Читать книгу The Bone is Pointed - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 8

A Stranger to Opal Town

The mail car from St Albans arrived at Opal Town every Tuesday about noon, weather permitting, and the twenty-third of September being fine and warm, it arrived this day on time. A shock-headed youth relinquished the wheel, backed out of the car, surveyed the township, saw Sergeant Blake standing before the door of the post office, and called, cheerfully:

“Good day-ee, Sergeant!”

Sergeant Blake, wearing civilian clothes, returned the greeting and transferred his interest to the passengers. The two young men who were obviously stockmen he greeted, each by name, but the third and last passenger caused him to narrow his eyes. This third passenger was plainly stamped as a city man by his clothes and heavy suitcase. Of average height and build, he was remarkable for the dark colouring of his skin, which emphasized his blue eyes and white teeth when he smiled at something said to him by the driver who was delving for the half-dozen mail-bags.

The stranger stood a moment at the edge of the side-walk, regarding the hotel across the street, while the other passengers and the driver moved past the Sergeant to enter the post office. When slim, dark fingers began the manufacture of a cigarette, Blake thought the time opportune to learn something of this stranger’s business in a town so situated at the end of one of the long western trails that but few strangers ever came there, even swagmen.

“Staying long in Opal Town?”

The stranger turned to regard him with eyes containing a distinct twinkle.

“I hope not,” he replied, lightly. “Are you Sergeant Blake?”

“I am,” was the cautious reply, followed by a further examination of the stranger’s face and clothes.

“Then I hope you will be pleased to meet me. I am Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Blake was only just in time to prevent his lower jaw sagging and his eyes widening in astonishment. Napoleon Bonaparte! The man of whom he had heard so much indirectly and semiofficially! The man who, it was said, had never known failure! The man who had so often proved that aboriginal blood and brains were equal to those of the white man! Automatically the Sergeant’s right hand flashed upward in a salute.

“I am more pleased to see you, sir, than you might think,” he said warmly. “Your coming is quite unexpected, sir. I haven’t been notified of it.”

“I dislike advance notices,” Bonaparte murmured, and the Sergeant, seeing that his superior was glancing over his shoulder towards the post office, also lowered his voice when he spoke.

“Will you be putting up at the hotel, sir?”

“That, I think, we shall decide after we have had our conference. I could leave my case with the post office official meanwhile.”

Blake carried out this suggestion, and then together they walked along the street to the police station at its western end. “I think already that we will be able to work well in harness, and enjoy an official association,” said the stranger to Opal Town. “But, please, Sergeant, kindly omit the ‘sir’ and call me Bony. Everyone does. When I am home, my wife often says: ‘Bony, the wood box is empty.’ My eldest son, Charles, who is studying at the university I myself attended, most inconveniently says: ‘Can you lend me a quid, Bony?’ The rising generation is, I fear, contemptuous of the correct use of words. But to revert. Being addressed as ‘sir’ or as ‘Inspector’ causes in me a sensation of discomfort. Even our mutually respected Chief Commissioner calls me Bony. He shouts: ‘Where the so and so have you been, Bony?’ and ‘Blast you, Bony! Why don’t you obey orders?’ ”

Blake glanced sideways at the detective, strongly suspicious that he was being fooled. Consequently he was careful to make no comment. Bony flashed a glance at him and marvelled at the stiffness of the Sergeant’s body.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“Oh yes.”

“Then, perhaps, your wife might be persuaded to make us a pot of tea. Cups of tea and cigarettes make me a brilliant man when normally I am quite ordinary.”

At the police station, Bony was shown into the office and left there for a moment whilst the Sergeant interviewed his wife. He returned to find the detective studying the large-scale map of the district.

“The wife says that lunch is quite ready,” Blake said, a little of the stiffness gone out of him. “We’d be glad if you would join us.”

“That is, indeed, kind of you,” Bony said, smilingly.

So the Sergeant took him to the bathroom, and from there to the pleasant veranda beside the kitchen where the meal was set out and where Bony was presented to his hostess.

“If you will sit here, Inspector,” Mrs Blake said, indicating a chair.

“Dear, dear!” Bony exclaimed. “I forgot. Forgive me, Mrs Blake. Now do I look like the Governor-General?”

Mrs Blake became still, and then, since Bony was obviously waiting for an answer, she made it a negative one. She experienced a growing feeling of wonder when he smiled at her and said:

“Thank heaven for that, Mrs Blake. My friends all call me Bony. May I account you one of them?”

