The Maxwell Marlowe, Private Eye Series

By Raymond Boyd Dunn

A compilation of the eight short stories in the Maxwell Marlowe, Private Eye Series to date. The adventures of the coffee-loving, Akubra-wearing Private Detective as he endeavours to solve the puzzles presented by his clients on the beautiful Sunshine Coast. Includes ... 1."The Case of the Missing Heiress", 2."Murder in Maroochydore", 3."Wayne's Daughter", 4."The Fairbanks Enigma" and 5. "Get Charlene". 6. The Case of the Missing Stamps and Coin Collection. 7. Blackmail in Paradise. 8. Death on the Valley Rattler.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raymond Boyd Dunn
• Release date: Aug 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476344928

Raymond Boyd Dunn

Raymond Boyd Dunn is a "born and bred" third generation Australian. After his retirement Raymond Boyd became a grey nomad, and, with his wife, spent some time touring this vast country of Australia. He was born in the small Burnett Valley town of Monto, Queensland, and for his entire life has answered to the name of 'Boyd'. Apart from his travels he has lived all of his life in Queensland, and after satisfying his thirst for seeing first hand this wonderful country we live in, settled on the Sunshine Coast to spend his remaining years in the sunshine near the beach.He commenced his working life as a Bank Officer and resigned after thirteen years to become self-employed. At various stages he has owned a Corner Store, a small Supermarket Chain, a Butchery, a Milk Run, a Printery and a Cattle and Grain Farm. He has been involved, in various capacities, in Cricket and Tennis Clubs; Jaycees, Lions and Rotary Clubs and Aero Clubs. He was a Cricketer, played tennis, tried to play golf, and was a keen long distance runner.Upon taking a well-earned retirement he wrote his unpublished autobiography, which was for distribution among his family of six children and numerous grand-children. A visit to Cooktown, where he learnt of the Palmer River Gold Rush, was the incentive to keep writing and produce his first novel 'Palmer Gold' He then settled down to write novels, producing two more books to complete a Trilogy...'An Australian Ranch' and "Carly and Sam...Will and Effie'. There followed numerous short stories, and other novels: 'Lord of the Manor in Australia', and 'The Vintage Years'. He continues to write whilst enjoying life in the sunshine on the beautiful Sunshine Coast in Queensland.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was such a glorious morning - even though it was Monday! The sun shining through the window lit up the bedroom with a glow which seemed to be laden with promise. How could any thing possibly go wrong to spoil what promised to be a beautiful sunny day? It was one of those mornings when it seemed that nothing was impossible; no task in-surmountable; when the urge was to spring out of bed, flex the weary muscles now rejuvenated by the mandatory eight hour's sleep, pull on the tattered old track suit, and pound the concrete pathways which abounded in this part of the Sunshine Coast. I managed to resist the urge, and pulled the pillow down over my head.

The previous day I had taken part in the Asics Half Marathon in Surfers' Paradise. I didn't win it! Not even for my men's age group which was for the 30 - 34 year olds. I came in among the first half of the total field, with a time of 1.54.04 for the 21.1 kilometres, which was slightly better than the average for my age group. It was nowhere near my personal best for the distance, but I have a good excuse (or should I say 'reason'?). I had been deluged with work during the previous month, with the result I failed to put in the hours pounding the pavements in preparation for the event.

Eight thousand nine hundred men and women, boys and girls, took part in the Half Marathon event, and left the starting area at the Broadwater Parklands. The more hopeful crowded to the front, with the most favoured in the front line. The rest of us took up our positions further back in the multitude of runners - some of whom became walkers before the finish - some nine hundred not finishing at all. It was so crowded back where I took up a position that it was impossible to run for most of the first half-kilometre or so. Those who over-estimated their ability, and started too far towards the front, were holding up those behind them. It even took me a full minute or so to reach the starting line, where the timing device tied to my shoe kicked in and began to record my official time, and I set the stopwatch on my wrist.

Once I found some room I began to jog, and as the field began to spread a little I was able to run. I felt really good. I hadn't done much running in the previous month, as I said earlier, and I was surprised to find that I was running easily, and began to pass the slower runners who had started before me. At the 5km mark I was still going well, and began to think that I might even do a PB on this run. I had ignored the first few water stations because of the congestion. There were too many runners not dedicated enough to grab one of the cardboard cups without stopping, and drinking on the run, before pelting the empty cup to the side of the road. Even a few seconds wasted, by stopping for a drink, could lose you a few places at the finish. At this stage I was still feeling competitive.

