Читать книгу The Phantom Launch - Aidan de Brune - Страница 8

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THE tide had risen until it lapped almost on to the spot where the dead body had rested. Weston continued to stand, gazing thoughtfully across the waters. Suddenly he roused himself, shaking his body in somewhat the manner of a dog coming out of water. He turned on his heels, and led the way round the bluff.

A few minutes' search of the sands on the north side of the bluff and the journalist pointed to some faint marks. They were much wind-blown, but were distinguishable as footprints. The first showed some little distance from the point of the bluff, as if the man had walked along the firmer sands at the water's edge. The track suddenly turned and led to the low bank. Then along it for a short distance, and up and over it into the bush.

"Now for a search." Weston whistled happily to himself. "This is going to be some job. Can't be far, however, for the old fellow came out of the scrub soon after leaving his camp. The walking along the sands would be much better than through that low scrub. Spread out a bit, old chap, and walk straight into the bush. Look for the camp, not the footmarks. They'd be impossible to trace in all this muck."

Spacing out to about ten yards apart, the two men walked slowly into the bush. Weston's guess had not been wrong. Less than fifty yards from the banks of the inlet, Lister noticed the remains of a camp fire under a clump of low trees beside a small clearing. He called to his chum. A few yards from the fireplace, concealed in the bush, they found the swag.

"Now, what's the reason of that?" Weston halted some yards from the ashes of the fire, and looked around him. "The old man mast have used this camp for quite a few days. He left it, and went to the bluff, possibly to meet someone. Before he left he rolled his swag, and hid it away. Looks as if he was intending to travel."

"There seems no doubt but that he left his camp to meet someone." answered Lister, thoughtfully. "We can take it that there was an appointment at the bluff, and that the old man did not intend to remain in his camp by the Inlet after he had kept the appointment. Everything's set for a quick get-away. Here's the swag, billy, and tucker-bag. He kept the appointment, and was killed."

"So far, good." Weston was walking slowly round the camp. "You've got the stage set, so far, Syd. Now, will you explain why he did not bring his visitor to his camp? That would be bush-way. We'll take it as understood that the man he went to meet did not know where the old man's camp was, but knew the way from Como to the bluff. Now, why the argument and the murder at the bluff? A bushman would certainly suggest that they walk back to his camp and boil the billy."

"Perhaps the murderer struck at sight."

"No." Weston was looking down at the ashes of the fire. "To suppose that the quarrel took place before the appointment at the bluff is absurd. Men on bad terms don't meet like that. The thing's a puzzle, and for the time we must pass it. Now we'll have a look at the swag."

"Better leave that to the police."

"Not on your life." Weston looked up from unrolling the swag. "When I've had my look I'll roll it again, and leave it here for the police to find. You can bet all you're worth, Syd, they won't give me more information than I can wring out of them; so I'm not going to be careful of their feelings."

A couple of rags, a change of clothes, a few odd pieces of underclothing, the whole wrapped in an old waterproof sheet, formed the contents of the swag. Weston tackled the collection methodically. The rugs were old and none too clean. He laid them aside. The odds and ends, and a collection of small utility objects, gave no results. Lastly came the change of clothing.

Here Weston made his find. In the breast pocket of an old coat lay a rather dilapidated pocket-book. It was well-filled, and secured by a buttoned strap. The journalist spread one of the rugs on the sand, and emptied the contents of the pocket-book out on it. There were a few old papers of little value, mostly cuttings from newspapers, and one letter, new and fresh.

"Gideah Brading." Weston read the name on the envelope, a puzzled frown on his face. "Who the devil is, or was, Gideah Brading? I've heard that name somewhere."

"Sounds familiar to me." Lister had an indistinct recollection of having heard the name frequently in past days. "Have a look inside the envelope, old man. You're getting quite early Victorian. From what I've heard in that era you were supposed to examine the stamp and the outside of the envelope; then hold a guessing competition as to the contents; lastly, and with fearful awe, open it, and express surprise that you had not been able to guess the subject-matter and the writer."

"All serene, old man." Weston laughed up at his chum. "Now for the solution of the mystery."

The envelope contained a single sheet of common paper. Weston handled it with great care. There was no address on the paper. It was headed "Sydney." and the date, three days before. There was no prefix, and only two lines of typewriting:—

THE USUAL SUM OF MONEY HAS BEEN PLACED WHERE YOU KNOW. THIS IS THE FINAL PAYMENT.

"No signature," observed the journalist, placing the letter on the rug, and examining the newspaper cuttings. "I'll make a copy of the wording. Dare say after the police get their paws on it I shan't see it again."

"There seems to be some padding at the back of this case," observed Lister, fingering the case curiously.

"'Ware finger-prints." warned Weston, quickly. "Mack will guess I had a look in the swag, but he'll pass that over unless he finds we have obliterated some important clues. Then he'll raise Cain."

