Eyes glittered but the spears remained poised while Bony removed his coat and shirt. They remained like sculptured figures at a white man’s exhibition as he gained his feet and slowly turned about for them to see the cicatrices on his own back, he blessing old Chief Illawarrie of the far north, who had inducted him into the Mysteries of the Alchuringa Days.
What astonished them was that he, who was not wholly of their race, had been sealed into a Nation of the Ancient People. The leader spoke to the others, but they remained silent and made no sign. As intended by Bony, the situation became complicated, and often engineered complications will save such a tight situation.
The leader became human. From his dillybag of kangaroo skin, suspended from his neck by human hair, he produced a plug of tobacco and bit a chew. Bony dressed, squatted on his heels, and proceeded to roll a cigarette. The camels were no longer nervous, and Lucy lay beside Millie and watched. The warriors squatted, their spears on the ground beside them. Their prisoner was safe enough. Any one of them could have pinned Bony within seconds, and all his knowledge of ju-jitsu would have been of no avail. They had one superlative trick, and the thought of it made him wiggle his toes.
“What for you fellers do this?” he asked, and was surprised when the leader said:
“Wa for you come here, eh? You tell.”
Mission contact! Hermansburg, perhaps! Ooldea … before the great Daisy Bates had to give up … a visitor, perhaps, to Ooldea just long enough to gain a smattering of English.
“Dingoes,” replied Bony. “Patsy Lonergan my father and my uncle. Patsy Lonergan … you know Patsy Lonergan?”
The name registered. They spoke softly among themselves.
“Patsy Lonergan die quick,” he told them, and nodded to the camels. “I get Patsy Lonergan’s camels. Now I catch dingoes.”
Further soft interchange of opinions among them lasted a full minute. No reference had been made to the silk scarf which they must have seen fluttering above the blow-hole, and which they must have seen being crammed into a pocket. Finally two of the young men rose and proceeded to unload the camels, taking no notice of Lucy’s barks of protest. The unloading completed, they removed Millie’s noseline, and, despite Curley’s objection, removed his leather halter. The ropes holding them down were removed and the animals were kicked to their feet and sent running. The leader shouted an order, and one of the men seized Lucy and the other bound her with the noseline.
The ropes were then securely knotted and one end fastened about Bony’s chest. The unloading and freeing of the camels was puzzling him, and fastening the rope about him seemed for the purpose of conducting him to their camp, although even this was unnecessary.
The leader now motioned him to walk to the area of bare rock in the centre of which was the gaping opening of the cavern, and about this he could do nothing but obey. A few moments later he knew their intention was to lower him into the cavern. At the edge of the hole he turned in rebellion, and the leader, without emotion, said:
“Better you go with rope. Long way.”
Wisdom, if of sinister import. The great Inspector Bonaparte realised, when encountering those four pairs of relentless eyes, that it would be wise to accept the assistance of the rope as the floor of the cavern could be more than a few feet under the ground surface. Thus, without injury, he found himself on the floor of limestone, approximately twenty feet below the surface.
He was in a chamber roughly circular, and something like thirty feet in diameter, the walls curving inward as they mounted to the orifice. The limestone floor was uneven. He saw the mouth of what appeared to be a long tunnel, down which burned a star of light. To one side, on a wide rock ledge stood low stacks of tinned food. There was an opening off this place, and, of all objects to quicken his amazement, he could see a large kerosene stove.
Then those above were jerking at the rope, requiring him to free himself of it. This he did, and they drew it up.
He could hear Lucy barking up top. From the tunnel issued a voice slightly distorted by echo, saying:
“I didn’t do it! Damn you all, I didn’t do it!”
It could have been Ganba, only Ganba is known to ignore English. Besides, Ganba doesn’t need a light to aid him on his underground gallivanting.
It came again like the same voice, the words disproving it.
“You done it all right, you stinking rat.”
