Bony - 03 - Wings above the Diamantina

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Do you often couch a request in such terms as these?” he asked sternly. “I thought the chief was a strict disciplin­arian. And this telegram! You want it sent to the Com­missioner’s private residence?”

  “I do, Sergeant. And the chief is a strict disciplin­arian,” Bony agreed, smiling. “I have found in my ex­perience that the greater disciplinarian a commanding officer is the more ready is he to be himself subject to a little disci­plining. Again, I have learned this simple lesson. If you want a thing, demand it. Never ask that it may be granted. Textbook knowledge of psychology is ever an asset. If I sent that request to the Commissioner at Headquarters it would be opened and first read by Clarke, his secretary, and Clarke would place it before the Commissioner with dis­approval writ plain on his pasty face, and venting little grunts and snorts. Whereupon the colonel would pound his table and damn and blast me for being disrespectful.

  “By sending the telegram to his private house this even­ing, and as his delightful lady will probably be with him, he will do the damning and blasting under his breath, and without doubt she will ask him what it is which so depresses him. He then will chuckle and give her the telegram to read, and tell her how that confounded Bony feller will never be cramped by rules and regulations. He’ll say: ‘No, madam. I tell you he won’t be subdued by red tape. He’s like me. Hates it like poison. Good man, Bony! Always gets there. Like me! He knows his own mind. Like me.’ And he will be so pleased with himself that he will ring up Ross and order him to dispatch a plane to Burketown to fetch Illawalli here. And if Ross hums and haws about the expense he will be damned and blasted, too. Yes, a smattering of psychology is most useful. It enables one to know exactly how the other fellow will jump. The next time you ask for a transfer, my dear Cox, do not request it, demand it.”

  “I’d be demanding the sack,” Cox pointed out with a chuckle.

  Bony’s eyes were twinkling when they rose to walk back to the house. …

  After dinner, Bony excused himself and took his letters and the wad of foolscap reports written by Cox to his bed­room. Having made the usual pile of cigarettes and placed them on the bed table beside the slipper he proposed to use as an ash-tray, he settled to read both letters and reports.

  There was a memo from Headquarters stating that no report had been received from other capital cities concerning a young woman whose initials were double M. The patient’s photograph had been distributed all over the Commonwealth and had already appeared in the principal newspapers. Another official memo stated that inquiries in Queensland for a missing woman having initials double M had been so far without result.

  Bony then began a perusal of Sergeant Cox’s work, and quickly he understood how painstaking that work was, and how their superiors were right in their selection of Cox for this western post of administration. The man was a born administrator; and, because it was so, he was worthy of promotion to a district which would give him added re­sponsibilities, and additional opportunities for his son.

  The completeness of the concisely-written batch of dos­siers delighted him. If the people to whom they referred knew what Cox knew about them, they would be truly astonished.

  For instance: Nettlefold was stated to be part owner of Coolibah, holding 55 per cent of the shares in it. Ted Sharp came from pastoral people down on the Warrego. In 1928 he had inherited an uncle’s estate sworn for probate at £3750. Owen Oliver, of Windy Creek Station, was paying the Queensland Child Welfare Department for the main­tenance of a child born to a certain Berle Mannock. Dr Knowles spent on drink at the Golden Dawn Hotel the sum of £32 per month, and both Ned Hamlin and Larry Went­worth—known as Larry the Lizard—had served a sentence of three months at Winton for firing rifles in the bar of the Golden Dawn Hotel. Mr John Kane had done nothing re­prehensible, but Sergeant Cox described him as “peculiar.”

  Having read all the dossiers, Bony possessed an excellent working knowledge of the history of almost every one per­manently resident in the sergeant’s wide district, and now with the letters and documents lying on the bed beside him, the detective pondered on the movements of the stolen aeroplane and the times at which it had been heard.

