A farmer often lives all his life on his little farm; the city-dweller all his life in one suburb. Beyond the suburb and the farm the world is a myth. With the majority of bushmen, however, the restless nomadic habits of the blacks they have displaced have eaten into their vitals. Even the semi-civilized blacks must go on a walkabout when the call is heard; and it is the same call which urges a bushman suddenly to leave his job, break for the nearest hotel to spend his cheque, and then take his walkabout before settling again for a little while in a new job.
The walkabouts cover in many cases hundreds of miles, and in a few years make the man familiar with all the States. His mind is broadened by travel and fresh human intercourse. His philosophy is one of simple happiness. The amount of his reading is prodigious, the range of it is wide.
Such, then, is the material that goes to make an inland policeman. The class and the police-court mould the recruit’s speech as the riding-master weans him from his easy seat on a horse to military stiffness. The force finishes his education, so well begun by the walkabouts.
Thornton and the sergeant were standing beside the latter’s car after tea. The sergeant was in plain clothes, but there was no mistaking the soldier-policeman in his upright figure and keen face.
“What do you think of Bony?” he asked, with a smile.
“I think him the most extraordinary man I have ever met,” Thornton replied. “He knows as much about the Emperor Napoleon as he does about boomerangs and playing on a gum leaf.”
The sergeant chuckled.
“He asked me once who I considered the greatest man who ever lived, and when I named Jesus Christ he said solemnly: ‘Jesus is the Son of God; but the first Emperor Napoleon was the God of the French nation’.”
“I fully believe it,” the squatter said thoughtfully. “He was giving me a lecture on boomerangs the morning after he came here and, my wife happening to join us, I introduced him to her, wholly, I think, on account of his name. She, too, is a great admirer of the Little Corporal. Yes, he’s an astonishing person.”
“I had a letter two days ago from a brother-in-law who is an inspector at Charleville, Queensland,” said the sergeant. “He said he had heard that Bony was being sent here on this case, and gave me rather a good history of him.
“For many years he was a black tracker in the far west of that State, but before that he earned the degree of an A. at Brisbane University. Do you remember the case of the kidnapping of the Governor’s daughter whilst the vice-regal party were touring North-West Queensland?”
“I do.”
“It was Bony who got the child back from the outlaw gang, and Bony who led the police almost across the Northern Territory to West Australia after the gang, which they caught. They offered Bony membership in the police force, and Bony told them he was not a policeman but a detective. Somehow, he thinks the two quite different. The Governor saw him about it, and Bony said that his gifts and his education entitled him, at the lowest, to the position of detective-sergeant. They gave it him.
“Today he ranks as detective-inspector and, as I told you in my letter, is the very finest bush detective in the Commonwealth. He’s married to a half-caste, and has three children. They, and his wife, live on a ten-acre block of dense tea-tree scrub not far out of Brisbane, and once every year the whole family roll up their swags and accompany Bony on his annual walkabout.” The sergeant lit his pipe and climbed into the driving-seat, and then added: “Yes, they think a lot of Bony in Queensland. My brother-in-law told me he’s never failed in a case.”
“He must be a good man.”
“By all accounts he is. You see, he’s a specialist in bush-craft and in the black fellow’s psychology, neither of which a white man will ever be expert at. Well, goodbye! You might have Bony with you some time, but he’ll surely win.”
The sergeant drove away on the down track, and the squatter sauntered into his office. There he rang up Thurlow Lake, and asked for Ralph.
“Well, how is it, Ralph?” he asked, when the young man spoke.
“Good as gold now, Dad.”
“I am glad of that. Has Dug arrived? I sent him this morning with a load of rations on the truck.”
“No, he is not here yet. What time did he leave?”
“About nine. It’s three now, so he should be about due. Look here, Ralph!” The squatter’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Can you walk easily now?”
“Yes, oh, yes!” murmured the young man.