The route followed the roadway along the beachfront of The Broadwater as far as the Sovereign Island turnoff, and back to the starting point, which then became the finishing line. It is quite disturbing to us mere mortals, when we still have two or three kilometres to go before reaching half way, to have the leaders pass us, already heading back towards the finish line.

As I approached the half-way point and turn-around in Paradise Point, I was beginning to feel the unaccustomed lack of fitness; I lost my rhythm, and began to slow down. I usually keep myself very fit. For years I attended Aerobics classes at a gym in Currimundi, and sometimes worked out on their exercise equipment. I have always loved running. It must be in the genes, because my father and grandfather were also keen long distance runners.

There were pounding feet all around me, and I heard some that seemed to be dogging my footsteps. Shortly, the owner of the pounding feet behind me appeared at my shoulder.

What's the matter, Phil? Slowing down in your old age? he puffed.

Phil is not my name, but people who know me well insist on calling me that. You see, I'm a Private Investigator, and my name being Maxwell Marlowe, it is only natural that my friends would call me 'Phil', short for Raymond Chandler's 'Philip Marlowe, Private Eye.'

G'day, Stumpy! I gasped in reply. Stumpy is a friend, a carpenter, who also hails from the Sunshine Coast, where I live and work. He is over six feet tall and as thin as a whip-stick! Hence, in typical Aussie fashion, he has been given the sobriquet of Stumpy! I was going pretty well a couple of klicks back. Now I'm beginning to wonder if I'll even finish.

Of course you'll finish. Run with me for a while. I'm starting to get my second wind, so you might too.

I could not have run in step with him if he had maintained his normal stride, which is a little longer than mine. He had shortened it slightly, when he drew alongside, in order to stay level with me. They say, and I believe it's true, that the mind, as well as fitness, plays a big part in long distance running. Before Stumpy joined me, when tiredness began to make itself felt, I began to dwell on my perceived lack of fitness caused by the laxity of my training in the previous weeks. This in turn made me feel more tired.

Running step for step with Stumpy, I began to feel my rhythm coming back, and by the time we made the turn-around I was running freely once again. I checked my wristwatch to find my time at the half-way mark was about fifty-eight minutes and some seconds. I always have a better time on the run home, because of less interference by crowding, but there wasn't going to be a personal best for me on this run.

After another kilometre, Stumpy said: Well, I'm off now! See you at the finish line. With that, he lengthened his stride and began to draw slowly away from me. For a short while I tried to keep up with him, but then decided that if I did I'd lose my rhythm again, and be in trouble once more.

Well, as I said earlier, I was one of the eight thousand finishers. My time was a long way over my best, but I had to be reasonably satisfied with it in the circumstances.

.............................

Chapter 2

A loud knocking on my bedroom door awoke me.

Come on, Phil. Wake up! We have to leave for work now, and if you don't get up you'll still be goofing off at lunchtime!

It was Sandra, one of my flat-mates. The flat is rented in my name, and I have two flat-mates. Sandra is a hairdresser who works in Caloundra - which means I don't have to go to the barber, or make appointments if I want special treatment.

Leave him be! I heard Rusty say. He's his own boss, so he can get up whenever he likes!

Rusty is my other flat-mate. He is a motor mechanic, which means that quite a lot of work on my old 2003 Commodore VY Acclaim Sedan is done on the cheap. You might well ask why a cool dude private eye is driving around in an aging family car, instead of a flash, low slung, latest model roadster. For one thing, in addition to being such a popular brand, it is white and therefore anonymous - a necessity in my line of work. Secondly, it was given to me by my father when he decided he wanted a more up-model, prestige vehicle.

Alright! Alright! I'm getting up, I cried, as I threw back the sheet, and sat groggily on the side of the bed.

Are you sure, you're getting up?

'Sheesh! She's going to make someone a nagging wife someday,' I muttered to myself. Our original intention - Rusty's and mine - when we looked for a girl to rent the third bedroom, was to have someone to keep the place clean and tidy, and perhaps prepare a few meals. Boy, did we come a cropper! She might have been the last in, and therefore lowest in the hierarchy of the household, but she didn't take any nonsense from either of us.

