The launch had been proceeding on a northerly course, but immediately the swordfish took the bait Joe swung the Marlin hard to port and slipped out the engine clutch, bringing the stern round to the north-east. A swordfish invariably runs with its capture to the north-east, and Joe’s manoeuvre brought the angler to face that direction.
Bony had swiftly removed brakage on the line which now was being torn away from the reel at yards per second. He became aware that the launch was stopping, that the engine-beat was different, that Wilton stood just behind him, and that Wilton’s mouth was close to his neck. It seemed that it was only one part of his mind that registered all this: the other part was like a gun barrel through which he was looking to see the line running away and down into the sea.
The fingers of his left hand protected by the glove were pressing gently on the revolving reel drum, keeping the line just sufficiently taut to prevent the whizzing reel giving up line faster than the fish took it. His right hand caressed the spokes of the brake, ready to apply pressure immediately the fish stopped—if ever it would stop.
“Let him go,” Wilton breathed on Bony’s neck. “He thinks he’s got a win, and he’s highly delighted. He’ll stop soon. He’s taken three hundred yards of line. He won’t want much more. There! Careful.”
The music of the reel abruptly ceased. Abruptly it began again, to continue for three seconds before again ceasing its high note. The ensuing silence was remarkable. The pulsations of the running engine seemed to come from a great distance, far beyond the silence pressing hard upon Bony’s ears. The line was falling slackly. There was no movement on it. It entered the sea through the suds line, on one side of which the tiny chop lapped it, and on the other side of which began the flat water pavement.
“What next?” he asked, feeling that this waiting was intolerable. “Wind in a little of the slack,” came the suggestion, and Bony put on brakage sufficient to master the freedom of the drum. “He’s all right, down there. If you strike now you’ll lose him, pull the bait-fish out of his mouth. He’s down fathoms and rolling on his back like a playful kitten, just munching the bait-fish, turning it round so’s it will go down his gullet head first. He’ll go to market in a second when he feels the hook or the wire trace, and then he’ll come up to throw it. Give him time. Get in that bit of slack. That’s right. Keep it there. Now look at the line!”
Bony saw that the angle of the cord line was becoming less acute, that inch by swift inch more of it was appearing between rod tip and the water.
“He’s coming up. Strike him!”
Trying desperately to remember all the careful tuition he had received, Bony’s right hand left the brake and gripped the line above the reel, while his left hand raised the rod tip upward in a flashing arc. Then with right hand again on the winder handle of the reel he wound in the slack of the line gained when the rod tip was flashed downward. He could “feel” the weight of the fish at every sweep of the rod tip, but the slack threatened to beat his effort on the winder handle.
“Give it to the cow!” yelled Joe. “Sock it into him!”
“That’s right, Bony. Give it him quick and plenty. Careful not to put on too much brake. That’s it. Ah—look at him!”
Joe uttered a yell of delighted triumph, and implored the world to: ‘Look at him!’ But the novice was too preoccupied with the confounded reel brake and the line, and the rod and himself on the swinging chair, to accept the plea, for he was constantly raising the rod tip, and winding in slack or holding to the line above the drum. That secondary part of his brain was registering the intense enthusiasm of the launchmen and was anticipating the unbearable disappointment of losing the fish through a stupid mistake on his part.
Between three and four hundred yards away the fish was dancing on its tail, dancing on a circular “spot-light” of foam. It was dancing with its sword thrusting towards the cobalt sky, and its form enshrouded by a rainbow coloured mist. It appeared to dance like that for a full minute when in fact it was a fraction of a second. Then in a great sheet of spray it fell forward on to the “pavement” and was engulfed in a bath of white foam.
“I can’t hold him,” Bony gasped, and Wilton, who could do nothing else but watch the fish, again forced his mind to his angler.
“Don’t try. Let him go. He’ll come up again. Just keep the line taut. There! He’s coming up.”
Again the fish appeared, but not this time to dance. It shot out from and above the water pavement, and fell with barely a splash.
“Now he’ll fight you,” Wilton hissed. “Brake a bit, but not too much or the line will part.”
Along the line came a succession of heavy tugs, each tug tearing line off the reel against brakage. Abruptly the line went slack and frantically Bony wound line on to the drum which began to cascade water. Then again came the weight on the line and another series of tugs when all the wet line he had gained was lost to him.
“He’s gonna breach again,” Joe shouted.
“Too right, he is,” Wilton said in agreement. “He can’t get rid of the hook down under by belching like a dog ’cos he can’t swim backwards and must always go for’ards. Only in the air can he get rid of it, and that’s when an angler’s likely to lose him if the fish has a slack line. Get me?”
Bony nodded his head vigorously. Perspiration was running down his face and his left forearm was beginning to be filled with lead. The fish appeared on the surface of the water, threshing it into a smother for three seconds. Then down it went and, despite brakage, it tore fifty yards of line off the reel.
Bony was gaining confidence. He recognized that patience and correct judgment with the brake were the two essentials of success. To have struck before the psychological moment would have taken the bait-fish out of the mouth of the swordfish; to have permitted the line to slacken when the fish was out of the water would have permitted it to disgorge the hook; and to have too much brakage on the line when those terrible tugs were given would have snapped the rod or have parted the cord able to withstand a breaking strain only of eighty-eight pounds. And away down there in the depths fought a fish weighing hundreds of pounds, and a power strength much greater than its weight.
“You’ve got him fast, I think,” Wilton said, loudly, triumphantly. “You’re doing all right. He won’t come up again. Just take your time. Give him line when he wants it bad. Get it back on the reel when he gives you a chance. That’s the ticket. You’re gaining yards and losing only feet. Bring her round to starboard a bit, Joe. Bony’s gonna be a Zane Grey yet.”
“Too right, he is, too ruddy right,” Joe chortled, and again one part of Bony’s mind registered the extraordinary enthusiasm of men who were only looking on. His left arm now ached badly, and his face and neck were dripping sweat. But his blood was on fire and his pulses beat like Thor’s great hammer. Confidence was strengthening, and for half a minute he permitted himself to rest, merely “holding” the fish. Then up again went the rod tip, to fall once more and so permit slack line to be wound in. His knees were dripping with salt water from the wet line on the reel. His mind was bathed in the water of pure ecstasy.
“He’s coming to!” cried Wilton. “He’s not far away now by the amount of line on your reel. Look!—There’s the swivel. When you get the swivel near your rod tip, bring it ’way back for’ard to me. Starboard a bit, Joe.”
“Starboard it is. How’s she coming?” demanded Joe, meaning the fish.
“Coming in well. Leave the wheel, Joe, and bring the gaff and ropes.”
Wilton pulled leather gloves over his amber hands, and Joe nimbly came aft with the gaff on its pole handle, and like a cat he placed gaff and ropes in readiness for use. Bony wanted to shout, but was too breathless. There to the surface of the water, only ten feet from the launch, rose the dorsal fin of his fish, and behind it the long back fins all erect like the “prickles” along the back of some lizards. There was no fight left in the fish. It was drawn easily alongside the launch and Wilton grasped the wire trace w
ith his gloved hands.
“Careful Watch out! He’s not ours yet and he might want to take another run,” Wilton said. Joe laid the gaff under the torpedo-shaped body and hauled on pole and rope attached to the gaff. Out came the pole. Joe leaned back on the gaff rope while Wilton snatched up another and leaned overside to slip a noose about the flailing tail. When he stood up his head and shoulders cascaded sea-water. He was smiling; and Joe began a chuckle that made his whiskers expand like the quills of a porcupine.
“Take it easy, Bony,” he shouted. “He’s ours. Congratulations.”
Both men had to shake hands with Bony, who smiled his appreciation, and was then asked to stand aside. The rod was unshipped and put away for’ard for the moment. Then followed five minutes of hauling by the launchmen to drag the fish up and across the stern of the Marlin, where it was securely lashed.
