Читать книгу Wings Above the Diamantina - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 8

A Flying Doctor

When going “inside,” people at Coolibah followed the track winding away to the north-east from the homestead. Having travelled that track for twenty-four miles, they arrived at the Golden Dawn-St Alban track. Here there was a roughly made sign-post pointing south-west to Coolibah, north-west to Tintanoo Station and St Albans, east to Golden Dawn. About noon every Wednesday, the Golden Dawn-St Albans mail coach reached the road junction, and the mailman alighted to place the Coolibah mail in the letter-box fashioned from a petrol case and nailed securely to a tree. At noon the following day, on his return journey to Golden Dawn, he collected the Coolibah outward mail from the same box.

In addition to the twenty-four miles from the homestead to the track junction, the person desiring to go “inside” had to travel eighty miles to Golden Dawn, and a farther hundred and ten miles to the railhead at Yaraka. And from there the long rail journey to Brisbane began. It is not precisely a journey which can be undertaken from a country town to the city on a Bank holiday, and consequently people in the far west of Queensland do not often visit Brisbane.

Beside the track to Coolibah ran the telephone line which at the road junction was transferred to the poles carrying the Tintanoo and St Albans lines. When John Nettlefold rang Golden Dawn he was answered by the girl in the small exchange situated within the post office building. She connected him with the police-station. It was exactly six o’clock, and Sergeant Cox was dining with his wife and son. To answer the call, the sergeant had to pass from the kitchen through the house to the office, which occupied one of the front rooms.

“Well?” he growled. “What is it?”

“Nettlefold speaking, Sergeant. I understand that an aeroplane belonging to the visiting ‘flying circus’ was stolen last night.”

“Ah—yes, Mr Nettlefold. Know anything about it?”

“Was the machine a monoplane type varnished a bright red?”

“Yes. Have you seen it? Has it come down on your place?”

“It has,” announced Nettlefold from Coolibah.

“Have you got the fellow who stole it?” grimly demanded Cox.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t … you don’t think so! Surely, Mr Nettlefold, you know definitely if you have or have not apprehended the thief?”

The station manager’s prevarication acted like wind on sea. The policeman’s large red face took to itself a deeper colour. The short iron-grey hair appeared to stand more stiffly on end, and the iron-grey eyes to become mere pinpoints. The iron-grey moustache bristled. Place Sergeant Cox in khaki, and on him put a Sam Browne belt and a pith helmet, and you would see the popular conception of an army general on Indian service.

“No, I cannot say definitely whether I have the thief,” replied Nettlefold easily, quite unabashed by the sergeant’s asperity. “Listen carefully.”

He related the bare details of all that had happened at Emu Lake, and then he asked for particulars of the theft.

“It’s queer, Mr Nettlefold, to say the least,” Cox said, as though he addressed John Nettlefold, Esq., J.P., when sitting on the bench. “This aeroplane circus—that is what Captain Loveacre, who is in charge, calls it—has been here three days. There is a twin-engined de Havilland passenger machine for taking up trippers, and there’s that red mono-plane which the captain flies himself, the big one being flown by his two assistant pilots. We have got no proper aerodrome here, as you know, but the surrounding plain makes a fair landing ground.

“As usual, last night the two machines were anchored just back of the hotel; and, at one-forty-two this morning, everyone was awakened by the roar of a motor engine. Captain Loveacre states that when he woke he recognized the sound of the engine as that of his monoplane, but before he or any one else could get out to it it had left the ground and flown off eastward.”

“So you do not know the sex of the thief, Sergeant?”

“No. Is the girl you speak of very ill?”

“We can’t make her out at all,” answered Nettlefold. “Look here! It is now only a minute past six. Do you think you could get Knowles to fly here this evening to have a look at her? There are two hours of daylight yet, remember.”

“Oh—he’ll agree to go,” Cox said, with airy assurance. “He’d start if he had to make a night landing on those river channels. What I can’t understand about him is that he’s still alive. The more drunk he is the better he flies. I might come with him.”

“Do. We can put you both up. I could then take you out to Emu Lake early in the morning. Tell Knowles that he can land with reasonable safety on the white claypan country half a mile north of this homestead. I’ll be there in the car, and in case it’s dark when he arrives I’ll have the boys light fires along the edges of the enclosing scrub. Will you ring me when you know what he will do?”

