Читать книгу The Battling Prophet - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 6

Hoo-Jahs

Beyond the door appeared a man, who called: “Hey, there, John! You around?”

The frame of the door darkened and there stepped into the kitchen a man tall and lean and weather-bashed. He was wearing a suit of dungarees so often boiled that the colour was like blue-veined stone. Smiling, obviously embarrassed, he sat on a chair near the door and fondled the dogs.

“That,” remarked Mr. Luton, pointing the stem of his pipe at the caller, “that is my neighbour up-river a bit. Name is Knocker Harris. He believes in no one and nothing. It was him who recommended I write the letter to you, Inspector.”

“That’s me, Inspector,” agreed Knocker Harris. “Pleased to meet cher. Me nephew, Frank Lord, you put away for his natural, always said you’re a top detective, and if he hadn’t sort of accidentally shot that prospector in the bush, you wouldn’t have been on to the job and he wouldn’t have been nabbed like. So we reckoned you are the man to understand John’s ideas about the jerks. Not that Ben wasn’t murdered. Got too dangerous for the politicians, he did. I told him more’n once to go easy, but he would never listen.”

“You talk too much,” Mr. Luton asserted severely.

“That’s me,” ruefully agreed Mr. Harris.

“Knocker is given to making wild statements,” Mr. Luton said, accusingly. “I like to keep to a bit of reason, because people might say we’re old and mentally wonky. You heard Knocker say the Government murdered Ben. Then again the Commos could have done it, hoping to get what he’d worked out. Ben wasn’t just an ordinary bloke, like us.”

The fishing was slipping from Bony’s mind. He said:

“Mr. Wickham told you something of his work, it would seem.”

“During the past half-century or thereabouts,” replied Mr. Luton. “If you read the papers you’ll know that three years ago he made it public that, given fifty years of weather records, he could forecast for sure what the weather would be like four, five, six years ahead. No matter what part of Australia, no matter what part of the world, providing he had them fifty years’ records. Not what the weather was likely to be, but what the weather would be, any particular day or night. He predicted this drought, even the days when the rain threatened and didn’t come. You know what happened?”

“What did happen?” replied Bony.

“The farmers didn’t do any fallowing last summer and autumn. They didn’t sow crops this winter. So they didn’t buy any super-phosphate and other manures. They didn’t buy any machinery last year, and they won’t be buying any this year. They sold their stock and sacked their hands. And the graziers cut their stock down to barest, and put off their stockmen. And none of ’em, neither farmers nor graziers, lashed out a lot of money on work and wages and machinery just to watch it burned to dust by the sun. So none of ’em are in the hands of the banks and financial concerns. Instead of the drought bankrupting ’em, they’re all living comfortably on their fat.”

Mr. Luton regarded Bony with quiet confidence, and Knocker Harris said:

“And that’s why Ben was murdered.”

“Murdered because he assisted the farmers and graziers?” Bony expostulated.

“No, murdered because the finance companies, the big merchants and the banks couldn’t sell their stuff and lend money to the farmers and graziers and make ’em their slaves for years to come, like they always did following droughts.”

Knocker Harris again put in his oar.

“And the Gov’ment’s in it, too, Federal and State. ’Cos why? ’Cos the men on the land threw thousands of men on the labour market. The machinery makers have their yards a mile high with rustin’ iron, and the manure firms have mountains of super no one will take at any price, and the oil companies can’t sell tractor oil. Y’see, Inspector, knowing what the weather is going to be this day next year, like, and this day the year after, is no damn good to lots and lots of people with lots and lots of money to lend out to drought-stricken farmers. So they bumped off poor old Ben.”

Mr. Luton rose to knock his pipe against the stove. Bony slowly rolled yet another thing some persons might name a cigarette. The two men watched and waited as though for his verdict.

“The newspapers told me,” he said, “that Wickham died in this house, and early one morning. The doctor stated, and so signed the certificate, that death was due to heart disease. You support a private report made to me that he died during a bout of delirium tremens. Well?”

“We were having the hoo-jahs. We were both getting over ’em,” declared Mr. Luton. “We were at the tail-end of ’em when Ben died that morning. He should of come out of them hoo-jahs like he always did. Same as me. But he died instead. Of something else.”

“The doctor said it was alcoholic poisoning,” interjected Bony.

“The quack’s a bone-pointer, like. He wouldn’t know,” argued Knocker Harris, savagely pulling at his dirty-grey ragged moustache.

“Mr. Wickham had been drinking hard for more than three weeks,” Bony persisted.

“Not a reason,” countered Mr. Luton. “We often drank hard for six weeks. Once for two months, solid. Nearly got carted off to hospital that time.”

“Wickham was seventy-five.”

