Madman’s Bend

by Arthur Upfield

  “You could be right,” agreed Bony, laughing. Several others joined in. They were beginning to accept him because he showed none of the officiousness they were accustomed to meet in a policeman. They were aware, too, that education had raised him far above the average; they heard it in his voice, sensed it in his easy manner, for they had all encountered at some time the wealthy station owner in whom there was no condescension, and the minister of religion who had learned to mix without it.

  “Now you’ll be looking for the bloke who fixed Lush,” Wally Watts said. “A bullet in him sort of discards the idea that he fell into the hole in the dark.”

  “I shall be looking for that man.”

  “Think you’ll find him?” asked Mick the Warder.

  “The flood is going to make the job difficult.”

  “Don’t like your chances,” said Jacko. “Crikey! The blokes what’s been knocked off along this river! ’Undreds of ’em. They got the Man They Couldn’t Drop down at Taylor’s Crossing, socked it into him right and left, put him up on the block, and the jury wouldn’t slug him. So out he comes, just because they couldn’t find the body. Then he tells ’em he done it, and they can all take a runnin’ jump over theirselves ’cos they can’t try a man twice. Wonder what ’appened to him. Anyone know?”

  “Yair. He camped with us a coupler months back,” said the man with the squint. “Still going strong. She’s a great little river to go disappearin’ in. You hear about that case, Inspector? Away back in ’thirty-nine?”

  “Before my time,” replied Bony.

  “Well, the Man They Couldn’t Drop was skinnin’ a sheep by the river, and two kids come along and watched him. Then they ran home and told their old man about it. He grabbed a rifle, and raced down to where the kids said they seen the sheep being skinned. He never turned up no more. After a bit his wife and the kids went to look for him and found the Man They Couldn’t Drop asleep and the sheep’s carcass hanging up under a tree. There’s no skin: only the carcass and chop bones what he had grilled. He’s charged with murder. He says if he had killed the bloke he’d have done a get. But he was too cunnin’. Seems that the bloke charged at him, and he took the gun off him and used the butt. Just slipped the body into the river.”

  “I’ve always had a lot of time for this river,” said Champion. “You got a body and a bullet, Inspector, but the river will balk you.”

  “It could,” said Bony. “But I shall have to try to find the man who shot Lush.”

  “How will you go about it, Inspector?” Squint-eye asked.

  Smiling disarmingly, Bony explained. “It is known that Lush left White Bend at about ten-thirty on the night of July 19. It’s known, too, that when under the influence he drove exceptionally slowly, and so it’s thought that he arrived at the mail-boxes about midnight. No one has come forward to say he saw the abandoned utility before the station mail was taken to the box by young Cosgrove at 11.45 the next morning. That’s almost twelve hours after Lush is presumed to have abandoned it because of lack of petrol.

  “During the period no vehicle passed either way, as far as the police can ascertain. The ground thereabouts is powdery and the night was windy. I could see no footprints when I went there late the next day, or on succeeding days, and so there’s no evidence as yet that Lush was shot at or near those boxes.”

  “Perhaps he was shot at his own place,” said Squint-eye.

  “As likely there as anywhere else. He might have been shot at this homestead. He might have been shot at the camp of three men known as The Brothers, who were on the far side of the river. Everyone disliked him so much that anyone could have had motive enough to kill him. Because his body was discovered up-river from this homestead it’s almost certain he was shot somewhere up-river.

  “The question then arises: who could have shot him, taking into account the time period and distance. Mrs Cosgrove could have killed him. So, too, could Jill Madden. Most unlikely, but possible. Any man on Mira could have killed him. The three men called The Brothers could have done so. It’s possible that any one of you could have done it.”

  Bony looked from one to the other, and paused while he made a cigarette. No one spoke. Then: “It’s my job to find out who removed William Lush from this world. Because I’m paid to do so, I shall do my best. To this there is a side issue I’ve never been able to understand. The law says in effect Thou Shalt Not. When someone says ‘I shall’ he knows well enough that he’s bucking the law. Then what? Well, he gambles against being caught. When caught, ninety-nine killers in every hundred moan and groan, and spit fire at the police. They don’t moan when they lose a quid on a horse, or miss out on a lottery prize by one digit. The average man’s a pretty good sportsman, so why can’t he be equally sporting if he gambles with the law and loses out?”

