Battling Prophet b-20

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “My beginning was subordinate to that of the errand boy,” replied Bony. “I was found beneath a sandalwood tree, found in the arms of my mother, who had been clubbed to death for breaking a law. Subsequently, the matron of the Mission Station to which I was taken and reared found me eating the pages of Abbotts’sLife of Napoleon Bonaparte. The matron possessed a peculiar sense of humour. The result-my name. Despite the humour, she was a great woman. Aware of the burden of birth I would always have to carry, she built for me the foundations of my career. My entry to the Queensland Police Department came about after I had won my M.A. at the Brisbane University, and my progress in the Department has been due to the fortunate fact that the Commissioner abhors failure in anyone, and has managed to evade dropping dead from rage-induced apoplexy long enough to ensure that I received just recognition. You see, I have never failed to finalise an investigation.”

  “You must find that most gratifying,” dryly remarked Mr. Weston, and the undertone was not unnoticed by Bonaparte.

  “I must not fail, and that is not gratification of vanity. You may fail and try again. Another’s failure will be accepted without comment, and little effect on his career. To yet another, failure will have no adverse effect on his mind or his career, for he will take it as temporary. But I must not fail, ever.”

  Mr. Weston was not unintelligent.

  “Tell me more,” he urged, “of your career.”

  “That Mission Station matron began it,” Bony went on. “She gave me all her affection and, too, she gained mine. She began my training before I could crawl, began the building of this misnamed man of two races. She inculcated in me beliefs and ambitions which were to become the driving forces of my life; and with these forces I have had to contend against prenatal influences inherited from my aboriginal mother. She instilled into my mind the ability to see and evaluate my own limitations, and enough wisdom to detour, as it were. She taught me to fear nothing of the living, to fear no one other than myself. She didn’t think of it, I suppose, because she didn’t teach me not to fear the dead.”

  “And you really feel yourself omnipotent to-er-finalise your present investigation?”

  Mr. Weston found himself drawn to meet the blue eyes of the man who turned slowly to look at him. It was then that Mr. Weston realised that his ideas of half-castes were somehow just so much tosh. It was then that he first realised that the circumstances of a man’s birth are no obstacle, save to the snob. He heard a voice which seemed to have no association with the mind beyond those extraordinary eyes.

  “My present investigation, Padre?”

  “Well, er… I thought… I thought you might have credited old Luton’s crazy theories with a modicum of truth. There could be a basis of truth in them, don’t you think?”

  “What do you think, Padre?”

  Mr. Weston felt like a small boy caught out in some deceit. Abruptly, he regretted having been so superior, of having thought of himself as being a pinnacle high above a half-caste. He was angry now, because he suspected he had been subtly encouraged to tumble into a trap. He had to answer that question; and truthfully.

  “I think there might be something in what the old boy says.”

  “Mr. Luton has had a wide experience of delirium tremens,” reminded Bony.“Proof of his assertion that each type of spirituous liquor will produce its distinctive demons, is, however, not forthcoming. Were you referring to Mr. Luton’s assertion that Ben Wickham did not die of alcoholic poisoning?”

  “If we admit that Mr. Luton is right on the first, then he could be right on his second claim,” allowed Mr. Weston, mopping his forehead with a red silk handkerchief, and obviously relieved that Bony was gazing outward over the river.

  “There are, I understand, many people made happy by his death.”

  “That is so, Inspector Bonaparte.”

  “Do you think that among them are those living locally?”

  “I could admit only to the possibility.”

  “When did you first come to think there could be something in Mr. Luton’s theories?”

  Mr. Weston hesitated.

  “It was some time after Ben’s body had been cremated. I am sure of that.”

  Bony said suavely: “Should I begin an investigation relative to the death of Ben Wickham, be sure that I shall continue until I prove to myself, at least, that he was murdered or that he was not murdered. Meanwhile, I am enjoying my stay with my old friend.”

  “Of course! Of course! Then am I to understand that you are not investigating the circumstances surrounding the demise of my late friend?”

  “You are to understand precisely what appeals to you most.”

