Читать книгу The Dark Highway - Arthur Gask - Страница 8

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THE following morning, with still no news forthcoming of his uncle, or Sam Gover, Stanley Barton interviewed the Chief Commissioner of the South Australian Police, and, laying everything before him, asked that the authorities should at once take some steps to find out where the missing men were.

He insisted that, nothing having now been heard of them for nearly three days, there appeared, under the peculiar circumstances, to be a most sinister significance about their silence.

He told the Commissioner how they had set out from Melbourne en route for Adelaide on the previous Wednesday morning; how they had arrived at Kingston on Thursday evening; how they had left there again that night with the expressed intention of getting as far as Meningie; how they had never been heard of at the latter place, and how they had vanished as utterly as if the earth had swallowed them up.

He emphasised the importance of his uncle's journey from Melbourne, in view of the Christmas Cup in Adelaide on the Friday, and how greatly his interest had, in all probability, suffered by the withdrawal of his horse, Abimeleck, from the race. He impressed upon the Commissioner that Eli Barton was a most methodical man in all his actions, and he insisted that his uncle's absence at the present juncture was in every respect foreign to the latter's general mode of life.

The Commissioner had been at first inclined to treat the matter very lightly, but the convincing way in which the young man marshalled his facts soon moved the official to thoughtfulness, and in the end, from the expression on his face, he seemed to regard the matter in much the same light as his visitor.

There was silence for a moment when young Barton had finished, and then the Chief Commissioner pulled a writing block before him.

"You did quite right in coming to me, Mr. Barton," he said gravely, "for the matter does not look healthy, I agree. But let's get everything shipshape and see exactly how we stand." He took up his pen. "Now you have already made every inquiry, you say, as far as possible, to find out if they have stopped anywhere on their way—I mean, of course, since leaving Kingston?"

"I have almost lived on the telephone during the last twenty- four hours," replied young Barton, "and have inquired in every conceivable direction on the chance of anybody knowing anything about them. But I can learn nothing—nothing at all. Nothing has been seen or heard of them."

"Well, let us begin right at the beginning," said the Commissioner. "Now, you yourself saw them start off from Melbourne last Wednesday morning, and you know definitely, you tell me, that they got as far as Kingston on Thursday evening?"

"Yes," replied Stanley. "I saw them start off myself, and, as I tell you, I followed with a friend exactly twenty four hours after getting to Kingston in time for lunch on Friday. We had our meal at the Hotel of the Broken Bough, and we learnt then that they had dined there the previous evening. We were expecting they would have called there in passing, for Helling, the proprietor of the Broken Bough, is an old crony of ours, and in consequence none of us ever goes through Kingston without pulling up to have a word with him. He is a useful man to motorists, for he always knows the conditions prevailing along the Coorong track."

"What time exactly did they leave the hotel, then, after dinner on Thursday?" asked the Commissioner.

"Helling said it was just before ten," replied young Barton.

"Well," went on the Commissioner, making a note, "they left for the Coorong a little before ten on Thursday night, and that is the last thing you have heard of them, the very last?"

"Yes, that's the dreadful part of it." Young Barton spoke very slowly. "They are known positively to have entered the Coorong track, but no one ever saw them leave it. They left Kingston but they never reached Meningie, and yet Meningie is the only outlet from the track this end, the only way they could have come."

The Commissioner frowned. "But why are you so positive they never reached Meningie?" he asked.

"Because," replied young Barton emphatically, "no one saw or heard them. Their only way from the Coorong track lay right through the township, and even in the dead of night no car could have slipped by there without being noticed or heard by someone. Nearly everyone was sleeping outside, and the hotel people there have made exhaustive inquiries. Menzies himself, the hotel proprietor, was sleeping out on his front veranda and, being a very light sleeper, he is certain that he, for one, would have heard them."

The Commissioner rose from his chair and attentively regarded a large map of South Australia that was hanging on the wall.

"Hum!" he observed after a long pause. "Ninety-two miles from Kingston to Meningie and, with the route to Keith impassable, no turning off the main track the whole time. Therefore the track along the lake from Kingston leads only to Meningie, and, once upon it, a car can only go forward or go back." He turned round to the young man.

"And I suppose there is no possibility of your uncle for some reason having suddenly altered his mind and returned back towards Melbourne?"

"None whatever," was the reply, "and if he'd wanted to he couldn't have done it without its being known. The Broken Bough at Kingston is right on the Coorong track, almost the last house, in fact, and an eight-cylinder Jehu doesn't creep through a township like a ghost. No, the car could no more have passed back unnoticed through Kingston than it could have gone forward unnoticed through Meningie.

"Their intention was, you say, to have slept at Meningie?"

"Yes, Helling telephoned on for them to the hotel there, saying they would probably arrive about two in the morning, and their beds had been got ready for them."

"Didn't you find out then that they hadn't slept there, when you yourself passed through Meningie, the next day?"

Young Barton shook his head. "Unfortunately," he relied, "we didn't pull up. We came straight on to the city from Kingston without a stop."

The Chief Commissioner took a different line.

"Does your uncle generally carry much money on him?"

"Well, always a fair amount when he goes racing. He supports his own horses freely, and he likes betting through the totalisator."

"I suppose it was well known in sporting circles, your uncle being such a public character, that he was coming to Adelaide last week?"

"Most certainly it was. It was mentioned in the Press and, besides, all racing people know how he hardly ever races a horse anywhere without himself being present to see it run. Last week, especially, he was interested to see what his cup horse, Abimeleck, would do."