“I will. But he’ll go all right,” Cox further assured the station manager. “If he breaks my neck … well, I’ll be the most unlucky man in Queensland.”

“You’re game, anyway. I wouldn’t trust my life to Knowles … off the ground.”

Cox chuckled and replaced the instrument, to walk thoughtfully back to the kitchen.

“Pack me a bag, Vi,” he commanded his wife. “I’m going to Coolibah Station.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. Only a night, I think.”

“Have they found the stolen aeroplane, Dad?” asked his son, a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy of fifteen years.

“Yes, Jack,” Cox replied, nodding. “It is at a place called Emu Lake at the back of Coolibah. Pass the bread. I may just as well finish my dinner while your mother’s hunting up those pink-striped visiting pyjamas of mine.”

“Who stole it, Dad?” pleaded the boy.

“We don’t rightly know, son, but you can trust your father to find out.”

The red face was now less red. The stern lines about the iron jaw were much less hard. Sergeant Cox led a double life, one of which was known only to his wife and son. He was softly human when with them in their home.

“I won’t be home to-night to show you how to do your home lessons, so you’ve got to get right down to them yourself and work out those sums the best you know how.”

“All right, Dad. I’ll do ’em goodo.”

“Of course he will, Pops,” added Mrs Cox, then entering the kitchen. “Who is going to drive you to Coolibah? Driving your own car?”

“I am going with Dr Knowles.”

“What! With that cranky fool! Oh, Pops!”

“Pops” grinned, rose from the table, kissed his wife and put on his hat with habitual care to achieve the right angle. He was dressed in civilian clothes, and yet with the addition of the felt hat he no longer was “Pops,” but Sergeant Cox.

“If Dr Knowles crashes the machine when I am with him,” he said sternly, “I will arrest him on the D and D charge.”

“But you might be killed, Pops.”

“Dad’ll be all right, Mum. Why, Dr Knowles can fly underneath the telephone wires,” Jack pointed out.

“I shall not be killed,” Cox said. “Dr Knowles might crash, but I will live to arrest him and keep him in our lockup. I’ll be back for the bag later on. And don’t forget, son, what I told you last night about those square roots.”

Again leaving the kitchen, Sergeant Cox strode along the passage to the open front door, passed across the veranda, down the steps and so to the front gate in the wicket fence. Above the gate on a narrow wooden arch were the words, POLICE STATION and on the fly gauze covering the window frame of the left hand room was the word OFFICE.

Across the hundred-yards-wide unmetalled track stood the store, a low, rambling, wooden building badly infested with termites and badly in need of paint. When he emerged from the Government premises it was to turn left to stride along the main street of Golden Dawn.

Once Golden Dawn had been a thriving mining town, and still the poppet heads of the mine half a mile to the north stood cutting clearly into the sky like the gibbet outside a medieval town. Cox passed vacant building sites on either side of the dusty street, sites from which the buildings long since had been purchased and removed for the iron and wood.

Golden Dawn now had a forsaken appearance: it was like a homeless old man who dreamed ever of better days. In the middle of the street wandered the town dairyman’s cows, while the dairyman himself was within the too-commodious hotel. Across each vacant allotment could be seen the flat gibber plain stretching to blue-black hills lying to the north and east, and to the flat horizon line to westward and to southward. Outside the hotel stood Mounted Constable Lovitt.

“Who’s inside?” asked Cox.

Lovitt began a list of names, but Cox cut him short. “Is Dr Knowles in there?”

“No, Sergeant.”

“Captain Loveacre, then?”

“No. He went along to Dr Knowles half an hour ago.”

“I am flying with Dr Knowles to Coolibah this evening. Might be away for a couple of days,” Cox said in his most official manner. “The crowd staying in seems to be thinning out a lot, so you won’t have much work. It is a good thing that neither Ned Hamlin nor Larry the Lizard are in town. Keep in touch with the office as much as possible. I may want you on the phone.”

“Very well, Sergeant.”

Cox glared at the constable and turned to walk away, but relented and faced him.

“The monoplane has been found on Coolibah by Mr Nettlefold,” he said. “He found a strange woman in it. I understand that she is injured. Circumstances peculiar. Know any woman around here who can fly an aeroplane?”

