“I can’t see any glare in the sky. Is it a joke, Bony?”
“No. I am expecting developments in this Loftus case.”
“How far have you got? What have you discovered? Was Loftus murdered? Do you know who murdered him? When are you going toeffect an arrest? How-”
“For heaven’s sake, cease your machine-gun questions.”
“By the Great Wind! I’m not a Doctor Watson. I tell you I’m not,” Muir declared with sudden passion.
“You are,” Bony said definitely. “You will remain a Doctor Watson for a further period of four days, five days at the most. You will retire to Merredin, where you will do nothing but pretend to be making inquiries. You will report to your chief that you are about to finalize this matter, having received a lead from me. Patience will win you promotion.”
Into John Muir’s wide, fearless grey eyes flashed an appealing look. His red hair was tousled by the freckled fingers which tore through it like horse combs.
“Be a sport now,” he entreated. “Tell the tale. Was Loftus murdered?”
“He was.”
“Who killed him?”
“Cock Robin.”
“A man ought to pick you up and shake you. You’re the most aggravating cuss I know.
Bony sighed deeply. “Your only hope, John, is in the cultivation of patience. Age might change you. For your sake I hope it does. I will give you your bird in the near future. There is plenty of time for that. Now tell me what Todd told you about the case which has them bluffed. Relate the details to me slowly and carefully. Omit nothing, nothing. Banish from your mind any thought of Andrews and of Loftus.”
And so for more than two hours they discussed the Queensland case. They read copies of statements and reports. They studied roughly drawn maps and many enlarged photographs of aborigines, tracks, blackfellows’ signs, or what might be signs, and pictures of station scenes.
“To me everything now is quite plain,” Bony said at last. “That is a blackfellow’s sign, although the ignorant would not think so.
“It describes a violent death, a death of vengeance, carried out by an aboriginal. The emu feathers stuck among the fan-arranged sticks at the bottom of a steer’s leg bone denotes the totem of the killer. The murdered man seduced a gin, and the gin’s husband or lover slew him.
“Yes, despite all this, the killer was not a black. He was a white man, devilish clever, who, however, made the one inevitable mistake. Clever as he was in forging the sign, he forgot to add the hair of a black woman, which a black killer would have placed just below the emu feathers. The murder was committed by the only white man who could possibly have done it. In the morning, John, I will telegraph Todd to arrest Riley. You see, I can successfully conduct a case through the post. Easy isn’t it?”
“Easy! By the Great Wind! If only I had one-tenth of your gumption, Bony.”
“Patience will give you just as much gumption. You must learn to proceed slowly. Now go. I will accompany you to your hired car. Remain in Merredin as I said. You will hear from me soon.” At the Depot gate Bony gazed long and earnestly towards the south-east.
“What the dickens are you looking for?” demanded John Muir.
“Even at your departure you must ask a question. I shall have to arrange a scale of fines for your questions according to their degree of pertinence. Your last question of tonight, John, I will answer. I am looking for the reflection in the sky of a burning haystack. Now, good night! Good night!”
Chapter Twenty-One
Needlework
AS BONY expected, Mrs Loftus definitely refused to sell her hay. Yet by no means did her refusal indicate any guilty knowledge of the whereabouts of her husband, for the stack might well be the property of the Agricultural Bank; or she might think that the run of good harvests would not continue beyond this year, when certainly the price of chaff would rise.
Still, the detective regarded both Mrs Loftus and the hired man suspect. He had cast his net and had landed his catch. He had examined fish after fish until but two remained which bore the outlines of that terrible marine monster, the stingray.
Contrary to his emphatic assertion to Hurley that he knew just where George Loftus was, he was not positively sure that the body was where he suspected it to be, and he was sure only that Loftus was dead from that sense of intuition which had stood to him in the past. Had it not been for his rash promise to Lucy Jelly, had not her father interested himself so much in the Loftus case, Bony might at this stage have handed the case over to John Muir, confident in the sergeant’s ability to finalize it, and himself have returned to Brisbane.
