Bony - 18 - Death of a Lake

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “She was. Yes, that’s about where she was. Always is, re­member?”

  “I should do, Mr Lester. Was the back of the chair towards the steps?”

  “Yair.”

  “Would the door of the sitting-room be, say, ten feet from the chair?”

  “About that, I reckon.”

  “Then the back of the chair would be sixteen to twenty feet from the door to your room?”

  “Yair. That’s so.”

  “And even if you had been awake, you would not have seen anyone move up the steps, walk across the veranda and enter your room?”

  “I might have heard ’em.”

  “But you were asleep.”

  “Dead to the wide, matter of fact.”

  “Right!” snapped Bony. “See that brown paper parcel?”

  “Yair,” assented Lester, staring at the trap brought up from the floor.

  “What was it doing under your bed after the fire?”

  “Search me.” Lester was plainly puzzled, and Bony was satisfied.

  “Thank you, Mr Lester. Please join Mr Carney.”

  He slouched away to sit with Carney. He sniffled before automatically biting a chew from a plug. He sniffled when Bony said:

  “Produce Richard Martyr.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Telling Tales

  MARTYR SAT ON the tea-chest. He looked to Sergeant Mansell. The light-grey eyes, invariably in startling contrast with his complexion, were almost lazy until the ser­geant said that Inspector Bonaparte wanted to ask questions. When Bony looked up from his notes, the pale-grey eyes were small, and the firm, determined mouth was small, and there was a paleness about the small nostrils.

  “Mr Martyr, what time did you leave the homestead on the morning of the fire?”

  “Ten past eight.”

  “You did not return until after the fire, accompanied by Carney?”

  “No. We saw the smoke plume from Winters Well … six­teen miles away.”

  “I was here with Barby, Lester and Miss Fowler when you returned with Carney after the fire. You gave instructions to the effect that we were to accompany Barby to Johnson’s Well, and remain there until you returned from reporting the fire to Mr Wallace. You left before we did. When you had passed over the first ridge, you stopped the utility, watched the out-station to see us depart for Johnson’s Well, and then you returned to the out-station. Why?”

  “I did not return from beyond the first ridge.”

  “You did. Your tracks betrayed you.”

  “All right! I remembered that the Boss would ask me did I look into the safe to see if the books had been destroyed. I ought to have done it before I left. The stock books and records are important, and the Boss would be anxious about them.”

  “You opened the safe and found the books … in what con­dition?”

  “Fairly good, to my relief.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I locked the safe and carried on.”

  “Leaving the key in the lock?”

  “I …” Martyr automatically touched the pockets of his jodhpurs.

  “Must have done. Damn!”

  “What else is in the safe besides the books?”

  “Oh, tax stamps, a few pounds in petty cash.”

  “Do you customarily carry the safe key in your pockets when you leave the out-station?”

  Those pale-grey eyes stood by their owner.

  “No. Usually it’s kept on a little nail in the wall behind the desk.”

  “And yet a little while ago when the key was mentioned you unconsciously tapped your pockets.”

  “Why not? I remembered I took the key from the safe that morning and pocketed it because I was in a hurry.”

  “Of course, Mr Martyr. Obviously the contents of the safe were of such great value that you would not habitually carry the key in a pocket when out on the run. The books found not to be seriously damaged, forgetting to relock the safe and remove the key is understandable. To replace the safe and cover it with ash is, however, curious. Well, now, I don’t think there is anything else.”

  Martyr rose and strode to the open door. Bony called:

  “Oh, just a moment, Mr Martyr. Won’t keep you long.”

  Martyr turned, walked back to the desk. There he stood looking down at the brown-paper parcel Bony was holding. From the parcel, his eyes flickered to encounter the blue eyes from which he couldn’t hide. Actually, Bony was a little sur­prised when Martyr sat down.

  “Where did you find that?” he asked, thinly.

  “In Lester’s room.”

