The Mountains have a Secret b-12

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “I set the torch on the boulder over there behind you. I had to shift a deal of sand with my hands and then lift up several stone slabs. I wasn’t thinking of much else but what I’d do to someone with my knives if I-if it was my sweetheart. I kept thinking mostly of how a Chinaman ranch cook showed me to use knives without killing.

  “Anyway, when I’d gone down two feet I came to hair. The hair came away in my hand, and I had to get up and take it to the torch, and I wasn’t feeling too bright, not even when I saw that the hair was white and not light brown with a golden sheen in it like my girl’s hair. Still, I wasn’t sure, not knowing what being planted would do to hair, and so I went on digging and came to clothes, and the clothes were so perished that still I couldn’t be sure which one of ’emit was. It was the shoes that proved it. The canvas was rotten, but the rubber soles were sound enough. O’Brien always wore canvas shoes.”

  The American used the glowing end of a stick to gain flame for his cigarette, and the vastly grotesque shadow flickered upon the granite ceiling and upon the bulging walls. For a little while he was silent.

  “Yes, I guess it hurts sometimes, being in love, I was never in love before I met Mavis Sanky. She was a fine kid. Pa told me to keep smiling till I found out for sure. Well, I been doing my best, and I’m going on that way until I’m sure, sure that she was killed and didn’t just perish in this goddamn country. So I replanted, old Ted O’Brien exactly as he had been, and I went out backwards and smothered out all the evidence and afterwards sneaked in here now and then to see if the murderer had paid a visit.”

  “When did you find the body here?” Bony asked.

  “It was about a fortnight before you arrived at the saloon. I watched you mooching around the place. How did you know I was watching you?”

  “No man walks in this country without leaving his tracks.”

  “Tracks, eh! I didn’t think- I thought tracks were only on sandy or dusty-”

  “It’s a gift. The gift of tracking others is a shade less than the gift of leaving no tracks for others to follow. I thought, on seeing you had been observing me, that you were in Simpson’s pay. My apology. The old man told me of O’Brien being discharged for being drunk in the spirit store, and I noted the significance of those cart tracks. Why do you think Simpson killed O’Brien?”

  “I don’t know, unless O’Brien knew he had killed my girl and her pal.”

  “What happened to cause you to leave the hotel at such speed?”

  “So’sI wouldn’t be caught up with and have something framed to put me in jail. You get a chance to go into the room where Simpson’s organ is? No? I did. I unlocked the door with a bit of wire one night when Simpson and his sister were away at Dunkeld. I don’t know anything about organs, but I bet that one cost a few thousand bucks. The room’s always kept locked and, according to Ferris, no one’s ever allowed to go in excepting Simpson’s pals. There’s only one thing funny about that room, and that’s the telephone set on a perch at the side of the organ. There’s a fixture to itso’s the organist can wear it like radio head-phones and do his talking while he plays the organ to stop anyone hearing him using the telephone.

  “Well, when Simpson told me I’d have to quit the next morning it was when we were finishing up dinner. After dinner Simpson went in to play the organ, and I had a hunch that he might be up to tricks with his pals over at Baden Park. Just what, I didn’t make out, but I wasn’t going to risk being stopped from looking for Mavis. Besides which, Simpson might have guessed I knew about this planting.

  “So I decided to quit right then. I packed my gear and took it to the garage. Ferris saw me and wanted to know things. I told her about getting the push-off, and she said I was a wise guy to get going. We talked some more as we cleaned up after dinner, Simpson continuing to play on his organ. I said nothing about finding O’Brien and she said nothing about her brother. It wasn’t what she actually said at any time which counted, it was the way she said it and the look in her eye when she said it. I never told her about Mavis and why I’d come back to Australia.

  “Anyway, it was dark when I finished up, and as I went to the garage to load the gear on the bike I saw the lights of a car coming over the range from Baden Park. I pushed the bike out of the garage, and there was Simpson waiting for me, wanting to know if I was going for a spin. I told him I was going for good, and he said O.K. and I’d better go in with him for my money.

