Читать книгу Bony and the Black Virgin - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 7
ОглавлениеSome Wells are Deep
John Downer took over the chore of preparing lunch, and with him in the kitchen-living-room was Midnight Long, the others being busy outside somewhere, and, according to Eric, rushing around in circles. Downer thoughtfully asked:
“What d’you make of that hair, Mr. Long?”
“What do you?” countered the manager.
“Well, it wasn’t shorn off Carl Brandt, and it didn’t come off the head of the dead stranger. He was a red-head. It didn’t come from you, and I’m certain sure it didn’t come from Robin Pointer. Could have come from me, but I didn’t see any white in it. What I mean is that it could have been cut from me about twenty years ago.”
“Then all that’s left are the aborigines,” deduced Midnight Long.
“Just so. But how do they come into this murder that Brandt must have done? Mawby is saying nothing, but he’s thinking hard about that hair. I’m leaving the abos out of it. The funny thing is that it was cut off, not pulled off. I’ll tell you something. It was about the time me and Jane took over this country that she got the idea of cutting a lock of hair off young Eric. She sort of mounted it on a card, and then she snipped a lock from me, and mounted it on another card. I can see her now, her eyes bright, and holding the cards one in each hand; Eric’s light-brown and mine jet-black, and after she died I remember going through what she called her Treasure Chest, and seeing them cards of hair in it. I’ve kept that Chest for all these years, and an hour ago I looked for the cards, and they’re not there.”
The grey eyes of Midnight Long were shrouded with introspection.
“Does your memory of the hair on the card tally with the lock Mawby’s got?”
“Pretty near.”
“Then you should tell him about it.”
“Suppose I should. All right, I will.”
“Anything else missing from the Treasure Chest?”
“Yes. A gold watch with a locket at the back. Picture in it of me when we were married, and a picture of baby Eric we had put in when he was about four months.”
“Well, John, you’ll have to relate all that to Mawby. Better have him in here at once. By the way, I think there’s a few fresh onions on the ute you could slice into that curry. I’ll get ’em.”
When Sergeant Mawby stepped into the house, John was seated at the table, smoking his pipe, and the preparation for the curry forgotten.
“Mr. Long says you want to tell me something, John,” the policeman said, sitting also at the table. He listened without comment until the story was done. “Let’s have a look at that Treasure Chest. D’you mind?”
“No. But I don’t want my Jane’s things pulled about. They’re sort of sacred, if you know what I mean.”
“That’ll be jake, John,” agreed Mawby.
He was conducted to the main bedroom, and from beneath the old-fashioned double bed John drew a Chinese cedarwood box, exquisitely carved and perfectly kept. He shifted it to the bedspread, which was dulled by dust.
“Nice box,” observed Mawby. “You cleaned it recently, I see.”
“Yes, dusted it about an hour ago when I came here to look for the hair cards. Always done that every Sunday, you know. I keep a special camel-hair brush, and sometimes I give it a drop or two of oil.”
Inwardly Mawby groaned, and another part of him rejoiced. He might not now have to requisition the box for fingerprints. John lifted the lid, and perfume rose to meet them, strong and sweet.
“I put some scent in now and then,” explained John. “The sort my wife always liked. There’s her bits and pieces.” He unwrapped tissue paper. “Gold bangles and brooches and other bits of jewellery. A wristlet watch she give me, and the rest.”
“You sure only her own watch and the locks of hair are missing?” pressed Mawby.
“Yes, I been through it all.”
Mawby frowned as the chest was closed and replaced under the bed. A very human man, he was saddened. They heard steps in the outer room, and John thought it was Midnight Long returning with the onions. It was Eric who appeared in the bedroom doorway.
“Did I hear you say you had lost something?” he asked his father, his face concerned.
“Yes, your mother’s watch, and two hanks of hair, yours and mine,” replied John, and Mawby added:
“Could add up.”
“How?” came sharply from the young man.
“Feller came here when Brandt was away looking to the sheep,” lugubriously replied the sergeant. “Brandt seen his tracks, crept into the house, found the stranger going through your mother’s Treasure Chest, fought him in the kitchin, chased him to the machinery-shed, hit him with a blunt instrument. Feller dies with a lock of hair in his fist. Brandt panics. Packs up and clears out. Forgets to replace the watch, but not to put the chest back under the bed. Has the watch in his pocket, or he could have put it somewhere where it’ll be found eventually. All tells of panic after killing a man.”
