Free Boomerang by Sydney J. Bounds

criticize their work.”
    “I’ll stay well back,” Miss Eaton promised.
    As they went in to breakfast, Parry asked, “Do you really believe you can find the killer before the police?”
    “I doubt it. The police have the organization, but Val wants me to stay, so I shall. I can’t just walk out on her when she’s in trouble.”
    “No, I suppose not.”
    Over scrambled eggs, Sammy said, “The police have searched and sealed George’s room. Now they’re searching the rest of the house.”
    “Whatever for?”
    “Who knows? Let’s ask our very own private eye—what do you think, Miss Eaton?”
    “I imagine they’ll be looking for some link between any one of you and George Bullard.”
    “Some hope,” Duke muttered. “Nobody knew him before he turned up here.”
    “That has yet to be proved,” Miss Eaton said mildly. “It’s possible that his killer knew him from somewhere else.”
    After breakfast, the students set off with their painting gear and Miss Eaton lingered with Val and Parry over another coffee.
    “I give them time to get started on something,” the tutor explained.
    “Can you always find then?”
    He shrugged. “Oh, they don’t stray far. The usual places—the harbour and cottages, the rocks below the cliffs. They tend to pick the same subjects each time.”
    Miss Eaton set off with Parry, sketch-block under his arm and a pocketful of coloured pencils. Just beyond the gate, a battered Ford was parked. One man sat inside, balding, and wearing an old sports jackets with leather patches. He was smoking a cheroot.
    When he saw them, he jumped out of the car and tossed his cheroot away.
    “I’m Gray,” he said affably. “ Penzance Herald —hope you can spare a few minutes of your time. I’ll get your picture in the paper.”
    “Certainly not,” Parry said. “Go away!”
    Miss Eaton touched his arm lightly, and murmured, “Hold on just a moment.” She beamed at the reporter. “Of course I’ll be delighted to talk to you.” She stuck a cigarette in the corner of her mouth and talked around it in her American voice.
    “I’ve been hired to investigate this murder, buddy.”
    Gray produced a pencil and notepad. “Keep talking. Give me some quotes, please—the police won’t give me anything.”
    “Because they don’t know anything.”
    “But you do?”
    Miss Eaton didn’t like it when Gray moved closer; his breath smelled strongly of beer.
    “I will,” she corrected. “I’ll nail the killer, you can bet on that. It won’t be the first time I’ve beaten the cops to the draw—stick around, baby, and I’ll give you the scoop of a lifetime.”
    She blew smoke into Gray’s face, forcing him to move back a pace, and quoted her favourite Sam Pike line: “Crime doesn’t pay—not while I’m around.”
    “Fascinating.”
    “You can inform your readers that Eaton Investigations is on the job—and we never fail!” She pressed a photograph from her handbag into Gray’s hand.
    As the reporter drove away in a hurry and they continued down the hill, past the tearooms, Parry said in an amused voice, “I’m amazed. Really I am—you should have been an actress.”
    Miss Eaton said briskly, “It served to draw the newspapers away from Val. And I’m not averse to a little publicity. After all, I’m going to need clients when I return to the office.”

CHAPTER NINE
    WITH THE PAINTERS
    Walking down the steep hill, Miss Eaton had a view of the village of Porthcove nestling in the bay. The greystone walls of the harbour sheltered fishing boats. The sea sparkled in sunlight.
    As they reached the bottom of the hill, with the Harbour Inn on one corner and a church on the other, Keith Parry said, “There’s Jim. I’ll have a word with him first.”
    The sea front was covered with cobblestones worn smooth by time. Fletcher had set up his easel to face a group of fishermen’s cottages and his quick sketch looked good to Miss Eaton.
    Boldly drawn, with strong contrasts of light