Movement above again drew Bony’s attention. The opening was being masked by Curley’s pack-saddle, and he had to leap aside to avoid it. After it, came the riding saddle, the pack-bags, and every item of his gear, including even the camel bells and the hobbles, everything save the rifle. The resultant clatter had no effect on the voice or voices, down the tunnel.
“You waited for him and smashed him with a rock. I didn’t, I tell you! I didn’t! Oh, leave him alone.”
Up above, a new sound, Lucy’s frightened whimpering. She was being lowered by the rope, and when Bony caught her, the rope was drawn up. She licked his face happily as he swiftly unbound her.
“Sure he’s dead, Mark?” said the tunnel. “My dear Myra, of course he’s dead.”
The recollection of the automatic pistol was one of a chaotic sequence. The wild men had spent no time with the gear and his effects, other than to strip the camels and toss everything down after him, everything save that beautiful Savage rifle and the loading ropes. They would drive the camels away, and even now might well be engaged in brushing out their tracks to complete the obliteration of all evidence leading to the discovery of this place.
As the dramatist might say, it wasn’t in character. Most decidedly it was unorthodox. The possession of tobacco proved recent contact with whites. These people in that tunnel—who were they, what were they doing here? Myra Thomas! Who else? But prisoners, as he assuredly was. Those saddle-bags which contained his personal effects contained his own automatic.
He fell upon the bags, dragging them from under one of the water drums, swiftly unstrapped the off-side bag and delved for the weapon, small and compact, and deadly at twenty feet. He knew that the clip was full. A broken box of cartridges he slipped into another pocket, and the bag was re-strapped and tossed back to the heap of gear littering the floor.
A voice in the tunnel said:
“Why, here’s a ruddy dog!”
All English so far. No guttural voices. Lucy had found them.
“That’s funny. How the hell did she get here? Must be someone up top. Come on! If she got in, we oughta get out.”
The light twinkled. It was being carried along the tunnel. Seated on the heap of his gear, Bony waited. The sunlight through the opening was falling slightly to his rear making him conscious of the fact that he occupied the commanding position in this situation now developing.
“She’s a pet dog,” a woman said in the tunnel. “She loves being made a fuss of. What’s your name, sweet?”
A man entered the chamber followed by the woman, then four men. They halted at the tunnel’s mouth, appearing to Bony as ghosts lurking in a cobweb-festooned corner of a derelict dungeon. The woman held the wriggling dog, only her shape indicative of her sex, for she wore men’s trousers and coat over a man’s sports shirt. The man carrying the hurricane lantern was tall and hawk-faced. Another was big and muscular. A shrimp of a man peered with weak eyes, and another seemed to have springs in his knees.
Every face was putty white, faces in which eyes glowed like dull coals in a dark room. They stood there staring at the stranger seated on the pile of gear, as though utterly unable to believe what they were seeing, until it seemed to Bony that in this tableau only the dog moved.
The woman released the dog, who ran to Bony and snuggled against him. Bony said, politely:
“How d’you do?”
They came forward, slowly, led by the woman. The tall man’s face was insulted by the clothes he wore, for the sweeping breadth of the forehead, the mane of iron-grey hair, the cast of the mouth, and the expression in his dark e
yes pictured intelligence above the average. His voice supported what his countenance portrayed.
“Who are you?” he asked, with the ‘old’ school accent.
Bony recognised him.
“The name is William Black.”
“It conveys nothing, Mr. Black. How did you come to be here?”
“Dumped by wild aborigines.”
“Wild aborigines! How extraordinary. What are those things you are sitting on?”
“Camel gear.”
“Camel gear! Camels! Wild aborigines! Whom did you murder?”
The light-blue eyes were compelling, the eyes of a man accustomed to being obeyed. He was, Bony was aware, Dr. Carl Havant, a psychiatrist who practised in Sydney until eleven years ago.
“I cannot recall having murdered anyone,” Bony replied.
“I am still doubtful. What school did you attend?”
