Читать книгу Death of a Swagman - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 10

The Prisoner’s Visitors

To Sergeant Marshall, administrator as well as policeman, Detective Inspector Bonaparte was an entirely new proposition, the antithesis of Detective Sergeant Redman.

Marshall knew no class of men better than policemen and plain-clothes investigation men who once were uniformed policemen. He was aware, and took pride in the fact, that the modern policeman is the product of a machine-like organization built up by generations of men engaged in the perpetual war against law-breakers. There was no doubt in Marshall’s mind that Detective Sergeant Redman was a good investigator. His record was proof of that. But Redman’s training began as a constable on a city beat, where he had learned the rudiments of the warfare against criminals operating in cities, and he had continued in the same warfare, and against the same enemies, when promoted to the Criminal Investigation Branch. As an investigator here in the bush, however, Redman was a lesser quantity than Gleeson, who could recognize the tracks of any particular horse sufficiently well to follow them for miles, and who did know the difference between the tracks made by a dog and those made by a fox.

Here, in the vast untrammelled and uncultivated interior of Australia, the science of crime detection was as different from its city counterpart as the tracks made by a fox are different from those made by a dog. Here in the bush the sciences of fingerprinting, blood grouping, hair sectioning, and general photography were of relatively small importance compared with the sciences of tracking and of the effects of varying wind pressures upon the face of the earth.

Marshall had yet to experience personally Bonaparte’s methods of crime detection, but he had heard sufficient about this Queenslander to appreciate their extraordinary success. That Bonaparte chose to enter Merino as a stockman, that he had artfully got himself charged in a court of law, and now was painting government property for two shillings per diem and his meals, did not appear to Marshall as unorthodox as it would have done to a police officer having no experience of the bush.

Certainly no one in Merino would ever imagine that the half-caste stockman painting the police station fence was a famous detective inspector investigating the murder of George Kendall. Bony had said after breakfast on the morning following the funeral of Edward Bennett:

“You administer a district comprising roughly nine thousand square miles, a district occupied by about a hundred and fifty people, of whom nearly two thirds live here in Merino. Without being disrespectful, I may call myself a fisher of men. I cast my net and in due time I bring in for examination all these people. All of them are fish. All are harmless fish except one that is a sting-ray. It is not very exciting work. It is not comparable, for instance, to angling for swordfish. I don’t go about armed with loaded guns and things, save on very rare occasions. The uniformed policemen do all the necessary shooting. The only shooting I do is with my mind. The mental bullets I fire cause a man to die at the bottom end of a rope.”

Well, well! Was Bony even then getting ready to fire one of those mental bullets?

Seated at his desk, through the open window of his office the senior police officer of the Merino District could observe Detective Inspector Bonaparte industriously painting the police station fence fronting the street, and he could hear him cheerfully whistling “Clementine, My Clementine”. When a few moments later the whistling ceased, Marshall saw that his daughter Florence had joined the painter.

* * *

Rose Marie said to the catcher of sting-rays:

“Good morning, Bony!”

“Good morning, Rose Marie! Are you off to school? ”

“Yes. But I’m early. I can talk to you if you like.”

Bony slapped the last drop of paint from his brush to the wood.

“How do you like the colour?” he inquired mildly.

“I hate it.” The little girl’s dark eyes gazed steadily at the light yellow of the new paint work. “It makes me feel sick.”

“It makes me feel tired, Rose Marie. Now why should the government permit only the most artistic shades of colouring to be applied to the inside of Parliament House down in Sydney and send this fearful stuff to Merino? But never mind.”

Laying the brush across the top of the paintpot, he sat down on the bare ground with his back to that part of the fence still to be painted, and began to manufacture a cigarette. Gravely the girl unslung her school satchel, placed it beside him as a seat, and joined him at his ease.

“Mother said that you’re the most lovely man she’s ever met,” she told him.

“Indeed!”

“Yes. I heard her tell Father so after you left the kitchen last night.”

“Oh! Where were you?”

“I was supposed to be asleep in my bedroom. It’s next to the kitchen. Would you like to know what father said about you?”

“Do you think I ought to know?”

“Yes, because it was nice. I wouldn’t tell you if it had been nasty.”

“Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t tell me. You see, it might make me vain. What’s your teacher’s name?”

The question was asked through the faint haze of cigarette smoke. He observed the dark eyes regarding him with open trust. The small oval face was healthy and not yet burned by the summer suns.

