Читать книгу Man of Two Tribes - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 6

Bonaparte’s Assignment

At breakfast the Easters were captivated by their official guest, but it was not until much later that day that they were able to analyse their reactions. Both were of what is loosely termed ‘the bush’, and they had expected their guest to be the opposite of what he proved to be—one of them.

That he was of mixed races they had to accept, reluctantly. His features and bearing were far removed from the castes with whom they were familiar along these southern districts of Australia, for Bonaparte had entered the world in the mid-north of Queensland, and his maternal ancestry had been powerfully influenced by the impact of the Polynesian peoples. When meeting the calm blue eyes and listening to the soft accentless voice, it was so easy to forget the duality of races.

Bony had crossed the Nullarbor many times, by train and plane; once only by car following the old telegraph route which skirts the southern edge of the Plain where it drops to the narrow coastal belt. Never previously had he been professionally interested in this part of Australia, and he anticipated no hardships additional to those he had experienced closer to the centre, such as the mulga forests, the gibber deserts, the desolation of the salt-pan basins. Although these several geophysical areas are strikingly different, common to all is the force of opposition to man, varied only by the circumstances confronting the individual.

“You have an office with the usual map of Australia pinned to the wall?” he asked, well knowing that the Police Station is the cross carried by every policeman in the true outback.

Easter conducted him to his own particular cross, where he lit the oil-lamp suspended from the ceiling, permitting Bony to survey the usual littered desk, the usual wire files hanging from nails driven into the walls, and usual large-scale map. Mechanically constructing what could be assumed to be a cigarette, he stood with Easter before the map on which someone had etched with blue pencil the area marked Nullarbor, meaning no trees. The cartographer had drawn a rule-straight line from east to west, and named this the Transcontinental Railway, the line bisecting the area.

“Authorities differ over the extent of this Plain,” Bony said, without intention to teach but rather as a preface to what he had in mind to say. “It’s probably much more than the estimate of thirty thousand square miles. What do you know of it?”

Easter’s forefinger traversed the railway.

“Three hundred miles of dead straight line built on dead level ground, or what appears to the naked eye as dead level.” The finger flashed downward on the map to within an inch of the coastline, moved slowly upward to cross the railway, continued upward until seemingly stopped by a blue dot named Lake Wyola. “From here down to the coast is something like three hundred miles. No trees, no surface water except in rock-holes filled by rain. Just a vacuum spanned by a railway, the railway stops by nothing but a few houses and servicing depots. No out-lying homesteads excepting to the south and one to the north-west. No roads but that coastal one. No fences, only land and the sky. That woman didn’t fall from the train.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I’ve a theory. No facts.”

“Give me the theory.”

“Well, I’ve always been interested in abnormal psychology,” Easter said. “Didn’t take much notice of the Thomas case because it was just another husband-wife brawl, but after the trial we dug up the papers and read the reports and got different ideas about the woman. When she disappeared, other things added up.

“I’d say Myra Thomas was vanity plus. She had tasted fame, strictly local though it was, but what a banquet during her trial! She finds herself hitting the headlines all over Australia. I’ll bet no one received a bigger shock than she did when she was acquitted. What happened? She becomes the centre of nation-wide controversy, then within a week all the glory has faded, and the morons who screamed their admiration as she left court, deserted her to rush to the airfield to yell and scream their welcome to a foreign swooner. So, having dined with the gods, she must scramble under the table after the crumbs.”

Bony was frankly astonished by this lucid exposition.

“What happens next?” proceeded Easter. “She planned the disappearance, planned it to take place in the middle of the fabulous Nullarbor Plain, the only place of its kind in the world and famous for just that. So she vanishes from a famous train when in the middle of a famous Plain. Sounds like poetry, doesn’t it? Dressed in her night things and wearing slippers, she left the train at Cook and entered a car or truck driven by a pal who took her by the only track to the coast road, from which point they could go east or west into smoke.

“She certainly got what she wanted—more and more publicity which made the publicity at the trial look like a social paragraph. Now she will lie low for some time, and then reappear with the yarn that she had a sudden attack of amnesia brought on by the dreadful horror of the murder. Imagine the headlines! The money in the story of her life! That’s my theory.”

Easter found himself being studied.

“Were it not for evidence outside your knowledge,” Bony said, “I would strongly incline to agreement. I want you to understand that I do agree that she did not fall from the train or wander away from it.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Easter said. “I thought . . .”

“I know, Easter. Look at this map again. See here, to north-east of the Plain and far beyond its border, is the new town of Woomera, and away in the desert extends the rocket range. Now, much nearer, only a few miles north of Ooldea, along this east side of the plain, is the new atomic-testing ground called Maralinga. What blacks there were in that country have long since migrated to the southern extremity of their ancient tribal land, down near the coast, and so all the country of the range and testing ground is empty of native population. Now, north of this railway, as you pointed out, is merely a vacuum. We here at Chifley are almost at the western edge of the Plain, and the only station homestead within miles and miles is situated to the northwest of Chifley and called Mount Singular. Am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“You know that Security at those Government establishments is very rigid. You don’t know that Myra Thomas was a bad security risk during the war. D’you know a man named Patsy Lonergan?”

“Never seen him,” replied Easter. “Heard of him. Once a prospector, now a dingo trapper, or was before he died at Norseman a fortnight ago.”

“What do you know about him?” pressed Bony.

“Very little. Lonergan was trapping at Mount Singular for years, even before the present people took over the place, which is seventy miles north of the railway, and built on a bluff overlooking the Plain. He used camels, and like most old bushmen of his generation, he visited a township once every year for an extra good bender. Died when on that last one.”

