When it was dark he strolled along the main street pausing to gaze at the captures suspended on the town triangle. His own gigantic swordfish, due to be removed the following day, was also displayed, and he felt secret satisfaction that those brought in this day were in comparison mere tiddlers. Afterwards, he strolled on along the road to Cobargo, turned to the skirting higher land. He saw a light shining from an unguarded window; eventually he knocked on the door of the small hut in which this window was built.
“Come in!” called Joe Peace.
Bony entered. Joe was seated at a roughly made table. The stove gleamed with fat which had escaped from the frying-pan now on the wooden floor and occupying the interest of four large black and white cats. There was a bunk on which was a toss of blankets, indicating that Joe “made” his bed after he got into it. Above the table was suspended an oil lamp, polished and wick-trimmed, the only article showing evidence of constant care. Joe stood up.
“Why, Mr Bonaparte! Come in. Shut the flamin’ door, please. The draught makes the lamp smoke. Here, take a pew.”
He offered his visitor a petrol case.
“Had dinner, I suppose? If not, I can soon lash up a feed of some sort,” he said.
“Thanks, Joe. I’ve had dinner,” Bony told him. “I’ve just dropped in for a few moments. Didn’t think you would mind.”
“Course not. Glad to see you. I’ve just finished my grub. I’ll clear the decks and feed me animals, and then we can settle down for a chin-wag. Me joint ain’t none too flash, but I’m a great one for peace and quiet. Can’t understand any bloke wantin’ to git married. Can you?”
Verbally Bony agreed, but he thought that marriage would have improved Joe’s surroundings. The place was spotlessly clean, but its contents were in fearful confusion. Joe went out, and the four cats went with him. He closed the door and was away for two minutes. On returning, the cats came in with him. He gave them milk in a pie-dish, and meat on a plate, and the plate and dish he subsequently washed with his own utensils. Then, seated opposite Bony and smoking a cigar his guest had presented, with the four cats purring and cleaning themselves on the table between them, he ceased his careless talking and waited to learn the purpose of the visit.
“I understand, Joe, that once you did some prospecting about Wapengo Inlet,” Bony began.
“Too right I did. Went into that country years ago looking for colours and sleeper timber. Found plenty of timber but no metal. Gold must be there, though, washed down outer them ’ills.”
“Was that before Rockaway settled there?”
“Years before.”
“By the way, Joe, how does Rockaway get his mail and papers?”
“Tatter comes for ’em on ’is moter-bike. ’Tain’t far on a moter-bike. Two miles from the ’ouse to the Tathra road, and seventeen to Bermee. ’E’s a bit of a scorcher is Tatter, and the Rockaways don’t ’ave dinner till eight.”
“Oh! What is this Tatter?”
“’E’s the butler. When the truck isn’t in. Tatter makes the trip for the mail and papers.”
“What kind of man is he to look at?”
“Tatter? A biggish sorta bloke. Done a bit with the gloves at some time. ’E’s never run foul of me—yet.”
“There is a man cook, isn’t there?”
“Yes. ’Is name’s Jules. Don’t see much of ’im. Bit of weed is Monsoo Jules.”
“A Frenchman?”
Joe nodded and blew cigar smoke at the cats. They objected, and one jumped lightly to Bony’s shoulder, where it settled and purred.
“How long has this Jules and Tatter been with Rockaway?” was Bony’s next question.
“Like the others they come ’ere with Rockaway. Even Mrs Light, the ’ouse-keeper, came with Rockaway and the gal. Some says that Mrs Light uster be lady’s maid to Mrs Rockaway afore she kicked orf. She’s a sour old cow.... You like cats?”
“Much, and dogs, too,” replied Bony, who was stroking the animal on his shoulder.
“Can’t says as ’ow I’m partial to dogs,” admitted Joe, and Bony guessed that he was the cats’ defender against the attacks of local dogs. He gazed steadily at Joe, saying:
“When you were prospecting at Wapengo Inlet, did you discover any caves or natural holes in the ground?”
Joe regarded Bony from beyond a pall of smoke.
