Читать книгу Mr Jelly's Business - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 9

Mr Jelly

Eric Hurley owned a motor-cycle, to which was fitted a pillion seat, and, being a native of Australia, Bony should have known better than to take a ride thereon over country roads. He afterwards estimated that the two miles to the rabbit fence was covered in less than two minutes.

The rapidity of this locomotion certainly did not accord with the dignity of an inspector of police, yet he thoroughly enjoyed the rush through the air, warm yet from the sun which had seen set an hour. From the York Road gate they took the government track running east of the fence, roaring up the long sand slope, humming down the farther side. They passed the Loftus farm, tore onward another mile, swerved sickeningly to the left, and stopped with wickedly skidding tyres before a neat and comfortable farmhouse.

Two dogs welcomed them with much barking. Three turkeys fell off a tree branch, to which, with numerous other domestic fowl, they had climbed via a roughly made bush ladder. A cat came round the house with tail erect. Following it came a little girl whose age appeared to be about fourteen years. She was followed by a young lady alluringly cool in a white muslin dress. And behind her came Mr Jelly.

If you possess imagination sufficient to magnify a cigar to the size of a six-foot man you will obtain a pictorial impression of Mr Jelly. His head was small with a pointed crown, and his feet were small. From his head downwards and from his feet upwards Mr Jelly’s circumference gradually increased till the middle was reached. He was between fifty and sixty years of age, bald save for a ring of grey hair which rested upon his ears like a halo much too small for him. His complexion was brick red, not alcoholic red, but the red of sunrays and strong winds.

“You will break your confounded neck one of these days,” he told Hurley in the peculiarly soothing voice of a doctor addressing a rich patient. There was remarkable gentleness and kindly concern in that voice, a surprising vocal inflexion to be heard on an Australian farm.

“Not me, Mr Jelly. Hullo, Luce! Did you expect me?”

The girl’s big brown eyes were clear and steady.

“Yes, of course. Have you forgotten that you said you would come tonight when you left last night?”

“Forgotten! Of course he’s not forgotten.”

“Hullo, Sunflower!”

“Hullo, Eric!”

“I’ve brought a new friend along because you ought to know him,” Hurley announced easily. “Luce, this is Mr Bony. He has just started for the Rabbit Department.”

Bony found himself being very thoroughly examined. Wearing no hat, he bowed as never man had bowed to Lucy Jelly. She looked upon his ruddy brown face illuminated by the keen, clean mind, watched the smile slowly break over it which swept aside her instinctive race prejudice, saw his teeth gleam whilst he said with polished grace:

“Mr Hurley insisted on bringing me, Miss Jelly. I am very happy to meet you.”

Her eyes widened a fraction at his accent. Without pre-thought she said:

“I am glad you came.”

“This is Miss Dulcie Jelly, known to her friends as Sunflower,” came the next introduction.

Again Bony bowed, and this time he offered his hand.

“I hope you will accept me as your friend, for Sunflower is a very pretty name.”

“I will think about it, Mr Bony,” the young lady replied with unusual reserve.

“And now it is the old fellow’s turn,” put in Mr Jelly.

“Mr Bony—Mr Jelly.”

Mr Jelly stared into the blue eyes of the Saxon, swiftly examined the features of the Nordic. He noted the rich, even colour of the face, in which he could see no vice. Returning the stare, Bony instantly knew that here was a man superior to his fellows, a man of great force, one who had plumbed the depths of knowledge if not the heights.

The introductions accomplished, Mr Jelly invited them into his house, saying:

“Well, come along in. We’ve just had dinner, but there’s tea in the pot. I haven’t seen you around Burracoppin before. From what part of Australia do you hail?”

“Queensland, Mr Jelly. I knocked up a good cheque there breaking in horses, and saw in it an excellent chance to visit Western Australia. Unfortunately, I stayed a little too long, and now must make a cheque with which to get back again.”

“Horsebreaker, eh? Humph!”

While following his host through the kitchen door he glanced over his shoulder, to observe Hurley slowly following with one arm round the waist of Lucy Jelly and the other about the shoulders of little Sunflower.

The kitchen, evidently, was the dining-room. It was spotlessly clean, and austere in its furnishing. Bony was made to seat himself at the table and was given a cup of tea and offered a plate of small cakes. Mr Jelly lit the lamp. The world without was hushed to an unthrobbing silence.

“Bony is interested in ants, Mr Jelly,” Hurley remarked in his pleasant way. “I found him reading a book about them which has more Latin words in it than English.”

“Ah!” murmured Mr Jelly noncommittally, studying Bony in the lamplight.