It became quickly apparent that he could and when they found a common subject of interest in the welfare of the aborigines, her husband was ignored. Mrs Blake became almost vivacious, and Bony suspected that Sergeant Blake could have been less a policeman to his wife.

Back again in the office, Bony once more studied the wall map.

“This Karwir Station is quite a big holding, Sergeant,” he remarked. “I’m going to ask you a great number of questions which you may think unnecessary seeing that I have read your report on this case. As the man vanished on Karwir Station, we will make it the pivot around which shall revolve influences that may or may not bear on Anderson’s disappearance. However, first put me right if I am wrong on these several points.

“Anderson left Karwir homestead to ride the fences of Green Swamp Paddock on the eighteenth of April. The next morning his horse, still with its saddle and bridle, was found standing at the gate. A hundred and seventy points of rain had fallen, and, in consequence, the horse could be backtracked for only a mile along the road. That day a search was made for Anderson by mounted men. On the twentieth the horsemen again searched, and, during the afternoon, Mr Eric Lacy, accompanied by his sister, flew his aeroplane over the same ground. On the twenty-second Mr Gordon arrived with three trackers. By this time two constables and yourself were added to the body of searchers. The search was continued until the twenty-ninth, when it was abandoned. No clue to the man’s fate was found. You know, Blake, it is all quite remarkable.”

“It is that,” agreed Blake. “I no longer think that Anderson was merely thrown from his horse and killed or even injured. Either he was murdered, or he wilfully vanished for some reason unknown.”

“I think you are right Sergeant, and I shall establish one or other of your alternatives. Two weeks only did the Commissioner give me to complete this case, but I always refuse to be hurried or to give up an investigation once I begin it. I am not sure, but it is either five or seven times that I have been sacked for declining to obey the order to return to headquarters before I have completed a case. So many people in our profession, Blake, insist on regarding me as a policeman. Well, now—

“Let us first visualize this Green Swamp Paddock on Karwir Station. It is situated on the north-eastern extremity of the run, almost due south of Opal Town from which it is distant only ten or twelve miles. In shape it is roughly oblong and it is bounded on the north by the netted boundary fence separating Karwir from Meena Station. In area it is about fifty thousand acres. The southern half is plain country; the northern half is covered with mulga belts and dry water channels culminating at a swamp backed on the east and north by sand-dunes. To the south of Green Swamp Paddock is the Karwir homestead. To the east of it is Mount Lester Station. To the north of it is Meena Station.

“Let us begin with the people at Karwir. Describe to me the Lacys. Then the Gordons, and then the Mackays. Give a rough outline of their history.”

Not until he was satisfied that his pipe was drawing properly did Blake comply, and it was evident that he intended to choose his words carefully.

“I’ll begin with Old Lacy,” he said. “For many years and over a wide area, he has been known only as Old Lacy. He created Karwir in the eighties, and for years didn’t do much with it, since he hadn’t much money and was forced to make a living bullock and camel driving. Then he married a woman who had a little money, and he settled down to the cattle business. He’s rough, tough and just according to his lights. Today, though he’s more than seventy, he looks and acts like a man of fifty. It is whispered that he must be worth a million, and if you want to see him riled just hint that he ought to retire and live in a city.

“Every week he comes to town and sits on the bench. His fellow justices simply don’t count. Old Lacy fines everyone presented at the flat rate of two pounds, no matter if the fine ought to be five shillings or fifty pounds. You’ll like him. We all do.

“He’s got two children. Eric is twenty-five and probably the most popular man in the district. Old Lacy dotes on him, gives him lashings of money, but the young fellow has kept his balance. He learned to fly a plane several years ago, but was dished somehow for the Air Force. Flies his own plane about here now and keeps the station books. Diana, the daughter, is just twenty years old. She’s been back from school two years and now runs the homestead. If you’ve got an eye for beauty she’ll make you happy.

“So much for the Lacys. About the time Old Lacy took up Karwir, a John Gordon made a station north of it that he named Meena, the homestead being situated on the east shore of a fine lake of water. This year it’s bone dry. He and Old Lacy had a struggle for the possession of Green Swamp, and when Old Lacy got it, the first Gordon was embittered for life. His son carried on after him until twelve years ago when he was killed by his horse. The son’s wife, a fine type of woman, then carried on the place until their son, the present John Gordon, was old enough to take his father’s place. They are respected people. They don’t mix much with local people, but they have maintained a kind of tradition begun by the original Gordon who made himself a protector of the blacks out there, the Kalchut tribe, an off-shoot of the Worgia nation. They will have no interference with the blacks, and because Meena is at the end of the road, and a desert lies beyond it, they and their aborigines are most favoured.