“It’s funny you asking me that,” he said slowly. “Me and Jack was talkin’ of caves and things last night. There’s a longish cave less’n ’arf a mile from Rockaway’s ’ouse. It goes away back under to top of the ’ill. Just the place for ole Rockaway to plant anybody he wanted to keep quiet—blokes like Bill Spinks and young Garroway, f’instance.”
“Indeed!” Steadily Bony regarded Joe through the smoke. “Do you, too, think they are still alive?”
“Can’t say as I do. But Jack does, and he thinks it because the Spinks women won’t admit they’re dead.”
“Where is the entrance to this cavern—from the house?”
“It’s straight up the ’ill from the ’ouse. You see, the ’ill top is sorta ’ollow. Sandstone and granite, and the sandstone ’as washed out leavin’ the granite cap still there. It’s a good place all right. Small entrance what could be easily blocked from outside.”
“Although we are unable to believe that Spinks and Garroway are alive, that cave would be a good place to keep them in for months?”
“For years. As I told you, the entrance is small and can be easily blocked from outside. There’s only one ’ole in the roof, and a rock could be rolled over that. Any’ow, it’s too high from the floor to reach and escape that way. Still, what would be the sense of killin’ Ericson and not them what saw the killin’ done?”
Bony slowly nodded in agreement, and for a space they were silent. Then he said:
“I would much like to examine that cave you speak of, Joe. Although we do not believe those two men to be alive, I must not disregard the possibility. The time has almost arrived to take a certain path of action, and before that action is undertaken I must be sure that the lives of possible prisoners are not endangered. I wonder, now. Would you accompany me, say tomorrow night, down to Wapengo Inlet and there take a look around?”
“Would I! Too right I would,” replied Joe, his mouth a-leer, his small eyes agate hard. “Thinking of Bill and young Garroway makes me kind of take a step or two to believin’ they’re alive.”
“Well,” and Bony lifted the cat from his shoulder, “I’ll let you know tomorrow about the expedition to Wapengo Inlet. Meanwhile I rely on your silence. When we do act we must act swiftly.”
“You can rely on me, Mr Bonaparte. I ain’t married, for a woman to get anythink outer me.”
On reaching the hotel, Bony passed at once to his room which was on the ground floor. There he opened his brief-case to refresh his mind on the statement made to Sergeant Allen by Eddy Burns.
He was standing at the table set before the window that opened on to the yard and garages, the case on the table, its contents not yet withdrawn. Slowly his slight body stiffened until it became utterly immobile. That “sixth” sense named by him intuition, was unaccountably aroused, its physical effect being a tingling sensation at the back of his head.
For quite a minute he remained standing thus, and then his nostrils expanded and relaxed. In this time his maternal blood conquered his white blood, and he became primitive, super alert, controlled by the nervous reflexes of primitive man and animals. Swiftly immobility fled, to be replaced by feverish activity.
He made a thorough search of the room and his possessions, but everything was in order. He examined the brief-case and the papers within, but found no clue to possible interference. He remembered exactly how last he had placed the papers in the case, and they tallied now.
“Strange!” he murmured.
The tingling feeling had passed, and again he was normal. The cause he attributed to a condition of health, for there was nothing within the room, or in the air, to have warned him o
f danger. It was then a quarter to eleven, and he took the briefcase to the licensee with the request that it be locked in the office safe.
He joined Emery in the main bar parlour, and for half an hour talked fishing over a drink or two. When he went to bed it was to sleep without delay. He was awakened by a small voice full of menace.
“Get up and dress. Don’t so much as whisper, or I’ll spatter the walls with your brains.”
Chapter Eighteen
Taken For A Ride
A DETECTIVE is menaced by physical violence much less often than Hollywood would have us believe; and during Napoleon Bonaparte’s career threat to his life had been a rare phenomenon. He had himself never effected an arrest, his custom being to fade away after having placed the keystone of an investigation into position.
Mentally alert the moment the sound of the small voice penetrated to his subconscious, he recognized instantly the thing that pressed coldly and roundly against the back of his head. He was lying on his right side, facing the wall, and from behind him the small voice continued:
“Light, Dave.”
