Bony - 19 - Cake in a Hat Box

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Wise man,” Bony smiled.

  “Reckon everyone oughta have their will made. I’ve a bit saved up, and when I kick off I might have a tidy bit of cake in the kip or I may be broke. D’you know who I made me heir?”

  “No. Who?”

  ’Un twirled the points of his white moustache. Slowly a smile stole into his faded grey eyes and removed the emphasis of his long and pointed chin.

  “I leave all I possess … that’s after the bloody Gov’ment takes its whack … to old Pluto. He’s the chief of them wild blacks on the Musgrave Range. Put me and Paddy the Bastard on to a bit o’ gold once, and I haven’t forgotten. Fun’s going to be when my solicitor starts wanting to pay out to Pluto, or his heirs and assigns. Pluto and his crowd’s so wild that he won’t be able to get within a million miles of ’em. People reckon I’m the only white man alive, now Stenhouse’s dead, who’s ever seen Pluto … and ever likely to. Think when a bloke’s dead he can see what’s going on down here?”

  “Some authorities say yes and others say no,” stalled Bony.

  “Well, I hope I can watch the antics of that solicitor tearing all over the country trying to catch up with Pluto and hand him my cake. I told him that Pluto owned the pub here and that the beer is always good. Hi! That’s the dinner bell.”

  Bony was still laughing at ’Un’s pictures when he joined Irwin and Clifford at the table reserved for them. Irwin’s reaction was a guffaw of laughter. Clifford was more re­strained.

  “Can’t recall where I last heard the word ‘cake’ applied to money,” Bony said.

  “Not used nearly as much as it used to be,” Irwin told him. “Cake! That word, and when I see cake, will always remind me of Kim Breen taking her cake from that hat box. Gosh! What a place to keep it!”

  “And locked up, too.”

  “Have to lock it up, sir. Those lubras would go around on hands and knees licking cake crumbs off the floor.”

  “It was certainly delicious. By the way, do you see the post office inspector here?”

  Irwin indicated a lean man at an adjacent table. He was as weather-pickled as the constables, differing only from these northern men in the clothes he was wearing.

  “The name’s Linton,” murmured Irwin. “Fred Linton. Good bloke. Done more travelling around than I’ll do if I live to be a hundred.”

  “Do you know him … personally?”

  “Oh, yes. I know all these Government people. The bloke next to him is the chief telegraph linesman between here and Wyndham. How many telegraph posts d’you reckon there are? He says he’s climbed every one of them. There’s 4,262, plus ten sixty-five-feet-high towers.”

  “Must have had a lot of splinters in his hands.”

  “All iron posts.”

  “I’d be obliged if you would introduce me to Mr Linton,” Bony said, casually. “I see Doctor Morley dining with a lady. What do you know about him, Irwin?”

  “Fair amount, I think. Came here long before I was born. Practised here for years, but he couldn’t have earned enough to keep himself in grog. People too healthy. Never get sick until they’re ready to drop dead.”

  “Private income?”

  The Senior Constable chuckled.

  “Must have. Hell of a good doctor, though. Done some astonishing things with accidents … amputated legs and arms all on his own, and no one died that I heard.”

  “Popular?”

  “Quickest way to get to a hospital is to say, ‘To hell with Doc Morley.’ ”

  The waitress removed plates and served jam roly-poly.

  “I wonder …” murmured Bony, and said no more until he was drinking his coffee. “Would Doctor Morley be so obliging as to extract bullets and stitch up knife wounds without asking inconvenient questions, d’you think?”

  Irwin grinned.

  “Been known to.”

  “H’m! Well, that dinner was a credit to the gentleman who is apt to smoke while he cooks.”

  Rising together they left the dining-room for the front veranda, and there Bony was introduced to the postal depart­ment inspector.

  “Glad to meet you,” Linton said as though he meant it, and examined Bony with eyes accustomed to probing. Irwin ex­plained that Linton’s district covered the entire north of the State.

  “Easy compared with what it used to be,” admitted Linton, “ ’ad to travel on horseback. Then motor transport. Now it’s air. Just as well. I’m not getting younger.”

  “Been up here long?”

  “Forty years, almost.”