Ah! Clever indeed is the man who can adopt a fictitious character and maintain it under sudden stress. He had spoken in his usual manner.
“Never mind about that,” he said sharply. “Who are you, and what are you all doing here?”
“We are merely in residence.” The tall man regarded Bony gravely. “Would you oblige by telling us precisely where our residence is, we presume, in Australia?”
“We are now on the northern extremity of the Nullarbor Plain.”
“There, Maddoch! Did I not argue that we must be on the Nullarbor Plain?”
The dark eyes looked down upon the short man whose clothes hung upon him, and who appeared emotionally bankrupt. The man with the knees like springs answered for the little man.
“Could have been east Gippsland, like Clifford said. Could have been up north a bit from Perth, like I told you.”
“Yes, yes! Quite. Well, we are at the north of the Nullarbor Plain. And now, Mr. Black. You tell us that you were ‘dumped’—your own word—down here by wild aborigines. I’ve always thought that wild aborigines are to be found only in the north of Australia. Pardon repetition. Whom did you murder? Please do not hesitate, Mr. Black, or be alarmed.”
“Caw,” exploded the man with the springy legs, “I know this Mister Black now. I’d bet on it. Doc, and ladies and gents, meet Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.”
Chapter Ten
Bony is Honoured
THEY were young and deeply in love. He was a tally clerk on the wharves, and she worked in a city shop. They were saving to build a home, but in these days it takes a long time to meet the rising costs of building.
So Nature won. Their dream was a home, not a hasty marriage and return to the parental country home. Only in the city could they earn ‘real’ money. Eventually, following much discussion, the man talked with another, who suggested the name of a woman; the girl consulted the helpful nurse who arranged her admittance to a private ‘hospital’, together with a goodly proportion of the money they had saved.
It was all very mysterious. Shortly after, the body was found in a ditch fifty miles out of town, the young tally clerk was interviewed by a detective and taken to the morgue to identify his sweetheart. He was asked where the operation had been performed, and he explained that a taxi had called for the girl at the shop at close of business. This was in accordance with agreement made by the girl with someone of whom he knew nothing.
He admitted that he knew the girl’s intention to enter a hospital, but nothing beyond this. The taxi-driver came forward to report that he had picked up the girl outside the shop, having received instructions by radio from his garage. The garage manager said that the instructions were the result of a telephone call.
At the passenger’s request, the driver had put his fare down in the main street of an outer suburb. The girl paid the charge. He took particular notice of her because she was pretty, and was obviously under a great strain. Then by a quirk of fate his engine stopped, and he had to tinker with it. It was while doing so that a private car stopped and collected the girl. He remembered the car because it was a late model Lagonda. He remembered, too, the registration number.
The Lagonda was owned by Doctor Carl Havant.
So Doctor Carl Havant, the well-known psychiatrist, was charged with murder, found guilty of manslaughter, sentenced to ten years.
That was in 1947, and now in 1956 he was with Inspector Bonaparte in a cavern under the Nullarbor Plain. Even with the normal remissions for good conduct, the dates seemed wrong.
“Inspector of what?” asked Dr. Havant, and Edward Jenks of the springy knees chortled:
“Detective-Inspector, of course.”
Edward Jenks was thirty-five and employed as cook on a small station property when Bony arrested him. Now he looked over sixty. He was of middle height, thick-set, still powerful, and his large head was set on a short thick neck. A sailor ashore in Brisbane, he had been bilked one night by a prostitute, which so annoyed him that subsequently he waylaid her for the satisfaction of strangling her. The death sentence having been abolished in Queensland, he was sentenced to life, but had served only nine years when released on parole.
“A detective-inspector,” echoed Dr. Havant, and the woman laughed with a hint of hysteria. “And Bonaparte is the name. Happy to meet you Inspector Bonaparte. I’m sure we are all glad you have found us.”