  If the swagman’s statement regarding the time that it had passed from east to west over his roadside camp was ac­curate it undermined the building of the theoretical struc­ture on which he had been busy. The finger of accusation had pointed steadily at someone on Tintanoo. It had been maintained in that direction by the passage of the airman in the machine to a point on Tintanoo, and then from that point to the main road, as well as by the passage of the man who destroyed the machine sometime the following night. And now, if the swagman was correct in his time, the accusing finger wobbled from Tintanoo to someone living eastward of both Tintanoo and Coolibah.

  Abruptly, Bony sat up and rang the electric bell. He was closing the windows when the maid knocked and was invited to enter.

  “I regret to bother you, Tilly, but will you please ask Ser­geant Cox to be kind enough to come here.”

  When Cox came in, Bony waved him to a seat on the bed and at once began in a low key.

  “Those dossiers you have supplied are exceptionally good. Regarding that of Edward Sharp. You state that he came into a small fortune in 1928. That year he was employed here as boss stockman. He is still here in that capacity. Do you know why he stays after having inherited a for­tune of nearly four thousand pounds?”

  “I don’t know. It has always been a mystery to me,” Cox replied.

  Bony slowly expelled cigarette smoke, forming perfectly-shaped rings. His eyes were nearly closed, and Cox watched him curiously. Then, in a flash, the eyes were wide open and he snapped:

  “Do you think the postmaster would give you a copy of a certain telegram which was dispatched from his office early in the morning of 28 October?”

  “I don’t know. He might.”

  Bony sighed.

  “This confounded red tape! We can, of course, waste a great deal of time by following the official river of red tape to its mouth in order to see that telegram. In this case time is of supreme importance in a race with death for the life of that helpless young woman. Perhaps if this were pointed out to the postmaster. …”

  Bony related all that Mr Gurner had said about the mys­terious guest on whom Sharp had called. Then:

  “What is your personal opinion of Ted Sharp?”

  “Favourable,” replied the sergeant. “He is a little chummy with Owen Oliver, which is peculiar, because the two don’t or shouldn’t mix.”

  “Well, try to get a peep at that telegram. And then find out from Yaraka the man who drove the hired car to Gurner’s Hotel, and from him all information about his passenger.”

  Cox noted it in his little pocket-book. Then, looking up, he surmised: “Funny Gurner never mentioned it to me.”

  “It’s strange. I shall have to look into it. Now in Gur­ner’s dossier you say he has been the licensee of the road­side hotel for forty-one years. He married in 1899, and his wife died last year. He employs an aboriginal as groom, a half-caste girl as maid, and his sister is the cook and house­keeper. What character has the black?”

  “Neither good nor bad.”

  “Well, then, the maid?”

  “She is a little loose.”

  “The sister?”

  “Decent old sort and a good cook, although she’s almost blind and hard of hearing.”

  “Oh! What about Gurner?”

  “I’ve never had trouble with him,” Cox admitted. “He and his sister run the place all right. Gurner drinks a little. He has never made a fortune out of his pub, but he’s always made a fair living. Bit of a sportsman and runs a car as well as the truck with which he carts beer from Golden Dawn. He is always up to the minute with his fees, and he is the poll clerk on election days. Lovitt, the constable, takes a duty run out there once a week.”

  Bony added to the pile of cigarette-ash in his slipper lying on the table.

  “I want you to g
o there and make inquiries,” he said. “Say that you are after a car reported stolen from Winton and heading west. I want to know what traffic passed that hotel during the night that the aeroplane was stolen. The following night as well.”

  “Very well.”

  “Another dossier concerns the telephone exchange girl. You give her name as Berle Saunders. I suppose it is quite a coincidence that her Christian name is the same as that of the young woman whose child is being maintained by Owen Oliver?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Cox readily answered. “The girl Saun­ders and her brother, who is the night operator, are the daughter and son of Saunders who owns one of the stores and runs the butchery business.”

  “Well, my dear man, we have to make every horse a trier. Check up on that baby and this Berle Saunders.”

  “All right, I will. What’s on your mind? Excuse my out­ward lack of respect, but hang it, I haven’t forgotten what you said about the possibility of my getting promotion out of this part of the country.”