  “Country appears to have claimed you.”

  “It has and it hasn’t,” qualified the postal department in­spector. “Family’s grown up, and my home is down south. Young generation won’t leave the city. Must have the bright lights … the films and dances. I couldn’t stay put, not after all these years.”

  “No, it’s good to roam. Couldn’t imagine Irwin in a cage, could you?” The Senior Constable chuckled. “By the way, do you happen to know a place called Peppermint Grove?”

  “Between Perth and Fremantle. Yes, I know it.”

  Bony beamed.

  “D’you know people there named Solly … bookseller?”

  “Yes, there’s two Sollys, as a matter of fact. Brothers. One has the bookshop and the other’s a jeweller.”

  Again Bony beamed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Official Inquiries

  ON ENTERING the police station, Bony found Constable Clifford making himself au fait with the manifold duties of the officer in charge of a truly enormous district. This transfer from headquarters was a step towards promotion, and Clifford was ambitious.

  “I want you to lie doggo this evening,” Bony told him, gravely. “You’re a blot on the landscape, a brake on the wheels of progress. The people are nervous of you, not knowing how you will tick in the place vacated by Stenhouse.”

  Clifford stood, stiffly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The people are so nervous that they won’t open up,” Bony proceeded. “Should Irwin and I start anything, such as luring the entire population of this glass halo into an uproarious bender, kindly oblige by hearing nothing, saying nothing, doing nothing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If by eleven-thirty neither Irwin nor I make an appearance, then conduct a search for us. We may be sleeping on the road, or down in the creek. Put us to bed in Room Nine … not in the cell in the back yard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then Bony smiled, and Clifford relaxed. They both laughed, and sat down facing each other across the littered table.

  “I’m about one per cent serious, Clifford. These people are friendly enough, but they won’t talk to us as they do among themselves. In that they are not singular. The crowd in the pub at night when there’s no policeman on hand is a different crowd. Irwin, coming from Wyndham, and I, being a stranger, might be able to make the crowd forget we are policemen … on duty. We have to burrow below surfaces. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “Good! I shall not omit to mention you in my report when I finalize this Stenhouse case. Would you grant me a favour?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “My Chief Commissioner and my Superintendent, my wife and sons, all call me Bony. All my friends call me Bony. Might I include you among them?”

  Clifford flushed with pleasure.

  “Why, yes, of course.”

  “Now don’t forget. Look for us at eleven-thirty. Beds in Room Nine.”

  Bony chuckled and left. He met Irwin crossing from the hotel.

  “Listen, Irwin. We must loosen up this crowd and make them give. We’ll probably have to spend the gas money and miss out on the rent for a week or two, because it will require money to get men to talk on tiny beers served in whisky glasses at a shilling apiece. I want you to concentrate on Linton, and dig out all he knows about the postmaster, officially and privately, and if you get a line from the postmaster to Stenhouse, follow it up. I’ll con
centrate on ’Un and Bundred.”

  Irwin was delighted. “The new boss?” he suggested.

  “I requested him to remain inside the police station and see nothing, hear nothing and know nothing. Clifford will rise high.” Bony touched the centre button of Irwin’s drill tunic. “Aspire to be a Divisional Officer, but never consent to be one. The position is much too cramping.”

  “I’ll be satisfied to be a DI,” laughed Irwin.

  Bony sought out ’Un, finding him on the drinking side of the counter.

  “Do a favour,” he said, softly. “The new policeman has a load of work facing him, and will be busy all evening. Con­stable Irwin and I want to keep him quiet. Could you take over to Constable Clifford a bottle of Scotch?”

  “Too right,” assented ’Un. “Will one bottle be enough to rock him to sleep?”

  “Ought to. I don’t think he’s a drinking man,” Bony said, calmly.

  ’Un slid under the drop-flap and spoke to Ramsay, who was still on deck, owing likely enough to the presence of his wife, who was assisting him. Ted Ramsay nodded, and ’Un gathered the Scotch and disappeared through the house entrance. The single oil-lamp suspended from the blackened match-boarded ceiling shed its yellow light upon eight of nine men in the bar proper, and three who were drinking at the narrow side-counter serving the parlour. One of these was the postal in­spector.