  “Lester’s room!” echoed the overseer. Then came the one word, loudly: “When?”

  “After the fire … after.”

  Martyr placed his elbows on the desk and cupped his chin in his hands. He put a question to the sergeant:

  “Have I got to tolerate this inquisition?”

  “No, there’s no compulsion, Mr Martyr,” replied Mansell. “Would look bad if you refuse, of course.”

  “Yes, I suppose it would.” Martyr removed his gaze from the grey eyes to the bright blue eyes, and the blue eyes detected neither fear nor despair, but resolution.

  “I don’t like answering questions,” Martyr said sharply. “I’m used to asking them. Do you know what’s in that parcel?”

  “Money. Shall I tell the story, or would you care to?”

  “I will. I can tell it better than you. Two days before Gillen vanished, he came to the office after dark and requested me to take custody of a parcel which, he said, contained per­sonal effects he treasured. I consented to do so, saying I would place the parcel in the station safe. I told him I would write a receipt for the parcel, and he laughed and said that wasn’t necessary. I waxed the knots and at one place got him to press his thumb.

  “I didn’t think anything more of the parcel until, on the phone, Mr Wallace told me to run through Gillen’s effects to establish his connexions, and when I opened the parcel I was astounded to see the large amount of money it contained.

  “Not having found anything among Gillen’s effects leading to his parents or friends, or where he came from, and feeling sure he could not possibly have gained the money by honest means, I decided to forget about the parcel in the safe. I real­ized that it mightn’t do to resign right away and start off on my own, but that I must be patient and wait on here, per­haps for several years. My mother is almost an invalid, and I am her only support. I was able to send her a few pounds now and then together with a salary cheque.

  “Naturally, when the house burned down, I was anxious about the parcel, and you know that when I got here the safe would have been too hot to touch, and I didn’t want the men to see me interested too much in it. Which is why I ordered them to go with Barby to his camp. So I returned, as you said, and opened the safe, and took the parcel to Lester’s room, intending to retrieve it on my return and before I went to Johnson’s Well for the men. It was my intention to steal the money. I believed Gillen had stolen it, or that it was stolen money, so that my action didn’t seem to be so bad.”

  “H’m!” Bony added a note to his pad. “Having taken the parcel from the safe, you forgot to take the key. You threw ash on the safe and over your tracks as you withdrew from the ruins. Then you took the parcel to Lester’s room and hid it under the mattress on Lester’s bed. Why? Why didn’t you take the parcel with you? You were in no possible danger of being searched.”

  “I couldn’t be sure I would not have to take over another ute, or drive Mr Wallace’s car. And having lost everything bar what I stood up in in the fire, possession of the parcel might have been noticed.”

  “Didn’t you think that Lester might return from Johnson’s Well, and might have found the parcel under the mattress?”

  “No. Anyway, that was a chance I had to accept.”

  “Yes, of course.” Bony regarded the overseer for a long moment. “I think, Mr Martyr, I could tell the story better than that. Just where did you hide the par
cel in Lester’s room?”

  “Where? Under the mattress, as I stated.”

  “Think! Think, man!”

  Martyr reddened with anger.

  “If you didn’t find it under the mattress, then someone found it before you. That’s where I put it.”

  “I rode back from Johnson’s Well, and saw the dust raised by your utility after your second departure,” Bony went on. “After you left for the second time, and before I arrived here, there was certainly no other person in sight. Therefore, no one could have removed the parcel from under the mattress, because it was never under the mattress.”

  “All right! Then where was it?”

  “You don’t know, Mr Martyr?”

  “Under the mattress was where I put it.”

  “I repeat, Mr Martyr, you don’t know where I found the parcel, because you did not hide the parcel in Lester’s room.”

  “I tell you I did. And my word is as good as yours.”

  Bony bent over and brought to view the station books.

