Bony - 22 - Bony Buys a Woman

by Arthur W. Upfield

  If you cannot create a tree, plant a seed.

  As soundlessly as he had approached the camp, he departed from it, and he had almost gained the road when a singular noise halted him. It was followed by another he could not tab, and, crouching to the ground to gain a skyline, he saw two figures under a low tree bordering the track. A man and a woman were facing each other. They were holding hands and swaying backward and forward like children playing.

  Silhouetted against a dull screen, they were sharply etched nevertheless. The man freed the woman’s hands and then thrust his hands forward, palms upward like cups. The cups touched the woman’s breasts, and she lashed out and smacked the man’s face. The man laughed, though the blow must have been painful, and then he sprang forward and clasped the woman, whose face was tilted to take his kisses.

  Bony veered to the left, silently walked parallel with the track until he was sure his retreat was unobserved.

  “Well, well, and well, well!” he breathed. “Romantic Byron! Who listens once will listen twice; her heart be sure is not of ice, and one refusal no rebuff.”

  Chapter Eight

  Much Ado About a Bloodstain

  THE FOLLOWING morning when Meena waited at the break­fast table, she placed the food before Wootton and Bony efficiently and with no trace of either nervousness or servility. Her large dark eyes never once met those of the guest, how­ever, and yet there was no apparent avoidance, no revelation of consciousness of the visit to her camp. When she had departed for the kitchen Wootton asked:

  “What’s your programme today?”

  “Oh, I have to contact Pierce,” casually replied Bony. “First, though, I would like to talk with William Harte before he leaves for the day’s work. You won’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” Wootton brushed his moustache with his nap­kin. “As I said yesterday, anything any of us can do. Did you inquire about the missing dolls at the blacks’ camp last night?”

  It was a natural question, Bony having been absent from the homestead, and in view of the talk in the playhouse about the dolls.

  “Yes, I did,” he replied. “I talked to Canute and his Medicine Man. Put it to them straight about the dolls. They both said they knew nothing, and were sure no one of their people had stolen them.”

  “It must have been one of them, or one of us five white men,” argued Wootton. “No one else has been around the place since Harte last saw the dolls on the bench. As someone said yester­day, Yorky could have come back for them, but that would have been rather risky for him, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t the blacks have known?”

  “Likely enough to both questions.”

  “Then you think the blacks know where Yorky is hiding out?”

  “Yes and no to that one, Mr Wootton.” Bony smiled dis­armingly, adding, “You have not been long enough in this country to know that to hasten is to crawl, and to crawl is to hasten.”

  “But the child, Inspector.”

  “Her condition will not be bettered or worsened at this point. Permit me to ask the questions. Tell me, Mrs Bell was shot on February 7th. Late that night the policeman and the doctor arrived. When was the body taken to Loaders Springs?”

  “Next day. The doctor took it in his station wagon. She was buried at Loaders Springs.”

  “Did he leave before or after the aborigines came in the trucks sent for them?”

  “He left after lunch, and the trucks didn’t return till after sundown. Why all this?”

  “Now, now! I ask the questions. Charlie carved the dolls’ heads and tinted the faces. Who made the clothes?”

  The cattleman frowned, obviously uncertain.

  “Couldn’t rightly say. Mrs Bell, I think. Might have been Meena. Shall I call her?”

  “Please do.”

  Without rising, Wootton called, and the girl came, to stand placidly awaiting his orders.

  “Meena, who made the clothes for Mr Wootton, Mrs Bell, and Ole Fren Yorky?”

  “I did.”

  “All of them?”

  They could see that Meena was wriggling her toes in her red shoes, although to them her feet were not visible. She giggled, and the small white teeth momentarily pressed down on the lower lip. In that moment she was remarkably attractive. She said:

  “I didn’t make Mr Wootton’s trousers, or Ole Fren Yorky’s. The ones I made, Linda didn’t like because she couldn’t take ’em off. So Mrs Bell made new ones that Linda could take off and put on.”