“The Mackays are different from either the Lacys or the Gordons. Their place is about the size of Meena, only three hundred thousand acres, but their land is much poorer. Mackay himself was stricken with paralysis fifteen years ago, and his wife died four years ago. There are three boys and two girls in the family, ranging from twenty-five to sixteen. The boys are wild and they seem always to have more money than the place could provide them with. That’s about all I can tell you, I think.”

“Quite good, Sergeant. Now we have the background against which Anderson lived. Tell me about him.”

“All right. When Anderson disappeared he was about thirty-five years old. He came to Karwir to jackeroo when he was fifteen or sixteen, and he’s been a jackeroo ever since. Old Lacy was always a bit hard on him, and he gave him his biggest knock in refusing to promote him to the overseership a few years ago when the overseer left. When Young Lacy came home it was expected that the old man would sack Anderson, but he didn’t.

“Anderson was a wonderful horseman, a big, fine-looking man spoiled by a vicious temper and a cruel disposition. The first trouble with him was over a young aboriginal whom Mrs Lacy employed as maid. There was hell to pay over that. The present Gordon’s father and Mrs Gordon created ructions, and refused to permit any female aboriginal to tread on Karwir ground. Then followed another trouble when Anderson beat up an employee named Wilson, known as Bill the Better. Wilson was in the hospital for nine months. Old Lacy paid all the expenses, paid compensation to Wilson, and when the money had been spent, took him again into his employment. Bill the Better is the Karwir groom to-day.

“There was an affair concerning a horse that had to be destroyed, but I never got the rights of it and it was hushed up. Then came an ugly business concerning a blackfellow named Inky Boy. It happened two years back. Inky Boy was employed to look after the Karwir rams. For years Karwir has been running sheep as well as cattle, Anderson one day found half the rams perished in a fence corner, and Inky Boy asleep in his hut. He took Inky Boy out to a tree, tied him to it, and flogged him with his stockwhip until he was almost dead.

“No report of this affair reached me until it was all settled up. Young Lacy was sent to St Albans in his plane to bring out the doctor. The Gordons went over and demanded the carcass, and after the doctor had done what he could they took Inky Boy to Meena and nursed him back to normal. After that no black was allowed by them to work on Karwir.

“You see, the Gordons were just as keen to keep this affair from me as were the Lacys. They feared that if it leaked out the busybodies down in the cities, who think they know all that’s to be known about our blacks, would agitate for official interference with the Kalchut tribe, probably to the extent of having them moved to strange country on some reserve or other.

“And so Anderson got off scot free. As Inky Boy made no complaint to me, and as I didn’t get to know of it until months after, I decided to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“In those circumstances, my dear Blake, you acted wisely,” Bony interjected. “Proceed, please.”

“Well, as I said, Anderson was a fine horseman, a good cattleman, and a passable sheepman. As far as his job was concerned, he knew it. But—Old Lacy knew him. Besides being a good horseman, Anderson was a wizard with a stockwhip. He used it to satisfy his sadistic lust, to give and to witness paid. No one in the district liked him. No one could understand why Old Lacy allowed him to stay on Karwir. After the miss over the vacant overseership, Anderson became sullen, and drank more than was good for him or any man.”

“What is your private opinion about Anderson?” Bony asked.

“Well, as the man is probably dead—”

“I appreciate your reluctance, Blake, to answer my question; but we have to get down to the foundation. Character if often a pointer.”

Still Blake hesitated, filling his pipe and lighting it before replying. Then:

“I think that had life been easier for Anderson he might have turned out differently. From what I’ve heard from time to time, I think that Old Lacy was always too hard with him. Anderson had the right to expect promotion when the overseer left, and, after it was refused, he followed the downward road. When a big man, as Anderson was, becomes governed by passion he is an ugly proposition. I never liked to see him come to town; I always liked to see him leave it. He never gave us any trouble, and that is about all I can say in his favour.”

“He must, then, have had many enemies?”

“That’s so,” Blake replied. “But I’ve never heard of any threats against his life, and I haven’t seen the finger pointing to any particular person who might have engineered his death.”