  “Ah! You do right to chide me, Inspector. Pray accept my questioning as from an interested party. Perhaps Mr. Luton has told you of my position in the house up yonder. I have for long years been very close to both poor Ben Wickham and his sister, Mrs. Parsloe.”

  “He did mention you,” Bony replied with a chuckle. “He told me of your concern for his health after I had informed him how you had caught a fish from under my own hook. It was then I told him I would balance the scales. Acknowledge that I have now. The secret? I’ll give it to you. Witchetty grubs are first-class bait. You’ll find them if you split firewood.”

  Mr. Weston stood with Bony and smiled. Gone was the unease, and healed were the wounds to his vanity, for he was now in the presence of a merely ordinary man, and a likeable one. It was long after he left Bony on the river-bank that he remembered being led into a trap, and suffered a sneaking fear that he was to be lured into another.

  Bony watched his tall and angular figure trudging along the track to the main road, and when the parson had disappeared he sat again on the tree-trunk and again rolled a cigarette. Casually he said twice, the second time loudly:

  “The enemy has retreated. You may come out, Mr. Harris.”

  Knocker Harris emerged from the hollow log to rise stiffly to his feet, and with a thankful sigh to sit beside the fisherman.

  “Beaut, ain’the?” he said, nodding at the kingfish.“Nearer fourteen than thirteen pounds.”

  “Why were you holed up under my favourite seat?”

  “Well, it’s like so,” defended Knocker. “I’m on me way to visit John and you, see? I’mdrawin ’ nigh when Isees the Reverencecastin ’ down-river a bit, like. I sees I can’t side-step without him seeing me if he looks my way. So Iacts theabo. When he does look up-river, I’m a fence-post. When he looks somewhere else, Imoves forward to this log. Only cover for me is inside, like. Then his reverence comes along right beside here, and I know he’s here ’costhe dogs barked.”

  “They didn’t bark when you came?”

  “No, of course not.”Mr. Harris chuckled while splitting open a cigarette for the tobacco, which he tossed into his mouth.“Got no time for him, Inspector. Nasty bit of work. What’s the use of parsons, I’d like to know? Only bludging on the people. Never doesno work. Parishes, Icalls ’em. Always sticking their dirty noses into other people’sbis’ness, like. Gonna put me and old John into a home, says he. What a ruddy hope! Heget any change outer you?”

  “You heard what we said,” Bony said, coldly.

  “That I didn’t. Wished I could of. The hole into the log’s a bit small, like, and it was sort of blocked with me feet. How did you know I was in there?”

  “I could smell you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Recall

  “FUNNYhow the Reverend sort of got to like this part of the river lately,” remarked Knocker Harris. “You know, before Benkonked out, me and John had some peace, like. But not since.”

  “Mr. Weston doesn’t often fish here?” prompted Bony.

  “No. First time he came here fishing was the other afternoon. Come to pump you, like. Ain’t to be trustedfurther’n you could belt with one hand. Landed over at the house one time when Ben and John was coming out of the hoo-jahs, and what he said to them you’d never read about. And them that crook their eyeswas fixed
like marbles in a bottle, like.”

  “They were, doubtless, rather ill.”

  “Ill! You wouldn’t know ’em. Corpses they was, livin ’ corpses. See thatkingy’s eyes? They had eyes like that when theywassoberin ’, like. Dammit, they had mouths like that, too. Sort ofsaggin ’ open. I’d better gut this fish for John.”

  Knocker Harris slid forward to kneel beside the fish and proceeded to scale it and remove its innards on to a sheet of bark, as he said, to give to the chooks. He was obeying still the commands of his mother and father- “Waste not, want not”.

  “They were truly sick when recovering?”persisted Bony.

  “Sick!” echoed Knocker Harris, as though the question was an aspersion upon his friends. “You wouldn’t know ’em, as I told you.”

  “There is, you think, something in what John Luton says about the effects of the hoo-jahs being in accordance with the grog?”

