Hilda said, “Oh, dear—one of your party has just come in.”
    Wilfred glanced around. “It’s not George. Jim’s all right.”
    Fletcher crossed to them, smiling easily. “G’day, mate. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Keller. Thought I’d have a change from sandwiches today—d’you mind if I join you?”
    “Take a seat,” Wilfred invited.
    “What’s on the menu?”
    “We’re having the fish,” Mrs. Keller said. “It’s caught locally, and I always think it makes such a difference to the flavour when it’s fresh.”
    As the waitress appeared, Fletcher ordered. “I’ll take fish—and a pint of lager to go with it.” He turned to Wilfred and made a face. “I got stuck with George—that bloke gives me the needle.”
    “An oaf,” Hilda remarked.
    “Not a pleasant type,” Wilfred said absently, glancing through his sketchbook.
    “D’you mind if I take a look?”
    “Of course not, Jim.”
    Fletcher turned the pages slowly, studying each charcoal sketch in turn.
    “Yeah, you’ve got something all right. I was admiring your pastel of a rock formation yesterday, and I said to myself, that bloke’s got it.”
    “He’s very good,” Hilda purred, while Fletcher paused at a black-and-lndigo study of some fishermen’s cottages. “Nice, very nice. “D’you sell much of your work. Wilfred? Ever had a West End showing?”
    “Only when my wife’s paid for it.”
    “I was happy to do that,” she said quickly.
    Fletcher drank his lager as the fish arrived. “What you need is an agent. Someone to push your work—make a name. After