Good Murder by Robert Gott Page A

Fred’s accident, Polly’s body was brought down from the water tower. That it might have been a suicide was ruled out of contention. The Chronicle gleefully reported that the ladder that led to the rim of the tower was ten feet off the ground. Another ladder would have to have been used to reach the attached ladder. No such ladder was found lying at the scene, and so it was assumed that whoever had brought it there had taken it away with him after he had dumped the body. Given the weight of a dead body, the suspect must have been strong and, presumably, male. There was an unsubtle suggestion in the report that the murder must have been committed by a newcomer to the town. A local would not have fouled his own water supply. Short of actually naming me, the reporter could not have alerted his readers more obviously to my position as chief suspect. This was what I said when I put the paper down in the kitchen of the George Hotel the morning after the discovery of Polly’s body. Tibald, Annie, and Augie were the only people there to hear my indignation. They had the decency to reassure me, quite firmly, that they did not believe that I was the culprit.
    ‘The town is full of strangers, Will,’ Annie said.
    ‘That’s right,’ said Augie. ‘There must be a thousand RAAF people here for a start. We don’t know what that girl got up to or who she knew. Pardon me if that sounds offensive or disrespectful.’
    I looked at Augie Kelly. There was a change in him. The growing reputation of his hotel had propelled him into a fierce regime of personal hygiene — his hair was trimmed and carefully oiled, and his face was shaven with a barber’s professional closeness. He was comprehensively shevelled. Even his shoes were polished, and the hair which spilled from his shirt collar clipped.
    ‘No one here really thinks you’re a killer, Will,’ said Annie. ‘It’s too absurd.’
    She put her hand on my good arm, reassuringly.
    ‘Not even Bill Henty?’ I asked.
    ‘What about me?’ Henty had come into the kitchen just as I had spoken his name. He was wearing khaki shorts and had a towel draped around his shoulders. He had been exercising vigorously, and was sweating profusely.
    ‘They’ve found that girl’s body,’ said Annie. ‘I was just assuring Will that none of us believe he’s got anything to do with it. Not now that, you know, she’s actually dead.’
    Henty wiped his face with one end of the towel and sniffed.
    ‘Like Tibald said, we’re all capable of murder.’
    ‘Bill,’ Annie said. ‘You don’t really think …’
    ‘Let’s wait and see. That’s all I’m saying. What do you say, Tibald?’
    Tibald turned from the stove and said that as far he was concerned a man was innocent until proven otherwise. I was glad to hear him say this — it seemed to be a retreat from his earlier position — but the effect was spoiled when he added that sometimes this tenet was difficult to justify.
    Henty then said, smugly, ‘Augie, get us a beer, will you? I can’t go into the bar like this.’
    I got to my feet, threw Henty a contemptuous if bruised glance, and went up to my room. Before leaving, though, I leaned down and kissed Annie lightly on the cheek.
    ‘Thank you,’ I said quietly. She reached up, covered my hand with hers, and gave it a squeeze. Through all the hideousness, and despite my rising anger at Henty’s words — and, for some reason, his bare, obsessively sculpted chest exacerbated that anger — through all this, that small squeeze sent a charge through me that travelled directly to my private parts. I had to stop myself from saying out loud that Annie Hudson did indeed resemble Greer Garson.
    I lay on my bed, trying to get things in order. I knew that Topaz would arrive soon with more questions and impertinent accusations. I was surprised that he hadn’t come last night. He couldn’t arrest me, although he no doubt wanted to. At any rate, I assumed that he couldn’t arrest me. I was a