  “What about the police telling lies, swearing a man’s life away?” asked a man who had not spoken before.

  “It doesn’t stop with the police. The feller you call the Man They Couldn’t Drop was discharged by a jury at court. Afterwards he admitted he had killed the sheep owner. I’d say he was a good sportsman, a keen gambler. Anyway, it’s the way I look at it. I gamble on finding who killed Lush; then let the man who shot him gamble that I don’t. There’s nothing personal about it on my side. So why should he be personal about it? He laid the odds.”

  “Fair enough,” Jacko said, once more squirting tobacco juice. “Big bloke bashes a little bloke, and he starts a gamble that a bigger bloke don’t bash ’im. If he loses he’s got no right to moan.”

  “And further to this case we are discussing,” Bony went on, “you may accept it from me that I’ll go all out to find out who killed Lush, and at the same time I shall be hoping he’ll win the gamble, Lush was a type who should be shot.”

  “You know, you’re a funny man,” said the solemn man in the torn coat. “I wouldn’t be surprised—”

  He was stopped by the abrupt movement of Dead March Harry. Harry stood and stared over the fire at the invisible river, and from his mouth issued the first “Bomb!” He turned slowly about and took a step towards the shed and vented another “Bomb!”

  Mick the Warder got up and clutched him by the arm, saying, “You come out of it, Harry. We’re workin’, and there’s no time for that.”

  “I’m dead! I’m dead!” Harry repeated, and strode away with measured tread, the rotund Mick clinging to his arm; and thus they passed from the view of the men about the fire.

  “I shall need to question all of you tomorrow,” Bony told them. “I shall need to know where each of you was on the night of July 18–19 and the following morning until noon. You can give your statements in station time.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The “Rine” Came Down

  BONY WOKE to hear rain on the iron roof. In the breakfast-room he met a very disturbed Mr MacCurdle, and an equally disturbed Raymond Cosgrove.

  “Out of the blue,” declared the manager. “Not predicted by the weather people. It began shortly after four this morning.”

  “Just measured it. Eighty-three points so far, and no sign of stopping,” added Ray. “Wonderful fall at a very good time.”

  “Provided the run-off doesn’t coincide with the crest of the flood. Get the two together, and we could be in trouble.”

  “Stop the men working?” asked Bony, and they told him the rain would only slow the work at the levee.

  Outside he thought it was a wonderful morning. It hadn’t rained for several months; the earth was sopping up the precious moisture and giving in return the aromatic scents which only semi-arid land can produce. When an hour had passed he contacted Superintendent Macey.

  “Yes, we sent the samples down to Ballistics,” Macey told him. “Should have their report some time this afternoon. Looks like the bullet through the door killed Lush, doesn’t it?”

  “It could be so,” said Bony cautiously. “I’ll be waiting for that report, Super. Raining up your way?”

  “Hard. Over an i
nch already. Everyone’s dancing with joy. Making Mira a bit mucky, I suppose. Father Savery would have been bogged today. What d’you think of him?”

  “Born to this outback,” answered Bony. “I’ve met a lot of good churchmen, but only one like Father Savery, and he was a Bush Brother. I hope you thanked him properly.”

  “Be sure on that point, Bony. He told us he had fine help from a mortician’s assistant.”

  “Little man called Jacko.”

  “He mentioned the name. No record of him. The yarn about being in the wrong house was a funny one. Jacko’s somewhat of a character. You’re lucky. All we get are drunks.”

  “Ah! But I train the characters, Super. Bring them out with kindness. I’ve a list of names I’d like checked with records. Will you note them, please?” Bony read his list of ten, and Macey said he would have them checked and ring back. He was on the phone again in thirty minutes.

  “About your characters, Bony. Ready?”

  Bony wrote:

  Jacko. Clean.

  Dead March Harry. Clean.

  Mick the Warder. Clean.

  Champion. Six months for stealing a horse.

  Wally Watts. Clean.

  Bill, Ned and Silas, known as The Brothers. Bill: Clean. Ned: Drunk and disorderly. Silas: Theft.

  Bosun Dean. Clean.

  The Paroo Bikeman. Assault and battery.

  Of the six men employed under overseer Vickory, five had been charged on the D. and D. offence at White Bend.

  “Got all that?” asked the Superintendent. “Good! Then there’s Master Ray. Drunk in charge of a motor vehicle here in Bourke: D. and D. at White Bend. That’s as much as we have. The Paroo Bikeman’s your worst character, and after him come The Brothers, right name Wishart. Why didn’t you return with Father Savery yesterday?”

  “I wouldn’t fly with him for promotion to Chief Commissioner,” said Bony. “And now I cannot relinquish the assignment. Rain makes the tracks too boggy. And I did want to go home.”

  “That’s what you’re saying, my Artful Dodger. Bye-bye.”

  Bony borrowed MacCurdle’s overcoat and umbrella and went off for a stroll along the levee. The rain was steady and showed no sign of ceasing. The river was within six feet of the top of the bank where they had retrieved the body; within hours it would be pouring into the billabong behind the house garden. A rainfall of three to four inches would present trouble to Mira.

  He found Jacko peeling potatoes on the back veranda of the men’s kitchen, and sat with him to roll a cigarette.

  “Every drop a quid to the squatter and a penny to the stockman,” quoted the ‘little bloke’. “How you doing, Inspector?”

  “You might be able to help me do a little better,” Bony said. “For instance, where were you on the morning of July 19?”

  “That was when Lush sort of disappeared. I was camped that night at the Markham Downs woolshed. The next day, that’s the day you want, Inspector, I was still camped there, ’cos I didn’t leave till the following day.”

  “Where is this station?”

  “Eighteen miles south of White Bend on this side of the river.”

  “And you came up here on this side of the river?”

  “Yes, I didn’t even cross at White Bend. I had no dough.”

  “Clears you, it appears. Tell me, Jacko, who of the men at the camp fire last night is the Paroo Bikeman?”

  “Now look here, Inspector, I don’t want to cross anyone up.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to. You could tell me who is the man called the Bikeman, surely?”

  “All right, but don’t tell him I told you. He’s a nasty bit of work. He was sittin’ next to Champion. Never said a word all through. Feller with a small mouth and black moustache.”

  “Could you bring yourself to tell me why that elderly man is called Champion?”

  “Too right!” replied Jacko, and smiled. “He was working out on Yandama, up in the Corner, when he won a pretty good prize in a lottery. So he and three more pulled out and headed for Milparinka. He says to the three blokes with him he’d give a hundred quid to the bloke who could drink more pints of beer than him, taking ’em one a minute. He’d pay for the beer.

  “So they all get set, and the publican gets set, too. One pint per minute, with the yardman follerin’ the clock. Well, off they goes, and mind you, none of ’em’s had a beer for months. No trainin’ and no cheatin’, see.

  “The first bloke give up after the fifth pint. The next one couldn’t go after his eighth. That left one with Champion, and they ran neck and neck to the eleventh pint, when the last bloke shut his eyes and fell over on the floor. The yarn goes that Champion went on to down his twenty-first pint in the twenty-one minutes, and that he was disqualified by the yardman for taking more’n a minute to down his twenty-second. It made him sort of lose interest in beer, and he called for whisky—what the publican refused on account of not wanting a corpse on his ’ands.”

  “And that’s as true as I’m standing here,” said the cook from his kitchen door. ’Course, Champion was twenty years younger than now. He was a champion shearer, too, but sheep don’t have anything to do with him winning the beer championship. Nice rine, ain’t it, Inspector?”

  “Very,” agreed Bony. “How long have you been cooking here?”

  “Fourteen months. “Bout time I took a spell and tried to beat Champion on the beer. Only I don’t drink beer. Gin’s me tonic. And besides, I’m aiming to take a trip over to New Zealand. Excuse me! The brownie!”

  Bony followed the cook into the spacious kitchen-diningroom, where he sat at the range end of the long table and waited for the cook to attend to his cake in the oven.

  “The three men called The Brothers,” he began when the cook sat opposite and drew on a cigarette. “How long were they camped across the river?”

  “Oh, three-four weeks.”

  “Did they come often for a handout?”

  “One of ’em would come over twice a week, I suppose. They had dough, though, because they bought tucker off’n the store.” The cook regarded Bony steadily. “Seems that Lush was knocked,” he said. “The men were still talking about it at breakfast.”

  “Good talking point,” Bony said, and rose to leave. “By the noise they must be working in the rain.”

  “Some of ’em are at bonus rates. The machines are makin’ the row. The missus is gettin’ anxious, like, now this rine’s on.”

  Bony went on to the shearing-shed, where he found Mick the Warder reading a paper.

  “Day, Inspector!”

  “Good day, Mick. Where’s Harry?”

  “In his bunk. He had a bad night. Talking about bodies and things upset him. Gets that way, as you know.”

  “D’you know how he came to be like that?”

  “Yes. He got tossed off a horse at a rodeo. Landed on his head. He sort of come round all right and seemed all right for six months. Then he took to the track, and I’m camped one night when I hear him on the march, and he stood over me to tell me he was dead. I sort of took pity on him, and we been travellin’ ever since.”

  “And look after him that he comes to no hurt. Why did you get out from the prison service? Any reason I shouldn’t know?”

  “No. I was broke up when the wife and son was both killed in a road accident. That’s all. When I pulled out I came up here, and I’m glad I did.”

  “The subject of relations between men and the police came up last night, Mick. What was the reaction you met with from the swagmen?”

  “The no-hopers, Inspector!” The rotund man grinned. “No trouble at all, after a bit, and after I dealt with a couple lookin’ for fight. They think a lot of poor Harry, and I suppose they think something of me, too.”

  “They should. Where were you two when Lush is thought to have been shot?”

  “Murrimundi. In an old hut at the wool-scour. About a couple of mile up-river from the homestead.”

  “Good! Tell me, where were you making for that day I met
you in Madman’s Bend?”

  “Well, we did think of camping and doing a spot of fishing in the hole under the mail-boxes,” replied Mick the Warder. “Then we reckoned we’d call in at Mrs Madden’s as Harry always got on well with her. You know, Harry used to work now and then for Madden. In fact, we both took jobs at times from Madden.”

  “How did you get on with Lush?” Bony asked, maintaining an easy front.

  “Didn’t get on ever. No one did. But Mrs Madden could have her way sometimes.”

  “You say, Mick, that you were camped at Murrimundi wool-scour. Didn’t you see Lush pass on his way down to White Bend?”

  “Couldn’t have. The old scour’s a mile off the road in a bend. No, we had no idea about Lush being missing until we got here after seeing you.” Mick the Warder grinned humourlessly. “You’re going to be unpopular if you nail the man who murdered Lush.”

  “It would seem so, since everyone disliked him intensely.” Bony stood to go. “You know, if I lost my people, I, too, would take to the track. See you again, Mick.”

  A quarter-mile beyond the shearing-shed the levee turned away from the river and took a wide sweep to enclose the entire homestead. The ’dozer was working out there beyond sight, and Bony guessed that all the men were there with it and the loader. There being no wind, the rain fell straight, a steady watering-can fall that created puddles and inexorably enlarged them; its soft pattering on them and on the leaves of the gum tree by the swagmen’s fire was the note that kept vividly in Bony’s mind the mateship of one man with another, the bond uniting a strong man with one afflicted.

  There being no sun, he had to wait till the office clock informed him of the time, and he was sitting in the manager’s room when MacCurdle and Ray Cosgrove returned from their work with the theodolite.

  “A rare morning, Bony, and we need a drink,” the manager said breezily. “D’you think you could be persuaded?”

  “I do think,” replied Bony, and Ray said he would go in for a bottle of beer.

  MacCurdle brought a bottle of whisky from a cupboard, put it on the table, and went out for water. Bony idly noted that the bottle was sealed, and that it was wrapped in the usual tissue paper. The manager came back with the water jug, and ripped away the tissue, nailed off the seal, drew the cork, and poured as though his life depended on it. Bony helped himself to a light portion, and over the glasses both smiled. There was nothing remarkable about this, but it set a fly buzzing against the window of Bony’s memory.