“No, I don’t, Sergeant. There isn’t one.”

“I don’t know of one, either. Who is still in town of importance?”

“Only Mr Kane, of Tintanoo. The Greysons have gone. So have the Olivers, of Windy Creek.”

“All right!”

Sergeant Cox walked on along the street which incongruously enough was bordered with well-kept sidewalks and veteran pepper-trees, evidences of Golden Dawn’s departed prosperity. At last he came to a gate in a white-painted fence beyond which stood a large wooden house with a wide veranda. When he knocked on the open door it appeared to be a mere act of courtesy; for, on hearing voices in the room to the left, he did not wait for the doctor’s house-keeper to answer his knock but walked right in.

“Good evening, Doctor! Evening, Captain!” he greeted the two men at table. Dinner, evidently, was just over.

“Hullo, Cox! Looking for Captain Loveacre?” inquired one, a medium built man with dark eyes and short moustache.

“Both of you, as a matter of fact.”

The second man, also of medium height, but clean shaven, stood up.

“Have you news about my bus?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes. It is all right as far as is known. No, thanks! I’ve just had dinner. I’ll take a cigarette.”

Seating himself, Sergeant Cox related the incidents concerning the discovery of the stolen aeroplane.

“Mr Nettlefold says that the young woman found in it strapped in the front cockpit is suffering from a form of paralysis,” he continued. “The Coolibah manager thinks she did not steal the machine. It has made a good landing, and as far as he can see it is quite undamaged.”

“Rather an extraordinary business,” said the doctor. “If the girl did not steal the machine, where is the pilot? No trace of him?”

“None—if there was a pilot with the girl. What about having a look at her to-night?”

Dr Knowles laughed shortly and pounced on the whisky decanter.

“I am not sufficiently drunk to fly and set down in the dark in a strange place.”

“Then you had better get drunk enough without wasting time,” Cox said in the exact tones he used when ordering a reveller off to bed. “Half a mile north of the Coolibah homestead is a stretch of level claypan country good enough to land on. We can make it before dark. Mr Nettlefold will be waiting with a car.”

“How far is it?” asked Knowles, again tipping the decanter.

“One hundred miles, as near as dammit. We’ve got an hour and a half of daylight left us.”

“All right! What about you, Loveacre?”

“Is it a prepared ground?” asked the famous airman, who had been forced to air-circusing for his daily bread.

“No.”

“But I could land the de Havilland on this Emu Lake without being cramped, couldn’t I?”

“Yes,” chipped in the doctor, again tipping the decanter. “I’ve never been there, but I have heard Nettlefold talk about it. He says it is the best natural ’drome in western Queensland. Hi! Mrs Chambers!”

“Aren’t you drunk enough yet?” Cox asked with frozen calm.

“Just about, Sergeant. Oh, Mrs Chambers! Bring me my black bag, please. I shall be away all night.”

“Well, when you come back don’t have to be carried in again like a squashed tomato,” grumpily returned the old housekeeper. “Flying about in the dead of night.”

“Now, now! Get my bag, and don’t take the door frame with you. I told you before not to go in and out of door frames frontways.”

Loveacre chuckled, and the doctor once more tipped the decanter. Sergeant Cox glared. Then he stood up and took the decanter from the flying doctor and placed it inside the sideboard cupboard.

“We’ll be going,” he snapped.

Dr Knowles stood up, swaying slightly.

“You are a good scout, Sergeant, but you are damned rude. I’ll make you as sick as a dog for that.” His voice was perfectly clear. Turning to the captain, he said: “Come along with us to my plane, and I’ll loan you a decent map of the country.”

The doctor’s pale face now was tinged with colour. His dark eyes gleamed brilliantly. He visibly staggered on his way to the door, but his articulation was perfect when he again called to Mrs Chambers. He was talking to her in the hall, and solemnly assuring her that he had left her the house in his will, when the airman touched Cox’s arm.

“Good in the air?” he asked doubtfully.

The sergeant nodded, his body as stiff as a gun barrel. “Better drunk than sober,” he replied. “He has had three crashes these last two years, but he was stone sober on each occasion. You will be flying to Emu Lake to-morrow?”

“Yes, I’ll go with the boys in the de Havilland, and fly my own machine back. That landing ground you will come down on to-night—how big is it?”

