Duck Season Death Read Free Page A

comes home to help at this busy time. That finishes the rooms, thank goodness.” Miss Bryce marked a room for Margot Stainsbury as far from Jerry’s as possible. “Now for the seating arrangements.”
    â€œAll this organisation has worn me out,” said Ellis. “I think I’ll go and open the bar.”
    â€œOh no, you don’t. You must decide what we are going to do about Mr Sefton and Major Dougall.”
    â€œWhat about them?”
    â€œWe can’t have a repetition of last year. In fact, if I had my way we would send a polite letter to Mr Sefton telling him we arebooked out this year. He is the most unpleasant man I have ever met—a real trouble-maker for all his grand manner. He was downright insulting to poor Major Dougall. And Mrs Dougall was telling me how he’d deliberately misled them over some investments.”
    â€œPut Athol next to Jerry’s model,” suggested Ellis. “That will keep him occupied.”
    â€œAnd have Jerry making scenes like he did over that artist creature?” she asked scornfully. “Not that it wasn’t a very good thing for him that she did get off with Mr Sefton, but—oh dear, how difficult it all is! And you’re no help, Ellis. You’re as malicious as Mr Sefton. I declare you enjoy seeing everything uncomfortable.”
    â€œI admit I find Athol at work not unamusing.”
    â€œNo doubt you’ll still find him amusing when the other guests refuse to stay with him in the house.”
    â€œThey won’t,” he said lazily. “The drinks are too good and so is the shooting—and so is your cooking, Grace.”
    She tried not to look mollified and retorted tartly, “Well, don’t blame me if your amusing Mr Sefton one day causes trouble that even you won’t find entertaining, Ellis.”
    II
    A cocktail party, Charles Carmichael reflected, is one of the drearier rituals of modern social and commercial life. It was no wonder that critics became either inflated with carbohydrates and self-importance or soul-cynical and dyspeptic. Charles told himself that he belonged to the latter class and smothered a corroborating belch.
    The motive of the present day’s party was the launching of a first novel, and the press, book sellers and other interested representatives had been invited to eat, drink and make merry in its honour. They were always being invited to the Moonbeam Room orthe Persian Room or this, that or other Room to honour something and knew what was expected of them in return.
    A man from the publisher’s publicity department hovered attentively around Charles, wondering if his attention was a waste of time. Culture and Critic rarely gave good reviews to anyone or anything. Even its faintest praise was made more damnable by an inevitable sting in the tail. Intellectual smearing was Athol Sefton’s policy, and as he was proprietor, publisher and editor in chief, there was little Charles could do in return for the martinis and the canapés.
    Culture and Critic was a small but influential quarterly, the main office of which was situated in Sydney. It ran a few world syndicated articles and commentaries dealing with music, art and literature, but its main concern was the local artistic scene. With the aid of a secretary, a broken-down journalist and frequent abusive wires, letters and phone calls from Athol, Charles looked after the Melbourne office. The only section in the magazine where he was allowed carte blanche was the detective story review. He was a peaceable young man and this salve to his self-respect evidently enabled him to put up with the tantrums of his uncle by marriage.
    Catching sight of Charles across the crowded, smoke-misted room, Margot Stainsbury gave a little shriek of recognition, excused herself ruthlessly to her companion, a dark and dour young man in crumpled corduroy trousers, and began to weave her lovely synthetic body through the