“Well, you had better come in tomorrow with Dug. Your mother is getting anxious about you. Mind, not a word about that fool ride of yours.”
“All right, Dad, I’ll remember.”
“Good lad! Bye-bye!”
The squatter rang off and turned to signing cheques made out by the bookkeeper. After that he put on his felt and walked down to the shearing-shed, more to fill in time than for any purpose.
The next morning, early, Black, the jackeroo, drove him and Kate to Wilcannia, where, his turn due, he occupied the Bench and gave judgement in a few “d. and d.” cases and a matter of infringement of one of the countless motor laws.
In consequence, the Little Lady was sitting alone that afternoon on the wide veranda, waiting to give Ralph afternoon tea. She had heard the arrival of the big two-ton truck, followed by the voice of her beloved boy whilst on his way to the bathroom. Now, with eager expectation on her kindly face, and carrying the scent of garden flowers wherever she went, she made one of her sudden resolutions.
And then all at once the light went out, for two strong hands slipped round her head and covered her eyes. A face was pressed to her greying hair, and from its depths a low, harsh voice demanded:
“Guess, Madam, who I am.”
“Ralph!” was her instant reply.
Over her left shoulder appeared the young man’s face, his eyes dancing, his white teeth revealed by a light smile. Quickly turning, her hands went up to his head, and they kissed.
“Mother mine!” he murmured, embracing her. Then he snatched a chair close to her and, searching her face with his eyes, added:
“You are not looking so well as I would like you to look, Little Lady. I must tell Dad about it, and get him to take you to Sydney for a holiday before the lamb-marking.”
“It’s your imagination, dear. I feel quite well,” she assured him.
“A nice restful holiday with the sea-breeze blowing in your face will bring the roses back, anyway.”
“Silly! I’m too old to have roses in my cheeks.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Martha with the tea-things. When Mrs Thornton saw her huge bare feet, she sighed audibly. It was Martha who spoke first, hurriedly, as though quite prepared with a very excellent defence.
“Missy,” she rolled out, “that there Bony he go plant-it my boots. I bin give him cup of tea, and now him gone.”
“You get on his tracks, Martha, straight away,” laughed Ralph. “Take a waddy with you and wallop him.”
“Mine tinkit I knock off his plurry head,” Martha replied ferociously, and thundered away—to find her best elastic-sided brown boots on a kitchen-chair. How was she to know that Bony wanted one of them for a particular purpose?
“This Bony appears to be somewhat of a character, Mother,” remarked Ralph over his tea.
“He’s quite a character,” she said. “Kate and I saw your father talking to him near the boats he is repainting, and, like women, as we wanted to know what they were talking about for such a long time . . .” She told the lad the half-caste’s explanation of his name, ending by saying softly: “Bony and I found that we had a bond of sympathy.”
“Oh! In what way?”
“We both adore the Emperor Napoleon, Ralph. In fact, our first interview ended almost theatrically.”
“Explain, please.”
She told him, and Ralph’s interest in Bony was excited.
“I must make his acquaintance,” he announced. “Although I have read Mr Abbott’s history,
I cannot agree that the Emperor was quite the demi-god that historians would have us believe. Still, he was a great man, in that he always played the game when his opponents did not.”
“Which was where he made his greatest mistake,” she said swiftly. “Anyway, Ralph, let us put aside the Emperor for a little while and discuss something else—ourselves, for instance.”
“The subject will be equally interesting. How shall we start?”
“I have been thinking a very great deal about you, Ralph, since you came home from school,” she said, her eyes fixed on his. “I am glad, so glad, that you are learning so well and quickly to take up your burden. Sometimes I think I shall not be much longer with you, and when my call does come I should like to know that your position in the world was assured and that you were settled.”
He would have spoken, but she went on hurriedly.
“No, no, dear. Don’t be alarmed. I am not going to die for a long time yet. Your father and I have decided to go down to the sea directly the shearing is over, and I shall come back a new woman. We’ll talk about you, and the plans I have made for you. You don’t mind my making plans for you, do you? All mothers do.”