But he had given that promise to Lucy Jelly. In winding up the case Muir would not separate the two cases as Bony hoped to do in order to keep Lucy’s father out of it if possible. And now, in keeping his promise to her, he would complete the case against the two suspects in his own peculiar way. He was the relentless nemesis, the king of Australian trackers well forward on an easy trail.
In his possession was a duplicate of the key guarded by the secret of the table leg. That morning experts in Perth had reported on the three hairs submitted to them: that long hair which Bony had taken from Mrs Loftus’s hairbrush, the short hair he had found in the lace of Mrs Loftus’s pillow, and the second short hair he had secured from Mick Landon’s hair-comb. The experts stated that the two short hairs originally grew on the head of the same man. It was, therefore, proved that Landon had slept in Mrs Loftus’s bed the night or one of the nights previous to the Jilbadgie dance. And if Bony’s belief in the position of Loftus’s body was correct, then it was more than likely that, as Mr Jelly had surmised, Landon had not been in his right bed the night the farmer had reached home.
The detective had arrived at that most interesting point in any criminal case, the point where surmises and theories are proving to be correct. In the one circumstance of the urgency of his return to his native State he would have relinquished his investigations to John Muir, but it was the circumstance of Mr Jelly which kept him back from such action. Normally the case was not rightfully his, but since he had decided to carry on in orderto fulfil his promise to Lucy Jelly, he delayed action against the suspects until he had discovered the receptacle fitted by the secret key and had laid bare the secret of Mrs Loftus’s mattress.
Doubtless he would not have appeased any other officerso easily as he had appeased John Muir. The Western Australian knew Bony, knew his methods, had experienced the iron of his will. Bony had said, “Go away for from three to five days. I will send for you”, and Muir had gone, knowing that Bony would send for him, would hand over to him the completed case, would allow him all the credit before departing for Brisbane satisfied with the knowledge of his triumph.
Early in the morning, after John Muir returned to Burracoppin, Hurley related to Bony what had transpired during his visit to the Loftus farm. Mrs Loftus had received him alone: Landon was out on the harvester machine and Miss Waldron had driven herself to Merredin. At Hurley’s casual inquiry regarding the sale of her haystack Mrs Loftus had become momentarily agitated, had regained control of her features in an instant, and then had said that she had no intention of selling.
She wished to know the name of the prospective buyer, and, this information not being obtained, she was made easier when Hurley said he would apply to a farmer farther south who had two stacks of last year’s hay, one of which he might sell. Then she made one slip. She revealed her true thoughts of Bony; revealed the lie she had acted the Sunday he had visited the farm when she was so friendly, by saying to Hurley in a parting shot:
“Take my advice, Eric, and don’t introduce your friends to your best girl. One of them has been paying Lucy a lot of attention, and a fence-rider cannot stand that, because he is away for such long periods.”
“The old man is still away,” Eric said with a grin which wiped away the possibility that Mrs Loftus’s poison had had any effect on his mind. “So I can court Lucy as she should be courted. I am to tell you that
she and Sunflower expect us both for tea at six o’clock this evening.”
“That is delightful of them,” cried Bony. “I shall be most pleased to accept.”
“Good-oh! I’m going out there for the day-I’ve got three Sundays to take out-and I’ll come for you about five o’clock. Try and knock off on time tonight.”
Bony smiled generously, saying, “Permit me to remind you that I haven’t any Sundays to take out, that I am working for the Rabbit Department, and that I shall be late for work if I do not go along for my breakfast at once.”
Hurley sighed.
“I wish I had the gift of the gab,” he said. “I wish I could talk like a book. Tell Ma Poole that I’ll be up forbrek at eight.”