  “And what happened to the trousers you made?” asked Bony.

  “I don’t know what Linda did with them.”

  “Who stuffed the dolls’ bodies?”

  “Mrs Bell tried hard.” Again Meena giggled—a delightful sound. “I did first. Then Linda tried. Then Mrs Bell had a go. Arnold did it in the end with sawdust in the carpenter’s shop.”

  “And Charlie carved the heads, painted them, and put the hair and whiskers on the men?”

  Meena’s eyes rested steadily on Bony, who could then see the grey flecks in the dark irises. She nodded, and Bony but­tered a piece of toast.

  “Did he carve them when supposed to be working for Mr Wootton?”

  “No. No time for anything when station work going on. He did them any old time.”

  “How much was he paid for them?”

  This question brought a change of expression. Indignation gleamed in the dark eyes, shadowed the voice.

  “Nothing at all. Charlie work for nothing … for Meena.”

  “Did them for nothing!” echoed Bony, and now the honey skin darkened, and once again came the joyous giggle.

  “Well, I paid Charlie,” she said. “I give him one kiss for Mr Wootton, one for Mrs Bell, and one for Ole Fren Yorky. Not till he done them and give them to Linda.”

  “Oh! And how many kisses did you pay for Meena?”

  “Why you want to know? But I’ll tell. I’m not scared. I let him kiss me twice for Meena, ’cos he worked double as hard on her.”

  “When are you going to marry that feller?” asked Wootton and Bony was surprised by the firmness in his voice.

  “I belong to old Canute,” replied Meena, swift rebellion in her eyes and voice.

  “Rubbish! Young woman like you unclaimed because of that stupid old custom.”

  It was a pity that Wootton said that, because it banished the girl’s natural frankness, and reverted her to the normal evasiveness of the aborigines, whose greatest weapon, as with all, is laughter. To further questions, Meena answered with giggles which were not the genuine reflection of her mood, and presently Wootton dismissed her.

  “Can’t make her out,” he complained to Bony. “Good look­ing wench like that. Any white man could have done worse than marry her. I’d marry her myself if I’d half the chance.”

  “You are not married?”

  “Was. Been a widower for fourteen years. Joking, of course. Those Indian Summers I read about once don’t work out. Be­sides …”

  “Go on,” urged Bony, laughing. “An Indian Summer could be an improvement on Hoary Winter.”

  “Not for me. I know what the heat’s like. I lived in hell for twenty-two years. I know all about temperatures. Well, I’d better go along and give the men their orders. I’ll tell Bill to wait about for you.”

  Wootton left by one of the two pairs of french windows, and Bony dallied on at table, sipping coffee and smoking.

  He wasn’t happy about Wootton. He was an odd man out in this setting of Lake Eyre. He was like a newly cut diamond in an old-fashioned gold ring, and what was that saying about new wine in old bottles … exploding? Five years he had been in this country, and he wasn’t assimilated by it as fully as some immigrants in much less time. It could be a streak of pom­posity. He would dig into the background.

  There was the question of Mrs Bell’s body. Rising, he crossed to the chair under the wall telephone and called for Constable Pierce.

  “You, Inspector!” Pierce said from Loaders Springs. “Yes, sir, what can I do? Run out th
ere to report?”

  “Perhaps. I have the copies of your reports and the state­ments, and I am edging myself into the picture. I am speaking softly in order not to be overheard. You hear me all right?”

  “Quite clear, sir.”

  “You have still in your possession the plaster casts you took of Yorky’s tracks?”

  “Yes, a copy. The originals, and the bullet from the body, I sent down to Adelaide.”

  “When first you saw the body it was in the woman’s room?”

  “Yes, on the bed.”

  “Did you touch the body? Then or subsequently?”

  “No. Dr Crouch was with me.”

  “Could you fetch Dr Crouch to your phone?”

  “Expect so. Shall I send for him?”

  “Yes, do. I’ll hold the line. See that I’m not cut off.”