The electric light went on. Bony blinked. He continued to lie still.
“Get up,” ordered the small voice.
Obeying, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, to stare at the round orifice of the pistol barrel, the hatchet face of Dan Malone above the weapon, and Dave Marshall who stood by the door with his hand still raised to the light switch. Then his gaze encountered the pale-blue eyes of the North American, to see in them an anger, no emotion, only a dead cold purpose.
“You gotta chance of living,” Malone said, and Bony noted his power of speaking distinctly and yet so softly that one had to strain hearing. “If you don’t do as you’re told, when you’re told, I’ll snuff you right out. It’s up to you. Dress and make no sound.”
To comply with the instruction was to exhibit common sense. The unusual situation produced the same mental state as that created in Bony’s mind by a fighting swordfish. It divided his mind, one part of it now seeking to cope with this second “startling development”, whilst the other part was astonished by the facility with which the pistol barrel remained in exact alignment with the centre of his forehead no matter his movements. The situation was ordinary because of the entire absence of melodrama in Malone’s voice and facial expression. His threats were horrifying only through their implication. They were spoken in the calm, cold manner of the doctor stating that the patient would die of starvation if he would not eat. There was in Malone’s threats just that degree of certainty, and it angered Bony because of its affront to his dignity.
He was at last dressed in the clothes he had worn at dinner and when on his visit to Joe Peace. It was Dave Marshall who handed to him his wristlet watch, who packed his toilet things into the smaller of his suit-cases, who glanced inside the wardrobe to see there Bony’s old fishing togs and shoes. It was Malone who continued to menace him with the pistol, who did the ordering, who now said:
“Sit down at the table and write a letter I’ll dictate. There’s your writing tablet and pens and ink. Head the letter ‘Thursday night’.” Bony prepared himself to write, and Malone continued:
“‘Dear Mrs Steele. I have found it necessary to leave late this evening on very important business which I expect will keep me away for several days. Don’t worry about the account. A man in my position can’t bilk’”—Bony shuddered—“‘any one. Please tell Jack Wilton of my absence, and ask him to hold himself in readiness for my return. Yours faithfully.’ Sign it properly. Good! Now put the letter into an envelope and address it to Mrs Steele, Bermagui Hotel.”
Bony complied with the order, and was then told to stand and face about. Malone now came to stand beside him, to slip his left hand round Bony’s right arm, to cross his right arm over his chest and press the barrel of the pistol against Bony’s right side.
“We’re going for a walk like this,” Malone said, without emotion. “We’re going to tread very lightly so’s not to wake anybody up. If you don’t tread softly enough to please me, or if you shout or play the fool, you’ll be dead afore you know it. Ready, Dave?”
Marshall was standing by the door and light switch, the large and heavy suit-case on the floor beside the small and lighter one at his feet. He nodded. The light went out and the door was opened, although Bony could not hear its movement.
Malone waited for three seconds, when Marshall flashed on a hand torch having its beam semi-masked by a handkerchief. In this subdued light Malone escorted Bony out of the room, along the corridor, down a short flight of steps, and so out into the yard. By keeping to the wall of the building they escaped treading on the yard gravel. They passed along the “drive-in”, Marshall following with the suitcases and his torch switched off, and where the drive-in debouched on to the sidewalk of the street they were met by a third man who whispered to Malone that there was no one about, and that no sleepless guest was lounging on the hotel balcony.
Bony was conducted directly across the road to the open grassland separating the township from the inner beach, and there they walked parallel with the road, moving without sound on the grass, until they were out of the township. They were obliged to walk on the road when crossing the bridge of a narrow creek, and again when well beyond the jetty where they were obliged to cross the bridge over the Bermaguee River. After that they kept to the grass verge of the road for nearly a mile when they arrived at the junction of the Tilba and Cobargo roads well beyond the last house of the scattered settlement. There, in the deep shadow of the forest trees waited a car.