She laid down a few ground rules, - once she was well and truly established in her room, - to the effect that we are all to do a fair share of all the chores around the house. Our bedrooms are our own domains and therefore sacrosanct, but she keeps a keen eye on the rest of the flat, and is not slow in ordering us to tidy up our mess.

I'm up! I'm up! I yelled.

This seemed to satisfy her, and I heard her saying goodbye to Rusty, and the door closing behind her as she left the flat to catch the Sunbus to take her to her place of work in the main street of Caloundra.

I slung my towel over my shoulder, and walked out to the living/dining area clad only in my silk shorts, which is the only nightwear I sleep in. Rusty was sitting at the meal table drinking tea, while scanning the morning paper.

I thought we'd missed out on the paper this morning, said Rusty. It landed in the gutter, and I couldn't see it until I walked right out to the edge of the footpath.

Well, don't wear it out until I get to have a read. I pay for the paper, so I should have first read of it, but normally I am the last one to get out of bed, so I am usually the last one to read it. At least, they leave the crosswords for me to do.

How did the Marathon go? he asked.

I paused at the bathroom door, and looked back at him.

It wasn't my best effort, but at least I finished - and it was the Half Marathon!

Oh, sorry! I don't take much notice of all that stuff. Anything that involves so much effort makes me tired just thinking about it.

You could do with a bit of exercise yourself. At least I've still got my six-pack. I tightened my abdomen, and went into a body-builder pose to demonstrate and show off. Yours is well on the way to becoming a beer barrel!

Go and have your shower while I finish the paper!

Originally, I slept in the main bedroom which has an ensuite, but when Sandra came on board I made the gentlemanly sacrifice, and allowed her to have it instead as a concession to her femininity. Plus the fact that I know how long women can tie up the use of a bathroom, and take up all the available shelf space with their endless array of beauty treatments. Not to mention the unmentionables hanging over the bathtub. Now Rusty and I share the bathroom.

By the time I had taken care of the three S's, and returned to the living/dining room, Rusty was nowhere to be seen. I heard the sound of his four-wheel drive reversing out into the street, and setting off towards his workplace in Maroochydore with the satisfying growl of powerful exhausts.

Our flat is half of a duplex in a back street in the seaside town of Maroochydore on the Sunshine Coast in Queensland. My office is in a building in a street off Aerodrome Road, which is always busy with traffic heading towards, or away from, the Plaza Shopping Centre. My office is really only a large room with enough space for my desk and my secretary's, some shelves, and a filing cabinet, a couple of chairs for clients, and most importantly, a sink and coffee making facilities. I did not select it for it's exposure to customer traffic. If it wasn't for the Yellow Pages in the Telephone Directory we would never be bothered by customers.

There is a name plate, on the outside wall adjacent to the door, proclaiming that this is the home of 'Marlowe Private Investigators'. I might be stretching a long bow by insinuating there is more than one sleuth on the job, but I don't think I'll ever be prosecuted for misleading advertising.

As Rusty said, I am my own boss, and therefore should be able to please myself at what time I arrive at work, but I have Dorothy to consider. Dorothy is my secretary.

She is not the typical paperback detective's class of secretary - not a luscious looking blonde with long legs, short skirts, and plunging neckline. Nor is she a tough-talking, or gum-chewing, hard-bitten doll. Dorothy is a quiet twenty-year old, softly spoken, except when she in on the phone where she speaks concisely and clearly. She is superbly efficient in her work, and has a memory like the computer she operates with a magical touch. I am the original computer illiterate, and dare not go within arms reach of the infernal machine. I can mostly manage the intricacies of my mobile phone alright, but I sometimes even have to seek her help with that.

We don't have a landline in the office, but depend on mobile phones - one for the office, one for me, and one for Dorothy to carry in her handbag. She wasn't very keen on having one for herself at first, because it meant that she would always be at my beck and call, even when she was at home, but eventually had to accede to her boss's wishes.

I'm sorry I'm late, Doss, I said, when I came through the door. Has anything important come up? I didn't expect that there would be, for it was still early, and there was really nothing of importance left over from the previous week. The cases which had been cleaned up left the Bank balance in the healthiest state it had been for months.

I don't think so, Boss. There was one lady who wanted to talk to you, but she said she would call again later. She wouldn't leave her name.