  “He delayed somewhat, telling me I needn’t leave till the morning, and when he did pay me the ranch car arrived and three of the boys came in for a drink. They wanted me to stay and drink with ’em, but I walked out on ’emand left. Didn’t ride fast, but I did want to get clear.”

  “Do you know that you were followed as far as the road junction?” Bony asked.

  “No. Was I?”

  Bony related what he had seen and then asked another question:

  “Where did you go that night?”

  “To Dunkeld. Stayed at the hotel, and the next morning I bought a quart-pot and stores. Hung around that day and later left to come back to where I hid the bike in the scrub and set out on the war-path.”

  “You don’t think it probable that Simpson might have telephoned to someone in Dunkeld to watch you and report what you did?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  Shannon chuckled and Bony was startled.

  “Going to be a good war,” he drawled. “Wish Pa was here. Pity you’re a cop. You thinking of interfering?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “That’s off the target.” The American pondered, then said unsmilingly: “You’re a good guy, but you don’t know how to stick afella up properly. A character minds less being drilled through the heart than being shot in the stomach. Always keep your gun pointed at a man’s stomach. It sort of intimidates. If you ever come to thinking of arresting me, you hedge around the idea.”

  In his turn Bony chuckled, and Shannon grinned and stood up.

  “I’m having an hour or two of shut-eye,” he announced. “Oh! What about this cottontail?”

  “How long have you had it?” asked Bony.

  “How long! Shot him this morning.”

  “Better bury it. The flies will have got to it.”

  The American picked up the carcass, turned it to the fire glow.

  “You’re right, and I’m sick of Simpson’s chickens.”

  “Simpson’s chickens?”

  “Yep. Visited his hen-housescoupla nights. Pa showed me how to wring a chickenso’s he don’t squawk. Must get me another, I suppose.”

  “It might mean the pitcher going too often to the well.”

  “I know that one. Pausta say: ‘Never mind the pitcher, it’s the water that counts.’ ”

  Bony added the last of the wood to give light and, picking up his swag, carried it to the passage. Shannon joined him there and they made up their bunks together.

  “Don’t much fancy camping too close to Ted O’Brien,” Shannon said casually. “Don’t fancy that place anyhow, after looking him over. I’d like to know for sure just why he was bumped off.”

  “We will,” Bony said.

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. I always investigate a murder to the very end.”

  “Always get your man!”

  “Always.”

  “You aim to copy the CanadianMounties, eh?”

  “Not copy them, Shannon. I have always set the example which they try to copy. I shall establish who killed O’Brien and why, and who killed your sweetheart and her friend-if they were killed. You must realise that if you conduct a private war, as you name your proposed activities, and I discover you have killed someone, I shall be obliged to arrest you or have you arrested.”

  “I’ll have to go careful, won’t I?”

  There was mockery in Shannon’s voice and extraordinary good humour.

  “Very careful,” and only with an effort did Bony keep his voice stern. “In view of your great personal intere
st, with the addition of other circumstances favourable to you, the best course to follow would be for me to call upon you, in the King’s name, to assist me in apprehending certain suspected persons-if in the plural. Not being unintelligent, you will appreciate how far I am willing to go when I add that if, during the process of apprehension, your pistol should be discharged with fatal effect, the results to yourself will be much less unpleasant.”

  “What a guy!” murmured the American. “One hundred words!”

  “Under those circumstances you will not use your pistol unless and until you receive my permission.”

  “Sounds a bit tough to me. What about my throat-cutters?”

  “They, too, are considered to be lethal weapons,”

  “You’re telling me.” Shannon stretched and bumped a hole in the sand to take his hip. “I like freedom, and you sound too army-ish. What did we fight for? Search me, but the idea at the time was freedom. I’ve lots to think about when considering your proposition. There’s Pa, for one. He considers my girl one of the family. Igotta consider Pa’s principles and the family. I’m leaving the causes to you. You can do what you like with the causes behind the killing of my girl and her pal-assuming they were killed, which I am assuming. Them that killed my girl are mine to do to just what I like.”

  Bony stretched. A freedom for which his feet ached was freedom from boots, but boots are necessary adjuncts in the bush. He said with a bite in his voice:

  “What a guy. I ought to arrest you and conduct you to the lock-up at Dunkeld and charge you with being a walking arsenal. I have listened to your threats to disturb the peace and, too, interfere with a police officer in the execution of his duty. Candidly, I’d like you to work with me, but in accordance with my over-all instructions. Mine is the responsibility to the constituted authority.”

  Shannon said sleepily:

  “I’ll think it over, buddy. You’re a good guy, even though you are a cop. What’s your real name?”

  “You may call me Bony.”

  “Bony what?”

  “Just Bony.”

  “Bony it is. We’ll rub along O.K. Pleasure to work with a guy who sets a good example to the CanadianMounties.”

  Silence for thirty seconds, and then the low and regular snoring of an American “character”, the like of whom Bony had never met. The red embers of the fire stained the walls of Edward O’Brien’s vault with the colour of the blood which doubtless seeped from him. In the short passage between the chamber of death and that leading to the good clean air, Bony and his companion lay in darkness.

  Bony was exceedingly tired. His body ached. Again and again he almost fell asleep, only to flash back into keen wakefulness as the items of information given by Shannon marshalled themselves for re-examination.

  When the American stirred and ceased to snore the silence worried the wakeful man, the silence and that instinctive fear of the dead lying within a dozen feet of him. Once repose was beaten off by the thought that Shannon could have mastered him physically on several occasions, and then he came wide awake to find himself compelled to look at the picture of Shannon scooping with his hands and a stick in the sand.

  Because he could not see the stars, he could not see the time. The red walls and the roof of the rock chamber imperceptibly faded into the colour of a pall, leaving the darkness to press heavily on him. Twice he sat up and blindly rolled a cigarette, and with the flame of the matches assured himself that Shannon was still there. He decided the dawn must be at hand and was thinking of going out to see if his snares had trapped a rabbit, when he heard an exterior noise which froze his body.

  The silence crowded back upon him, and he raised himself to lean upon an elbow. Then he heard it again, the distant creaking of dray wheels. He reached for Shannon, and the American said:

  “Bit early to come for a load of firewood.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fear of the Dead

  SHANNON must have glanced at his wrist-watch, for he said:

  “Ten past four. Wonder what’s on the ice.”

  “Pack your kit,” Bony commanded. “We may have to move in a hurry.” The American uttered a “But-” and was faintly surprised by the brittleness of Bony’s voice, a note absent even when he was bailed up at pistol-point. “Don’t talk. Pack.”

  In the pitch blackness they worked on their gear to the accompaniment of the increasing noise of the dray. They heard the hotel licensee curse the horse.

  “Simpson!” Shannon said with soft sibilance.

  “Your quart-pot,” snapped Bony, pushing the utensil against him. “A few yards along the passage, on your right, there’s a space between the rocks. Take the swags and leave them there. Then go to the entrance and watch Simpson.”

  Shannon departed, dragging the swags with him, impressed by Bony’s abruptly assumed authority. Without light Bony entered the chamber on his hands and knees and made his way to the site of the now cold fire. Feeling for it with his hands and finding it, he scooped a hole in the sand, dragged into the hole the ashes and the semi-burned wood, then, covering the hole, threw handfuls of sand upon the site.

  The necessity for speed blunted the horror Shannon had created with words and, still on hands and knees, he worked smoothing out the tracks on the sandy floor and giving a final touch by flicking a towel over the surface. Having done all possible within the chamber and withdrawing from it legs first, he worked back along the short passage to its junction with the main passage, the floor of which was covered with granite chips. There he paused swiftly to survey mentally what he had done that nothing should be left undone to betray Shannon and himself.