“I’m eighty-four, Inspector.”

“You told the policeman that that morning you woke from a good sleep. Feeling slightly better, you decided to light the stove and prepare something to eat. You were busy with the stove when you heard Mr. Wickham laughing. Mr. Wickham was occupying the front room. You went to him and found him sitting up in bed. He continued to laugh, and appeared to be unaware of your presence. You returned to the kitchen and brewed a pot of tea. When you returned to your friend with tea and dry biscuits, Wickham was lying back on the bed asleep. So you thought. You covered him with the bedclothes and left him for an hour. On again going to join him, you discovered that he was dead. Correct, Mr. Luton?”

“All correct,” replied the old man, his eyes hard, his chin like a rock. “Still, Ben didn’t die of the drink. He was pointing to things on his legs, and he was laughing like hell at what he was seeing. We had been boozing on gin for a bit more’n three weeks, and gin don’t have that effect on any man. Want me to prove it?”

“If you can,” Bony assented, “prove it.”

“I will, when I’ve lit the stove. Switch on the light, Knocker.”

The stove was already prepared for lighting, and the electric light pushed the dying day a million miles beyond the doorway. Knocker said, as though Bony might be doubtful:

“He can, too.” He smiled brightly, and Mr. Luton, turning back to the table, saw the smile and stared disapprovingly. He was breathing a trifle fast, and the fingers loading the pipe shook a little, all telling Bony that this was the crucial moment for which Mr. Luton had hoped. He began slowly, a pause between each word:

“Back in the Year One, when I was wearing out me tenth pair of pants, I’d got sense enough to stick to whatever I started on, and found I could go further and stand up longer. You know how it is with us—a good, hearty booze-up every year, perhaps twice a year, very rare more’n three times a year.

“I haven’t had time to tell you yet, but Ben and me was mates for something like ten years, flogging bullocks over the tracks back of New South. What I led with, he followed suit. When we boozed on whisky, the things we saw sort of grew before our eyes. When we blinked, they didn’t vanish, but stayed on the table, on our knees, wherever they happened to appear and grow like roses on a bush. Following a spell on rum, the things appear suddenly and vanish suddenly after playing around like they wanted to bite you. The gin hoo-jahs is still different. You see them out of the corner of your eye. They always stalk you from behind, and when you turn to look at ’em, they aren’t there. Understand?”

“Partly. Go on,” Bony urged.

“Ben and me was drinkin’ gin that time he perished. He was laughing at things he was seeing on his legs and feet, pointing at them, and laughing so he couldn’t describe ’em to me. Them things wasn’t caused by the gin, and they wasn’t even the whisky hoo-jahs, ’cos you don’t laugh at them. For two days we’d been seeing the gin hoo-jahs—things that creep up behind you and vanish when you try to look straight at ’em. So it wasn’t the gin that tossed him.”

“Throughout the day before he died, your friend was seeing things from the corners of his eyes ... as you were doing?”

“That’s what I’m saying, Inspector.”

“What would he have been drinking to produce the effects on him which you saw that morning, when you found him sitting up and laughing and pointing to things on his legs?”

“General mixture of beer, spirits and sherry.”

Bony pondered, and Knocker Harris brought his chair to sit at the table.

“Last night in Adelaide,” Bony said, “I was introduced to several habitual drunks by a sergeant of the Vice Squad. One victim said that the hoo-jahs, to employ your name for them, always dropped on him from the ceiling. Another told us that the hoo-jahs came from nowhere and crawled all over him. Yet another victim said he had a pet hoo-jah with legs sticking up from its head and three eyes in its stomach. And so on. I have to admit that all these persons mixed their drinks, with the exception of a woman who invariably drank sherry. Have you ever had the hoo-jahs on wine?”

Mr. Luton shuddered.

“Once. A long time before I fell in with Ben. Never no more. They pulled my hair out in chunks, and then my whiskers. After that they nipped out all me body hairs, one at a time. And now and then they threw things at me—a bale of wool, a bullock, a planet. And never missed.”

“You take a point,” conceded Bony. And Knocker Harris cried triumphantly:

“There y’are, Inspector. Ben konked out on somethin’ not gin. You got to study this killing to find the lay of it.” His small eyes gleamed with sardonic humour. “Millions of people had no time for Ben and his weather-predictin’. And the politicians are in it, too. They were all agin Ben, like. He told us. The politicians would have their mothers murdered if they could hire someone to murder ’em for nineteen and elevenpence. As for the Jews . . .”

“You keep off the Jews, Knocker,” roared Mr. Luton. “I’ll have no sectarianism in my house. “You’ll be . . .”

“Tell me about this last drinking bout,” interposed Bony, and Knocker Harris was unabashed.