  “Course there is. I know. I’ve seen them fellers often enough when they was having the hoo-jahs. Last time, it wasknockin ’ hoo-jahs off their ears and shoulders, like. Time before, they wasknockin ’ them off their chests and knees. That was rum, I think. Knooa bloke once who used to have the hoo-jahs onmetho with a dash of battery acid.” Knocker turned from his task to laugh without restraint. “Once, when I seen him in the horrors, you could have got a thousand quid for him from a waxworks joint. He was properly stiff with horror, hair andall, like.”

  Knocker took the fish to the river to clean, leaving Bony with the picture of two near-lunatics being nursed by one who, unless of simple mind, could not have borne the load with such patience. The picture gave place to another, of saltbush plain and mulga forest, and two dust-grimed, sweating men stridingbeside groaning bullocks hauling a veritable mountain on wheels. The visions were part of a greater which made psychological sense.

  He heard the car turn off the highway and shouted the fact to Knocker Harris. Harris appeared up the steep sandstone bank, taxed by the fish he managed to keep from dragging on the ground. Nodding to Bony, he hurried to the house, yet had to pass the car, which beat him to the gate. Constable Gibley spoke to him, clearly about the fish, and Bony was thrusting hooks into safety corks when the policeman said at his elbow:

  “My boss at Mount Gambier rang up about you, Inspector. I’m to inform you that Headquarters, Adelaide, telephoned the following:

  “ ‘RequestInspector Bonaparte to obey instruction received by telegram from his Department, so that personal relationship with Adelaide officers can be maintained on friendly footing.’ ”

  “Too bad, Gibley,” purred Bony.“Just when I am catching a nice fish or two. When did you inform Adelaide I was holidaying here?”

  “I didn’t, sir. I did check up on you with Mount Gambier. According to the book.”

  “Quite a little mystery, isn’t it? I am granted leave, and then am peremptorily ordered back to duty. It would almost appear that my presence here is distinctly inconvenient to someone. Would you know who it is?”

  “No, sir. I’m only a senior constable.”

  “And I, Gibley, am only an inspector. All right! I’ll go quietly. Inform Mount Gambier that I’ll be leaving for Murray Bridge by coach in the morning, and will board tomorrow night’s express for Melbourne. You might reserve my coach seat on your return to Cowdry.”

  Gibley looked relieved.

  Next morning when Mr. Luton walked with Bony to the highway he was distinctly depressed, and as they waited at the bridge he asked:

  “D’youthinkyou’ll be coming back?”

  “Some day, I hope,” replied Bony.“Soon, perhaps. Whatever has actuated my chiefs in this matter of recall must be of a most unusual character. That is the reason why, in this instance, I am obeying orders. Well, here comes the bus. I have the address of Ben Wickham’s friend in Adelaide, and I may communicate with him, and present certain facts. Doubtless he will call on you. Thank you for those most pleasant few days under your roof. Should you ever come to Brisbane, I shall be hurt if you don’t look me up. So, aurevoir, Mr. Luton, and all the best.”

  Mr. Luton long remembered the flashing smile illuminating the brown face and the blue eyes, and Bony remembered the brilliant background of trees and white bridge behind the tall, erect figure flanked by the two dogs.

  Superintendent Boase, Officer in Charge, Criminal Investigation Branch, S. A. Police Department, was tall and rangy, grey and close to sixty. Of him there was nothing remarkable save that his grey hair stoodup, and his grey moustache stood out. When Bony entered his office, the corners of his mouth indicated what the rest of his face wasn’t permitted to do-the smile of welcome.

  “Hullo, Bony! How come?”

  “Just before leaving Adelaide I decided to run down to Cowdry to spend a few days with an old friend, as I had obtained ten days’ leave. No one here knew of my intention, and I managed to secure a seat in a tourist bus going to Mount Gambier. At Mount Gambier, I spoke to Sergeant Maskell, whom I had met several years ago. It was a personal, not an official, contact, you understand. Told Maskell I was going on to Cowdry for some fishing. On my way up to-day I saw Maskell again, and he assured me he did not, because there was no reason to, report that I was with my friend but a mile or so from Cowdry. Prior to my telegram to Traffic Branch about a car, did you know I was staying near Cowdry?”