Abruptly Bony left his chair again to study the wall map. On returning to his seat, he manufactured one of his badly made cigarettes, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and said:

“You mentioned in your report that on the morning of the nineteenth of April you discovered that your tracker had gone back to the tribe. Also that it was learned that he had accompanied the tribe to Deep Well where an aged lubra was dying. Did she die?”

“No. She got better. Still alive and now with the tribe at Meena Lake.”

“About what time did you, or one of the constables, last see the tracker the previous day?”

“I saw him at ten o’clock on the evening of the eighteenth, the day Anderson rode Green Swamp. I went as usual to the stable to see that the horse kept there for duty had been properly fed and bedded. Abie—that was his name—was then asleep on his stretcher in the adjoining stall.”

“How did he receive word about the sick lubra?”

“I don’t know. Mulga wire, I suppose.”

“This Meena Lake is how many miles from here?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“You missed him the next morning, at what time?”

“Half-past seven.”

Bony looked beyond the Sergeant and out the open window. For nearly a minute neither man spoke.

“I suppose that the old lubra out at this Deep Well was really ill. Did you ever check up on that point?”

“Well, no.”

“We’ll have to. An old lubra is reported ill at Deep Well which is forty-two miles from this place where Abie is employed as a tracker. During the vital night it is raining hard, and Abie walks twenty-eight miles to Meena Lake, and a further fourteen miles to Deep Well to find the woman not dying. On the face of those facts the blacks made an extraordinarily bad mistake. You know, my dear Blake, I am already becoming interested in this case. There is another point.

“It was never established that on the morning that Anderson last rode Green Swamp his horse was carrying a neck-rope. The next morning when the groom found the animal at the gate there was no neck-rope, though it was Anderson’s custom to have one with him. We mustn’t lose sight of the probability that the horse carried a neck-rope on that fatal day, and that when the man vanished the neck-rope as well as the stockwhip vanished with him.”

Sergeant Blake nodded his agreement. He noted with interest the gleam in the blue eyes, and his interest was increased when Bony took a pen and wrote on a slip of paper. The writing was pushed towards him, and he read:

“There is someone standing outside the window. Look out and see who he is. Have him in if possible.”

Without a sound the Sergeant’s chair was raised and lifted back. With catlike tread he moved to the window and then, in swifter action, he thrust his head beyond the sill. The delighted Bony heard him grunt before shouting:

“What the devil are you doing there, Wandin?”

The answering voice was unmistakably aboriginal.

“Waiting for you, Sargint. Wantum money buy terbaccer.”

“Oh, do you? You come in here, quick.”

Blake moved clear of the window, and Bony saw a tall black figure pass it to reach the front door. Followed then the padding of naked feet in the passage. He stood up beside Blake to await the coming of this Wandin, who, he knew, had been leaning against the wall within a foot or so of the wide-open window.

A tall, gaunt, spindle-legged aboriginal entered the office to stand just inside the doorway and gently rub the naked left foot with the toes of the right foot. He was cleanly shaved, and his cotton shirt and dungaree trousers were reasonably clean. He wore no hat. His hair was full and greying. Over his long face was spread a grin as he looked alternately from the Sergeant to Bony. It was a foolish grin deliberately to conceal anxiety, which the black eyes failed to do.

“What were you doing out there?” Blake asked, sharply.

“Nuthin,’ Sargint. Jes’ waitin’.”

“What for?”

“Money fer terbaccer, Sargint. No terbaccer. You give me two tree schillin’?”

Bony now stepped forward to stand close to the blackfellow who was taller than he was.

“You Wandin, eh?”

“Yes. Too right!”

“You stand outside listening ’cos you want tobacco. Look!”

Wandin bent his head to look at the point of his trousers where a large plug of tobacco was distinctly outlined. When the eyes were again raised to meet the steady blue eyes the unease behind them was stronger still. Yet he continued to smile, foolishly, and said: “Funny, eh? I forgot.”

Now Bony was smiling, and swiftly his two hands went upwards to grasp the edges of the open shirt and to draw them farther apart. Wandin stiffened, and from his cicatrized chest Bony’s gaze rose again to meet the angry black eyes.

“You plenty beeg blackfeller, eh?” he said softly. “You have plenty magic, eh? You marloo totem feller. Me—I know signs. Now you go out and you go look-see police horse.”