“Yes, tell him,” he urged, and Mr. Luton said:

“It’ll be easy. Ben hadn’t been along for about two weeks, when he came down from the big house one afternoon. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask him, but he was soured by something or other, and when I seen how he was, I suggested a bender as we hadn’t had one going on for six months. First he says no, and then he says yes and to hell with everything, and so we got stuck into the gin.”

“You happened to have a supply of gin on hand?” Bony asked.

“I did, Inspector. Well, after a bit we didn’t want to eat no more. Now and then Knocker would call in and cook us a feed, but we didn’t want it. Then he tried us out with soup, and after that he gave us up.

“Mind you, this was all on the programme. Nothing unusual. We talked about the old days. We sang all the old songs we knew. Now and then we took the whips down and went outside and flogged the trees, pretending we was once more on the tracks with the bullock teams. It ended like it always did. One of us got thinking about his mother, and then we cried and called each other drunken sots and swore off the booze for ever. That was two days before he died.

“You got to understand that once we swore off the drink, we had to take on the cure and stick to it. We’d never been that weak-minded that any justice could have put us on the Blackfellers’ Act.¹ The cure was a small dose of the same every four hours. Between doses you suffer hell and you watch the clock like it was going to spit at you.

“I got the hoo-jahs that night, and Ben got ’em first thing in the morning, the same as me. He didn’t tell me so. Had no need to, or me to tell him. I knew by the way he kept looking sideways and back over his shoulders that he was having the gin hoo-jahs all normal and proper.

“Towards evening that first day, I made a fire in the stove and got us a hot drink of meat extract. We couldn’t bear the stink of it. So we sat and called each other dirty names till med’cine time came round again. At midnight we had our doch-an’-doris. A real snorter for the night. I was a bit worse than Ben, so he seen me into bed, and, soon after, I heard him shout good-night from his stretcher in the front room.

“I had a cat-nap, but I was awake long before med’cine time at four in the morning. I waited till four to take the bottle in to Ben. He was sitting on the stretcher with his feet on the floor, and he was holding his head with both hands to stop himself looking backwards at them hoo-jahs. Y’see, after a day of doing that, your neck aches like hell. I gave him his snort, and had one myself. Then I covered him up after he got back on the stretcher, and went back to my own bunk.

I had another cat-nap, and was woke by hearing Ben roaring with laughter. I asked him what he was laughing at, and all he could do was to keep on laughing and point at his legs, him sitting up and the bedclothes on the floor. I wasn’t liking the way he was going on. I pushed him down and covered him up and left him, the time being just before half-past six, and one hour and a half off med’cine time.

“He stopped laughing as I was making a brew of tea, pouring as much water on the floor as in the pot. I was thinkin’ then that if Ben didn’t come out from them funny sort of hoo-jahs pretty quick, I’d break our rule and give him a stiffener to keep him going. It seemed that I needn’t have worried, because when I went to him with the tea and the bottle, he was asleep and snoring. So I came back here and had a cup of tea and resisted the gin, deciding I’d wait for Ben to join me in the eight o’clock dose.

“Come eight o’clock, I went in to see how he was faring. He must have sat up again, for the clothes were half off him. He wasn’t asleep then. He was dead. So I staggered up-river to tell Knocker to go for the quack.”

“And the quack roared hell outer me, like,” snarled Knocker. “Told me that Ben and his boozing mate oughta died a century back. And I oughta be ashamed of myself for associating with ’em. I told him to take a runnin’ jump at hisself, and I went to the policeman, and he said he’d a good mind to lock us all up, includin’ dead Ben.”

Mr. Luton took over once again.

“They got here in the doctor’s car about ten that morning. By then I’d done some tidying up, throwing the empties into the river, planting the full ones out of sight. I told the tale that Ben had brought the supply with him, and we’d run dry and was sobering up. We had a confab on the veranda after the quack had seen Ben and said he’d died of the booze. I told them about the right kind of hoo-jahs Ben had, and how he couldn’t have died of ’em. They told me not to be a damned old fool, and that I ought to be put away for my own good.”

“The quack said we both oughta be sent up to the Old Men’s Home,” supplemented Knocker Harris indignantly. “And the policeman backed him up. Ruddy bastards, both of ’em.”

“You’d better get back to your camp,” Mr. Luton suggested with some severity. “I got to fix us with a feed, and feed the fowls and the dogs. It’s almost dark.”

A smile of benign satisfaction spread slowly over the weather-bashed features of the neighbour. He said something about seeing them later, and departed. The dogs went with him, only as far as the garden gate.

“You’ll be staying, Inspector, eh?” again pleaded Mr. Luton.

“Of course. You asked me down for the fishing,” replied Bony. “I’m a good fisherman, Mr. Luton.”