“What did he do with the dead man’s blanket roll?” pressed Eric. “Feller wouldn’t travel without a swag. I’ve been down the well. The swag wasn’t dumped there. I’ve been through the entire homestead, and can’t locate that swag.”
“Took it with him to plant somewhere on his way out, could be,” replied Mawby. “No time to burn it here. Objective? To destroy identification, or delay it. But we’ll identify that body, never fear. Photographs, fingerprints, because the hands are still dry, even the upper denture he had we’ve collected. Anyway, the robbery could have been the motive for the fight and resultant death. Good enough until we overhaul Brandt.”
“Ah! Just thought of it, Sergeant. There’s one place where that missing swag could be. In the reservoir tank above the well. I’ll look.”
Mawby mentioned the cards to which the locks of hair had been sewn.
“Could of been stuffed into the stove,” John said. “They weren’t back in the Chest, and they weren’t anywhere on the floor. Eric lit the fire, remember. Wouldn’t think to pull out paper and stuff that might have been in the stove.”
“Course not,” agreed Mawby. “Well, we’ll know more when we collar Brandt. Meanwhile, John, look around and let me have news of anything you find, such as that watch and the missing hank of hair and the cards, and the feller’s swag. We’re pretty well finished here, for the time being, that is. Have to get busy tracking forward to Brandt, and tracking back to identify the dead man and where he came from.”
Shortly after midday John Downer called his guests for lunch, and, having served them, he took a dish of hot curry and rice and slabs of bread and jam to the three aborigines. At one o’clock Mawby departed with Sefton and his tracker, and the doctor with the photographer joined Midnight Long on the seat of the utility, while the two L’Albert station aborigines climbed into the tray-body.
“Hope Mawby keeps his bus moving on the Crossing,” John said, standing beside Midnight Long’s truck. “What’s waiting round the next bend.”
“Shouldn’t bother him, John. He’s strong enough to lift the car over the Crossing, and Sefton’s with him. We’ll wait and see.”
The doctor wanted to lay five shillings that Mawby would bog, and everyone watched the sergeant’s car passing down the track and raising a cloud of red dust. The station aborigines, standing at the back, were equally interested, and Eric Downer watched from the rear of the vehicle—watched, not the departing car, but the aborigines.
On one turning about to see if he, too, was wagering silent odds, Eric stepped to the side of the tray-body opposite his father, and, stooping swiftly, drew a figure on the sandy ground. Looking up, he saw that the aborigine was looking down, and witnessed in the dark eyes understanding and the nod of the head. Then, with the edge of a palm, he erased the sand figure.
The police car gained the far side of the Crossing, and took to the hard lake beach with accelerating speed, and Midnight Long and his companions bade farewell to the Downers and set off after it. From the veranda, father and son watched the departing vehicles following the circular edge of Lake Jane.
“Well, lad, that’s that,” drawled old Downer. “A murder and a police investigation. You never know what’s waiting round the next bend.”
“You’re right there. You never know.” Eric hesitated before saying: “I’m worn out by the excitement. Any grog left in the bottle?”
“Too right, lad. We’ll share it. Then we’ll wash up, and by then I’ll be ready for a nap.”
“And I’ll run out to Rudder’s for the load.”
“And skin those sheep I killed this morning. Thirteen there was. The rest are too far gone.” Again in the meal-disordered kitchen, he asked: “Where did you say they’d buried that feller?”
“ ’Way back from the shearing-shed. Why?”
“Been wondering. I’m glad you told ’em not to bury him in our plot. Still, we’ll have to put a rail round him, be decent to the dead. I’ll see to it.”
Eric stoked the range. He said:
“I’ll get going for Rudder’s. You clean up.”
Eric found him asleep in an easy chair on the veranda, a handkerchief over his face to defeat the flies.
“Never heard you, lad. How did you get on?”
“All right. Took off the skins, and brought the lot home. Did you get any idea how many are left?”
“No. We got there too late last night, and they left too early for me to tally them.”
“Brandt seems to have done his job to the time he bolted,” Eric said. “We could have eight hundred left living. It’s the walking to the water and out to feed that’s killing them. Have to think about making camp where there’s a bit of feed left, and carting water to them. Ah, the mulga wire’s at work.”
Beyond Lake Jane, beyond the far horizon of sand dune and patch scrub, was rising a disjointed column of dark smoke, lifting as though to support the westering sun.
“The murder broadcast,” agreed John. “Them abos don’t need radios and telephones and things.”
“No, but we do. A telephone at least is what we must have.”
“Suppose we shall, if we’re to have any more murders,” temporised John, as both watched the rising smoke signal telling of the murder that had happened.