Lister took out his handkerchief, and held the pocket-book in it. At one end he found a small flap, and looked into a long pouch running the whole length of the purse. Inside was a wad of papers. Taking care not to touch them with his fingers, he drew them out, and dropped them on the rug.

"Good lor'!" Weston looked up in amazement. "The man was a millionaire."

The journalist took from his pocket-knife a small pair of tweezers. With these he picked up each note separately, counting its denomination as he did so.

"Ninety-seven pounds ten shillings," he observed, when he had them arranged in a little pile. He tore a piece of paper from his pad and with it held the notes while Lister held the case open. They had some difficulty in replacing the notes without touching them with their bare fingers, but accomplished it at last. Lister closed the pocket-book, and dropped it on the rug.

"We don't have to decide what we're going to do with the swag," he said, grimly. "We have to take it to the police station. There's no sense in leaving a hundred pounds in the bush for anyone to find."

Weston nodded agreement. For some minutes he worked, repacking the swag.

When he had secured the last strap, he rose to his feet.

"I've been thinking of asking you to remain here on watch while I went for the Como constable," he said, lifting the swag to his shoulder. "But that means delay, and I want to get back to the city. Well leave a mark on the beach opposite to where the camp is in the bush. He'll find it with that for direction."

A few minutes later they were back at the bluff. Weston dropped the swag to the ground.

"There's a lot of things want explaining," he grumbled. "What the devil was the man doing here? I'm going to have a wander up the Inlet before we leave—Coming?"

Lister shook his head. Without arguing the point, Weston started along the patch of sands, walking a zigzag line from the water's edge to the bank. Lister sat down on the sands and looked after him.

There was much that required explanation. Why had the old man been stricken down at the point of the bluff? Who had been his enemy? What were the reasons for the crime? Had there been a crime at all? The body bore no signs of violence. Lister began to think they were trying to reconstruct a crime out of very indefinite material. The only reason for suggesting the man had been murdered came from the letter to the office, suggesting a murdered man would be found on the sands at Yaney's Inlet. The letter was supported in some measure by the attitude of Dr. Macdermott. He had said the man had been in full health a few days before.

The autopsy might declare the man to have suffered from some obscure disease—and, consequently, the death to have occurred through natural causes. In that case all their theories would fall to the ground. There would be no second party in the tragedy. The old man would have been found to have walked from his camp to the bluff, and have been taken ill there. He might have been overcome by sickness while in his camp, and come down to the dirt-road seeking aid.

They were working on theories—theories for and against the major theory of murder. Before they could get on the track of facts they must discover who Gideah Brading was, and the cause of his death. The name was familiar. Lister struggled hard to remember what he had heard, or read, but memory eluded him.

Lister's eyes wandered round the bluff. Against the face of the low cliff stood a long stick. He remembered seeing it there when he came down on the sands to where the little group of officials stood. He could not remember anyone handling it. Perhaps it had stood there before the police came on the scene? Or, perhaps, one of the officers had brought it with him?

The expert rose from the sands and walked to where the stick stood. It had been cut from a young sapling. The thinner end had had the bark peeled off, and was stained with water, little specks of sand adhering to it. The stick was peculiar. It had not been used for a walking stick, otherwise the thicker end would have been peeled for a grip. The stick appeared as if it had been used for a probe.

"—has been placed where you know." The words of the letter came vividly before Lister's memoir. The old man was to receive money at a place he knew of. The tone of the letter, the lack of address and signature, showed that the writer did not want to meet the old man. The money had been hidden and the stick used to probe for it.

Lister picked tip the stick and looked around him. The old man had fallen about six feet from where the stick stood against the bluff. He would work from there, out to where the old man had fallen.

Weston was down at the other end of the sand-patch, examining something at the edge of the water. Lister drove the stick into the sands, forcing it down as far as he could. It met no resistance. Again he tried, some twelve inches further out. Slowly he worked to where the body of the old man had rested, and then turned, making for the bluff again.

On the third journey, about two feet from the place where the body had rested, the stick struck something hard. Lister dropped to his hands and knees and commenced to scoop out the sands. Soon he came to something hard and smooth, and commenced to clear it along its length. He was making quite a large hole, not deep, but long and narrow, before he came to the end of the hidden thing. It was a board, and he tried to get his fingers under it. He could not, for it was very thick.

"What's the game, Syd?"

Lister looked up. Weston was standing over him, grinning broadly at the large hole the expert had dug.

"There's something here, Tony." The expert did not relax his efforts. "I believe it to be a box."

A moment and Weston was down on his knees, clawing vigorously at the loose sand. For some minutes they worked in silence.

"Whoop!" Weston tugged hard at something deep in the hole. "I've got a handle."

A few more tugs, and the two men brought to the surface a long, narrow box, about two feet wide and four feet long. In depth it was approximately eighteen inches. Lister sat back and looked at it in amazement.