  “See the slight damage done these books by the heat in the safe, generated outside the safe. The covers are brittle. Here are the tax stamps, curled by the heat to thin spills. Now regard the parcel of money. The wrapping does not bear any such effects of heat. So, Mr Martyr, the parcel was taken from the safe before the fire … when you were miles away on a job with Carney.”

  Martyr said nothing, looking at Bony, trying to evade the ice-blue eyes, being compelled to face them again and again.

  “You returned from just beyond the first ridge,” Bony con­tinued. “You opened the safe to remove the parcel, which already had been taken, and you began then to guess about the fire, and you knew who took the parcel from the safe before the fire began. And those questions you asked yourself, and hated to answer, because you don’t like answering questions, are questions I have asked myself, and have supplied the answers. Nothing you can say will affect the result to the per­son who removed the parcel of money from the office safe. I suggest that you concentrate on Gillen.”

  The only sound within the shed was the occasional creak­ing of the roof iron tortured by the sun. Martyr bit his lip, and then his finger-nails. Bony rolled a cigarette. Sergeant Mansell stared at the overseer and was glad he wasn’t the ob­ject of this suavely polite interrogation. Martyr sighed, moved to roll himself a smoke, as though to steady his fingers. His voice was flat.

  “I was sitting on the house veranda. The moon was full. It was late, after eleven. I saw Gillen walk down to the water. He was wearing only pyjama trousers and once the moonlight was reflected by the golden locket suspended from his neck.

  “He ran into the water, and then he splashed it over himself, as he continued to run, getting deeper and deeper until he lunged forward and began to swim. For some time I could see his dark head on the silvered water and watch the out­ward-running ripples under the moon. Presently, he swam from my sight, swam on towards the far shore.

  “I sat on the veranda, thinking. Then I heard a cry. It was far out on the Lake. At first I thought it was Gillen playing the fool. Then I heard, low but distinctly, his cries for help, including the word ‘cramp’. I did not get up. I knew Gillen wasn’t playing the fool, but I didn’t get up from the chair. I sat on and listened to Gillen drowning.

  “You must understand why I hated Gillen, and why I let him drown.

  “Living conditions here were rough before Mrs Fowler and her daughter were employed. But, life was smooth for all of us. I had my first big job. The men were easy to get along with. There was no clashing and no unpleasantness. The women changed all that. They brought order and cleanliness and decent living, but they also brought hate and pain.

  “That was three years ago, and I thought Joan was inno­cent and sweet as well as beautiful. I asked her to marry me. She said she would like to think about it. I took her riding, gave her little presents. She asked me how I stood financially. I told her I hadn’t been able to save because I had to support my mother. I offered her the partnership in my job here, and was confident one day of becoming a full manager. She said she wouldn’t marry a man in my position and with my prospects. The man she married must be rich. When I pressed her, she told me I was too dull, and too old, anyway.

  “That was before Gillen came. Carney was trying his luck when Gillen asked for a job. I used to watch the play. I was asked by this one and that to obtain a wages cheque from the Boss, and then when making up the mail I’d see a letter ad­dressed to a Sydney or an Adelaide jeweller. I became satis­fied to wait, and bet with myself which of the men would finally murder her.

  “Gillen came and he fancied Joan, and Joan seemed to fall for him. Gillen must have been fifteen years younger than I am. In modern parlance, he had everything it takes. She played with me, and she played with Carney, but she meant business with Gillen … until she came to me one evening and was sweet and loving and told me that Gillen had a lot of stolen money in his suitcase. She suggested that I take it, saying it must have been stolen by Gillen, and what was stolen would not be real stealing the second time. And that when Gillen discovered his money was gone he wouldn’t dare make a fuss about it, and we could go away and be married and start with plenty of cash. The Golden Bitch! I told her to use someone else.

  “The very next night, Gillen came to me with the money in a parcel, and after he had gone back to the quarters, I opened the parcel, made sure that it contained a fortune in bank­notes, and retied and resealed it and put it in the safe.