I know! I know! 'Doss' and 'Boss'? Well 'Doss' seems to me to be a natural enough shortening for Dorothy, and when she first started working for me, and started calling me 'Mr Marlowe', I felt uncomfortable with that. In the end, with Max or Phil sounding too familiar, she became used to calling me 'Boss.'

She didn't give you any indication as to what it might be about, did she? No? Well, we'll just have to wait and see if she calls. If that kettle's hot, I might make us a cup of coffee.

Dorothy could take a hint, and came to her feet. I'll make it, she said.

...........................

Chapter 3

It might be only instant coffee, but I really need that caffeine rush early in the morning to get my heart started! I like it strong and black. I'd already downed one cup before breakfast, so this one was to 'top up.' A lot of people I know go without breakfast, but I believe in the old saying: 'Eat like a King for breakfast, eat like a Prince for lunch, and for dinner, eat like a pauper.' Therefore, I do not mirror the accepted image of the Private Eye who lives on fast food and Coca Cola (or something stronger), and couldn't survive if MacDonalds and KFC closed down. However, I usually go to the nearest Subway outlet for my lunch. A Sub is supposed to be the healthy fast food, and I am only too eager to accept it as a fact. But Caffeine is my weakness!

Mine is only a small detective agency. I have most of the equipment necessary for surveillance investigations, and I do not employ anyone apart from Dorothy. I sometimes have lent my services to the larger agencies, and have built a reputation of being trustworthy and reliable, as well as being discreet. Thus, I have avenues within those agencies to assist me, at times, in my own investigations.

I settled down behind my desk to enjoy my coffee, and read the reports on the previous week's cases which Dorothy had printed for me. The reports had been safely engorged by the computer, and she assured me that they would be there for me if, and when, I wanted to view them. I still liked to be able to read them in black print on the white back-ground of A4 paper. I don't entirely trust the computer or the separate modem that she assures me holds a back-up copy if the computer fails.

The office phone jangled the usual melody - one that I could never give a name to.

Marlowe Private Investigations, announced Dorothy. She always uses the slight variation in the name, because by doing so she would not be telling an untruth. She is that kind of girl. And I admire her for it, because it means that I can believe everything she tells me to be the truth.

"Yes, he's here now. Would you like to spea....Just a moment...

A Mrs Wright wants to know if you could see her if she came in here, said Dorothy, covering the phone with her other hand.

Tell her okay!

Yes, that will be perfectly alright, said Dorothy, back into the phone. When do...Yes, twenty minutes ...Yes, we'll expect you then. Good Mor... but the line had gone dead.

She'll be here in twenty minutes.

"Yes, I heard. Did she say what it was about?

No, but she sounded agitated.

Well, we'll know in twenty minutes. I don't recall ever having had dealings with a Mrs Wright. Did she give you her address?

No. She hung up before I could get any details.

Never mind, we'll know soon enough.

We both settled back in our chairs, and sipped our coffees as we awaited the arrival of Mrs Wright. I don't know how she can be so efficient, but Dorothy's work is always up to date. Even if I tell her a task is not urgent she will set to immediately to tackle it. She likes to get the unimportant jobs out of the way in case something urgent comes up.

How's that new boyfriend of yours, Doss? I asked.

He's alright, I guess.

But?

He's mad keen on cricket, and I can't stand the game. It's so boring. He asked me to go to a match with him in Caloundra the other weekend, and I agreed. I thought it would be an opportunity to sit together, and get to know one another. But when we got there he unloaded his gear from the boot of the car, and I discovered that he was actually playing in the match. His side was fielding, so I had to sit by myself in the grandstand for most of the afternoon. He was also the opening batsman, which meant that as soon as they'd finished fielding he had to go back on. I hoped he would make a small score, so that he could come and sit with me, but he didn't get out. Luckily, another girl came and made herself known to me when she arrived towards the end of the afternoon, and we commiserated with each other about our respective, ignorant boyfriends. She told me that we were known as Wags - 'Wives and girlfriends'.

Dorothy doesn't usually complain or 'go on' about things, so I assumed from the foregoing that her boyfriend's tenure as her current beau is to be a brief one.

Well, never mind. Someone else will come along before long. After all, you're only twenty.

Oh, I'll give Spencer another couple of chances if he's still interested.

