The Mystery of Swordfish Reef

by Arthur W. Upfield

  A little after three o’clock on fifth January, a man of average height and weight, dressed in a smart double-breasted suit of light grey tweed, entered the club secretary’s office. The visitor’s eyes were blue, his hair black and inclined to waviness, and his skin dark. A good-looking man, yet he was not a white man.

  “Mr Blade—Mr Edward Blade?”

  “Yes. Will you sit down?”

  “Thank you. May I smoke?”

  A cigarette was rolled more swiftly than Blade had ever seen done. He was entranced. Then he was again hearing the pleasantly modulated, clearly accented voice.

  “Detective-Sergeant Allen has spoken to me most highly of you, Mr Blade. He tells me that you are a man to be confidently trusted, and one eager to be of assistance to all and sundry. Also that you are conversant with everyone here, the history of the place, its geography, and that you will gladly advise me on how to become the complete angler.”

  “Sergeant Allen is generous. I shall be delighted to assist you in any and every way.”

  Blade was experiencing slight awe of this visitor to Bermagui, who was so immaculate, so easy in manner, and still so unusual. He looked not unlike an Indian prince. He spoke, as they do in Dublin, the purest English. Even more remarkable than his appearance and speech was his obvious self-confidence.

  “I do not think you have ever heard of me. My name is Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  Blade bowed from his chair behind the table. The famous name claimed his interest, but did not enlighten him. Had his visitor said he was Marco Polo or Nero he would have wondered no more than he did at any man having such a name in this year of grace when it could be so easily changed for another by deed poll.

  “May I be encouraged to rely on your discretion?” inquired Mr Napoleon Bonaparte.

  “Certainly.”

  “And to hope that you will regard what I want to say with the strictest confidence?”

  Blade nodded his agreement, and Mr Napoleon Bonaparte’s blue eyes beamed upon him. Despite his “backing and filling”, the visitor was a likeable chap.

  “It is not my intention to announce my profession, Mr Blade, and therefore I have taken care to inform those at the hotel that I am a cattleman down from the Northern Territory on a prolonged holiday. Fame is so apt to become a devouring fire that I keep mine under a quart-pot. I see that you do not associate me with the police, although I have told you my name. I am a detective-inspector from the Queensland Criminal Investigation Branch; now attached, by arrangement with my Chief Commissioner, to the New South Wales C.I.B.”

  “Indeed!” murmured Blade.

  “My visit to Bermagui is a dual-purpose one. Having been asked to investigate the affair of the missing Do-me, I see my way quite clear to the indulgence of what I am told is the finest sport in the world, swordfishing, at someone else’s expense.”

  The features of Inspector Bonaparte’s face were immobile, but in his eyes gleamed humour which made Blade suspect impish cynicism. It occurred to him suddenly that this Bonaparte man was really quite charming.

  “So the police have not yet given up the mystery,” he said.

  “By no means. In fact, they are only beginning on it by asking me to take over the investigation. Poor Sergeant Allen admitted defeat, complaining of the paucity of clues and leads, and cursing the sea and a particular launch named Marlin which he did not seem to favour. Then Inspector Handy agreed with him in all but the sea and the launch. And so, having read all their reports and having gone through their collection of statements, I decided that this was a meaty bone for me on which to try the teeth of my brain.

  “It is certainly an out-of-the-way case. I have to admit that I shy clear of crimes of violence where there are fingerprints and revolvers, bodies and missing valuables, and a nark or two in a thieves’ kitchen waiting to inform for the price of beer. I like my cases minus bodies and minus clues, if possible. Which is why this Do-me case so attracts me. Three men go to sea in a fishing launch, and neither launch nor men are ever seen again. Then the head of one of them is brought up in a ship’s trawl, and it is seen that its owner was murdered with a pistol bullet. There is no motive to account for the killing, and everything points away from either the launchman or his mate having done the killing.”

  “I am glad to hear you say that, Inspector,” interrupted the club secretary. “I have known the Spinks family for several years, and young Spinks was a hard-working, dependable man, frank and straightforward. As for his mate, Bob Garroway, a lad of only nineteen, he has been hereabouts for five or six years and was well liked.”

