The Mountains Have a Secret

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The Mountains Have a Secret Page 21

by Arthur W. Upfield


  Benson’s next bullet entered his left leg above the knee, and it felt as though the leg had been neatly torn away. He saw Benson’s white face and steadied himself, held his breathing and fired. He wanted to shout his exultation when Benson sank into the grass and did not move. For four seconds Bony watched him and knew Benson would never move again.

  The exultation passed as swiftly as it had seized him. The bearers were passing the casket up a short ladder to those in the plane. A man was crouched before one of the landing wheels. The spinning propellers were like a flight of dragonflies at the level of the eastern range crests. There was still time to reach the machine and fire into those revolving discs.

  Despite the one broken arm and the one useless leg, he managed to drag himself up the post to the rail and then half lie over it. The ground was shuddering. It was all passing from him: valley, aeroplane, men, homestead. That wretched rail on the far side of the post had beaten him, robbed him of most of the glory. If only he could move nearer to the machine. He might ... He tried to slide his body along the railing. The police would get the casket. Mulligan would have every policeman south of Baden Park on the look-out for the aeroplane. It would have to land somewhere—near Portland, Benson had said. The police would stop the van before it reached Portland, stop them from transferring the casket to the boat. The police at Portland would be waiting for the van, warned, instructed by telephone.

  But, to use Benson’s words, not to him would be the honour of presenting the casket and its contents to the world through Mulligan; of saying to Mulligan and his men: “This was the motive for the abduction of two young women, of the murder of Detective Price, of the murder of Yardman O’Brien. This...” and raising the lid of the casket to let them see who rested under the glass.

  His left arm was a great weight, almost more than he could continue lifting with his shoulder. The leg wasn’t so bad, but a man couldn’t do much with only one leg, in addition to only one hand and arm. His clothes on the left side of him must be on fire and were scorching him. How far away was that plane? Eighty yards! Perhaps he could put a bullet into it from eighty yards. He must try that. The men with the casket had disappeared, had passed up the ladder. A man was removing the wheel chocks. Then he was running to the ladder. Now he was going up the ladder. He kicked the ladder away and it fell to the ground. The aeroplane was alive. The ground was shuddering and it rocked the fence railing. The noise was terrific. The range was blotted out by wings. Only the sky was still. And in the sky was the aeroplane, flying over the house, turning away from it to head towards the range whose mighty wave crests were on fire. Smaller and smaller and turning from silver to gold, the machine dwindled to the size of a bee, which appeared to hover for a long time between the gilded teeth of the distant range. A cavern of the clouds received it.

  Then Shannon was standing beside him, and the American’s strong fingers were taking the automatic from his hand.

  “Fetch Mulligan,” Bony said tonelessly.

  “Mulligan’s on the job,” Shannon told him. “You’re in a bad way, pal. Better come off the fence and lie down. Where did you get it?”

  “Never mind me, Shannon. Bring Mulligan—quick.”

  “Don’t worry, Bony, old pal. Mulligan’s headed this way. There’s cops all over the scenery. I’ll lower you down. Smashed leg, eh! Clothes full of blood, too. Busted arm as well. Just take her easy. Wish’t I’d come sooner. Me and the girls followed Simpson on the bike, but what a hope of catching up with his Buick. Left the girl friends getting a little of their own back on the Benson woman. Aimed a gun at us, and I knocked it out of her hand with a throat slitter. Then Mavis grabbed the gun. Left her itching to pull the trigger, and the other one urging the Benson woman to do something to give an excuse. Let’s get your coat off and find out what’s doing.”

  The sun had set and it was growing dark. He heard Mulligan’s voice and he struggled against a yielding something which held him close. He must tell Mulligan—about the casket, where they were taking it. He heard Mulligan say:

  “What’s this? Inspector Bonaparte? Is he dead?”

  He tried to tell Mulligan, but no one heeded. He could not see Mulligan or Shannon, and he wished Shannon would shut up and let him speak. He must tell Mulligan about the casket before—before...

  Shannon’s voice seemed far away:

  “No, I guess he ain’t dead yet. He’s a real guy. Hit three times and still shooting at aeroplanes. What a guy! What a pal! There’s twenty million cops in the world, and of the lot he’s the only pal of the Shannons of Texas.”

  He dreamed much and often. Faces appeared in his dreams. Many he did not recognise, but among them were the faces of Superintendent Bolt, Inspector Mulligan, Glen Shannon, and one girl who had glorious auburn hair and another whose face was very beautiful.

  When he awoke from his dreams the first thing of which he was conscious was of being in bed. Well, there was nothing so remarkable in that, because beds were invented to sleep in. Then into the white ceiling swam a face in which were two of the bluest eyes he had ever looked into, a face crowned with a nurse’s veil.

  She smiled down at him and he tried to smile at her. Then he went to sleep, and the next time he awoke there was another nursing sister who came to bend over him, and her eyes were large and grey.

  “What is the date, Sister?” he asked.

  “Don’t bother your head about dates. Don’t talk—not yet.”

  “What is the date, Sister?” he again asked.

  “Well, it’s the fourth of April,” she conceded. “Now just lie quiet. Doctor will want to see you. Please don’t fret.”

  She watched his eyes cloud and she thought her patient was about to weep. When she saw his lips moving and the effort to speak, she thought it wise to listen and soothe.

  “Did they trace the plane, Sister?” he asked weakly, and she answered:

  “Yes. It was found near Portland. It was deserted and none of those on board have been found, as far as I know. Now you really must not talk any more, and I must fetch Doctor.”

  “Your finest achievement, Bony,” Superintendent Bolt told him the next day. “Finding those two girls and getting them away was damned good work. The newspapers are full of it. Like us, they’re raring to know the whys and wherefores. You just take your time and tell your old pal about it. Must have been quite a ruddy war.”

  “You did not arrest the people who got away in the plane?” Bony asked.

  “No. The machine was landed on a farm owned by Benson seven miles out from Portland. It wasn’t located until the afternoon of that day it flew from Baden Park, because Mulligan had to go as far as Dunkeld to communicate. Telephone wires were cut in half a dozen places, and that caused vital delay. Having found the plane, enquiries resulted in learning that a van had unloaded a large box and several men into a small boat, which took all hands and their box to Benson’s ocean-going launch, which at once put to sea. The next day a sea-search was made for the launch with boats and planes, but it was not sighted. They’re still hunting.”

  “Just too bad, Super, that I couldn’t stay on my feet long enough to report to Mulligan. What of the Benson woman? Did they take her?”

  “Yes. But she won’t talk, and we can only charge her with abduction—so far.”

  “What did they get from Shannon?”

  “Nothing but Mavis, Mavis, Mavis. Says he won’t crowd you.”

  “You are not holding him, are you?”

  “No. Oh no. He’s being married this morning. Mulligan’s taking time off to be his best man. Now tell us the story—or I’ll bust.”

  In fair sequence Bony related his experiences from the time he had entered Baden Park by the back door, the only item not included being what he had seen in the casket; that fantastic idea, that face he had seen with the aid of a spluttering match, that glimpse of the unbelievable.

  “They were a bad lot, all right,” Bolt continued. “Old Man Simpson was nearly frightened to death when Mu
lligan and his crowd went through the hotel. The fright made him properly balmy, poor old bloke. Mulligan says the place was wired, and they hadn’t been inside more’n a minute when they found that their entry raised the alarm at Baden Park. There was nothing else, no evidence worth a hoot. Now, Bony, please tell your pal what was in the box.”

  “I don’t know, Super.”

  “Oh yes, you do.”

  Bony closed his eyes as though he were tired, as, indeed, he was.

  The sister intervened, saying that her patient was exhausted and that the Superintendent must go. Bony looked up into the troubled face of a man for whom he had great respect and not a little liking and he said:

  “I can make a couple of guesses what was in the box, Super, and perhaps when we have both retired I may tell you what those guesses are. Had I been able to capture the box and its contents, the world, I think, might have been startled.

  “I made a very great mistake when I guessed I had killed the butler, Heinrich, and I am not making another mistake by guessing. Had I made certain whether Heinrich was dead or alive, and, if alive, had taken measure to incapacitate him, he would not have turned up to give the alarm. Ah me, Super! I am a vain fool. If only I had not attempted to grab all the glory. If only I had waited for Mulligan.”

  “What was in the box?” pleaded Superintendent Bolt. “Tell us your guess. Go on—be a sport.”

  “Well, Super, I have the idea—the idea, mind you—that the contents of that box were of supreme importance to Benson and his associates.”

  Bolt sighed. He shook his head and said with exaggerated emphasis:

  “You’re telling me.”

  He watched the smile flit into Bony’s eyes, and he heard Bony say with slow and equal emphasis:

  “You have, I fear, been associating with Glen Shannon from Texas.”

 

 

 


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