Читать книгу The Phantom Launch - Aidan de Brune - Страница 7

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TEN minutes later Anthony Weston drove up to the doors of the Times Club in a small high-powered car. Lister was standing on the pavement awaiting him. Weston nodded as the expert got into the car, and started off abruptly, driving at almost a reckless pace through the city traffic. Lister tried to ask questions, but the reporter would only reply with node and grunts. They had passed through Tempe before Weston eased the pace and turned to his companion.

"Suppose you're wondering what all the hurry's about, Syd?" The newspaper man spoke in a seemingly careless tone. "Trouble is the correspondent at Sutherland has managed to queer one of the best stories we've had in the office of late. Instead of forwarding the facts as they came into the police station, and then going out to make inquiries, he tried to organise a scoop on his own. Consequently the noon papers got on the streets with it before we were absolutely certain a murder had been committed. There's likely to be another when I get there."

"What do you know? Facts, I mean."

"Body of man discovered at Yaney's Inlet, about two miles eastward from Como. Body on a patch of sand, and there does not appear to be any visible means of death. Old man, possibly tramp, certainly not of any standing. Death not from natural causes. Left hand badly burned."

"That all?"

"That's what I got from the noon papers." Weston frowned. "When we get to Como we may learn more. Detective-Sergeant Priestly is in charge. Went from Headquarters about ten this morning. He'll keep what he can for me. Pal of mine, y'know."

He lapsed into silence and increased the pace of the car in spite of the awful roads they were bumping over. Six miles on they came within sight of the George's River, and bumped slowly down to Tom Ugly's punt. They had a fair wait here, sufficient to cause Weston to threaten several articles on governmental disregard of public welfare. At length they crossed and drove into the little town of Como. There the journalist made direct for the police station to find the constable in charge was absent. A man, loafing about, was able to place them on the right road to where the tragedy had taken place, and offered to accompany them as guide. Weston seized the opportunity to gather local gossip, and Lister relinquished his seat to the man. All Weston gained was some items of local geography.

They were travelling over a sandy bush-road, filled with sharp-pointed stumps of saplings. Weston had to devote most of his attention to the car. Continually they were catching glimpses of the river, now widening out to quite a broad stream, and coming to its junction with Botany Bay. At other times they appeared to be far inland, surrounded with a scanty, poverty-looking bush, the wheels of the machine sinking deep into the yielding sands.

"Turn here." The man spoke suddenly, pointing down a narrow track leading to their left. There was barely room between the trees for the car to pass, but Weston drove determinedly on. He had no intention of walking over that bush road so long as he could keep wheels turning.

The scrub became thicker. Once or twice they had to leave the track and make a detour because of large stumps in the centre of the road. At length they passed round a patch of thick scrub, and came out above a small sandy beach. At one end of the sand patch a small bluff stood, rising about fifteen feet above the water-level. Against this bluff stood a group of men.

There was a small patch of clearing just above the beach. Weston ran his car on to this, and shut down the engine. Then, with Lister by his side, and their guide tailing them, he made his way to the group of officials.

"Hullo, Lister." A slight, grey man with keen blue eyes came from the group to meet them. "Wondering when you'd get here."

"Only heard of it just before lunch," grumbled the journalist. "What do you know?"

"Very little." Inspector Mack pointed to a bundle of clothing close up against the bluff. "He's lying there. I won't have him moved until the doctor comes."

"Doctor?" Weston raised his eyebrows. "Thought I heard Priestly came down here at ten. Where's the doctor? Can I see the body?"

"Like to know myself where that fool doctor is." The Inspector spoke irritably. "He was sent for about eleven, and hasn't turned up yet. See him? Yes, later. Wait until the doctor's made his examination. So far as I can see, the cause of death is likely to be a puzzle."

"Name?" Weston pointed to the body, at the same time pulling a pad of papers from his pocket.

"Don't know." Mack shrugged his shoulders. "I told you there's nothing to give out at present. I'll say he's a roughly dressed man, about fifty to fifty-five years of age, tanned, bearded, grey-haired, about middle height, and sparsely-built, and you're as wise as I am. Wish that fool doctor would come."

Almost as the Inspector spoke another car appeared at the top of the bank and a man alighted. He walked down slowly on to the sands towards where Mack was standing. The Inspector advanced to meet him, and for some minutes the two men stood talking in undertones.

"Doctor Macdermott, from Sutherland." The Inspector introduced the doctor as they came up to Lister and Weston.

The doctor gave a quick look at the two men, and then turned abruptly towards the dead body, without speaking. Lister looked after him curiously. He was a youngish-looking old man, very fair, tall, and with the Stooping shoulders of a scholar. The eyes were blue and of exceeding hardness; his hair was white, and flowed in waves over the broad forehead. There was a look of settled pain on the face, a queer, laughing look that set Lister wondering.

"Anything wrong with the doctor?" Weston asked the question in a low voice, catching the Inspector by the arm. "He looks worried."

"Been out at a case all night," Mack whispered rapidly, watching the man advance to where the body lay. "Clever chap, too."

He went quickly to where the doctor knelt by the body, Lister pressed forward with the other men. The Inspector's description of the dead man was good. He was a typical hobo, and, seeing him tying there, apparently asleep, one instinctively looked around for the accompanying swag.