There's always on-line dating on the Internet, so I'm told.

Hey, I'm not that desperate!

I was only kidding her, of course. She is a very attractive young lady, and if she wasn't so young - and my employee - I might have been interested myself. I settled back to do the crossword in the paper, which I had brought with me, while we waited for Mrs Wright. Dorothy went to work on her crocheting. When she first came to work for me as a nineteen year old, and I told her she could do what she liked to fill in time in the slack periods, I was amazed when she began to crochet! A nineteen year old doing crochet!

We had only another ten minutes to wait before a well-dressed lady of about forty appeared in the open doorway. Her appearance exuded wealth, and my hopes of another profitable case were raised. But I wondered why she would have come to such a small agency as mine, when she obviously could afford to go to one of the larger and better known ones. I don't have any illusions about being a hot-shot investigator. I always do my best, and lately I've been having better than moderate success in all my endeavours.

Are you Mr Marlowe? she asked, ignoring Dorothy, and moving straight to the chair in front of my desk and sitting down.

Yes, Ma'am! Who did she think I'd be?

You've been recommended to me by a friend. Can I rely on you to be discreet?

I didn't think that she was trying to be offensive, but it was a question that should have offended any self-respecting investigator, which I am - and it did! But I let it slide and answered: "Of course, Ma'am. Am I correct in assuming you are Mrs Wright?

Oh, I'm sorry. Forgive me. I didn't mean to forget my manners. Yes, my name is Monica Wright - Mrs Monica Wright.

You are obviously in an agitated frame of mind, Mrs Wright. Can we offer you a cup of coffee to help calm your nerves? Then you can tell us the purpose of your visit.

Yes, thank you. That would be most kind.

I nodded to Dorothy, who had heard, and was already on her feet to set the already hot kettle back to boiling.

While we were waiting for the coffee, I leaned back in my chair, elbows on the arms, and steepled my fingers as I looked expectantly at my prospective new client.

My daughter's been kidnapped!

I leaned forward on to the desk - she had captured my full attention. How do you know? Is there a ransom note?

She delved into her bag, and produced a folded piece of paper. My daughter didn't come home from the beach last night, and I found this in the letterbox this morning. She handed me the note.

The note was written on a piece of white wrapping paper of the kind used in the deli section of a supermarket, with a felt pen, and in a childish hand: 'We hav yore dorter. We wont $200,000 in used $50 notes if you wont her back. We'll fone you tonight. Hav the munie or else.'

I beckoned to Dorothy. Have a look at this Doss. Tell me what you think.

Dorothy took the note and looked at it. Someone is trying to make it look like the work of an illiterate, but an illiterate wouldn't have used an apostrophe like that, and the spelling is too bad to be believable.

I turned back to Mrs Wright. Why haven't you taken this to the police? How old is your daughter, Mrs Wright?

Stephanie is seventeen years old. She lives with me, but works in my husband's business as a secretary. My husband and I have separated, and I have nothing to do with his business. I am wealthy in my own right. It was my money that started the business in the first place. I think it might have been the only reason he married me.

Why haven't you taken it to the police? I repeated.

Aren't they more likely to kill her if the police are involved?

No, not necessarily.

When I rang my husband, and told him about the note, he told me that under no circumstances was I to contact the police. We were going to follow instructions when they phoned back. I no longer trust my husband's judgment. I knew a friend had recently hired a private investigator, and was happy with the results, so I rang her, and she gave me your phone number.

She nodded her thanks as Dorothy handed her the cup of coffee on a saucer - one of the set of three cups and saucers we keep especially for clients. There used to be four in the set, but accidents do happen, even in the best of regulated families.

Milk and sugar, Mrs Wright?

No, thank you.

Ah! A woman after my own heart!

Do you have access to that kind of money? I asked.

Yes. The money isn't a problem. It might take me a day or two to get it. I just want my daughter back.

Does your husband know that you've come to me?

No.

What action would you want me to take?

I want you to deliver the money for me, and make sure I get my daughter back safely. I don't want my husband involved in any way. She reached into her bag. I don't know what your rates are, but I'll pay you a retainer of $1000 to make a start.

On the desk-top she placed a slim bundle of $100 notes, neatly held together by a rubber band. Will you help me?

Our rates are $85 an hour, minimum of four hours, plus a non-refundable $300 retainer fee.