Leaving the Depot, Bony walked rapidly along the main street. Beyond the station, already eight or nine wheat trucks awaited admission to the wheat stack now daily growing steadily higher. A large sheet of white paper bearing roughly printed letters in red ink, pinned to the notice board outside the post office, attracted the detective’s attention, and, reading it, he was informed that the officers of the local branch of the Wheat Farmers’ Protection Association desired the attendance of every member at the meeting to be held at the Burracoppin Hall the following Saturday evening. Mick Landon’s neat signature was appended as the secretary.
Now a little less hurriedly, Bony went on his way, his gaze fixed reflectively upon the ground. Next Saturday night Landon would be in Burracoppin at that meeting. Would Mrs Loftus accompany him? Mrs Loftus was a member of the Association, Bony knew. She would have a vote. Probably shewould accompany Landon. And if Mrs Loftus and Landon attended the meeting it seemed certain that Miss Waldron would go with them, for Miss Waldron would be nervous of remaining alone at the farm after what had occurred there.
“You are quite an expert needlewoman, Miss Jelly,” Bony said when, after tea, Lucy and he were sitting on the veranda and Hurley was helping Sunflower with the washing-up in the kitchen.
“Yes. I am supposed to be very good,” Lucy admitted with low laughter. “Do you like this?”
Bony’s gaze travelled swiftly from the ample figure of Mrs Saunders, then gallantly watering a single rose-tree with water ladled from a petrol-tin bucket, to the silk-worked table centre, almost finished, which lay spread over the girl’s lap. The sun was about to set. The still air throbbed with the incessant hum of the tireless harvester machines.
“It is certainly very beautifully done,” he told her with an engaging smile. “It must take long and constant practice to be able to do it so well.”
“I have almost finished it. Would you like to guess for whom it is intended for a gift?”
“For Eric?”
“Oh no! One does not give a man a table centre.”
“Then it must be for Mrs Saunders. If not she, then I give up.”
“It is not for dear Mrs Saunders, either. I’ll tell you. I am making it for your wife.”
“For Marie?”
“Yes. Will she not like it?”
“Like it!” he echoed. “Why, of course she will like it. We have nothingso beautiful as that in our home, because one could not buy such exquisite work in a factory-filled shop. Like it! My wife will adore it. Indeed, it is very kind of you.”
Bony’s blue eyes were lit by the bright flame of his mind. He was glad that he had promised this young woman to remove the shadow over her life, and his sentimental heart beat at its nearness to her sweet presence.
“I am glad you think she will like it. I wanted to show my appreciation of your kindness to us, and this centre will remind you of us when you are at home in Queensland. Will that be soon?”
“It will, I think, be soon.”
Pensively he stared out over the vast extent of cleared flat country to the far-distant mottled-green sand rise with the clumps of ragged trees along its summit. The proposed gift touched him as nothing ever had done. She was saying:
“May I ask when you expect to leave? You see, I would like to know so that I can finish this for you to take with you.”
“I shall be staying in Burracoppin until I have learned the reason of your father’s strange absences, and that will be shortly after he receives the next telegram calling him away. Meanwhile, would you like to join me in a little adventure?”
Lucy Jelly regarded him with wide, steady eyes.
“Tell me about it,” she said invitingly.
“I am badly in need of the services of a good needleworker,” he began slowly. “Unfortunately, I can use a needle only in a crude way. You remember I told you how your father was shot, and I know you have been wondering what I was doing near the Loftus homestead to see it done. Actually, long before the Loftus people returned from the dance, I thoroughly examined the interior of the house. There I found several most interesting things and came across a little mystery which has been bothering me. I found that a small opening had been made in the flock mattress of Mrs Loftus’s bed, an object pushed among the flock, and the opening most neatly sewed up again.
“Badly as I wanted to know what the mattress concealed, I dared not cut the stitches because I knew that I never could sew up the slit precisely as Mrs Loftus had done. Of course I could not make another opening, for she would discover it, and it was important that she did not know I had been there.