“I don’t know. I’ll get Mr Nettlefold to ring you up later. He can give you all the information you require.”

“Good man! I’ll be at the pub. I’m thundering glad that machine wasn’t damaged. I am not too well off, and the insurance would not cover the complete loss.”

“Well, come on. The doctor is ready. Might I ask you not to discuss the frills in reference to your monoplane being found?”

“Certainly, Sergeant.”

At the street gate, Cox parted from the doctor and the airman to hurry back to his house for his bag. The sun was low in the western sky. The air was motionless and painted a deep gold where in it hung the dust raised by the dairy-man’s cows and the two separate mobs of goats being driven to yards on the outskirts of the town.

On passing opposite the post office, he noted that the main door was shut, and that at the door of the telephone exchange room a girl stood talking with a tall, finely built man. The man was John Kane, owner of Tintanoo, and the girl was Berle Saunders, the day telephone operator. Coming along the street was her brother, who was employed by the department as night operator.

Cox looked straight ahead after that one eagle glance. Miss Berle Saunders was a most presentable young woman and one, moreover, able to look after herself even with a suitor like Mr John Kane.

Having given his final orders to Mounted Constable Lovitt, Cox kissed his wife, renewed his order to his son regarding the square roots, and made his way with his suitcase to the hangar where Dr Knowles housed his black-painted monoplane. The colour was a touch of the doctor’s irony.

On his arrival he found the aeroplane standing outside the hangar, the engine already being warmed up by the doctor, who occupied the pilot’s seat. He had not troubled to put on either coat or helmet, but he wore goggles.

“The doctor says he will hedge-hop to Coolibah, so it won’t be cold,” shouted Captain Loveacre.

“All right! But I’m wearing my overcoat, all the same,” stated Cox, putting on his heavy uniform coat. The captain indicated the grim head of the doctor, to be seen above the cockpit and behind the low windscreen.

“He’s a corker,” he cried. “Directly he climbed in he became sober.”

“Apparently sober,” the sergeant corrected. “So long! He’s ready.” He climbed into the passenger’s seat, and then he turned to shout above the engine roar: “Do I put on the parachute?”

“Never use one,” said the doctor. “If we crash, we crash. Anyway, we don’t go high enough for a parachute to be any use.”

He revved the engine to a prolonged roar for ten to fifteen seconds. When the roar died down, Captain Loveacre whipped away the wheel chocks. The engine voiced its power, and the machine began its race across the gibber plain before rising.

It was not the first time that Sergeant Cox had been off the ground, but it was the first time that he had left Mother Earth in the company of Dr Knowles. Looking down over the cockpit edge he saw Golden Dawn laid out for his inspection. There in the middle of the street stood the white-dressed figure of the exchange operator, still beside John Kane. Outside the police-station stood his wife and son waving to him, and he waved down to them. They and the town slipped away from beneath him, the machine sank nearer to the plain and then flew directly towards the sun.

To Sergeant Cox this air journey was by no means boring. The earth did not appear flat and featureless. It was too near to be either. He could even see the rabbits dashing to their burrows to escape the huge “eagle.” He could distinguish the track, faint though it lay across the gibber plain, and he could observe the shadows cast by the old-man saltbush growing along the bottom of a deep water-gutter.

When they met a truck coming from Tintanoo or St Albans, the doctor deliberately dived at it, almost spinning his wheels on the driver’s cabin roof. When they arrived over the scrub, the brown track lay like a narrow ribbon winding across the dark-green carpet, and now Dr Knowles’ set out to show just what he could do with an aeroplane—or to show just how mad he was. He followed the road, and when coming to an exceptionally high creek gum or bloodwood tree, he made the topmost leaves brush the dust off the wheels. Only when the sun went down did he fly higher, keeping steadily in its golden light until forced up to three thousand feet.

Presently the sun set even at that altitude, and then the ground was sinking into the shadows of night. The world came to be like an old copper penny lying on silver tinsel paper. Then, far ahead, two motor lights winked out to greet them.

Dr Knowles put down his ship as lightly as a feather and taxied to the waiting car. Shutting off his engine, he turned round to regard Sergeant Cox with bright, twinkling eyes.

“Good!” said Cox steadily. “I have a good mind to learn to fly. Lots more fun than driving a car.”