Keep the $1000, and let me know if it cuts out.

Very well! I took the money, and sailed it across to Dorothy. Dorothy will give you a receipt.

..............................

Chapter 4

Something didn't seem to be quite right to me. Why would the girl's father be so adamant about not contacting the police? I should imagine, if the girl was my daughter, I would certainly make use of the resources that the Police Service provided. The wording of the note was certainly intimidating, but there had been no actual threat of what would happen to her in the event of making contact with the police.

Why do you think your husband doesn't want to contact the police? I asked.

He didn't say why, but I have my suspicions that his business dealings might not bear scrutinising.

In what way?

Before we separated and he moved out, some of the visitors he invited to the house I believed to be...what's the common word? Dodgy? Whenever I came within earshot, the conversation would either change or cease altogether.

What is your husband's business?

He's an importer of goods from South-east Asia - mainly furniture and carvings, - that sort of thing. His office is in Mooloolaba. 'S.E.A. Imports.'

Do you suspect that he's involved in drugs?

I most certainly hope not! The idea had occurred to me, but I didn't think he would be so stupid. I thought it might have been because he gambles, mainly on the horses. Sometimes he goes to poker nights. Why are you asking about him?

"Oh, they're just routine questions. I'm trying to get a little background.

What about your relationship with your daughter? I continued.

My relationship with my daughter?

Yes. Do you get along well? She lives with you. Do you have any arguments or differences of opinion?

I glanced at Dorothy, and she nodded as she met my eyes. The recorder was recording. Maybe it's not quite legal to record a conversation without both parties being aware of the fact, but I find people are a lot more open and honest if they are left in the dark, so to speak. Once having gained the knowledge, it only takes the press of a button to delete the evidence. Shorthand went out with the advent of recorders.

What has that got to do with her kidnapping?

As I said: I'm just gaining background knowledge. Are you on good terms with your daughter?

She hesitated for a considerable time, and I could see that she was struggling to decide whether to answer my question honestly.

Just lately, we seem to have been drifting apart.

In what way?

We have been having lots of arguments. She believes that because she is seventeen, she can do as she pleases. She says the allowance I give her is 'measly' - her word, not mine. Some nights she doesn't come home at all. I believe she sleeps at her boyfriend's flat. She probably sleeps with him. That's where I thought she would be last night when she didn't come home from the beach.

Did you contact her boyfriend?

No.

Why not?

I'm ashamed to say I don't know who he is, - or his phone number!

I think that the next step is for me to go to your house and check out Stephanie's room.

Why?

As I said: background! Looking for clues, - something to tell us who her boyfriend is, for one.

Oh! Of course!

She gave me her address, and I told her that I would be there in about thirty minutes.

After she left, I said: How about another cup of coffee, Doss? As she rose and went to switch on the electric kettle, I continued: What do you make of all that?

Just the same as you do, I imagine. There's more to this than meets the eye, and I believe she has been drinking.

You could be right. If the note is genuine, then the girl has been taken by someone who knows that her mother is wealthy. It was given to the mother, not the father.

You said: 'If!'

We have to consider all aspects. Whether it's a hoax; whether it's genuine; if it's genuine, then who is responsible. Is it the boyfriend? The father? An outsider? Even the girl herself!

Well, you've said it often enough before: 'Follow the money!' Who needs the money desperately enough to kidnap the girl, - or make it seem that she has been kidnapped?

She handed me my chipped mug of coffee - there were no unchipped mugs, except for the one she kept for herself, - the one with her name on it, which she rinsed out after every use.

What do you expect to find in the girl's room?

I hope to find some clue to her boyfriend's identity, and maybe his address. Her diary would be very handy. Don't all girls keep a diary?

I don't.

Well, we might be lucky!

Well, drink up your coffee, so I can wash up!

I ask you! Am I the Alpha male, or not? First, I'm ordered to get up out of bed by Sandra, now I'm told to drink up by Dorothy. But I handed her my empty mug, and said: I'm off to visit Mrs Wright now. You can get on that infernal machine of yours, and see what you can find out about S.E.A.Imports. Give them a ring, too. Ask about furniture, or the other stuff. Try and get into conversation with whoever answers the phone now that Stephanie is not there. You know what to do.

Yes, Boss, it's as good as done!

And I believed her - she hadn't failed me yet!