“Mr. Gatehead,” she told him. “He’s a nice man, but his wife isn’t. Mrs Moody says that Mrs Gatehead is a real useless trollop, and however he came to marry her is beyond reason. I like Miss Leylan. She’s our sewing mistress, you know. She’s in love with a minister who goes round Australia in a big truck. Miss Leylan thinks that I’m too young to be in love. Do you?”

“No. We are never too young, Rose Marie, and never too old to be in love.”

“Thank you, Bony,” she said solemnly. “You see, one day I am going to marry young Mr Jason. He’s saving up his money to buy a Buick, and then we will be married by Mr James, and young Mr Jason will drive me straight off to the kingdom of Rose Marie.”

“Oh! And where is that?”

The school bell began to clang and the child rose to her feet. Whilst she was adjusting her satchel she looked down at him with bright eyes.

“You promise not to tell?” He nodded.

“Cross your fingers and promise ... loud.” He obeyed. She said:

“The kingdom of Rose Marie is where I’m going to be queen and young Mr Jason the king.” She then proceeded to recite what she had learnt by heart. “You follow the new moon to where it sinks into the sunset glow. There is a lake of liquid gold, and in the middle of the lake is an island all green with tall grasses and flowering trees. The island is the kingdom of Rose Marie, and when we get there all the stars will fall and hold tight to the tops of the trees and be like those electric globes in Mr Jason’s garage.”

“True?” asked the entranced Bony.

“Yes. Young Mr Jason told me. My, I must run! The bell’s stopped.”

“You promise me something before you go?” She crossed her fingers and promised.

“Promise that you will never again speak the word ‘trollop’. It isn’t a nice word.”

“All right! I promise, Bony. Good-bye.”

She left him, running, the bars of her golden hair floating behind her.

He was wishing that he had been blessed with a daughter in addition to his three sons when a dog came to stare at him.

“Good day!” he said to the dog.

The dog wagged its tail. It was a large rangy animal of nondescript breed, brown head, brown back, and white chest.

“What is your name?” Bony asked. “Come on, tell me your name.”

The dog wrinkled his nose and suspicion left his eyes. He came nearer, willing to be friends.

“Come on, shake hands,” invited Bony, and the animal dutifully lifted his right forepaw, his tail now a flail, the entire body of him expressing friendship.

One nail was absent from the paw clasped by Bony’s hand.

Someone whistled shrilly, and at once the dog raced away to vanish into the garage doorway. Bony rose to his feet and fell to work on his painting. Five minutes later he observed Mr Jason coming from the garage.

“Good morning, Burns. How’s the work going?”

“Goodo, Mr Jason. Rotten colour, though.”

“I agree. It will be an eyesore in Merino,” predicted Mr Jason. “As the Bard of Avon said, so perhaps shall I: ‘O, I have pass’d a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams.’ I intend to write a strong protest about that paint to the police department.”

Mr Jason was wearing blue engineer’s overalls, which seemed out of place when quoting Shakespeare. The expression in his dark eyes now was mild, almost paternal, when he went on:

“One does one’s best to bring beauty into the outback, but so few appreciate one’s efforts to beautify a place or beautify the mind with passages from the works of the world’s literary giants. Take to reading, Burns. Read the works of Shakespeare and Milton and Wordsworth. Elevate your mind, Burns. Did you notice any peculiar circumstance relative to old Bennett’s demise?”

“Er ... no,” replied Bony, a little set back by such a question following so closely upon the subject of literature and the elevation of the mind.

“I saw you walking about the old man’s hut the other afternoon,” admitted Mr Jason. “You are probably aware, having heard what I said yesterday, that I am not easy in my mind about that death. You did not, by any chance, observe any unusual tracks? I think, you know, that someone frightened old Bennett to death.”

“But why frighten the old man?” argued Bony. “He had no enemies, had he?”

“I don’t know. I am only going on what I observed on the man’s face. You were, of course, asked to accompany the party by the sergeant?”

“Yes, he did ask me to go with him. I looked about all round the hut but I could see nothing strange, or of any value. I am not very good at tracking. Not so good as the full blacks.”

“Ah, no, I suppose not.”

Mr Jason departed down the street and returned on the far side. Twice he stopped and chatted with people. Several times he was spoken to beyond the normal greeting. What had Rose Marie said that her father had said of him? A broken-down actor. Well, he might have been an actor, but hardly a broken-down one, whatever that term might mean. There was a drover in western Australia who, during two months’ association with Bony, had recited word-perfect every Shakespearean play.