“Relatives of his live at Norseman,” Bony supplemented. “When he died they naturally took possession of his personal effects, among which was his diary. Like many prospectors, Lonergan kept day-by-day notes of his catches, his lures and the condition of the ground feed and water-holes for his camels. His notes are cryptic, due to the old habit of the prospector giving nothing away so that should he turn up with a pound of gold, no one could back-track him by stealing his notes. Other than the current diary, no others were found, so we must assume that, as the notebooks were filled, he destroyed them. I’ll fetch the diary from my suitcase.”

Easter heard him talking to his wife in the kitchen, the tones of her voice conveying her easy acceptance of the visitor. He himself was feeling buoyant, for he had proof that his conduct of the search for the girl had been approved by the top brass. He was lighting his pipe when Bony returned with one of those long, ruled account books.

“From this diary,” Bony began, “we know that Lonergan left Mount Singular on his last tour of a trap-line on July 6th, and that he returned to Mount Singular on September 4th. The girl vanished on the night of August 28th–29th. In camp on the night of August 26th he wrote: ‘Camel feed pretty poor at Dead Oak Stump so came on to Nightmare Gutter. Got a half-bred pup at Dead Oak with Number Two. And two pure bred dogs at the ’roo I poisoned half a mile up the Gutter.’ Those names mean anything to you, Easter?”

“Just a blank.”

“The next day, August 27th, Lonergan wrote: ‘Got to Bumblefoot Hole pretty late. Water still plenty. Country much better this nearer to home. Picked up a quarter-bred at Bluebush Dip. Number Three Lure got her. Trap at Bumblefoot was sprung. Used Number Four in her. Number Four no good.’ Bumblefoot Hole strike a chord?”

“Not a note,” confessed Easter.

“Now the next day for Lonergan is August 28th,” Bony continued. “At the end of this day, the entry was: ‘Got to Big Claypan. Feed not too bad. Nothing in traps at Halfway Boozer. Brought the traps on and planted them for next trip. Weather been quiet and clear, but looks like rain tonight.’ Still no chord?”

Easter shook his head, and Bony read the next entry:

“ ‘August 29th. Intended to camp at Lost Bell tonight, but was stuck up by a trap at the Three Saltbushes. Had to track the trap for more than a mile to where the biggest dog I ever got dragged it before he give it the works. No rain come. Feed hanging out pretty well here at Three Saltbushes, but water in the soak dried up. Last night . . .’ the vital night, remember, Easter, he spent at Big Claypan. ‘Last night around five in the morning was woke up by a helicopter. Could see the blades against the sky it was that low. Sort of proves my suspicion I heard a plane when I was camped at Bumblefoot a long time back.’ ”

“Helicopter!” breathed Easter. “Out there on that night of August 28th–29th, the night the woman disappeared.”

“Where was the train at five o’clock that morning?” Bony asked.

“At Forrest being searched. Is that all about the helicopter?”

“There is no later mention. Lonergan goes on to report that he trapped a dog at Curley’s Hate, and found a trap sprung at Pigface Valley. How many helicopters loose in your district?”

“Not one. Some at the testing ground. They sent a machine over to join in the search for the girl. Stayed two days. That was a week after we began looking for her.”

“They have two machines at Maralinga, and those machines were grounded from August 24th to September 6th, when one of them was despatched to hunt for the missing woman. When can we start for Mount Singular?”

“Mount Singular! Oh, any time. Inside an hour if you want.”

“Make it inside three hours, Easter. I have to send telegrams to Adelaide.”

“May I put a question?”

“Of course. As many as occur to you, Easter. Go ahead.”

“You said that the Thomas woman was a bad security risk during the war. What’s the connection?”

“She wrote the script for a radio show called ‘Bless ’em All’, primarily directed at the troops. It was before M.I., or whoever was supposed to look after subversive activities, realised that vital information could be passed to the enemy via our radio services. The show was a weekly broadcast, and she was abruptly taken off it.

“The main point is that Myra Thomas was once a security risk, and is still faintly regarded as such. When she disappeared within a few miles—comparative—of the atomic testing ground and the rocket range, the Security people in Canberra added the fact to their record. And then, Easter, when old Lonergan’s diary turned up and a check was made proving there was not one registered helicopter within a million miles of their precious secrets, they actually added two to two, and came up with what certainly looks something like four.”

“The relatives, then, sent the diary to Security?” surmised Easter.

“No. They handed the diary to the local police officer, who passed it on, and eventually it was received by your H.Q. in Perth. It was passed directly to Canberra, and at some conference or other it was realised that Lonergan hadn’t mentioned in his diary which direction the mysterious machine was flying when he saw it, and no one knew where such places as Curley’s Hate and Bumblefoot Hole happened to be, as they were not marked on their maps.

“Fortunately, the police were represented at that conference by a firm friend of mine, Superintendent Bolt, who argued that one man on the ground would be more likely to succeed in locating the mysterious helicopter, the people flying it, their activities, and the association with them, if any, by the missing Myra Thomas, than could possibly be learned by a couple of fleets of jets flying around the Nullarbor Plain. When they asked him who the man on the ground was to be, Bolt had the obvious answer.”

“You, of course,” Easter smiled.

“Of course,” Bony concurred without a smile. “Look! the day is dawning. The best time for meditation is when day dawns.”

Meditation at daybreak; when the sun rose! Easter stood, scratched his chin, and docilely followed Bony to the veranda. He felt like the man who hopes to win a five-pound prize in a lottery and wins fifty thousand. He had searched for a woman at first thought to have fallen from a train; and now was given a picture of a female spy, mysterious helicopters, rockets and atom bombs.