  He joined the American, who was standing just inside the “front entrance”. Simpson had made a fire by the creek, and the light enabled them to see him bring from the creek a kerosene tin filled with water. The horse was still harnessed to the dray near-by. Tiny electrical impulses flashed up and down at the back of Bony’s neck as Simpson set the tin of water against the fire and then took from the dray an enamel basin, a towel, and a cake of soap.

  “Shall I start in on him?” whispered Shannon.

  “Certainly not. What did you do when you came out after filling in the grave?”

  “Washed my-” Breath hissed between the American’s teeth. “You reckon he’s come to transplant the body?”

  “It’s probable. Do nothing to stop him. If he comes this way I’ll go in ahead of him. You lie low-where you are. Look!”

  Simpson lifted from the dray a hurricane lamp and a shovel and came towards the mountain of rocks. The American melted into the void between two boulders, and Bony backed silently down the passage and waited at the first bend. He saw Simpson appear at the entrance, silhouetted by his fire, and there the licensee dropped the shovel and lit the lamp. He was wearing old and tattered slacks, a grey flannel under-vest, and a pair of old shoes. His hair was roughed and his cold grey eyes were small.

  The hand which had held the match to the lamp was shaking, and the lamp itself trembled in the other. He came two paces inside and then uttered an expletive and set the lamp down so violently it was almost extinguished. He went out again and Bony waited. On returning, he was carrying a partly filled sack.

  The sack, in addition to the shovel and the lamp, was quite a load to manoeuvre through the passage, and as the licensee progressed, Bony went backwards before him, never once moving a betraying stone until, arriving at the space where Shannon had placed the swags, he slewed into it and laid himself flat. Simpson passed him on his way to the chamber, and instantly Bony rose and stole after him, gambling on the man’s nervous tension preventing him from seeing the necessarily rough efforts to clean the sandy floor.

  It was a sure thing that the man would not spend time on anything save the main objective, and with all haste governed by natural caution, Bony reached the short passage to the chamber, edged his face round a corner of granite, and became one with the rock.

  The lamp was set on a low ledge, and the shovel was l
ying on the place where Bony had sat with his back against his swag. Against the creviced roof and the broken walls a monstrous shadow writhed like something on a gridiron over a Dante’s hell. From the sack Simpson was withdrawing a roll of light canvas, and this he spread upon the ground between the grave and the entrance. Also from the sack he drew a waterproof sheet, which he arranged on the canvas, and a quantity of heavy twine rolled round a short length of board.

  Bony had never before seen a man’s face so tortured. Simpson stood with his back to the site of Bony’s fire, his eyes wide and brilliant as they surveyed the preparations. He was not quite satisfied with the waterproof sheet upon the canvas, and his eyes moved rapidly to find something with which to overcome a difficulty. Then, when he lifted a heavy stone and dropped it upon one corner of the square of canvas and sheet, and another stone on the second corner nearer the scene of the intended operation, Bony knew the difficulty and the necessity to overcome it.

  One who appreciates music and can play it as Simpson could is the antithesis of theexhumator. His breathing was laboured, and as though he realised that this could not go on and had foreseen it, he managed to take from a pocket a flask of spirits, draw the cork with his teeth, and swallow the entire contents as one might swallow water.

  Then the work began.

  Without conscious volition Bony’s feet turned away from the horror. His body became as iron to the magnet of the pure night without, so that with his hands he was obliged, without being conscious of it, to grasp projections of the rocky corner that he might continue to watch. A thousand demons came to tug him away. The electrical impulses which had been playing up and down his neck became needles of ice lodged into the base of his skull. Instincts became sentient beings that warred about him and for him. The fear of the dead was like an octopus wrapping its tentacles about his brain, compressing it into a pin-head of matter in the centre of a vast and otherwise empty skull. And somewhere beyond the void a million voices sped to him along the aisles of Time, screaming to him to run.