The detective turned back to his chair at the desk, and Blake repeated the order to look to the horse in the stable. Without speaking, Wandin left, the soft padding of his feet coming to them from the passage. Through the open window Blake saw him leave the building and round an angle of it before he himself resumed his seat.

“Do you think he was listening to us?” he asked, a frown puckering his eyes.

“He’s a most intelligent aboriginal gentleman, Sergeant. I quite think he was listening. Anyway, I hope so. Yes, this case already reveals possibilities of absorbing interest. Is your clock right?”

“Was last night by the wireless signal.”

“Good! By the way, in your report you didn’t state whether Anderson was wearing a hat the day he vanished. In fact, you haven’t mentioned his clothes.”

“I took it for granted that he was wearing a hat.”

“You mentioned a saddle-bag containing a serviette that had been used to wrap his lunch in, but you did not say whether, also attached to the saddle, there was a quart-pot. Was there?”

“Yes, there was. I saw the saddle later.”

“You see, it is necessary to establish what disappeared with Anderson. We know that his stockwhip did. Probably he was wearing a hat, a felt hat. And it is probable that round the horse’s neck was a rope, neatly rolled and knotted, with which to secure the animal when Anderson stopped for lunch or was obliged to repair the fences. If that rope was discovered, say, here in your office—You see the point? So it would be with his hat, or any other article associated with him that fatal day. I will go into the matter at Karwir. Would you ring Mr Lacy and ask him if he will put me up? Say Detective-Inspector Bonaparte. He might give Bony room in the men’s hut.”

Blake grinned and reached for the telephone attached to the wall at his side. When he had called the exchange, and while he was waiting for the connection, Bony said, chuckling:

“The title, added to the illustrious name I bear, often goes far in securing me comfortable quarters. Alas! I love comfort. I am soft, I know, but being soft keeps me back from the bush which to me is ever a great danger.”

Blake spoke, addressing Mr Lacy, so that Bony knew not whether father or son was at the other end of the line.

“Mr Lacy will be very pleased to put you up,” the Sergeant said, turning back to him. “If you like, he will send his son in the aeroplane for you.”

“Thank Mr Lacy. Say I will be glad to accept his offer of modern transport. I am ready to leave Opal Town when the machine arrives here.”

“Well, that’s that!” Blake said, having replaced the absurd horn contraption on its hook. “You’ll like the Lacys.”

“Oh yes, of that I have no doubt,” concurred Bony. “In fact, I believe I am going to enjoy myself on this investigation. Its basic facts please me immensely—which is why I consented to come.”

“Consented to come!” echoed Blake abruptly, very much the policeman.

“That is what I said. You know, Blake, were I not a rebel against red tape and discipline I should be numbered among the ordinary detectives who go here and go there and do this and that as directed. Team work, they call it. I am never a part of a team. I am always the team. As I told you, I think, once I begin an investigation I stick to it until it is finished. Authority and time mean little to me, the investigation everything. That is the foundation of my successes. Instead of fearing defeat in this case because of the length of time between the day of the disappearance and this day of my arrival, I am confident of ultimate success in establishing what happened to the man Jeffery Anderson. The sands of the bush have buried all the clues. I have not one with which to start. No body, no false teeth, no bloodstained knife or revolver covered with fingerprints. But Sergeant, I have a brain, two eyes, an ability to reason, a contempt for time and red tape and discipline. These things are all I need. Now, please, go out and find what Wandin is doing. Spy on him. Don’t let him know you are spying on him if you can help it.”

The Sergeant was away for nearly five minutes and when he returned to the office he found Bony once again standing before the wall map.

“You found Wandin, probably in the place he occupies as a camp,” Bony said without turning his head. “He was squatted on his heels. His arms were crossed and resting on his knees. He appeared to be asleep. He was, of course, awake, but as you moved quietly he did not know of your approach.”

With light tread, Sergeant Blake walked to Bony’s side. His grey eyes bored steadily into the beaming blue eyes. For three seconds he stood there, staring, and then he said:

“How did you know that?”

“In a city drawing-room, a city office, on a city street, I am like a nervous child,” Bony began his reply, which was no reply to the policeman. “Here in bush townships I am a grown man. Out there in the bush I am an emperor. The bush is me: I am the bush: we are one.” And then Bony laughed, softly, to add: “There are moments when I feel a great pride in being the son of an aboriginal woman, because in many things it is the aboriginal who is the highly developed civilized being and the white man who is the savage. Perhaps your association with me on this case will make you believe that.”