I walked around to the house where I parked my car. I have an arrangement with the householder to park my car under his house for a moderate weekly fee. It is a much cheaper proposition than trying to find a parking space every day, and returning to your car to find a parking ticket under the windscreen wiper. It had cost me upwards of $300 before I found the empty space under the high house just down the street from my office.

Mrs Wright's home was up on Buderim. Not in Buderim, as you might expect it to be described. On Buderim is where the wealthy people live. Buderim is a centre of some 40,000 residents which sits atop a mountain, (if you could claim 590 ft as being classified as a mountain.) It has extensive views of the whole Sunshine Coast area, and Mrs Wright's large home has just such a panorama. The home itself, from the outside, just exudes wealth. The inside is just as opulent.

When I was admitted by a young lady, who I imagine was actually what would be described in another culture as a housemaid, I was shown into the living room to await the appearance of Mrs Wright. The room was very spacious, and could have been the set of a lavish movie production - like the one's featuring millionaires' homes. There was no doubt in my mind that Mrs Wright is, indeed, wealthy - probably a multi millionaire herself. It immediately made me think: 'Why would they ask for only $200,000? You didn't have to be Einstein to see that Mrs Wright would be able to fork out much, much more than that!'

Mrs Wright came into the room. She saw me looking through the tall glass windows towards the sea view outside.

Would you like to sit out on the front patio for a while, Mr Marlowe? There's a wonderful view of the coastline from there.

Well, I would like to, but I think I would like to see your daughter's room first.

Of course. Come with me.

She led me up an ornate stairway to the second floor, (or first floor, if you want to be pedantic!)

Stephanie's room was one which I thought any young woman would be delighted with. It tastefully featured an understated pink decor, - not the pink you'd see in a very young girl's room. If she had lived here as a child it would have been redecorated to her individual taste, which I could appreciate was excellent. Not that I'm an expert, but I didn't have to be one to recognise class when I saw it.

Mrs Wright stood in the doorway after I entered the room.

Do you mind if I look through your daughter's things? I asked.

Go ahead, she said. Anything to get her home safely.

Does she have a diary?

Yes. She keeps it in the top drawer of her dressing table. It has a lock on it. She is very secretive about what she writes in it. She's never told me a single thing about what she writes.

I've heard it's a right of passage for girls to have a secret diary. Did you say the top drawer? This one?

Yes, that's where I've seen her put it.

It doesn't seem to be here.

Let me look. It's a white one, with a red rose embossed on the cover.

She opened every drawer, and delved through the clothes stacked neatly inside.

That's strange, she said. I wonder where it could be?

Perhaps you could check the bed-side tables and the other cupboards, while I have a look around the room.

I noticed a couple of magazines on one of the bed-side tables, and picked them up. I rifled through the Women's Weekly, - (which, by the way, comes out monthly,) but didn't find any photograph inside. It was just too much to hope, for a photo of her boyfriend to fall out. I tried the Woman's Day, (which comes out weekly!) No luck!

I checked all the hiding places which I have become familiar with during my time as the compleat discreet private eye, without success. I could find neither diary nor photographs.

I was becoming more and more suspicious. Would she have taken her diary with her on a day trip to the beach? I thought not! If she was thinking of leaving home, for instance, she would not leave without her diary. Would she, could she, be a party to her own kidnapping?

Mrs Wright, are any of her clothes missing?

I really don't know. She has so many, as you can see.

What about carry bags or suitcases?

What are you thinking, Mr Marlowe? Do you think she's left home?

I don't know, Mrs Wright. I'm just trying to cover all the bases. What was she wearing when she left for the beach? Did she have a carry bag?

Yes, she did. Now that I think about it, at the time I wondered why she was taking such a bulky one instead of her normal one.

Keep looking through her clothes. You might think of something that is missing. Does she have a photo album?

No. She has a digital camera, and keeps all of her photos in her laptop computer.

Is her laptop here anywhere, or elsewhere in the house?

She usually keeps it on her desk over there. I'm sorry, I feel so stupid. I should have noticed that it was missing.

Was the bag she took with her large enough to have held the computer?

Yes, it could have been. She broke down then, and sat on the side of the bed. You think she's left home don't you? That she hasn't been kidnapped at all. What about the ransom note? Did she do that as well?

At this stage I'm keeping an open mind.