  “Well, it will be all cleared up one day, Mr Blade. I have never failed to finalize a case, and it would be unthinkable for me to have any doubt regarding this one. I suppose you don’t know who Ericson was?”

  “No.”

  “I will tell you, Mr Blade; because I shall want your collaboration, as this case will take me far from my usual background. I am not familiar with the sea. Now, Ericson retired three years ago from New Scotland Yard, London, where he was a superintendent, in fact, was one of the famous Big Five. Years before retiring, he had met the present New South Wales Chief Commissioner of Police, and these two men became warm friends.

  “When he retired Ericson was a wealthy man, having inherited money, and he built himself a house at a place called Warsash, bordering Southampton Water, where he owned his own yacht and spent much of his time fishing. It was after reading an article on swordfishing here at Bermagui that he wrote his friend out here asking for further details of life in Australia, and the result of that was his acceptance of an invitation to come out here, make the Chief Commissioner’s home his headquarters, and from there test this sport of swordfishing.

  “He arrived on September the third, and four days later visited the Commissioner’s dentist to have work done on his teeth. Thus it was that his head was identified. Here he paid all debts with cheques. He paid the hotel weekly with a cheque and he paid Spinks weekly with a cheque. His cheque-book and pocket wallet containing only a few pound notes were found among his effects in his room at the hotel. Robbery as a motive for the crime appears to be quite ruled out. The idea Ericson was putting into shape of settling here and buying a launch for Spinks to run for him, as well as to employ Spinks’s mother and sister, smashes any theory connecting Spinks with the disappearance of the Do-me. Ericson was robbed of nothing but his life. There is nothing in his character that would lead one to assume that he could or did double-cross Spinks for any reason, whilst his death would be the cause of certain loss to Spinks.

  “There is a man here, a Joseph Peace, who is going to be of great assistance to me. Officially he is regarded as being a crank because of his claim that he can define the direction of a succession of sea currents. Possibly I have been termed a crank for the reason that I can follow tracks not to be seen by ordinary men. Peace, I understand, is mate to a Jack Wilton, who owns a launch named Marlin. I would like to engage those men and that launch.”

  “Wilton will be glad of the engagement,” Blade hastened to say. “The Do-me affair has cast a shadow over Bermagui and the place is not popular just now. If you can remove the shadow, everyone here will be grateful to you. How long will you be requiring the launch, do you think?”

  “During the whole of my stay here, which may be for several months. As I told you, my expenses are to be paid from Ericson’s estate.”

  “What about tackle? I assume you will require that.”

  “Sergeant Allen told me I could hire the tackle from you. I must rely on you for what I want, for I know nothing about swordfishing.”

  “Well, then I can let you have a complete set of tackle for five pounds a week: rod and reel, line and trace and hooks, body harness and teasers. I will get you to sign for the items, and then Wilton can take charge of them and have everything ready. Will you be going out tomorrow?”

  Bonaparte’s face was alight with anticipation.

  “Assuredly,” he replied, to add with a sm
ile: “A detective’s first duty is to examine the scene of the alleged crime, and so I must visit Swordfish Reef, and ... perhaps ... catch a swordfish. Meanwhile I am a cattleman from the Northern Territory. I will study Wilton and his mate before taking them into my confidence. They tell me, Mr Blade, that catching a swordfish gives a greater thrill than buffalo hunting, even tiger shooting.”

  Blade sighed, and Bonaparte saw ecstatic memory leap to his eyes.

  “Life doesn’t hold a bigger thrill than the “feel” of a two to three hundred pound swordfish at the end of five hundred yards of line,” he said slowly. “The rougher the sea the more intense the thrill. Are you a good sailor?”

  “I have authority for thinking so. Nothing will—”

  The sound of flying feet on the sidewalk outside the office put a period on what Bonaparte was saying, and in through the open doorway dashed a small boy.

  “Mr Blade! Mr Blade!” he cried pipingly. “The Gladious is coming in with a swordie.”