For a quarter of an hour the men Stood round watching the doctor working methodically over the body. At length he stood up and motioned to the Inspector.

"Take him to the station, Mack. There's something queer here."

"Poison?"

"No. Heart failure—and with one of the strongest hearts in the district. Know him?"

"No."

"I do. He came to me about a week ago. Complained of pains in the chest. Examined him and found he was structurally sound enough to live to a hundred. Now he's dead. Humph."

"Pay you, doctor?" Weston asked the question, gravely.

"Yes. New five-pound note. Got it at home now." He turned quickly towards the inspector. "Suppose you'll want that note, Mack. Thought so. Well, remember, four nine-six is my money—if you won't allow me to charge for telling a man he's as sound as a bell. I claim the whole fiver. Money earned, y'know."

"What about the burn on the palm of the hand?" asked Lister, curiously. He had strolled over to where the dead man lay, and had looked for the burn mentioned by Weston while driving down.

Dr. Macdermott turned sharply towards the corpse. His face had suddenly tensed. A quick glance at the hand, end he moved away, shrugging his shoulders, indifferently.

"Have that burn when he came to your surgery, Macdermott?" asked the Inspector sharply.

"Not to my knowledge. No." The doctor spoke positively. "I remember him exposing both palms while he was talking to me. There was no sigh of a burn on them. What does it matter? Tramps, like him, acquire burns handling their bush-fires."

The Inspector had drawn a constable aside, and was speaking in a low tone. The others had moved some little distance from the corpse, and were listening to a friendly argument between Detective-Sergeant Priestly and Weston regarding unsolved mysteries in New South Wales.

Another vehicle came into sight at the top of the bank. It was the motor-ambulance from Sutherland. The Inspector motioned for the driver to come down on the sands and pull up beside the corpse. There was a little delay in getting the heavy machine in a position by the body. At last it was lifted in, and the ambulance climbed the bank and disappeared along the dirt road. Slowly the Inspector and Priestly walked up to the clearing where the motor cars were parked. At the top of the bank the Inspector looked back and called to the journalist.

"Coming into Sutherland, Weston?"

"Don't know. Maybe." Weston looked undecided. "Say, Mack. Where did you find the man's swag?"

"Haven't found it. Don't think he had one." The Inspector beckoned to the constables to follow, and walked to the official cars, leaving Weston and Lister alone on the small beach.

"There goes the official brain," commented Weston, a wry smile on his lips. "The man's a swaggie, but hasn't a swag. He's dead, but there's not a mark on him. What did you make of that burn, Syd?"

THE question was asked so suddenly that it startled the expert. Weston shrugged his shoulders, and turned to examine the beach where the dead man had lain.

"It was a burn—rather a severe one," said Lister slowly. "I—I don't think it had anything to do with the cause of death."

"No more than it had to do with the man's camp-fire." Weston was seated on the sands, scraping a deep trench, absently. "He might burn his fingers, his knuckles, or the back of his hand, but the palm—no. That's a queer place to acquire a burn under ordinary circumstance?"

"I think—" commenced Lister.

"For the sake of little devils don't think. There's that parcel of police going off happily to Sutherland, and half a hundred questions unanswered."

"For instance?"

"Where's the man's swag? No good telling me he hasn't one. He had a swag, and its somewhere about."

For some time Weston hunted round the bluff, searching every piece of bush jutting down on to the beach, without success. Lister gave his best endeavours to the search. At the end of the hour they found themselves against the bluff, tired and disappointed.

"Looks as if Inspector Mack was right. The man did not have a swag here," remarked Lister, squatting down on the sands.

Weston had remained standing. He was looking up the line of open water towards the George River. The bluff cat off most of the view. Weston walked to the water, and stood with the tiny wavelets almost lapping the toes of his boots. For some time he remained there, gazing around him. Then he looked down at his boots. The waters were now lapping almost to cover the toecaps. He stepped back on to dry sand, and stood looking at the impressions of his boots slowly disappearing under the influence of the tide. A few minutes and they had disappeared completely. He turned and walked over to where Lister sat.

"Notice anything, Syd?" he asked, almost too carelessly.

"Notice what?"

"High tide in about an hour. The water will be almost up to the foot of the bluff—certainly up to where the man lay."

"Well?"

"There were no footmarks around the man, or those blockheads of police would have guarded them like a jewel warehouse. I looked for footprints when I came down here. There were none, only the imprints of the men tramping about, thinking they were detecting crime. What do you make of that, Syd?"

"First I'm wondering at your using the word 'crime.' So far as I can see, the man died from natural causes."

The journalist sat playing with the sand. He was staring vacantly out over the inlet and did not reply for some minutes.

"There's a crime, sure enough, Syd," he observed, quietly, but earnestly. "There are no footmarks here, because the man came from around the bluff, and the tide's washed out all marks up to the head of the bluff. We'll find plenty when we get above high tide mark round the corner.

"What of the 'crime' theory, Tony?" Lister looked up at his chum, who had regained his feet.

"Of course it's a crime." Weston was still grazing out over the waters. "Why, the murderer had the cheek to send a letter to the Pictorial telling us where to find the body." He turned suddenly on Lister with a rising inflection in his voice: "Do you think those police could find a corpse out here unless they were told where to look? No."