"He often comes to Adelaide, doesn't he?" asked the Commissioner.

"Yes, three or four times a year, at least."

"And it's well known he always comes in his car?"

"Yes, he never comes by train, except in very bad weather, when the Coorong track was quite impassable."

There was a long pause then, and the Commissioner went carefully through his notes. Presently, however, he looked up and intently took in the handsome face of the young fellow opposite to him.

"Now look here, Mr. Barton," he said quietly. "As I take it, the matter in a nutshell stands like this. Your uncle, a well- known, well-to-do man, and probably carrying a good sum of money with him, sets out on a six hundred mile motor journey and is now, say, forty-eight hours late for an important engagement here in the city. This in itself would not be in any way significant, excepting for the peculiar circumstances surrounding and ensuing upon his non-arrival. To take the latter first, he is probably financially a great loser by his unpunctuality. His horse was a non-runner for the Cup, and apart from the value of the stake, if he had won, at any rate he has now to pay up for all the antepost wagers that he may have made.

"These facts stand out plainly, and so we can assume, therefore, as you say, that he would not lightly have broken his engagement. Now touching one other set of circumstances: Two- thirds of the six hundred mile journey are known to have been accomplished safely. Then comes the mysterious part of the affair. Your uncle enters upon the great Coorong track—a blind alley except where Meningie is concerned. He enters it at night. A long, lonely track, practically uninhabited throughout its whole length. Not a hamlet or a township along the whole eighty-odd miles and only a couple of sheep stations with their boundaries any where near. I say, he enters on this road and there—the story ends." The Commissioner bent forward over his desk and his voice became very grave.

"Now, we may well ask what has happened to your uncle and his friend. As you say, they can't have mistaken the way, for there was only one track for them to follow. They can't have broken down, for apart from your own journey on Friday, quite a score of cars must have come along the Coorong during the daytime in the last twenty-four hours." He shrugged his shoulders. "So, if they didn't ever pass Meningie—then, what has happened to them?"

There was again a silence and then the Commissioner spoke very slowly. "Well, Mr. Barton," he said, "of course, we'll help you all we can, and the matter shall be at once taken up officially, as you wish." He smiled pleasantly. "Still, still, I'm not quite convinced yet, I may tell you, that the car didn't pass through Meningie. It's public knowledge, of course, that Mr. Eli Barton is a man of masterful character and if he thought it good to alter his plans in any way, then"—the Commissioner shrugged his shoulders—"from all I have heard of him, he would do it and be answerable for the consequences only to himself. However," and the Commissioner took up his pen again, "now give me, please, most accurate descriptions of the car and the missing men. As I say, I'll set everything going. In two hours every police station in South Australia will have been notified and inquiries will be pushed in every direction." He smiled again. "At any rate I'm sanguine we'll have located the Jehu before evening, that is of course if it's anywhere in South Australia and has not been purposely hidden away. But keep in touch with me please from time to time during the day so that I can give you the news speedily if it comes along."

But no news came along, and the big Jehu was not located anywhere, as the Commissioner had so hopefully expected. So the following morning, just before noon, found Stanley Barton again closeted with the head of the South Australian Police.

"It's no good denying it," the latter said ominously; "we're up against something that requires explaining badly. The inhabited parts of the whole State were combed thoroughly yesterday." He shook his head. "But as I say, nothing about your uncle was brought to light. One thing, however, we did learn. What you told me yesterday about their having entered the Coorong track from Kingston on Thursday night was confirmed. A rabbit trapper camping four miles out from the township saw them passing along the track soon after ten that night. At any rate, a big car with two men in it passed him. He was asleep about a hundred yards away from the track, but the noise awoke him, and he is quite sure about there being two men in the car. Also, another item of importance: One of the night nurses of the Meningie Hospital was on duty on the front veranda all night, and she is positive no car went by between midnight and eight o'clock. So much for that, but now I want to ask you"—the Commissioner looked keenly at young Barton—"who is this Mr. Gover who was with your uncle?"

In spite of his anxiety Stanley smiled. "He is a very old friend of my uncle, and they have known each other for over forty years. He is about sixty-five years of age. As sane and level- headed a man as you would meet anywhere, and, besides that, a very rich man, too." Stanley spoke dryly. "So no suspicion on that account, anyhow."

The Commissioner smiled in his turn. "Well, we have to know everything," he remarked, "for our calling makes us naturally suspicious of everyone." He became grave and decisive. "Now, we must have the Coorong searched straight away, or as much of the Coorong, I mean, as lays just off the track." He pointed to the map of South Australia on the wall. "An army of soldiers could hardly search all those miles of bush and desert. But, still, an army of soldiers will not be needed, or, as I look at it, if your uncle and his friend have come to any harm on the Coorong, the Jehu car cannot be very far away. If it was diverted from the track it would soon get held up somewhere by the gullies in the sand." He leant over and touched a bell. "Now I'll introduce you to Harker. He's one of the best detectives in this State, and, luckily for us, knows the Coorong well. He was born in the south- east. I'll send five other picked men with you, and a black tracker, and they'll be ready in two hours. You'd better stop at Meningie to-night and start in the Coorong directly morning breaks. You've a big business before you, tackling those ninety- two miles, and——"—he shook his head doubtfully—"I'm not certain you'll find anything, if, indeed, there's anything to be found."