  “I know.” Bony turned directly to face him. “I have not forgotten. These dossiers are a credit to any man. Make a note. Ask Headquarters to seek information of all importers and manufacturers of explosives concerning the delivery of nitro-glycerine to a person in this district.”

  “Right! But why … ?”

  “I will tell you. Loveacre’s red monoplane was destroyed by the explosion of nitro-glycerine in addition to fire.”

  “You don’t say! But why? Fire was enough, wasn’t it?”

  “Fire would have been sufficient, my dear Cox, but fire was an uncertain agent. The man who stole the aeroplane, who took that young woman up in it and flew her out to Emu Lake, there to jump and leave her to crash in the machine, wanted to make it certain that she and it would be destroyed by fire. But an aeroplane can crash and yet not catch fire. So he placed a canister of nitro-glycerine in the plane, knowing that the impact with the ground would most certainly explode it.”

  “The swine!”

  “I agree with your definition.” It was one of the few occasions that Bony saw the sergeant’s eyes opened widely. “Did you send the telegram to the Commissioner?”

  “Yes. I got Lovitt in the office. Why are you sending for that aboriginal chief?”

  When Bony smiled the sting of his refusal to impart further information was withdrawn.

  “As the Emperor Napoleon used to say: ‘The audience is finished.’”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Two Little Mysteries

  WHEN THE TWO POLICEMEN joined Nettlefold, Elizabeth and the two doctors in the study, Nettlefold suggested drinks.

  “I vote we all attend to our own wants,” the genial cattleman said. “You’ll find everything in the wall cabinet. I used at one time to dream of occupying a large mansion containing a real bar and an attendant barman. Now I am satisfied with something much less ornate. A barman would give the place the air of a club.”

  “You are a member of the Apollo Club, are you not?” queried the specialist.

  “Yes. I often spend time there when I’m in Brisbane.”

  “Thought I saw your name on the register.”

  Having brought his glass back to his chair, Dr Stanis­forth and the cattleman began to talk personalities. Knowles remained seated, and Bony now knew positively that the man was fighting against the craving for whisky. Why? He recalled how the man’s nerves twitched late that after­noon; and that since his return he had drunk nothing stronger than tea. Well, it was unwise to stop drinking so abruptly. Over thirty pounds a month, had it not been?

  “Come along,” he invited the doctor. “The sergeant finds the time too early, and the others are gossiping about people far above me.”

  Exhibiting no sign of haste, Knowles rose to his feet.

  “Not a bad idea,” he agreed, outwardly calm but unable to conceal from the detective’s shrewd eyes signs of the ter­rible inward fight.

  Bony would have preferred waiting for the inevitable tea to be served, but he felt genuine sympathy for this man. Despite his weakness, Knowles was a brave and cultured English gentleman, who, from the very beginning of their acquaintance, had evinced no sign of superiority, none of that mental snobbishness he had so often met and which so hurt him.

  “I suppose you find this case taking a big bite out of your time,” he asked.

  “Soda water?”

  “Please.”

  The siphon fizzed.

  “I am thinking of throwing up my other work so that I can devote all my time to this one,” Knowles said, after vainly trying to prevent the edge of his glass from tapping against his teeth.

  “Then what about your other cases. How will they get along?”

  “There are very few at present, and none of a serious nature.” Knowles put down his empty glass. For a moment his iron will-power deserted him. His dark eyes widened and blazed at Bony. “Are you any nearer to identifying the devil who caused that paralysis of my patient?”

  The mood passed, or was conquered. The cynic regained the mastery. He poured himself out another drink.

  “It is usual for a detective to say that he is in possession of an important clue,” Bony lightly declared. “He does that when he is completely baffled. So far, I am completely baffled with regard to the identity of the person who so determinedly tried to commit murder; but, to employ a childish phrase, I am getting warm. I now know much more than I did when I came here, a good deal more than I knew yesterday, and more than I knew an hour ago. Are you aware of the fact that I have never yet failed to finalize a case?”