“Ants always interest me,” Bony confessed. “The termite especially is a wonderful insect.”

The critical expression in Mr Jelly’s eyes of light blue was replaced by one of pleasure.

“You are correct, friend. I am delighted to find in you a man of intelligence. The termite was living, as doubtless you are aware, millions of years before man appeared, even millions of years before the Australian bulldog ant, which is the oldest ant. You will agree that the termite’s social laws are so far advanced beyond ours as to make ours merely the confusion of anarchy.”

“I am glad I came tonight,” Bony said, smiling.

“I am glad to meet a man who can discuss subjects other than horses, machinery, and wheat and the doings of our local society lights.”

“You have followed Henry Smeathman?” Bony asked.

“No, but I have read what Dr David Livingstone said about the termites of Africa. A great naturalist as well as a great missionary. But, come! Let us go to my little den and leave these younger people to entertain each other. Coffee at nine-thirty, Lucy, please.”

Again following Mr Jelly, Bony once more glanced back. Lucy Jelly was smiling happily. Sunflower Jelly was watching Bony with her big solemn eyes, the eyes of a Maid of Orleans or of a judge in ermine. Mr Eric Hurley closed one of his eyes as his generous mouth widened into a grin.

Carrying a lighted lamp, Mr Jelly led the way to a room at the farther side of the house. This room contained a plain oak bedstead with coverings, a desk, set against one wall angle, which was littered with papers and account books, a glass-fronted bookcase rarely seen in Australian farmhouses, and a large table set before the one window. The table was covered with a black cloth, and on it were several folio-size scrap or press-cutting albums, a pot of glue, writing materials, and an empty picture frame. Hanging on the walls was a gallery of framed portraits.

“This is Bluebeard’s chamber,” Mr Jelly was saying in his soft, soothing voice. “It is my private room. None of my household ever comes here. Well?”

“Here, I see, is the likeness of Maurice, the Longreach murderer, and there is Victor Lord, who killed a woman at Bathurst, New South Wales,” came from Bony, who was examining the pictures. “Surely, Mr Jelly, you are not a criminologist as well as a naturalist?”

“Indeed I am,” Mr Jelly admitted. “Of the two branches of science I am the more interested in criminology, but I do not neglect the science of agriculture. I do not permit my hobbies to interfere with the practice of my living. There are my children to be considered, and, my wife being dead, the responsibility is entirely on me. Yes, I have given much study to the lives of all those men whose pictures hang on those walls. All of them are murderers, and all of them have been executed. Study of the subject of homicide compels me to believe that it is the result of physical disorder. Sit down. If I can interest you, you will be an exception who will gladden my heart.”

“I am sure you will interest me,” Bony stated gently. He was actually more interested in Mr Jelly than he had been in a man for many years. To observe the farmer seated at the table with the soft light falling on his benign face, the ruddy complexion, the grey fringe of hair, and the light blue eyes, was to place him at a vast distance from such a hobby or life interest as homicide.

“Pardon my curiosity,” Bony continued, “but how did you secure all those pictures, for they are studio portraits?”

“They are photographic copies of newspaper pictures,” the farmer explained, adding with a sweep of his hand over the table: “Here I have their dossiers, accounts of their final trial and death. These albums are full of them, full of the greatest dramas in human life; accounts of men fighting for their vile lives, of women nobly swearing away their souls to save a man from the gallows, of innocent children facing a future where lies their father’s sin ready to crush them at an unexpected moment. Here, let us look at them, these fools who kill.”

Mr Jelly pushed aside the empty picture frame and drew towards him an album which he opened at random. Turning back a page, he revealed the original picture of a man named Fling. He said:

“Arthur Fling was the son of a parson and a highly respected mother. He had received a first-class education. He had great opportunities. Almost certainly he would have made his life successful. Why, therefore, should he coldly plan to and murder a man in order to gain two hundred pounds? Had his father known his need, he would have given his son the money. Result: the trap for the son, a broken heart for the mother, and an overdose of sleeping draught for the father.” The pages flickered. “Now, Henry Wilde was born in a Sydney slum of vice-ridden parents. For nine years he committed minor crimes. He shot at and killed a man who surprised him when attacking an office safe. His parentage urged him to crime and finally to the scaffold. The minor crimes produced the major crime. You follow me?”