“Later I thought of you. You could sew the slit again exactly as Mrs Loftus had done after I had cut her stitches and found what she had hidden there.”
“But whatever would she say?” asked Lucy.
“She would not know. We would go there next Saturday night if she and her sister and Mick Landon go to the farmers’ meeting at Burracoppin, which I think most likely. They should be away at least three hours, so that we would have plenty of time.”
“Is it important that you should know what she has hidden?”
“Were it not I would not dream of asking you to assist me.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. I am sorry I asked you that.” For three seconds she paused, biting her nether lip. Then, with sudden resolution, she added: “I’ll help you. What number cotton did she use? Was it white cotton?”
“What number?”
“Yes. Sewing cotton is numbered according to its size and strength. Very likely, as the mattress is of strong material, she would have useda forty cotton. It was cotton, wasn’t it? It was not white thread?”
“Inside a lady’s room I am an utter fool. Still, I believe Mrs Loftus used white cotton and not thread. But the number of the cotton
…”
“In that case I will take several different cottons, several sizes of needles, and some white thread because some thread is very like cotton.”
“But surely Mrs Loftus would not note a change in the number of the cotton she used?” Bony asked, aghast at his exposure of his lack of knowledge.
“It would be quite likely for a clever woman to do so, and Mrs Loftus is a very clever woman. If you want her work copied, let us make a good copy. What time shall we go?”
“You would really like to accompany me?”
“I know now that I would. Tellme, do you suspect Mrs Loftus of anything? I shall not repeat what you tell me, Mr Bony.”
“I think she hasle motd’enigma.”
“Meaning that she holds the key to the mystery,” Lucy said, laughing. “You see, I haven’t forgotten all my French.”
“Nor have you forgotten anything about cotton,” he added, laughing with her.
Bony was coming to respect Lucy Jelly for her mental qualities. She was so feminine, yet so sure of herself. She was entirely without the frivolity and shallowness of many young girls, so very worthy to receive his confidences. So he said:
“I think I know where Loftus is, and I believe that Mrs Loftus, too, knows where her husband is.”
“Do you?” She was staring at him when she added: “And do you think Father knows?”
“Frankly, I cannot say ‘yes’ to that. Precisely what is the mainspring of his interest in t
he disappearance of George Loftus I have no idea, unless he is engaged in a little private detective work, thinking that the police have given up the case. Of course there may be something inside the Loftus house which he badly wants, which would explain his visit there the other night. Much concerning him will be made clear when he receives the next telegram, because I shall then know who sent it, and, knowing, can trace the reason of it all.
“I’ll have a quiet talk to Eric about our going to the place on Saturday. We shall want his assistance. Yes, that is a very lovely centre. Hullo, Sunflower! Have you and Eric finished already?”
“It doesn’t take him and me long to wash up. We can talk and work. Lucy and Mrs Saunders can’t talk and work, Mr Bony,” the maid explained, adding when she saw that her sister was about to offer objection: “Look! What did I say? Lucy has put in only five threads since you have been out here together. I said that she couldn’t talk and work at the same time.”
“You have sharp eyes,” Bony said with admiration.
“Have I? I wish they were as sharp as yours.”
“They are, every bit, Sunflower. Eyes become sharp with practice. It is a great asset to be able to use one’s eyes, and that is done only by making observation a habit. What were you both doing down at the dam this afternoon?”
With a pretty blush Sunflower said:
“How did you know?”
“Well, as both you and Miss Lucy went to the dam this afternoon, I assume that you went in for a bathe. There are faint smears of clay on your shoes. The clay is identical with that surrounding the dam.”
When the laughter had subsided, in which Mrs Saunders and Eric were able to join. Sunflower suggested with wonderful tact that Bony might like to play a game of euchre. Quick to see what lay behind this suggestion, he instantly agreed and followed the maid and Mrs Saunders into the living-room-kitchen, leaving Lucy and her lover to stroll away through the fast-falling dusk.
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