“Ah!” breathed Wilton, when the three stood to regard the capture. “A nice striped marlin. Two hundred and forty pounds, eh, Joe?”
Joe squinted at the fish from sword point to tail fins. He grimaced; pursed his lips. He might have been a butcher judging the weight of a store bullock.
“Might go a bit more,” he said slowly. “’E’s in good nick. “Is tail’s round as a barrel. Yes, might go two hundred and forty-eight pounds.”
“Well, we’ll have to get under way,” Wilton ordered. “May be another swordie or two about here on the reef.”
The gaff and ropes were stowed. Joe went back to the wheel and the Marlin continued her trolling at three knots to the hour. Bony’s arms and legs ached from the exertion, but no man was ever more proud of his bride than he was of that beautiful fish, gleaming green and blue and grey. He stretched himself, yawned and rolled a cigarette whilst Wilton reset the rod, and baited the hook. Joe began to sing about a fair “mayden” who sold her beer in gallon pots.
Overboard went the bait-fish to begin its spell of skimming the surface after the launch. Overboard went the teasers to skip and dive and dart. Wilton went for’ard to stand beside the mast, and slowly the Marlin sauntered along the pavement this day laid down above Swordfish Reef. In his angler’s chair Bony relaxed and smoked. Constantly his gaze rested on the fish, its sword protruding over one side of the launch and its tail over the other.
“Ahoy!” shouted Wilton, pointing aloft.
And there fluttering lazily at the masthead flew the coveted flag with the small white swordfish on the blue background.
Bony stood and gravely raised his old hat to it. He had never dreamed that life had in store an experience like this.
Chapter Eight
The Conference
IT WAS DARK when Bony entered Constable Telfer’s office to see there, other than the policeman, the owners of the Gladious, the Edith and the Snowy, and Joe and Wilton. Setting a suit-case and a brief-case on the table, previously cleared by Telfer, Bony smiled at the seamen and asked them to draw chairs to the table and be seated. Not a man answered his smile: every one of them was wondering why he had been asked to attend and what he had to do with the reason actuating Telfer’s request that they attend.
“Gentlemen,” Bony began, seating himself at the head of the table. “I have an explanation to offer and then a favour to ask which I am confident you will grant. It is known that I am a cattleman from the Northern Territory here on a fishing holiday. My name, indeed, is Napoleon Bonaparte, but I am as insignificant as the great Emperor was mighty until disease, not his enemies, destroyed him. I am a detective-inspector from Queensland come here to Bermagui to solve the mystery of the Do-me and the fate of those who went to sea on her.”
The men stared for a fraction of a second at the dark and handsome face supported by the encircling starched collar. Then they glanced at each other and at Telfer, who sat at the other end of the table. As though accustomed to addressing meetings, Bony waited until their attention was again directed to him. Then:
“All of us here have a common interest. Constable Telfer and I hope to succeed in bringing to light the fate of the Dome and those three men, not only because it is what we are being paid a salary to do, but because, as normal citizens suspecting foul play, we desire to see justice done. Your interest in the matter is also of a dual nature. You want to see justice done on behalf of Spinks and his mate, as well as on behalf of the unfortunate angler, and you want to see lifted the shadow this mystery has cast on Bermagui and big game angling here. You will, I know, be anxious to have this mystery solved, having reasonable hope that the solution will prove that it was not the sea or the normal conditions of deep-sea angling off this coast which accounted for the disappearance of the Do-me.”
This produced confirmatory exclamations.
“I have taken the liberty of making the usual inquiries about all of you, and these inquiries produce the belief that you are one and all decent fellows who, when my request is placed before you, will gladly consent to assist me. I know that the average man and woman is suspicious of a detective, dreading to be associated with a criminal trial with all its inconveniences and worries. I am aware that there have been detectives whose ethics were not above reproach, but today they are exceedingly few in number. I am not going to ask you to make statements, and tell you to be careful what you say, and then cross-examine you as though I believe you to be liars.