“Easily,” assented the detective, who subconsciously was wondering at Mr Jelly’s concise speech. It almost seemed that the man’s speech was the result of training. He did not say, “cold-bloodedly plan and murder a man”, and “shot and killed a man”, but “coldly plan to and murder” and “shot at and killed a man”. This subtle difference Bony was quick to notice. Mr Jelly continued:

“We have here two killers born in wholly different circumstances and living on quite different planes of life. On the surface the two are totally dissimilar, yet they are blood brothers to Cain. For a moment we will leave them. Here is William Marks who murdered three women at various times and places for their insurance money, and over here is Frederick Nonning of Charlton, Victoria, who killed five little children without motive. Nonning was a wealthy man; Marks was an artisan born of respectable parents.

“Now here we have four killers, no two of them in the same class of society. Two killed for money, one killed to avoid detention, and the fourth killed for the pleasure of killing. The question arises, why should all those men hang on my walls, why should they commit a deed which to you and me would be horrible even when contemplated? I’ll tell you. I’ll explain a theory which I think can be termed a fact.

“Murder is the visible expression of an hereditary trait. On these walls are the pictures of twenty-seven killers. Of those twenty-seven cases I have been able to construct the genealogical tables of nineteen back to the fifth generation. In all cases save two the tables reveal lunacy and self-destruction. The descendant of such ancestors today faces the probability of the legal death.”

“I take it that you believe that murderers are mental defectives?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And, as insane people, should not be hanged?”

Mr Jelly was emphatic when next he spoke.

“Let us get down to brass tacks, as my old father used to say,” he went on. “In the bad old days, when they hanged a man for looking crossways at the squire, it was considered that man was a free agent, able to distinguish right from wrong. In these days if a man brains his wife with a beer bottle, and more especially if the man belongs to the professional class, and he acts mad, the alienists will prove that he is, and their opinion is taken as accurate. You see, we have swung right round to the opposite outlook or viewpoint of crime and criminals.”

Mr Jelly crossed his legs. Enthusiasm for his subject was warming him.

“The only man who ever really understood criminals was Lombroso, the Italian. He said, and could prove what he said, that a murderer, or any felon guilty of brutality, inevitably bore certain physical marks. These people can be picked out as easily as he picked ’em out in his day. I can pick them out: a very shrewd man, who wasn’t a doctor, taught me how. Never mind who he was or where he taught me. The fact stands that Lombroso was right as regards killers. I give in to the oh-my-poor-brother fools when dealing with lesser criminals, because stealing and like offences are the result largely of environment; but, as I have said, if a man or a woman is a potential killer, either or both can be detected by physical abnormalities. So that, assuming you were branded, as God branded Cain before and not after he killed Abel, as many people think, you should be put away before you cut my throat, not after, because when my throat has been cut it can never again be uncut.”

“But the difficulty would be in setting up the authority in the first place, and, in the second place, the examination of the people,” Bony objected.

“I realize that,” Mr Jelly agreed thoughtfully. “Still, the fact remains that many murderers should never have been allowed outside a lunatic asylum. Nonning and Fling, Wells and Mann were mentally unbalanced. I visited Wells and Nonning in jail and found the Lombrosian brand on them. Wilde, the burglar, was sane, but he was branded too. Like many criminals, his final crime was the culmination of a life of crime.”

“You do not believe in the death penalty?” asked Bony quickly.

Mr Jelly’s grey eyebrows became one straight bar. He said sternly:

“Every right-minded man must believe in the extinction of killers. The death sentence is a tremendous deterrent. It bulks large in the mind of a man who would like to kill, or who regards killing lightly, but himself fears death. No punishment would ever stop the subnormal or the abnormal, but abolish the death penalty and murders committed by sane men will increase mightily. No, what I think is that many murders need never have happened at all. I believe that penal control should be exercised over potential killers who have once come into a prison to serve a sentence for a lesser crime.”

Mr Jelly was now fingering idly the empty picture frame. He talked on and on about his killers, interesting Bony with his wonderful memory of their trials, with, now and then, grim allusion to the manner in which it was reported that they died. Presently the detective’s mind was jolted back to his business at Burracoppin.

“Yes, I am sure poor Loftus was murdered,” Mr Jelly was saying. “He would not have disappeared voluntarily. I have got my own ideas, of course. It will all come out some day. Someone will find him under a stone or in a hole. I am a great believer in the saying ‘Murder will out’, and I am going to put the picture of Loftus’s killer in this frame, after he is hanged. Poor old Loftus! He didn’t ever do anyone a bad turn.”

Yes, Bony was extremely interested in Mr Jelly. He thoroughly enjoyed his visit at the farm, and when he and Hurley reached the Rabbit Department Depot he said as much.

“I am glad you enjoyed yourself,” Hurley said with a yawn. “I did—thank you!”