Bony - 29 - The Lake Frome Monster

by Arthur W. Upfield

  The

  Lake Frome

  Monster

  ARTHUR UPFIELD

  HINKLER BOOK

  DISTRIBUTORS PTY LTD

  The Manuscript of this novel, left unfinished by Arthur Upfield when he died in 1964, has been completed and revised by J. L. Price and Mrs Dorothy Strange, using the copious and detailed notes which Arthur Upfield left for this purpose

  All characters in this book are entirely fictitious, and no reference is intended to any living person.

  An Angus & Robertson Publication

  Angus&Robertson, an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  25 Ryde Road, Pymble, Sydney, NSW 2073, Australia

  31 View Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  This edition published in 1994 for

  Hinkler Book Distributors Pty Ltd

  32-34 Graham Road

  Highett, Victoria 3190, Australia

  Copyright © Bonaparte Holdings Pty Ltd 1966

  This book is copyright.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers.

  ISBN 0 207 18583 2

  Cover illustration by Stephen Graham

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  1 · 94

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter One

  Death of a Traveller

  THE WILDFOWL in the trees round the lake rose in a flurry of alarm with the shot. There was a confused beating in the sky, and hundreds of wings wove a changing pattern in the early dawn. It was still too dark to see the kangaroos that bounded off into the bush and soon the silence of the vast emptiness that is Central Australia descended again east of Lake Frome.

  A lone curlew gave its mournful cry but the man who was lying face down on the sand near the bore stream didn’t hear it. He was dead. Beside him a billy-can drained its last drops of water into the sand and some hundreds of yards away an early-morning camp fire flickered and slowly died away without ever boiling the water which was its purpose. In fact, it was not until two days later that human feet again approached the clump of mulga trees which was his camp site.

  The overseer of Quinambie Station was a practical man. When the owner of that station, Commander Joyce, sent for him on the morning of 12 June to tell him that their recent guest, Eric Maidstone, had failed to arrive at Lake Frome Station and was in fact two days overdue, he had suggested that Maidstone was probably still camped at one of the two bores which he would have to pass on his way to Lake Frome. Maidstone had come to Quinambie Station late in the afternoon of 7 June and had introduced himself to Joyce as a schoolteacher on vacation. Joyce had looked curiously at his heavily loaded motor-bike, but Maidstone had ex­plained that during vacations he combined travelling holi­days with the production of articles for travel magazines. He did his own photography. He had recently been com­missioned, he said, to do an article on the bore country of Central Australia and he was particularly anxious to get shots of animals watering at these bores at night. Joyce had had no hesitation in asking him to stay the night at Quin­ambie and when he said he wished to visit Lake Frome homestead and to photograph any bores in the vicinity as well as Lake Frome itself, the overseer had been pressed into service to tell him the route and to tell him something about the country through which he would pass.

  In fact, the section of country through which Maidstone had to pass had some features which made it quite unique, not only in Australia but possibly in the world. Quinambie Station was on the eastern side of the dog-proof Fence which followed the South Australian border from Queensland to the Murray River—a distance of about 375 miles. Between the homestead and this Fence was one artesian bore known locally as Bore Nine and almost immediately on the other side of the Fence lay its counterpart, Bore Ten. Some 50 miles farther west was Lake Frome homestead, and beyond it lay Lake Frome itself, some 15 miles away. Quinambie itself had an area of almost 100 square miles. Lake Frome homestead contained about 60 square miles, but distance in that area was not all.

  The aborigines in the area told stories of a killer camel that had become a legend. Camels in general are cross-grained, bad-tempered animals, but this particular nomad had acquired for itself a reputation of being so incensed by the sight of any of the human race that it would attack without provocation. It was also said to be one of the largest camels that had ever been seen in Central Australia and, although the natives described it as “mad fella camel”, those on the western side of the Fence took care not to be caught away from their camps after sundown. While station workers on the eastern side of the Fence were inclined to pooh-pooh the stories of the animal, one of their number, half in jest, had christened it “The Lake Frome Monster”. Dwellers on the homesteads bordering the territory over which it roamed had stories to tell of the roaring and bellowing that they had heard on their lonely cattle camps, where sounds carry for miles in the silence of the night.

  After leaving Joyce, the first thing the Quinambie overseer had done was to collect two natives from the Quinambie Camp and take them with him to follow the tracks of Maidstone’s motor-bike. The tracks were easy to follow to the first bore, and the natives pointed out that the motor-bike had stopped there and that Maidstone had lit a fire to make himself a cup of tea. Presumably the school­teacher had stopped to take photographs. Beyond this bore the track grew very faint, but they followed it without much trouble to the nearest gate in the dog-proof Fence and followed it through that Fence towards the second bore. Shortly after leaving the gate, the track of the motor­bike disappeared in a churned-up mass of sand made by cattle tracks, but on approaching the bore they had seen the bike at the edge of a mulga stand. Near the bike was a camp-fire site and Maidstone’s camera was hanging from the branch of a tree near the motor-bike. Between the motor-bike and the lake into which the bore ran lay Maid­stone’s body. The body was lying face downwards with the legs half buried in the sand blown against it by the westerly wind, which was growing stronger hour by hour. The older of the two aborigines turned to the overseer and said:

  “That fella camel knock white fella down and stamp on him.”

  The overseer snorted at this and told his trackers to turn the body over. Sand was adhering to the wind-jacket Maid­stone was wearing. The large dark stain where blood had seeped from the bullet-hole left no doubt as to how Maid­stone had died.

  “Camels don’t carry guns,” said the overseer tersely, as he told the aborigines to get the light tarpaulin from the utility in which they had followed the tracks and to cover the body: the police would not have welcomed any more interference from crows or eagles. The overseer took his trackers back to the homestead at high speed. Shortly after­wards, the pedal radio was churning out its news to Broken Hill and the police and a retinue of black trackers de­scended on the site. A temporary camp was set up and the trackers put to work circling the body in ever-widening arcs to pick up the killer’s tracks. They returned at dusk report­ing failure, for the westerly wind
had so increased in velocity that even the cattle tracks on exposed areas had been levelled out and the shifting sand had made their task impossible. Strangely enough, one tracker did report having found camel tracks through distant stands of trees and old man saltbush. He advised the police that the animal had been approaching the bore from the north and appeared to have watered at the point where the bore stream vanished into the sand and where most of its salt content would have been filtered out of the water. Other than that and a flurry of cattle tracks, nothing of any significance was found. The police made all the usual inquiries from those Fence workers and stockmen who could have been in the vicinity, but none of these inquiries or the following inquest on Maidstone did anything to resolve the mystery of his death. His family could suggest no reason why anybody should have wanted to take his life and, after listening to what evidence the police had to put before him, the Coroner had no hesitation in finding that Maidstone had been murdered by a person or persons unknown.

  Fred Newton was in charge of the northern section of the dog-proof Fence. This section extended for 200 miles and included the Lake Frome area. To the dozen odd men who patrolled it, he was not only boss but their only consis­tent link with the outside world. He was a rangy man in his early fifties, and his beard was the colour of a stove brush streaked with chalk. In daylight his eyes were un­usually narrowed, due to the incessant sunlight and the wind laden with sand grains. He was the type of man with whom lesser breeds never argued.

  Like many of the patrol men, he used camels to transport his dunnage, and some three weeks after Maidstone’s body had been found he drove his three camels to carry out his periodical inspection of the Lake Frome area. On the way north he sacked the man on the sub-section south of Quin­ambie, and the two of them made for the homestead where the man was paid off in time to catch the mail coach to Broken Hill. Newton was interested to see that the mail coach had brought a passenger from Broken Hill in addi­tion to the mail and he studied him with some care.

  The passenger was the physical antithesis of Newton himself. He was clean-shaven for one thing, and for an­other his actions were quick and his remarkably bright blue eyes had the trick of boring concentration. He was wearing ordinary go-to-town store clothes and boots, and the swag he removed from the mail car was bulky. This he lifted to a tank stand to defeat the homestead dogs, and found Fred Newton behind him.

  “You are the new hand?” asked Newton slowly.

  “Yes. And you must be Fred Newton. My name, pro tem, is Bonnay, Edward Bonnay.”

  “They’ll be busy with the mail and orders for the coach driver, so we’ll have a drink of tea before you’ll want to draw stores. The mokes are out this a’way.”

  The passenger looked round at Quinambie homestead. There was the usual wide-verandaed weatherboard house, surrounded by a netted fence to keep out cattle and rabbits. Behind the homestead lay the machinery sheds, storage sheds for fodder and a number of staff huts. The mulga clump nearest to the homestead housed the kennels of many kelpies whose ambition, judging by the holes adjoining their kennels, was to bury themselves completely. No Aus­tralian who handled stock would ever part with his loyal and hard-working cattle dogs and, as on most stations, some of the dogs were living in honourable retirement and no doubt had the privilege of riding in the station utility while the younger dogs ran beside it. The whole area of the homestead looked efficient and well cared for, and the house itself had recently been painted. All this the pas­senger saw in a few swift glances as he and Newton walked to the rear of the homestead.

  Newton’s three camels and two others were lying down placidly chewing cud back of the machinery shed. They were loaded with riding and pack saddles. A short distance from them sticks had been gathered and a fire lit and flames were licking the bottom and sides of a billy filled with water. It was a brilliant day, free from dust and heat. While watching the water slowly coming to the boil, the man who had introduced himself as Edward Bonnay produced an envelope.

  “Did you get the original of this official letter?” he asked, and when Newton said he’d received it the week before, tossed it into the fire.