  “No, I didn’t know it.”

  “I have been successful, Doctor, because I did not gra­duate from a beat, because I have always declined to permit red tape to control me, and because I overlook no appar­ently trivial side issues. Since I took over this case I have encountered no less than three little mysteries. They may have no connexion whatever with the major mystery. Yet, on the other hand, any one of them may be the very key­stone of the arch supporting the big mystery.”

  “Indeed! Would it be presumptuous of me to ask what they are? Perhaps I could assist in clearing up at least one.”

  “Well, I think you could clear up one of them, but I hesi­tate to put it to you, fearing that the amicable relationship between us might be severely strained. You see, it concerns yourself.”

  Knowles stood quite still, the fingers of his left hand halted in the act of twisting the short ends of his mous­tache.

  “The solution of the little mystery which concerns me would be of assistance in solving the major mystery?”

  “I do not say that it would,” Bony hastened to reply. “I will not say even that it would be likely. I mentioned the fact of these little mysteries because, in more than one case, a little mystery solved has enabled me to solve the big one.

  “Very well. If I can clear up the mystery concerning my­self I will be happy to do so on the off-chance that it will be of assistance to you in locating the devil who drugged that poor girl.”

  Bony leaned towards the doctor.

  “Do not think that what I am about to ask is actuated by idle curiosity. The mystery concerning you is this: Why have you resolved to combat and to defeat the craving for spirits?”

  In an instant the cloak of his national reserve fell about the doctor.

  “I cannot see that that is any business of …”

  “I agree, my dear Doctor,” Bony interrupted. “It may be no business of mine, but it is just possible that it is. If you would rather not clear it up for me let us drop the subject at once. I have no desire to offend you or to in­trude, where I have no right. Shall we have another drink? I do not usually take more——”

  Dr Knowles relaxed. There was a trace of eagerness in his voice when he said:

  “Bony, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you why I am struggling to cut out the whisky. Were I a criminal I would find pleasure in being arrested by you. A long time ago—years and years—I was in the third year of my medica
l course. That was in 1915. I was madly in love with a girl of my own age, and one night we were returning to her home at Ealing, outside London, having been to a theatre, when we were caught in an air raid. She was killed in my arms by a bomb splinter while we were taking shelter in a doorway.

  “Her death profoundly shocked me, and I often doubt if since that night I have ever been really sane. I interrupted my medical course to join the Flying Corps. I began to drink, and I have drunk heavily since then because I have not the courage to commit suicide. I did well in the Air Force because the more I drank the better I could fly and fight. After the war I gained my medical degree, but I have only been playing at doctoring. Until now! Bony, the girl lying so still in that room is the exact double of the girl I loved and who died in my arms.”

  Seated in a wicker chair outside the door of the south veranda, Ted Sharp smoked and idly watched the red light­ning flickering along the western horizon. Nettlefold strolled out.

  “Storm coming up, Ted?” he asked the boss stockman.

  “Yes, it looks like it, Mr Nettlefold. They’ll be early this year. Might have one to-night—to be followed by two or three days of fine weather before the storms really set in.”

  “Humph! Well, we’ll have to get the breeding cows out of the south river paddock into Emu Lake paddock. I’ve a mind, too, to put into Emu Lake the breeders now in Watson’s. Think you could start the muster of the river paddock to-morrow?”

  “Whenever you wish. There’s Alec and Ned Story, and Harry and Syl here, and there’s Ned Hamlin and the two blacks out at Faraway Bore. They could ride across and meet us.”

  “Very well. I’ll telephone Ned Hamlin right away. You can take two of the blacks camped down the creek. They were asking to be put on only yesterday. I’d like to get all the breeders into Emu Lake, and I think we should delay no longer. We might get the storms at any time, and they might give us a local flood like we had in 1925.”

  “Yes, they might,” Ted agreed.

  “All right, then! You can get off to bed and have a real sleep. I will do guard duty to-night.”