People were shopping in the few stores and gossiping in the shade of the pepper-trees. Cars and trucks were arriving from west and east, to stop at the hotel as though their engines would fall out should they be driven past it. The mail car from Mildura arrived at eleven, from the west. It was the only vehicle to pass the hotel. It continued on to the post office, then it was turned and driven back to the hotel to unload its passengers. At the garage young Jason was kept busy pumping petrol and serving oil and examining engine defects. At noon the humming of the blowflies was subdued by the burst of children’s voices released from school. Rose Marie came flying up the street, to give Bony a wave and a smile before darting through the police station gate and into the house.

Everyone who passed along Bony’s side of the street said “Good dayee” to him. The words of the greeting never varied, nor was it ever omitted. Several passers-by paused to speak to the painter and to sympathize with him in his bad luck at having been chosen by the sergeant to paint that fence.

In the afternoon there came the Rev. Llewellyn James. His greeting was minus the final long e.

“Good dayee,” responded Bony, straightening his back and turning about to see the youngish man who gazed at him intently with pale blue eyes. He wore no hat, and his fine brown hair was unruly. His hands were large and white and soft, and from the crook of an arm dangled a walking stick. Grey flannel trousers and black lustre coat failed to hide his flabbiness. He spoke with the unmistakable accent of the Welshman.

“I regret being informed of your fall and subsequent arraignment before the court,” he said. “However, I am glad to find you at honest labour in the pure sunshine, for which you must thank Sergeant Marshall. What is your name?”

“First I’d like to know who you are,” Bony said with pretended sullenness.

“I am Mr James, the clergyman.”

There was now superciliousness in the voice, and an expression of hardness had flashed into the pale blue eyes. Bony thought that he knew his man and assumed humility.

“Sorry, Padre,” he began. “My name’s Robert Burns. I’m a stranger to this part of the state.”

Mr James smiled, and Bony could actually see the shaft of wit being fashioned in the man’s mouth.

“No descendant of the great Scotch poet, I presume. I cannot trace the Highland burr in your voice.”

It was a different Bony from the one who had spoken that morning to Rose Marie.

“I am Australian-born,” he said. “My father may have been a poet. I don’t know. I was reared in a North Queensland mission station, and I roam about Australia whenever I want.” Mr James was made glad that he knew his parents. It was a feeling he found comforting and pleasant. He began to press questions as though fully entitled. What was Bony’s age; what had been his education; what were his domestic responsibilities; and what was the reason of his being here in the south-western quarter of New South Wales? He did not inquire concerning Bony’s religion. Presently he said unctuously:

“Well, Burns, remember that you would not have found yourself in your present predicament had you not succumbed to the temptation of taking alcoholic refreshment. It is the greatest pitfall to entrap the unwary. At the expiration of the term of your imprisonment, have you any employment to go to?”

Sadly Bony shook his head.

“Then I will speak to Mr Leylan about you. He is the owner of Wattle Creek Station and is a great friend of mine. Can you ride a horse?”

“So long as it’s a quiet one, Padre.”

“Good! Well, we’ll see about it. Meanwhile, ponder on your delinquency so that profit may emerge to you. Did I see you accompanying Sergeant Marshall and Gleeson and Dr Scott to the late Mr Bennett’s hut the day before yesterday?”

“Yes, Padre, that’s so.”

“What were you doing walking round and round the hut when the others were inside?”

“Just having a look around, Padre.”

“Oh!”

Mr James appeared to be happier about Robert Burns. The word “Padre” sounded well. He had been resolute in his attitude against serving with the armed forces, but he understood that the title was used by both the officers and the men.

“Looking around!” he echoed. “For what?”

“Nothing in particular, Padre,” Bony replied, gazing over the minister’s shoulder. “You see, the sergeant thought that, being half aboriginal, I might find tracks that were peculiar, sort of, the sergeant thinking at that time that the old man might have been killed.”

“Ah ... yes ... certainly. And you are a tracker?”

“Just ordinary, I suppose. I’m not much good at anything. ”

“Perhaps not, Burns, but we must all try to make something of our lives.” Into the minister’s voice had crept a whine. “Keep to the straight and narrow path. I will not forget you. It may be possible to reclaim you, for I observe only a trace of degradation in your face. Good day to you.” Bony essayed his first smile.

“Good dayee, Padre,” he responded. “I’ll think over what you have told me. As I read somewhere: no man ever becomes a saint in his sleep.”

Mr James had proceeded towards the garage, but he turned sharply to look back with swift suspicion at the half-caste, who was dipping a paintbrush into the pot. He came to the verge of saying something, but checked himself.

Bony began his work mechanically. His eyes were engaged with the footmarks left on the soft earthen sidewalk by the Rev. Llewellyn James.