I walked over to the desk. I know how many things drop down behind my own desk - when I get around to shifting it to have a look I find all sorts of things that I thought I had lost. So I moved the desk, and looked behind it. At last, there was something that might be a clue. On the floor was one of those little computer gadgets that hold all sorts of information. I knew it was a computer gadget, because I'd seen Dorothy plugging one into the office computer. A USB I think she called it. I always marvel that such an insignificant, tiny thing could hold so much information. If I hadn't seen her utilising one with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it.

I'll take this with me, if you don't mind, Mrs Wright. There might be something on it to give us a lead.

I've just noticed that Stephanie's favourite top is missing. I can't find it anywhere. She definitely wasn't wearing it when she left for the beach.

There was a framed photo of a girl on the dressing table.

Is this Stephanie?

Yes.

May I take it? I'll let you have it back as soon as I've copied it.

Certainly!

.....................................

Chapter 5

What did you find out about S.E.A.Imports? I asked Dorothy, when I returned to the office.

I hung my Akubra on the hat peg behind my desk. I am one of the few locals who wear a broad brimmed hat. I know it makes me look like a tourist. In my game, looking like a tourist in a tourist area can sometimes make me unnoticeable, which can be an advantage. It's a strange fact of life that most of the local people, - the younger ones, that is, - do not wear hats. If they do, it is often a baseball cap, which offers little or no protection from the devastating effects of the sun. We live on the Sunshine Coast in the Sunshine State, so we should know better. It is a common sight to have young people parading in the street in bikinis and brief shorts. Tanned and lovely they may look, but I dread to think of the possible consequences.

Enough of that! Let's get back to the so-called kidnapping. By this time I was convinced it was a set up. Stephanie and her boyfriend were in it together. Although why she would want to leave the affluent lifestyle she had been leading, I couldn't understand. Perhaps she wasn't getting enough pocket money. Perhaps love is blind, after all!

I'm afraid I haven't come up with anything much, said Dorothy. The temp they have for a secretary to replace Stephanie had been on the job for only an hour or so. She wasn't any help at all. She was so pleased to have the job she couldn't stop talking about how lucky she was. The Company web site didn't reveal much - just the usual blurb. I'm sorry, Boss. I thought I could do better than that.

Never mind. Here's something you can do for me.

I placed the computer gadget on the desk in front of her.

A USB, she said. What's in it?

That's what I want you to tell me.

Where did you get it? she asked, as she pushed it into the port marked USB. (See, I know what a port is!)

It had fallen behind the girl's desk. It's lucky we found it. Her laptop is missing, and her favourite top.

I broke off as Dorothy pushed the mouse around the desk top, bringing up a window, then another one.

It's beach photos, she cried. Now we'll get somewhere!

There were dozens of photos, most of which had obviously been taken at the beach. It looked like Mooloolaba beach. The 'Loo with a View' featured in some of them, which meant definitely Mooloolaba beach.

There were group photos of all fit and healthy looking men and women clad in skimpy bathing costumes. There were also photos of single people - men and women, - all in beach wear; in some cases, nearly in skimpy beach wear. Stephanie appeared in only a few of the group photos, which meant that she was probably the photographer. However, she did appear in a few with one good looking boy (or man), and it was not hard to tell that she was not being held under protest.

This had to be her boyfriend!

Now we were getting somewhere.

Print a couple of the pair of them, and a few of the group ones, getting in as many different people as you can. After lunch, I'll spend the afternoon down on Mooloolaba esplanade doing the shops to see if they can identify anyone in the photos. It's only a slim hope, but it has to be done. Ring Mrs Wright and give her my mobile number, and ask her to call me if they get in touch again.

I can hear you saying: Why doesn't he get out his phone tracing equipment, and go around to Mrs Wright's, and wait for the phone call.

It's because I don't have any. I have some surveillance equipment, but it's only on the telly that such sophisticated equipment is available at a moment's notice. Some of the larger agencies would have it, but I don't! In any case, I had begun to be convinced that the girl was in no danger, and it would be safe to wait for instructions by phone, and take it from there.

In the meantime, Dorothy printed the photos, which I took with me and drove to Mooloolaba, luckily finding a park in a spot where I wouldn't need a cut lunch to walk to the beach.

I had no luck with the photos. Some of the shop assistants