The Kiwi Target

the problem? You said there’s been a crime here. When? If it’s within the past three days, I can’t help you.”
    Pettibone did not deign to reply to that. Instead, he suddenly became quite firm. “I should like to have a look at those cases,” he said. “With your consent, of course. Then you can be on your way. Otherwise ...”
    The young man was desperate. He could stick to his story that he was an innocent courier, but that would still mean detention and endless questions. It would mean the loss of the merchandise and blow the whole operation out of the water. He would never get away with it, and he would lose his promised pay.
    Without warning, he lunged at Pettibone, grabbed his throat with his left hand, and aimed a murderous right cross at his jaw. He was young and strong, and he had hit people before. He had also spent some time in the martial arts dojos of Hong Kong.
    His blow was blocked by what seemed to be a steel bar. Pettibone spun to the left to break the neck hold and seized the American’s wrist. The young man was spun off his feet and slammed hard, face down, onto the pavement. For a moment the wind was out of him; by the time he recovered, he had been expertly handcuffed.
    It was hopeless then. He allowed himself to be pushed into the back of the official car because he couldn’t help it. His two heavy suitcases were transferred to the back of the police vehicle his own car was moved to the side, and he was on his way back to Russell. He had scraped his cheek on the pavement and it was bleeding, but he could do nothing about it. He knew without making an attempt that the rear doors of the police car would not open from the inside.
    At the police station he was put in the detention room. That done, Pettibone carried in the two cases and inspected their contents. Then he reached for the direct-line telephone and requested assistance. He didn’t have adequate facilities to hold four prisoners overnight, and he was a practical man.

CHAPTER 33

    As he turned off the main road into the entrance to his station, Peter felt a strong sense of peace. He stopped in the parking area and looked across the lawn at the ranch house. Some of the repair work had already been done, so that the appearance of the building was much improved. Louise stood in the doorway, waiting to welcome him back.
    He strode across the grass, feeling with every step that it was his own property, and held out his hands to her. The way she took them gave him a clue; he gathered her in and kissed her warmly, not caring who might be watching.
    When he let her go, she asked, “Did you see Dad?”
    “Yes,” he answered. “He was more comfortable this morning- He was sitting up in bed, and we had a good talk.” He stopped to examine the new woodwork on one side of the doorway. It was clearly a first-class job. On the left, the burned boards were still starkly blackened; obviously they hadn’t been touched. “When will they finish up?” he asked.
    Louise came to stand beside him. “I need a decision from the owner,” she said. “Most of the boards can be repainted as they are. The damage is fairly minor, and the appearance should be all right. Or if you want to spend the money, they can all be replaced and no trace of the fire will be left.”
    “This is a beautiful house,” Peter told her. “Why spoil it for the sake of a few dollars?”
    “I was sure you’d say that, but I thought I ought to wait and ask you first.”
    He followed her into the kitchen where she turned and asked, ”Tea or coffee?”
    “Coffee, and that’s all. I ate in Queenstown before I came out. The people at the Mountaineer asked me to say hello.”
    “Sit down and tell me everything,” Louise said. “I’m very anxious to know.” She took a pot of hot water off the stove and poured it into a coffee maker.
    Peter drew a chair up to the big table. “Thanks for managing everything so well.”
    Louise concerned herself with the coffee machine until she was able to draw out two cups. “Let’s go in the other room,” she suggested.
    In the large living room the windows were open. Bird songs could be heard with a sharp clarity, reminding Peter how much he had changed his life from the urban environment he had always known. They sat down together on a long sofa, the coffee in front of them.
    “How did things go in Wellington?” Louise asked.
    Something in her tone told him how to shape his answer. ‘Very well—in fact, it could hardly