  “Didn’t even know you sent an ‘Information please’ to Traffic. First I knew of your being down there was day before yesterday when the Chief rang me to check when you left for Brisbane.”

  “Would you mind ringing Traffic and asking Tillet what action he took about me, other than supplying information about a car?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Ask him if he reported my presence at Cowdry to the higher-ups.”

  Boase turned to his telephone, and on replacing the instrument, said:

  “Tillet says he didn’t mention to anyone your being at Cowdry. Said he had no cause to do so. Thought you were on normal duty. What is this?”

  “Yesterday I received a telegram from my immediate superior, Linton, ordering me to report at once. Later yesterday the local constable at Cowdry came to tell me that his Divisional H.Q. had telephoned him to pass a message from Adelaide which isa follow -on to the telegram direct to me. If you know nothing, it would seem that action is being taken on a high level.”

  “Certainly seems so. But what’s it all about?”

  “What I want to ascertain is: who informed Brisbane I was in Cowdry? Tillet says he’s out. You say you are out. Mount Gambier was straight enough in saying they had not reported my presence there to Adelaide. Will you find out from your high-ups how they learned I was at Cowdry?”

  “Sinclair would know. I’ll trot along and X-ray him.” Superintendent Boase tried to stare Bony down, and, not for the first time, was beaten to it. “You know, occasionally you’re the most exasperating feller. You are not pinching anything off my territory, are you?”

  “I am merely doing some psychological research work, which I believe might be of ultimate value to the world.”

  Boase sighed at such recalcitrance. He was away ten minutes. On being seated again behind his desk, he loaded a pipe and applied a match, and then studied Bony as he might a fingerprint.

  “The high-ups didn’t know you were in Cowdry, and didn’t give a damn where you were until they received a hot message from Brisbane asking them to shift you out of South Australia at the double. Someone in Cowdry has put your pot on. What’ve you been doing?”

  Bony was about to continue prevarication when Boase began to nod his head portentously. He said:

  “You on to another angle of the smuggling racket, eh? Got something of the kind up your sleeve, and think you’ll try to put one over poor silly me. And someone down there with plenty of standing got on to you and blew the gaff to your Department.”

  “There could be something in what you suspect,” slowly admitted Bony, delighted with this gift road of escape. “However, it’s a little far-fetche
d, as my wife would say. That summons from Brisbane cannot be side-stepped, though, and I’ll have to report back. I’ll compile a memo covering my psychological research work which you may find useful, and will post it from Sydney.”

  “The subject of your memo wouldn’t be the death of Ben Wickham?”

  “How could it be?” Bony mildly enquired. “I understand that you permitted the body to be cremated and the ashes scattered over the dead man’s estate.”

  “True enough. Had to. Couldn’t allow the body to explode with booze fumes after it was buried deep in a respectable cemetery.”

  “Then why mention Ben Wickham?”

  “Interesting bloke, that’s all.” Boase again smiled only with the corners of his mouth. “I suppose the real truth is that you were playing the wag and enjoying a nice spot of sport with the kingfish. I’ve done it myself. Sometimes itdon’t come off, and then you have to run around your pals to find out who the blasted pimp is. If you ever do find the darling who put you away, let me know. I’ll fix him. We policemen have to stick together.”

  “Which is why I came to you.”

  “Wise guy. You might do the same for me one day.”

  “I would not miss the opportunity.” Bony rose to go. “Thank you, Boase. See you again sometime.”

  They shook hands, both satisfied, both aware he was not believed by the other. Almost casually, Superintendent Boase asked:

  “When will you be leaving Adelaide?”

  “By to-night’s express. I’ll fly north from Melbourne. I’ll let you know who pimped on me, and you might arrange something one dark night.”

  “You come up all the way by road coach?” asked Boase, idly fingering a document.

  “Yes. On arrival in the city, I parked my case and found a cafe where I loitered over a pot of tea and a newspaper. After leaving the cafe, I strolled up King William Street and…”

  “Cut. No point,” interrupted Boase.“Asked because I wasthinkin ’ of something else. What about dinner at the Railway Dining Rooms before your train leaves? Meet you there in an hour.”