  Bony was waiting when Meena came in with her clearing tray, and Bony waved her out. He left the instrument for the few seconds necessary to cross to the door and close it, and smiled at the picture of Meena’s face. He hadn’t long to wait before a deep voice spoke.

  “Dr Crouch speaking, Inspector.”

  “Ah! Good morning, doctor! I won’t keep you long. Recall to mind, please, what happened on your arrival here. You found the body of Mrs Bell in her room. Who was with you?”

  “Pierce and Wootton.”

  “Finding the woman obviously dead, you turned the body over to examine the wound, I presume. Who was then with you in the room?”

  “I told Pierce the woman was dead. Wootton looked ill. I asked Pierce to take Wootton away. He did so. No one was with me when I examined the body. You make me curious.”

  “I’ll satisfy your curiosity one day, doctor. Meanwhile, be patient with me. You found the body lying on its back under a sheet?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you leave the body at the termination of the examination? I mean position.”

  “On its back … under the sheet as I found it.”

  “Later that day it was removed to your station wagon. Who conveyed the body to the car?”

  “I don’t know, Inspector. I gave orders for it to be trans­ferred from the house to the car.”

  “Tell me this. To examine the bullet wound in the woman’s back you had to cut away the clothing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me just what you did do.”

  A little impatiently, Crouch described how he had with scissors cut the white linen blouse from the back of the neck to the band of the skirt. The wound was such that it wasn’t necessary at that time to examine the body further for second­ary wounds, as the wound between the shoulders was obviously fatal. And Dr Crouch was now even more curious. Suavely, Bony asked him to stand by to permit Pierce access to the telephone. To Pierce he said:

  “When you first saw the body, Wootton was with you. What exactly did you do? Don’t tell me what the doctor did. I know.”

  “Well, I entered the room, having been informed by Bray that Mrs Bell’s body was there. The doctor was with me, and so was Mr Wootton. I turned down the sheet to establish the fact that the body was actually there on the bed. Mr Wootton gave a sort of moan, and Dr Crouch told me to take him out. Which I did.”

  “The body was lying … in what position?”

  “On its back, Inspector.”

  “No other person entered the room while the doctor was there?”

  “No; Wootton sat on a chair in the hall, and I was with him.”

  “Now we come to the removal of the body to the doctor’s car. Who supervised that task?”

  “I did. I had Arnold Bray and Eric Maundy with me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well the body was under the sheet again,” Pierce said with slight stoicism. “I tucked the top sheet about the body, and turned up the edges of the under sheet about the body, and the men carried it out.”

  “No one of you three men saw the body?”

  “No. It was as I said. No one looks at a body unless he has to.”

  “That’ll be all for the moment, Pierce. Come out today. Better make it for lunch. I’ll tell Wootton you’ll be here.”

  “I’ll be there, sir.”

  “Good! And bring those plaster casts.”

  Bony left by the window, and, crossing the square, found William Harte on the narrow veranda of the quarters. Harte was attaching a new silk cracker to his stock-whip, and his bright eyes gleamed with shrewd expectancy at Bony’s ap­proach. Having seen Arnold in the open motor shed, and the other two stockmen riding from the yards, Bony knew that he had Harte to himself, and, nodding the day’s greeting, he leaned against the veranda rail, and fell to rolling the inevit­able cigarette.

  “How long have you been in this Lake Eyre country?” was his opening.

  “All me life. Was born away over on Clifton Hills.”

  “You must know it well,” conceded Bony. “Is there any shadow of doubt in your mind that those tracks behind the meat-house were made by Yorky?”

  The bright eyes became mere dark spots in the leather face.

  “If them tracks were imitations, then they were ruddy good, Inspector. You’re raisin’ the doubts, not me. I don’t think …”

  “Supposing I told you that those tracks hadn’t been left by Yorky, would you gamble your way?”

  Harte took time before replying:

  “No, I don’t think I would, Inspector. Not now.”

  “Even though Wootton saw Yorky at the blacks’ camp that morning? Knew he was to head this way?”