  “The Superintendent told me I would receive full co-operation,” Bonnay continued, “and that you wouldn’t talk. He also said you could arrange to put me on the section due east of the bore which is nearest to where Maidstone was murdered. I specialize in this type of crime, but usually I have to become part of the scenery to get results.”

  “I take it you don’t want it known you’re a detective,” the overseer said in his quiet drawl. “OK by me. Yes, I fixed it. The man on the section south was never much good and I just sacked him. I’m transferring to that section the bloke on this one to let you in. Know anything about camels?”

  “I’ve had some experience,” admitted Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, with unusual modesty. “I suppose I shall be expected to work?”

  “And how! Worst section on the entire Fence. Still, you complete your case by August, you’ll escape the worst season for wind. Wind is the great enemy. How long d’you reckon you’ll be on the job?”

  “Could be only a week. Might be a year.”

  “Oh, one of them determined guys.” Newton regarded Bony with calculating eyes. “Well, if you don’t do the work I’m expectin’, I’ll be putting you off. With me the Fence comes first, and murder a long way last.” He tossed a hand­ful of tea in the tea billy, watched it tossed violently for a full minute before taking it from the fire. “You got any ideas?”

  “None. Have you?”

  “No ideas to fit the facts. Bloke wasn’t doing any harm to anyone. Why shoot him?” He stirred the tea leaves to make them sink, filled two tin pannikins, took from the tucker box tinned milk and a tin of sugar. “Seems he was making for the Lake, but why go out there’s a bit hard to understand. Wanted to take pictures they said. Well, there’s plenty of sand and salt and mud, but you have to be patient to catch up with animals. You ever seen it?”

  “No, but once I caught a killer on the middle of Lake Eyre.” Bony’s mouth expanded in a grin. “I doubt that Lake Frome is as bad. The patrol man whose section I’m to take over, what is his character?”

  “Not a bad organizer as abos go. Three-quarter abo he is. He takes his wife and their children and some of the relations with him to do the work. He directs ’em. They should be getting to the base camp today. You’ll be taking over two of his camels and the gear, as the mokes are used to the section.”

  “And the base camp?”

  “Two miles out towards the Fence and the Fence is five from here. You come in once a month for meat and rations. Rations credited to you; meat for free. You got a rifle in your swag?”

  Bony shook his head, and did not admit that he did have a revolver.

  “Ought to have a gun. Never know when it’ll be handy. I got a Winchester and a Savage. I’ll lend you the Win­chester. You’ll have to buy cartridges at the store. I’m short.”

  “The Savage is a fine weapon, don’t you think?”

  “Too right! Three-fifty yards without raising the sights. Cartridges expensive, though. They say Maidstone was shot with a Winchester forty-four. The police were interested in Winchesters.”

  Bony changed the subject.

  “On the Western Australian Fences section men have to keep a diary of travel and work. Is that the same here?”

  “No. You done Fence work?”

  “Yes. I manned a hundred-and-sixty-four-mile section in WA.”

  “Your section here is only eleven miles, and when you travel it you’ll know why.”

  “You wouldn’t have any record of where your section men were on any given date … say the day the police think Maidstone was killed?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Where were you that day, June Ninth?”

  “Sixty-odd miles down the Fence, coming north.”

  “One of your patrol men, Nugget Early, was vague about his position that day when questioned by the poli
ce,” Bony went on. “Seems he was camped at the centre mark of his section, south of some sandhills which lay between him and the place where Maidstone was shot. The section man north of Early was at what he calls the Ten Mile, and going north. Have you anything against that?”

  “Can’t say I have,” replied Newton. “By the way, Early is the fellow I’m moving to let you in. What are you getting at?”

  “Both men own Winchester rifles. Maidstone was shot with one. It is of no real importance, but I like to check witnesses’ statements where I can. Report has it that June Tenth and most of the succeeding day were almost wind­less, but so far there is no evidence whether Maidstone was killed during the day or the night. There was a late moon so it could have been done at night.”

  “Why was he mooching around at night?”

  “He was commissioned by a geographic magazine to take night pictures of animals drinking at watering places. There is a lot of interest in Central Australia at present. He could have been going to or returning from the bore stream at night for his purpose. What makes it hard is the absence of any possible motive for the killing. The investigating police didn’t find one solitary lead although they mooched around for a fortnight. However, someone must have pulled a trigger.”

  “You’re sayin’ it. Well, we better draw them stores. I’ll introduce you. There’ll be ration bags in those saddle bags.”

  With half a dozen stout calico bags, Bony drew flour, tea and sugar, as well as plug tobacco and matches. He bought a sheath knife and a box of fifty 44-calibre rifle cartridges, and all these items he took back and deposited in the saddle bags. Thereupon he and the overseer each took a sack to the station cook who gave them some forty pounds of fresh beef and a quantity of coarse salt. There was nothing further to do at Quinambie and they moved off to the base camp.