  “Oh! Is she flying the blue flag?”

  “Yes, Mr Blade. Can I go with you on the truck down to the jetty?”

  “Certainly. You run in and tell Mr Parkins. Are you coming along to the jetty, Mr Bonaparte? I have to go to weigh the capture.”

  Bony was on his feet.

  “I could not possibly do anything else, Mr Blade,” he replied.

  Chapter Six

  “Fish-Oh!”

  BONY BREAKFASTED at seven o’clock the following morning in company with that Mr Emery who had set up Marion Spinks in business and whose capture of the last evening was now suspended on the triangle at the entrance to the town. The small grey eyes regarded Bonaparte for a fraction of time.

  “Morning! You going out fishing today?”

  “Yes. This is to be my first sally after the swordfish. What are the prospects, do you think?”

  Again that stabbing glance was directed at the half-caste, but the heavy, reddened face successfully masked the thought relative to Bonaparte’s birth. An educated man is stamped by his voice and accent, and both were weighed and judged by a mind used to lightning decisions. Although Emery was ageing and probably knew better, he bolted his food and spoke with his mouth full.

  “You never know how the day will turn out,” he said, in a manner reminding his table companion of a marionette show. “This is my third swordfishing season at Bermagui. It’s the uncertainty of the fishing which makes it so great a sport. If a feller could catch ’em all day long and every day he’d want to be as strong as one of those wrestlers—as you will, I hope, find out. A feller’s lucky to get three swordies a week, and sometimes, when the shoal fish are away, you can go a full week and never see a fin. You using your car?”

  “No. I came down by plane.”

  “Well, then, hurry up and I’ll take you along to the jetty in my “tub”. Ordered your lunch basket?”

  “Yes.”

  “You get sick?”

  “Never.”

  “You’re lucky. Me, I’m terribly sick the first day or two.” The food was shovelled into the wide mouth. Then: “Being sick don’t stop me fishing. First day this time I was as sick as a dog and not keeping proper watch on my bait-fish, when a hammerhead took the bait. Great brainless pig of a fish is that kind of shark. Won’t fight, you know. Anyway, time I’d bullocked with him, and he wanted to go down deep and drown himself, I forgot all about being sick.” Another silence followed these somewhat inapt remarks. Presently: “If I ate like this at home I’d have indigestion for a month and a doctor’s bill to pay. Go on, man, hurry up. The days are short enough without wasting time on breakfast.”

  They ate rapidly, Bonaparte feeling the thrill of a race.

  “Fighting a swordfish must give a terrific thrill,” he said, anxious to now all that was to be known about swordfishing in the shortest possible time.

  “Swordfishing gets you like whisky,” Emery stuttered. “One time I used to down two bottles a day, so I know what I’m talking about. Once you bring a swordfish to the gaff you become a slave to a drug worse’n whisky. I’ve landed ten fish so far. Years ago I used to day-dream of fighting blackguards to rescue a girl; now I day-dream of fighting a swordie in a half-gale, one that’ll weigh a thousand pounds. Australian record was one going at six-seven-two pounds, a black marlin captured by a Mr J. Porter, of Melbourne. There must be a thousand-pounder somewhere to be caught.”

  “We will hope that one of us will capture him.”

  “We’ll hope like mad.”

  “A great place this Bermagui,” Bony remarked a moment later. “Fish everywhere, they tell me, and no mosquitoes.”

  “Bermagui becomes a man’s Sharg Grelah, or whatever was the name of that place in Lost Horizon. A feller’s never happy away from it. You finished? Good! Come on!”

  They rose to dash across to the sideboard for their prepared lunches and thermos-flasks, Emery the more disreputably dressed of the two. Outside the hotel, where it had been carelessly parked all night, stood the tub, a three-thousand-pound affair in charge of a uniformed driver. From the hotel to the jetty was less than half a mile, and the walk after breakfast would have done Emery good, but time was precious, or so he said.

  “What launch have you booked?” he asked when they had taken their seats. “Drive slowly past the fish, Fred. I want to look at it.”

  “The Marlin.”