“Of course not,” he said gently, uneasiness about her health in his eyes, and shocked by the first hint of mortality in his young life.
“You know, dear, that when your father and I are taken, you inherit Barrakee and all your father’s wealth, after sufficient has been deducted to provide Kate an annuity. But, when you become the Squatter of Barrakee, you will need a good wife. A good wife means so much to a bushman. Ralph, don’t tell me unless you wish, but have you thought about Kate?”
“As a wife?” Ralph asked, with not a little surprise.
“Yes, as a wife. Do you love her, Ralph?”
“I do. I am very fond of Kate,” he said warmly. “Why she is the prettiest girl in the world, and the sweetest; but I’ve never thought of her as a sweetheart. Honestly, it always seemed to me that we are brother and sister.”
“No doubt; but you are only cousins,” Mrs Thornton said softly. Then, reaching forward, she took both his hands in hers. “Never forget, Ralph, that I think only of your happiness. Had I not been so sure of Kate, I would never have mentioned her in this way. Whatever you do, never marry except for love. There is plenty of time for you, but Kate is a beautiful girl, and every man makes himself agreeable to her, courts her, and could easily fall in love with her. I would hate for you to suddenly discover that you loved her when it was too late. Think about it, will you?”
“Certainly I will.” He laughed gently. “It would not, I think, be difficult to love Kate sufficiently to make me want to marry her. As a matter of fact, I never thought about it, but, now you have made me think about it, there’s no knowing what may happen.”
For several moments she looked into his dark, handsome eyes, searchingly, longingly, a great affection in hers. Slowly and softly, she said:
“If you were to fall in love with Kate, Ralph, and one day, not necessarily soon, you were married, I should be so happy. You see, I love you both, and I am afraid that some other boy will win her, a prize that should be yours.”
Again they looked deeply each at the other. Their eyes eventually falling, a silence fell upon them, a long silence broken by Ralph pushing back his chair and standing over her, saying:
“Give me a week, Little Lady. I’ll search my heart and tell you then what I find there.”
Chapter Fourteen
Bony’s Imagination
BONY RECLINED with his back against one of the trestles supporting the first boat to be repainted. All the old paint had been burned and scraped off, and the boat, lying keel uppermost, appeared like an old hen whose feathers have all dropped out. He sat in the sun, smoking a cigarette, and looking with vacant eyes at the border of gums on the farther bank of the river.
By his side lay a slab of cement-hard clay, dark grey in colour, and about a foot square. That morning he had cut it carefully out of hard ground near the garden gate.
To ordinary eyes there was nothing of interest about that slab of dry clay. To ordinary eyes there was no mark on it until they had gazed for a long time at its flat surface. Then might vague perception dawn of a series of opposing curves, very faint and irregular in impression.
Bony’s eyes, however, were not ordinary. He saw here on the flat surface a clear impression of a man’s left boot.
Over all that vast area of Australia not broken up by the plough the ground is an open book for those who can read. The history of the wild is written there. Reptiles and animals cannot live without making and leaving their mark. Even birds must alight sometimes and register themselves by their tracks.
The reader of the open book gains proficiency only by practice, and his final expertness is limited by his eyesight. The habit of observation is the first essential, knowledge of the natives of the wild the second, and reasoning power the third. Whilst the first and third essentials make a white man an efficient tracker, the second essential, combined with supervision, makes the black man an expert tracker. And, through his black mother and his white father, Bony possessed the three essentials, plus abnormal vision; which was why he was a king of trackers.
His keen eyes saw impressed on the piece of clay that which only the microscope and the camera would reveal to the white man. A freak of Nature had preserved it from the rain that had fallen after it had been made, for it was the only track left.