  “I stayed on the veranda a full two hours after I heard Gillen shouting for help from the middle of the Lake, and by then was sure he had drowned. Because all the time he’d been here he had never written a letter, but had signed the employ­ees’ work-book, I imitated his handwriting and wrote a note saying he had planted his money and that the clue to the plant was in his locket and daring anyone to take the locket from him. I knew someone had been after the money, because Gillen told me his case had been tampered with.

  “At four in the morning the front of the quarters was in deep shadow, and I took the note and crept into Gillen’s room and put it into the case. If someone came after the money and took the note, they’d be ready to get in first for the locket when the body came ashore. And if by chance it didn’t, they’d have to wait for the Lake to dry up. If no one opened the case, I’d give the note to Joan for the pleasure of seeing her reac­tion. But when I listed the contents of the case, the note was gone, and as Gillen’s body didn’t turn up, I sat back and watched the play go on.”

  “Who knew where the safe key was normally kept?” asked Bony.

  “No one other than Mr Wallace and myself.”

  “And on the morning of the first you inadvertently left the key in the safe lock?”

  “I did. That morning when Mr Wallace rang through he wanted stock figures and I had to refer to the stock book. I forgot to relock the safe. That is the story, Inspector. I have nothing to add to it. I shall continue to sit back and watch the play, because I know now that you know the end of it.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Who Wins?

  JOAN APPEARED, escorted by the constable, and behind them came Mr Wallace, who had been requested by Bony not to leave the poor girl alone to brood.

  She looked cool and confident in a lilac dress and sling-back sandals. Her hair was gloriously, vividly alive and her make­up was, as usual, lightly applied. She gave Bony a tender smile and then concentrated on Sergeant Mansell, who had sent word that he wished to ask questions. It was when Bony was presented as Inspector Bonaparte that she froze.

  “You, a detective-inspector!”

  “When I am not breaking-in horses, yes. Now be easy, Miss Fowler. I just want you to tell us about the fire so that this matter of your mother’s unfortunate end may be cleared up. Would you tell Sergeant Mansell just what happened?”

  “What, again?” Joan tossed her hair, settled herself on the hard tea-chest, and related her experience as previously given to Bony and
others.

  “Thank you,” murmured Bony. “Let us be quite clear. Your mother was lying down on her bed. She occupied a room other than yours?”

  “Yes. When I ran to her she was lying on her bed and I tried to wake her up and couldn’t. So I pulled her off the bed and tried to drag her from the room, but the fire and smoke was too much for me, and I just got out myself. As I told you.”

  “When you first noticed the fire, you were lying down on your own bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fully dressed, of course?”

  “Oh, yes. I had had a shower and dressed for the afternoon. I was reading a book when I saw smoke pouring into my room and then I heard the crackle of the flames.”

  “It was, if memory serves, a very hot afternoon, Miss Fowler. You would have found the shade cast by the garden trees much cooler. During the morning you swept out the office, I understand.”

  “No. I didn’t. Mother did, I think.”

  “Supposing you tell us about the money in the unlocked safe.”

  “Money in the safe!” echoed Joan. “What are you talking about?”

  “This money,” replied Bony, and brought up the parcel to place it on the desk. “Gillen’s money. It was in the safe before the house caught fire. It was not in the safe when the house was burning. After the house burned to ash, it was in Lester’s room … under his bed and pushed as far back as possible. Can you tell us anything concerning this strange angle?”

  “I still don’t know what you are talking about!” persisted the girl, her eyes indignant, but voice controlled.

  “You knew, of course, that Gillen possessed a great deal of money, and that everyone thought he had stolen it?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. And if you believe tales told you by Harry and Mr Martyr about me, you’re a fool. They’re spiteful liars. They’ve always been sore because I wouldn’t give in to them. This has never been a safe place for a decent girl, but Mother and I had to live, and we could save some­thing from our wages.”