  “Oh! Good craft, that, and they tell me that young Wilton’s a good man. Want a tip?”

  “All you can give me.”

  “In a minute, then. What d’you think of my fish? Took me fifty-three minutes to bring him to the gaff. Nice striped marlin, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, a beautiful fish, Mr Emery,” Bony agreed, sighing.

  “You can say you’ve got a good fish if you land a striped marlin weighing two-eight-three pounds,” Emery said. “They’re better fighters than the black marlin, I think, but there’s some who will argue about it. Look at that head, and the sword that’s like a needle! All right, Fred, get along.... About that tip, now.”

  “Yes,” urged Bony.

  “Well, here’s a good one. Give your launchman to understand that he’s to go where he likes, that he’s the captain who knows more about the fishing along this coast than you do. He’ll be glad to do as you ask, because he’s out to land the greatest number for the season. Want another tip?”

  “You are being kind. Certainly.”

  “Then tell your launchman that as you know nothing about the game you will be glad of his advice. Lots of fellers come here who’ve caught a tiddler or two and think they know all about angling for swordies. They don’t want advice from any low-browed launchman, you understand, and so the launchman is mortified to see ’em get excited and break their rods or lines and lose the fish he’s been counting on to bring his tally ahead of the others. Then we hear ’em talking loudly in the pub how they missed the fish. The odds are always in favour of the swordie, remember. Here we are. Come on!”

  The crews of half the launches moored to the slender jetty were busy preparing for their anglers: winding on to the heavy steel reels from the drying frames the lines used the previous day; watching every foot of the nine hundred yards for a possible flaw that would lose a fish; stowing away drums of petrol and oil; affixing the heavy rods to the seat-edge of the angler’s swivel chairs; and generally making all ship-shape.

  “Well, so long and good luck,” Emery cried, stopping above the Gladious on which Remmings’s mate took down the lunch baskets and thermos Emery was not too proud to carry from the car.

  “Good luck to you, and many thanks,” Bony said, before moving on to meet Jack Wilton, who was waiting above his Marlin.

  The light wind failed wholly to cover the river’s water. Beyond the bar the ocean appeared lazy this morning. The air was softly warm and crystal clear, bringing Dromedary Mountain to within rifle range. Launch engines were thudding sluggishly. Gulls sometimes cried their harsh notes. A small boy lying on the jetty floor, perilously ba
lanced, was fishing with a hand line and small hook, and every time he dropped the baited hook into the crystal-clear water, tiny black fish swarmed about the bait until they became a compact mass the size of a football. The small fisherman never caught a fish. The tiny fish sucked off his bait before it could sink to the bottom where swam the larger perch.

  “Morning, Mr Bonaparte!” Wilton said, coming to stand beside the detective who was watching the efforts of the boy to get his bait past the attacking fish.

  “Good day, Jack,” replied Bony, handing over his lunch and thermos to his launchman who insisted on taking it from him. “Is everything ready?”

  “Yes. My partner, Joe Peace, wet your line and wound it on the reel. It’s faultless, and the reel runs smooth as oil. Going to be a good day, I think. The glass is steady.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” Bony said, smilingly. “Before we go on board I am going to ask you to grant me three favours. One: that you will understand that I am a new-chum angler, who will gladly accept any advice. Two: that I don’t really mind where we go to fish. Three: that when we are away from this jetty you will kindly drop the “mister” and call me Bony.”

  “None of ’em will be hard to grant—Bony. You want swordies: I want to see you bring ’em to the gaff. The angler’s art isn’t difficult to learn, but some will lose their blocks, get excited, and then something has to go west. The best anglers never become excited. The fish are out there in the sea, all right. And here’s my mate, Joe Peace. He’s likely to call a fish a cow, with trimmings, but he knows more about the coast and the swordies than I do. Meet Mr Bonaparte, Joe, and remember when we’re at sea that Mr Bonaparte wants to be called just Bony.”

  Bony was delighted with this barrel of a man who was glaring at him with his light grey eyes, his right hand resting on the two bowls of the pipes thrust through his belt.