The depth of the curves proved that the imprint had been made after three or four points of rain had fallen and slightly moistened the surface. The succeeding rain had not been prolonged sufficiently—and the gauge at the homestead proved that the quantity had been twenty-eight points—to dissolve the surface into sufficient mud to flow into the indentations. Why that single track had been preserved was because the surface of the clay on which it had been made was absolutely level. Thus gravitation had not caused mud to flow there as it had done on all surfaces not absolutely level.
To Bony’s keen vision and reasoning was due the revelation that the person wearing a No. 9 boot who made the impression stood on that spot two or four minutes after the thudding sound that evidently killed King Henry reached Dugdale. And, allowing half a minute for the killer to make sure of his work, two minutes and three seconds were necessary for him to walk rapidly away from the corpse, across the billabong, to the place where he left the solitary track. Bony had walked it, and timed the walk.
The wearer of a No. 9 boot, therefore, was in the vicinity of the murder at the precise moment the deed was done. If the wearer had not actually struck the blow, he had been within seventy-three yards from the place where the blow had fallen.
It was a clue, certainly, towards the elucidation of the crime. Bony was intensely happy. For a whole week he had searched when opportunity offered for that possible track. And, knowing that a No. 9 boot is generally worn by a person of twelve stone and over, by a quick process of elimination the finger of fate pointed to three persons—Clair, John Thornton and Martha the gin.
Within twenty-four hours of his arrival Bony had noted the boot size of every person on his list, other than Martha. He knew that John Thornton’s boot size was No. 8, and he knew, too, that Clair’s was No. 9. That afternoon he had ascertained that Martha’s elastic-sided riding boots also were the man’s size No. 9.
Clair or Martha had made that track, and Clair or Martha was within seventy-three yards of King Henry when he met his death.
Bony had become great friends with the black cook, and had watched his chance to borrow her boots, with which he made an impression on a prepared piece of clay. The Research Department at Headquarters would tell what even Bony’s hawk eyes could not see. With camera and microscope the original track and the rough cast would be examined to discover if there were identical marks or not on both. If there were, proof that one and the same boot made them would be established. If not, then it would be necessary to apply the same process to Clair’s footwear, and
on some pretext or other Clair must be brought in from his pumping job, since it was not advisable for Bony to go out to the Basin.
Regarding Clair, too, the half-caste had sent a letter to a friend of his living in the district where roamed that tribe of blacks whose bygone chief, a super-wrestler, had hugged two men at once to death.
To Bony the case afforded mental exhilaration. Because the rain had wiped out the letters and words stamped on the ground, Bony cried blessings on the rain. It was not now a humdrum case where good tracking only was required. To clear up the case successfully demanded inductive reasoning of a high order, and this mental activity was infinitely preferable to the physical labour of moving about. Moreover, it was beautifully restful to sit there in the sun and merely think. One need not even think if one did not wish. There was tomorrow, and there were the days following tomorrow when one could think. Yes, to the devil with thinking! So Bony slept.
How long he did sleep he never would say, although he knew precisely by the position of the sun when he fell asleep and its position when he awoke. He was awakened by a masculine cough, but the process of his awakening was confined to the quiet opening of his eyes. Before him, sitting on an oil-drum, was the smiling Ralph Thornton.
“Had a good nap?” he asked.
“I was thinking out a problem,” Bony lied. “It has ever been my misfortune that I cannot sleep in daylight.”
Ralph laughed at the glibly-spoken double falsehood.
“Is your name Napoleon Bonaparte?” was his second question.
“Those were my baptismal names. But”—solemnly—“I call myself Bony.”
“Well, Bony, are you acquainted with a lady named Martha?”
“I have that pleasure.”
“Then it will interest you to know that Martha is looking for you with a waddy in her hand,” said the grinning youth. “She says you stole her No. 9’s.”
“The human mind is always liable to delusions,” Bony murmured. And then, seeing Ralph look curiously at his clue, he added blandly: “That piece of clay contains my problem.”
Bony - 01 - The Barrakee Mystery Page 8