  The slow grin twitching the corners of the man’s mouth supported the shrewdness Bony had already attributed to him.

  “I’d say Yorky made ’em, but I wouldn’t do no betting on it. There wasn’t enough of those particular tracks to make me bet my shirt they was made by Yorky.”

  “We’ll leave it, Bill. Another matter. You saw Mrs Bell’s body lying on the ground near the house. Can you recall the size and shape of the bloodstain on her blouse?”

  “Too right. I won’t forget that ever. The crows had made a mess of her neck and shoulders, but the blouse wasn’t torn.”

  Dark brown eyes and deep blue eyes held steady for a long moment.

  “Between ourselves,” Bony asked, slowly.

  “It’s your hand,” agreed Harte.

  “Draw me a picture of that bloodstain.”

  Harte crouched to the earth floor of the veranda and with the point of his clasp knife granted the request.

  Chapter Nine

  To Run Is To Crawl

  CONSTABLE PIERCE came, lunched with Wootton and Bony, teased Meena and complimented Sarah, and after two hours in conference with Bony, departed for Loaders Springs. The journey homeward seemed to him of short duration, so much was his mind occupied by impressions which confounded all preconceptions of the man he had met.

  Bony was waiting in the shade of the ridge pine trees for the men to come in from the duties assigned to them that morning. He could see them, stringing down the background slopes, riding tired and thirsty horses, and he watched them free their mounts to drink or take a sand-bath. In addition to the four white men there were now four aborigines. There was no fraternizing, the aborigines taking buckets to the reservoir tanks and washing in readiness for dinner.

  Pierce had left food for thought as well as the plaster casts duplicating those he had sent down to Adelaide. Bony had gathered much to add to the policeman’s tersely written re­ports, especially material assisting him to fill in mere sketches of people and places.

  Now Ole Fren Yorky stood clear to Bony, who had never seen him. Pierce had revealed the man in a light less shadowed than he had been in a report of a murder suspect, for the policeman living in a small community is able to be far less isolated than when he lives in a large community. The few are neighbours; the many animated units.

  Pierce had been stationed at Loaders Springs for eleven years. He was able to say that Yorky was well behaved when in town, and this opinion was not af
fected by Yorky’s weaknesses, one being that although he had a room at the hotel, he could be found sleeping on the bench outside, and on two occasions in winter had been discovered sleeping in a station cell.

  Bony was informed of matters he would not without neces­sity enter into a report. He said that the previous owners of Mount Eden were confident that Meena, Sarah’s daughter, was begotten by Yorky. He said, too, that long before he came to Loaders Springs, Yorky had been a participant in several brawls, and he drew the picture of a man who, although of small physique, had been dynamite in his prime. People are so apt to see a man as he is, and forget what he was.

  It is obvious that a man in Pierce’s situation would have opinions and theories which he could not reveal to a superior unless asked to do so. And Bony had seldom found co-oper­ation withheld by such as Constable Pierce, who found pleasure in giving it.

  “There’s men who tease Yorky about his height,” Pierce had said. “Tales told about him like this one. Yorky carried a swag bigger than himself, and once when he was walking to Loaders with a swag up, he passed right through the place because he couldn’t see it for the swag! There’s another story of him being in a crowded bar all evening, and towards closing time a feller said to him: ‘Hullo, Yorky! Haven’t seen you in years!’ and Yorky said he’d been standing before him for the last two hours.

  “So what have we? A wisp of a man who once could fight his way out from under a heap of he-men, and had become old and conscious of his loss of physical strength. A little man always resentful of chipping about his size. Of late years he had to bottle up what at one time had been released with fists and boots. Gradually he turned more to the aborigines and farther from the whites. He could have resented something Wootton said quite innocently, or something said by the men, even something said or not done by Mrs Bell. They’re all agin’ him. So he decided to steal something loved by everyone … young Linda. And when Mrs Bell stepped into it, he killed her.”

  “Tell me about the men. Anything against them?” Bony had asked, and Pierce had replied: