“What do I know? Very little when totalled.... No. I cannot agree to that. If Banks should slip by your men, or return by car, then I want no arrest made here at the Chalet. He’ll be all right for a few days. You see, Miss Jade has had quite enough upsets in her house.... Oh, I know, but then policemen, real policemen, of whom I am not considered to be one by my Chief Commissioner, are quite in keeping with the background of a Police Station, a detective office, and even a court of law. The same cannot be said of them against the background of a mountain guest house of the quality of Wideview Chalet. Their proximity affects the cook, for one thing, and for another I don’t want my friend, Miss Jade, disturbed more than is absolutely essential. Therefore, if you can lay George by the heels without any fuss, I would be obliged. But no arresting here, please. My nerves wouldn’t stand it.”
Chapter Twenty-three
George Does Not Return
INHABITING THE trees in the immediate vicinity of Wideview Chalet was a family of nine kookaburras. These wise birds knew every cranny of the garden, every foot of the lawn, every branch of every tree, and into this, their domain, they permitted no outside kookaburras. They barely tolerated the day-sleeping opossums. Four of the nine birds had occupied positions on Bisker’s wood-stack, and the remaining five were perched within sighting distance all waiting for breakfast scraps, when Bony arrived at the gate in the upper fence.
The morning was cloudy. The valley lay clear of fog. The sun had not risen above the mountains and the wind was cold and dry. Just beyond the gate, the gravel of the roadway petered out into the soft sludge bordering the upper road, and on the sludge were the plain imprints of Miss Jade’s shoes and Mr. Sleeman’s larger shoes. Mr. Bonaparte had no difficulty in reading them.
Both Sleeman and Miss Jade had, on reaching the public road, gone to the right along the macadamised strip. They had stepped off this strip, crossing the sludge area again in order to reach the gravelled roadway and down into the house, but Bony was interested to ascertain where they had been. He walked along the upper road.
He had proceeded only a few yards when he sighted Sleeman’s tracks at the border of the strip. Miss Jade had kept upon the road. Sleeman had continued to walk along its flank on the softer ground.
Bony came presently to a crossroads, and because Sleeman had turned left, he also turned left and went on. The road led him upward and not once had Sleeman stepped off the softer ground edging it. Bony did not again see Miss Jade’s tracks until, when opposite a house standing well back within the seclusion provided by a barrier of closely growing fir trees, he saw that she had stepped off the road and had entered by the gate the grounds of the house behind the firs.
Sleeman had walked on. Bony continued following Sleeman’s tracks. The man had proceeded for fifty yards and then halted, and had returned to sit on a boulder opposite the house gate.
Having continued his walk for a further half mile, Bony returned and briskly passed the house behind the fir trees, and so walked back to the Chalet. He knew the story. Miss Jade had left her house very late at night to visit the house behind the firs. Mr. Sleeman had followed her, had sat on the boulder whilst she was within the house, and then had returned at leisure to enter the guest house by the front door and to “raid” the room occupied by the steward before retiring to his own room.
Bony certainly had to revise his views of Sleeman.
Of the five men at the one table, Sleeman was the last to appear for breakfast.
“Sleeman is apparently finding it difficult to get up this morning,” observed Downes, regarding Lee with his steady eyes. The pastoralist grinned broadly and then chuckled.
“He didn’t want to go to bed last night,” he said. “Alice told us she had been ordered to close down punctually at eleven. That pleased me because our friend was thirsty but I wasn’t—not by then.”
“Nice fellow,” asserted Raymond Leslie, and no one attempted to argue about that.
Sleeman entered the dining room and received cordial greetings. He appeared well groomed and normally cheerful. He greeted everyone individually, and ordered his food without any finicky regard for his digestion.
How old was he? Bony found difficulty in assessing Sleeman’s age. He might be anything between forty and fifty. He was well set up and the “weakness” did not show itself so very clearly on his face. Like Downes, and unlike either Lee or Leslie, he had never been informative about himself.
“What sort of a day is it going to be?” he asked, glancing through the great window at the magnificent view presented.
“Fine, I think,” Leslie answered him. “I’m going down what they call The Way of a Thousand Steps. We were speaking of it the other day, remember? There’s a place halfway down where the gulley path goes through a small forest of fern-trees. The tree-ferns are at least twelve feet high, some even higher, and so their age must be great. To sit there under them always reminds me of pictures of the Carboniferous Age and of pre-historic monsters standing on their hind legs to get at the young and juicy ferns sprouting outward from the tops of the trees of that time.”
Lee offered to accompany the artist. Sleeman said he had to remain indoors to write business letters. Downes expected a visitor. Bony said he was going to lounge about and read.
After breakfast, Bony put on a light overcoat and took a book out to the veranda, where he occupied a chair in his favourite position. He would have liked better to return to his room to sleep.
A little before ten o’clock, the man from the Riverina and the artist came round from the end of the house and went on down the path to the wicket gate. Leslie was carrying a satchel of drawing materials. They moved slowly whilst discussing the Devil’s Steps which so disfigured Miss Jade’s lawn, and finally disappeared beyond the gate as they walked down the ramp to the highway.
At ten o’clock, Bony saw the top of the bus from Manton as it drew to a stop at the drive. A minute or two later, he watched Bisker carrying up the driveway a load of suitcases. He was followed by an elderly couple. George did not appear. At eleven, the maid, Alice, brought to him a cup of tea and biscuits. At half-past eleven, Downes walked down the drive, wearing his overcoat and hat, and a few minutes after he had vanished from sight Bony heard the sound of a car coming up the highway. It was stopped somewhere out of sight, turned round and departed the way it had come. Then he saw Bisker appear among the trees lining the driveway, and casually he left his chair and sauntered down the steps to the lawn, where he stayed for a moment or two to regard the Devil’s Steps, before wandering to that end of the house near the entrance. He found Bisker washing the tiled flooring of the entrance porch.
“Same number. Same driver,” Bisker informed him.
Bony nodded his thanks and walked out to the upper road, turned left and followed it down to the highway as far as the fruit stall. Then he continued along its winding course until he left it and entered the Police Station.
“Where is the Sub-Inspector?” he asked a Senior Constable.
“I was ordered to inform you, sir, that Sub-Inspector Mason went down to Manton. The man wanted did not show up to catch the eight-thirty train from the city, and the Sub-Inspector thought it likely that he would return to his place of employment by car. The Manton officers don’t know the wanted man, but they have a description of him. I am to suggest, sir, that perhaps you might wish me to interview the Bagshotts regarding the matter you spoke about to the Inspector.”
Bony pursed his lips and considered the situation, then:
“Contact Superintendent Bolt. I’ll write a message for you to read to him.” The S.C. took up the telephone, and Bony wrote rapidly on a pad and pushed the pad across the desk. They had to wait five minutes for the connection. Then the S.C. spoke, giving his name and station.
“A message for you, sir. Begins: ‘Suggest every outgoing ship searched for wanted man.’ Message ends.... Very well, sir.”
“I will stay here while you interview the Bagshotts. This will be the line of
the enquiry.”
Bony outlined what he wanted, and the S.C. departed. He was away for approximately fifteen minutes, and the result of his mission was the information that a man, representing himself to be a collector of footwear and clothes for refugees in European countries, had called a fortnight previously, exhibiting what purported to be an official card of the Clothes for Europe Committee of Victoria. Mrs. Bagshott had interviewed the man and she described him as well built and having a faint Irish brogue. She had given him several garments and several pairs of shoes, including one pair belonging to her husband.
The Senior Constable opened a desk drawer and took out a slip of paper. He said:
“You wanted to know the name of the owner of a certain Studebaker car, sir. Number NX 052 B. The owner is Mr. William Jackson, Number 17 Myall Road, Southeast Camberwell.”
“Ah! Yes, thanks.” Bony paused, then added: “After I have left here—wait an hour—contact Superintendent Bolt and ask him to let me have all possible information about this William Jackson. Say, too, that I will communicate with him, the Super, about nine o’clock tonight. Also inform Sub-Inspector Mason that I will be here again round about nine this evening, and that meanwhile I am having quite a nice holiday and do not wish to be disturbed.”
In a thoughtful frame of mind, Bony left the Police Station and walked down along the highway, calling a cheerful “Good day” to the proprietor of the fruit stall as he passed. He arrived at the Chalet in time to hear the luncheon gong.
Downes had not returned. Lee and Leslie had told Miss Jade that they would be lunching away somewhere. In consequence Bony and Sleeman lunched alone at their table, a neighbouring table being occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Phelps who had arrived by the early bus. More guests were to arrive during the afternoon.
“Miss Jade’s in a bit of a temper, I fancy,” Sleeman remarked softly to Bony. “George isn’t back yet, and there are tons of new people coming today and tomorrow. He promised her faithfully that he’d be back this morning. You been out for a walk?”
“Yes. I strolled up the highway for a mile or two. Beautiful road and beautiful surroundings, don’t you think?”
Sleeman nodded.
“Charming,” he agreed. “I may go out this afternoon. Care to come along?”
Bony smilingly expressed regret and said it was his intention to relax and read a novel. The conversation became desultory, Sleeman evidently a little uncomfortable at being alone with Bony, and Bony being a little tired following the all-night work.
Later, wearing an overcoat and with a rug about his legs, Bony reclined in a chair on the veranda and thought about Sleeman. Had it been Sleeman who had examined his possessions during that night he had spent taking the contents of the fountain pens to Colonel Blythe? He was inclined to doubt it because the person who had gone through his things had been an expert, whilst the work done by Sleeman in George’s room was that of an amateur. But wait! If Sleeman knew that George was not returning to the Chalet, there would then be no need for him to be meticulously careful in replacing everything.
Well! Well! Why worry? Time would tell. Time would uncover all things for Bony to know. Meanwhile there were two hours until afternoon-tea time. In the cool and pure air of Mount Chalmers Bony slept the sleep of the just.
The chatter of newly arrived guests awoke him. Ten or a dozen strangers were standing at the balustrade of the veranda admiring the view. He felt refreshed and again mentally alert. What was it he had been thinking about Sleeman? Ah yes! Did Sleeman know last night that George would not be returning to the Chalet?
The possibility occupied his mind even whilst he was being presented to the new guests by Miss Jade at afternoon tea. Afterwards he sought out Bisker.
“Seen anything of George?” he asked.
Bisker shook his head, and then said:
“Mr. Downes isn’t back, either.”
“You didn’t receive from George any impression that he might not be returning, did you?”
“No. ’E seemed all set to come back first thing this morning,” Bisker replied. “Wonder what’s happened to ’im?”
“So do I. Still, we must be patient.”
Guests sat at nearly every table in Miss Jade’s dining room that evening. Downes had returned about five o’clock and shortly after that the artist and Lee had come in: The Way of a Thousand Steps and the beauties they had seen formed the major part of the conversation that night, both Downes and Bony being entertained by the artist, who had also the gift of word painting. Sleeman evinced more interest in Wanaaring.
A little after eight, Bony slipped away and walked up to the Police Station, where he found Bolt waiting for him with Sub-Inspector Mason.
“What’s all this about?” the huge Superintendent demanded without any preamble.
“Ah—good evening, Super,” countered Bony, smiling naively into the hard eyes. “Good evening, Mason. Nice and warm in here. Well, now, have you located our friend?”
“No,” snapped Bolt. “Not back at the Chalet?”
“No, he hasn’t returned.”
Bolt stared at the little half-caste who, with irritating calm, was rolling one of his fearful cigarettes. Then he burst out:
“What d’you know of this George Banks? Come on, Bony, out with it!”
“Can you recall a man answering to the name of Mick? About eleven stone in weight, medium height and having dark eyes and speaking with a faint Irish brogue?” inquired Bony.
Bolt shook his great head. Then he exclaimed:
“Wait! That might fit Mick the Tickler. But then he left the country about the time the war broke out and was reported to us as being in London in, I think, ’forty-three.”
“What was his speciality?” Bony asked.
“Tickling military secrets from the wives of Service officers comes first. A close second was blackmail. What of him?”
“Merely that your Mick the Tickler might be the man who is friendly with our George Banks. If you get in touch with Colonel Blythe he might be able to tell us more concerning this Mick the Tickler.”
“Oh all right!” snapped Bolt. “But start at the beginning and let’s have it. What about Grumman’s luggage? Where is it? What d’you know about this George Banks?”
“You become more like Colonel Spendor every time I see you, Super,” Bony complained. “One doesn’t get anywhere by being impatient. Bad for the blood pressure, too. Now listen, calmly. This Mick—he may be your Mick the Tickler—called on Mrs. Bagshott, alleging that he was a representative of a clothes-and-boots-gathering organisation, and she gave him several pairs of shoes, including a pair of her husband’s shoes.
“I’ve been much interested in the tracks made about Wideview Chalet. The size of the shoes that made them is twelve. Those shoes made what are known as the Devil’s Steps on Miss Jade’s lawn. I was telling you of them the last time you were here. You will remember that I was doubtful if Bagshott’s feet were in his shoes when those tracks were made. The shoes which were given away by Mrs. Bagshott, and which made the tracks about the Chalet and on the lawn, are now in a chest in a lumber room at the Chalet. In that same lumber room is Grumman’s luggage. In George’s trunk in his bedroom is a blue suit which might have been worn by the man wearing a mask and carrying a pistol, and who stuck up Bisker and myself in Bisker’s hut and robbed me of two fountain pens.”
“Robbed you of two fountain pens!” barked Superintendent Bolt.
“Yes. Good pens, too. I want them back. They are mine. I promised one to my wife and the other to my eldest son, Charles.”
Bolt regarded Mason with desperation in his eyes.
“Give us a fag, Mason,” he grunted. Then to Bony, he said:
“Go on. Me and Mason can easily sort it all out—I don’t think.”
“Excellent! I thought you could,” murmured the smiling Bony. “However, I find it all a little vague at present. The evidence is strong against Banks, and it is by no means complete. It is sufficient for his arres
t, but I am not yet quite ready to make you a report. That is why I suggested that you charge him with being in possession of another man’s references, anything to hold him quietly for a day or two. There are many matters still outstanding, your friend Marcus being one of them.”
“Marcus!” Bolt regarded Bony steadily. Then he said, almost shouting: “What d’you know?”
“I must confess, Super, not very much, not enough to feel warm. Let’s get back to this Mick the Tickler. Have you a photo of him in Records?”
“Don’t know. Ought to have.” Bolt’s exasperation changed to a period of calm grimness. “Now look here, Bony, I’m talking to you as one pal to another. Marcus is dynamite. If you are playing around with him, you’re playing with dynamite. He’s just a ferocious wild tiger. If he gets the slightest suspicion that you’re onto him, he’ll blast out your life—as quick as he did poor Rice.”
Bony rose to his feet. He stood regarding the top of the great domed cranium before permitting his gaze to sink to meet small and unwinking brown eyes.
“Thanks, Super,” he said levelly. “I’m not quite ready to complete this investigation, but the end is not far off. Now be a sport and leave me to it for a few more days. Meanwhile, get onto Banks’s pal, whom we will assume is Mick the Tickler. Get hold of Banks too. He must have removed Grumman’s luggage to the lumber room, and he or his pal must have carried the body down to the ditch when wearing a pair of Bagshott’s shoes. Why, we may learn when the fish are netted. Those two men were responsible for Grumman’s death. If you do have a picture of Mick the Tickler, see if Mrs. Bagshott can identify it. Leave it here for me to pick up tomorrow night. I want to show it to a man who has seen this Mick. But no policemen at the Chalet, yet.”
Bolt relaxed and sighed tremendously.
“I’ve a damned good mind to arrest you, Bony, and put you away into safety,” he growled. “I know all about you, your record, and I know that this slick, grease-quick gangster type of criminal is outside your experience.”
The Devil's Steps Page 20