  “Hallo, Mr Bonaparte! Have one with me?”

  Turning, Bony looked upon the countenance of Dave Bundred.

  “Thanks. Beer, please.”

  Bundred caught the eye of Mrs Ramsay, and she came for­ward, smiled at Bony, ignored the postmaster and poured the drinks. Having given the customary salutation, Bony asked his fellow toper how his day had gone.

  “Not so bad,” said Bundred, swallowing his rum. “Depart­ment Inspector on the job. Usual routine check. Be here two days.”

  “Get along all right?”

  “Oh yes. Linton isn’t a bad sort. Done me a good turn more’n once. Doesn’t nose around the office. What kind of a trip did you have?”

  Bony lifted the corners of his mouth.

  “Not too good,” he admitted ruefully. “Seems that Sten­house was supposed to be down south, and we’re unable to find out why he was dead up north of Agar’s. I called on Mr and Mrs Wallace and gave them the mail. Very nice people. Same again?”

  “Yes, I’ll be in it. I like old Wallace. Son’s a bit surly. Bitter, that’s what Jack Wallace is. Sister, you know, married Stenhouse.”

  “So I understand. Gave her a bad time, I hear.”

  “Hell. Funny, isn’t it, how one side will give the other plain hell. My missus gives me hell. Stenhouse never had cause to bash his wife. I have cause to bash mine … but I don’t. Could never understand what came over him. Happy enough when they married. D’you know what? Marriage is the greatest curse that ever hit the human race. Yes, please, Ted. Fill ’em up. As I was saying, marriage is death and damnation. If two parties can’t get along, why can’t they say so to a Justice of the Peace and get a clearance? Too much interference with liberty, Inspector, that’s what. No divorce, yells the parson. Mainten­ance, howls the State … or else.” Dave revived. “To hell with the lot of ’em. Cheers, Inspector!”

  Bony saw Irwin talking with the postal inspector in the lounge. ’Un reappeared and joined Bony in response to his nod. Bony called for drinks. It would require a bucket of beer to produce a squint, at the nobbier rate. ’Un decided to hasten the squint by the addition of a dash of gin in the beer. A week’s rent had already passed across the counter.

  “Talkin’ about Stenhouse,” remarked Bundred, blinking his red-rimmed eyes. “ ’Member when he was married?”

  “Too right!” answered ’Un, regarding the postmaster reminiscently. “You was best man, Dave, and at the end of the shivoo you was that drunk we parked you in the back of Sten­house’s car, and they didn’t wake up to you being there until they was ten miles on the road to Darwin, where they was gonna spend the honeymoon.”

  “Yes, and what did Stenhouse do?” Dave said, a hint of a snarl in his reedy voice. “Dumped me outer the car and left me to walk back. The bride didn’t want that. Said they oughta bring me back in the car, but Stenhouse he laughed and said, ‘A dog always finds its way home!’ That showed in Sten­house what came out later. I never could understand why someone didn’t shoot him years ago.”

  “Wouldn’t have done you no good,” said ’Un. “Anyhow, you got on all right with Stenhouse, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, after a fashion. Had to get along, what with me being the postmaster, and weather reporter, an’ Justice of the Peace and all. Still, Stenhouse was a lousy type. I, for one, Inspector, hope you don’t get the bloke what shot him.”

  “Any chance?” asked the yardman, hopefully.

  “Pretty slim, I think,” replied Bony, and pushed the empty glasses towards Mrs Ramsay. “No important clues yet. Might take a trip out to see Alverston, and call on the Breens on the way back.”

  “There’s a turn-off at McDonald’s Stand. Not much of a track.” ’Un raised his glass, and Dave Bundred laughed at nothing and took his up from the counter.

  “Could take Alverston’s mail, if you like,” Bony suggested.

  “You could. The Breens’, too, if you intend coming back that way,” assented the postmaster.

  “How do we arrange it if I leave early in the morning?” Bony said. “You won’t be up early.”

  “Depends on what you call early. Get it from the wife. No, that won’t do. Get it after chuck-out time. I’ll give it out, and you can keep it in your room.” Bundred winked. “Look after it, though, won’t you? Registered stuff for the Breens.”

  “That’ll be all right. Looks like my turn. Thank you, Mrs Ramsay.”

  The little bar was filling. Now and then Irwin’s laughter dominated the raised voices. Bony caught a glimpse of the postal inspector, who was loosening up. A man started to sing, and was sternly told by several men to ‘shut up’. Bony felt eyes directed to him, and recalled investigations when he had worked in the greater freedom of incognito.

  For no reason, Bundred drifted away, and ’Un said:

  “Decent sort of bloke, old Dave. Hangs on to his job. Even seen him so blind drunk he couldn’t read a telegram but could telegraph it without a mistake when I read it out to him.”

  “And yet he was Stenhouse’s best man,” Bony remarked when apparently interested in his empty glass.

  “Yes, that was seven years ago … might be eight almost. The Flying Padre came down from Wyndham. Slap-up do it was. Nice little bride, too. Pretty as a picture.” The yardman sighed, and twirled the points of his moustache and straight­ened himself. “Dave and Stenhouse were fair cobbers then, even if Stenhouse did make him walk ten miles.”

  “Same again?”

  “You bet. Thanks.”

  “By the way,” Bony said, “how do you people get along for cash up here? No bank, is there?”

  “Only at the post office. You short of cash? Ramsay’ll cash your cheque. So will the storekeeper and the butcher. Nothing but cheques most of the time up here. A bloke comes in, cashes a small one with Ramsay, drinks her up, writes another. Quite easy.”

  “I’ll see Ramsay in the morning. What’s your opinion of Jack Wallace?”

  “Not much,” replied ’Un. “Too gruff. Stenhouse punching his sister about didn’t make him that way. He was always like it. Had a go at Stenhouse, you know. Day of the funeral. Baled him up at the graveside with a revolver, but Silas Breen took it off him. Stenhouse was going to charge him, but Ezra quietened him down. Told Stenhouse that if he charged Jack Wallace he’d smash him. Stenhouse was a big fellow.” ’Un laughed. “Ezra Breen would have pounded him to pulp with one hand. You seen Ezra?”

  Bony shook his head. ’Un called for more drinks. He was now drinking gin, neat. The tip of his nose was scarlet. His washed-out grey eyes tended to concentrate on the nose-tip. The squint was coming, but he could still speak
clearly.

  “Ezra Breen went to school with Jack Wallace. Jack couldn’t fight, but Ezra could fight for both. Still good pals. There’s a whisper or two that young Wallace is chasin’ Kimberley. You see Kim Breen?”

  Bony nodded.

  “Beautiful woman, sir,” said ’Un. Turning to the bar, he kicked it, spat on the floor and yelled for more drinks. “Come on, Ted. Think ’cos a bloke’s old and grey and done for he should perish of thirst?”

  Across the bar, Irwin stood at the narrow counter to the lounge, an array of glasses ready to be filled. He winked at Bony, swung about to laugh at Linton and others behind him. The postmaster returned and ’Un yelled for a drink for him … rum. For Dave the squint had arrived. Someone began to sing, and this time no one tried to stop it. Others joined in, and the roof shivered and still no one objected. Over in the police station, Constable Clifford poured himself a conserva­tive measure.

  “The Breens should be here,” Bony said, his voice raised to master the din. “They could buy the pub again.”

  ’Un laughed. The postmaster tripped or something and held to Bony for support.

  “More cake’n the King,” he shouted. “Tons of it. Cattle … that’s what it is. Cattle or sumpin. Cat … Cattle! Cattle! You ask ’Un.”

  “Now then, gents! What’s it this time?” asked ’Un from beyond the counter. One minute before, Ramsay had been on his feet, serving drinks, talking. Now he was lying under the lounge counter, and laid out with his hands folded. His wife was setting up the drinks for Irwin and his pals, and she paused a moment to back-chat, her left foot on her husband’s face. There was now no brake on the wheels of progress of which Bony had complained to Clifford.

  The postmaster was becoming most affectionate, the squint pronounced. About their feet the floor was wet with the beer Bony had surreptitiously spilled from his glass. Men lurched against them, and Bundred profusely apologized.