It was a new machine of an expensive make. Marshall placed the suit-cases in the luggage compartment and stepped into the rear seat. Malone and the third man squeezed Bony into the car to sit beside Marshall, and after him stepped Malone, the third man taking the wheel. Not until the machine was well away from the road junction did the driver switch on the headlamps.
With a calm he certainly did not feel, Bony said:
“Perhaps one of you has a cigarette?”
The request appeared to reduce the tension in the men either side of him, for Malone chuckled, saying:
“Give Mr Bonaparte a fag, Dave. He deserves one for being a good little nigger boy.”
“Your kindness charms me,” Bony said, cuttingly—after Marshall had held a match to the cigarette. “It would be too much, of course, to ask where we are going. As your accent betrays your origin, and your actions confirm your accent, I have authority to assume that you are, to use your own picturesque idiom, taking me for a ride.”
Again Malone chuckled, coldly and without humour.
“That’s the name for it, Mr Bonaparte, although in your case we don’t aim to stop the bus and take you for a little walk before bumping you off.”
“Ah! You have, then, another idea?”
“That’s telling,” Malone guardedly fenced. “We’re goin’ to take great and particular care of you, any’ow. Can’t have niggers like you snoopin’ around, drawin’ plans of the shipping and what not, and pinching paint-brushes when no-buddy’s around. People who stick their dirty noses into other people’s business git burnt sooner or later. Ain’t that so, Mr Tatter?”
“That is so, Captain Malone,” replied the driver in precise English.
The driver, then, was Rockaway’s butler, the fellow who often came to town on a motor-cycle for the mail and papers. Malone, however, appeared to be the leader of this party which might have no connection with the Rockaways, father and daughter. Bony hoped this was so, for he continued to feel a degree of warmth towards the man who had so hospitably welcomed him at Wapengo Inlet, who was so enthusiastically an angler, and so charmingly oblivious to the colour of his guest.
In less than half an hour of swift driving they passed through the end of a town, turning right to cross a bridge. The stars informed the alert detective that the general direction of travel was changed from west to south, and when they skirted a second town he observed that the general direc
tion of travel was eastward. The farther they progressed the rougher became the roads until they left the made roads and followed a winding track through close-packed scrub trees.
The car had traversed this track for nearly two miles when into the radius of the head-lamps slid a large bungalow type house. The track could be seen to pass along the front of this house, and arriving at it the speed was reduced when passing it, reduced to a crawl to swing right and enter a large shed the doors of which were wide open.
The head-lamps illuminated the interior of the place, a large garage, for there was a truck, a light sports car, a motorcycle, drums of petrol and of oil, a lathe and trade benches. The car engine was stopped, and Bony could hear the garage doors being closed. The interior electric lights came on and the car’s lamps were switched off.
“Come on, we git out here,” Malone ordered, himself first to leave the car. Bony dutifully followed—to see Rockaway leaning against the mudguard of the sports model and a lean man crossing from the double doors he had closed. Rockaway, said, conversationally:
“Well, Mr Bonaparte, we meet again in adverse circumstances. It is to be regretted, for my admiration is sincere for one who has captured a five-hundred-pound swordie.”
Bony bowed in his grand manner. Now that the situation seemed likely to develop melodramatically, he was feeling a little more at his ease. There was more warmth in Rockaway than in Malone, although Rockaway might prove to be equally deadly. Tatter went to the doors. The thin man stood beside Rockaway, and Malone took station a little to the front of Bonaparte. Marshall was lifting the suit-cases from the car.
“The circumstances controlling our first meeting, as well as this one, were not of my choosing, Mr Rockaway,” Bony said, to add grandiloquently: “You will, perhaps, gratify my curiosity concerning the reason for this remarkable conduct.”
“Certainly, Mr Bonaparte,” the big man readily assented. “A certain cause is having a series of effects. The cause being your inquisitiveness and the effects so far being certain newspaper reports hinting that you are taking a busman’s holiday, examination of your papers proving that you have become deeply interested in the fate of the Do-me, and your abduction from your bed and escort to this place.”
The Mystery of Swordfish Reef Page 18