“My Chief Commissioner often tells me that I am a cursed bad policeman but a damned good detective. As a fact, I am an investigator who once I am able to say how it was done and who did it, leaves the arrest and charge to other officers. I am interested less in the fate of a criminal than his psychology.
“I am convinced that neither the sea nor its hazards were responsible for the disappearance of the Do-me. The recovery of the human head by the trawler crew indicates murder, and the wound in the head was caused by a .45 pistol bullet and not a .32 rifle bullet fired from the rifle Spinks always had with him on the Do-me with which to dispatch sharks. That Mr Ericson was shot and his body thrown overboard to be partially devoured by the sharks may be taken for granted. Placing last things first, the question is: Who killed Ericson?”
In the short ensuing silence the men relaxed, but their supple bodies again tensed when he continued speaking.
“You all knew William Spinks and his mate, Robert Garroway. You will hasten to assure me that neither killed his patron. I incline to agree with you because of the absence of any motive for the crime, and because Mr Ericson intended to settle here and benefit the entire Spinks family. It is possible that Garroway had a motive for killing Mr Ericson, for Garroway was not included in Ericson’s plans for settling here and he may have resented the prospect of unemployment. I used the word ‘possible’ not the word ‘probable’, which please note.
“And now for my request. A study of the reports compiled by the Sydney detectives indicated that they sought for wreckage and bodies along the coast and confined their investigations to the land. Aeroplanes searched the sea, we know, and Jack Wilton and Joe Peace, on the Marlin, hunted for flotsam: still the main investigations were confined to the land.
“It is my intention to concentrate on what happened to the Do-me. She put to sea that fine and calm morning, and she was seen later making towards Swordfish Reef. Because the Do-me was a vehicle of the sea and not of land, I find myself at a great disadvantage, not being a seaman as you are. Away beyond the railways, in my own country, I’d lose you in five minutes, but here on the sea you turn the tables on me. Now, will you join me in a free and easy discussion of this mystery, like business men discussing a deal, without thought of anything said being recorded and checked and—” Bony smiled—“used in evidence against you?”
This raised a general laugh and one after another the launch-men promptly assented.
“Thank you.” Bony reached forward and drew to him the suit-case: “Before we begin, gentlemen, I want you to join in drinking a toast to my first swordfish. Mr Telfer, glasses, please.”
Telfer departed for the glasses. Bony beamed on the conf
erence, and produced bottles of beer.
“If the usual run of detectives used more tact—with beer—they’d get on better,” observed Eddy Burns, owner of the Edith, and on whose face was the indelible stamp of Anzac. “This is going to be the first time I’ve drunk beer in a police station.”
“I don’t care where I drink,” rumbled the vast Joe, to add as an afterthought: “Providin’ it ain’t water or tea.”
A stout man, whose face was perfectly round and whose eyes were small and blue-grey, chuckled but said nothing. His facial expression was one of eternal peace with himself and the world. Owner of the Snowy, his name was Edward Flandin. Telfer came in with the glasses, and Bony filled them and himself handed them round to his “collaborators”.
The toast was drunk with enthusiasm.
“May Inspector Bonaparte catch many more,” said Remmings, a dark, red-faced man and owner of the Gladious.
“May he land the biggest yet,” said Eddy Burns.
“The second biggest,” interposed Flandin. “I promised the biggest to those Americans booked with me for next week.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Bony said, smilingly. “This is the first investigation I have conducted permitting me pleasure with work. Now let us begin.”
From his brief-case Bony produced a wad of papers and a bundle of sharpened pencils. Then, lighting a cigarette, he exhaled the smoke and looked through it at the conference.
“I am aware,” he said, “that you three men who were at sea the day the Do-me disappeared have already been severely questioned by the detectives. You, Remmings and Burns and Flandin state the time you left the jetty and the time you got back to it, and the time each of you last saw the Do-me. Although your respective statements are positive, the details are few and confined to those on which you were questioned. You can, I think, supply me with many more details of what happened that day. And your statements, when correlated, may well give me a lead. And a lead I must have.
The Mystery of Swordfish Reef Page 8