The sunlight was now funnelling directly upon Bony who still sat at apparent ease on the mass of his gear. The doctor’s face, and that of another, had the cretaceous quality of chalk. They had shaved quite recently. A tall man who looked to be about thirty had cultivated a brown vandyke beard, and in the shadows the little nervous man looked old and ill.
Mere impressions. The figures were tense, the least taut being the woman. Her hands were well kept, and her hair neatly coiled and pinned. Bony recalled the voices deep in the tunnel, and decided to take control of a situation which neither they nor he could yet understand.
“Are you Myra Thomas?” he asked.
“I am,” she replied calmly. “You should know that.”
“You must admit to your identity.”
“Of course. Sorry, Inspector.”
“I have been looking for you.”
The psychiatrist-abortionist chuckled, then sniffed.
“Do I smell coffee, Myra?”
“You do. But there’s a body if anyone is interested. I was preparing breakfast when Igor was killed.”
The little man began denial of something, and the man with the vandyke beard began to talk him down, when the doctor loudly ordered silence. A huge fellow now inserted himself into Bony’s notice by saying:
“Have some common. This bloke’s a d. Blimey! Do we want trouble piled on? Gimme the lamp, Mark. I’ll fix the business.”
“It can wait, Joe, till we sort of straighten things,” Vandyke said impatiently. “Forget the d. He can’t do anything. We’ll have breakfast and let him tell us how he came here, and what he intends doing now he is here.”
“Quite,” murmured Havant. “Breakfast, Myra. Coffee.”
They dispersed. The woman and Jenks faded into the natural annexe where Bony had seen the large kerosene stove. Vandyke said:
“I’ll give you a hand to shift this stuff to one side, Inspector. The name’s Brennan, Mark Brennan.”
What was all this? Mark Brennan! Bony glanced sharply at him, and encountered light-blue eyes, steady and candid.
Mark Brennan! Bony knew the name and the circumstances, and created a picture from what he had read:
The golden shafts of sunlight poured upon the little church set amid encircling gums a few miles from Orange, New South Wales. The small crowd outside the main door could hear the Wedding March. The year was 1939, and the military camps were beginning to accept volunteers.
Among the people outside the church was a young man in uniform, not yet accustomed to wearing it. Beside him were several other young men, obviously a little envious of his attraction for the girls who cast admiring glances at him as they waited to see the bride. The young man was the son of a local storekeepe
r, and now on his first leave.
Others watched him with covert curiosity, for inside the church his one-time sweetheart was being married—to his rival of long standing. He stood there, hands in pockets, the loose stance of the recruit already seeing himself a veteran.
Out upon the low porch stepped the bride and groom, well matched, beautiful in youth, blessed by the vows they had exchanged. They came down the porch steps and people began tossing confetti at them.
Mark Brennan did not throw confetti. From his military coat he drew a pistol and shot the bride between the eyes. The groom was almost dragged to the ground by her lifeless body. Then, with one arm about her, he straightened and confronted the murderer—who shot him in the stomach.
The case caused wide public interest. Tragic young man! Torn apart by duty to his country, and grieved by the loss of his sweetheart. The jury recommended mercy. The judge passed the death sentence. The Executive Council automatically commuted the sentence to life imprisonment, and marked his papers: Never To Be Released.
Never to be released! And here he was assisting Bony to move his gear to the side of the cavern under the Nullarbor Plain. The beard made him look arty, and handsome. The eyes were cold, as they must have been when he pressed the trigger of the pistol, twice.
The chore accomplished, Bony sat on Curley’s saddle and rolled a cigarette. Watchful, he waited for these riddles to be solved. A cloth of clean canvas had been spread on the rock floor, and on this the woman was placing sliced baking powder bread, opened tins of sardines, a bottle of sauce, a tin of jam.
The man Jenks appeared with a jug of coffee and a fruit tin of sugar. He filled tin pannikins with coffee, and Mark Brennan said:
“Help yourself, Inspector.”
Bony returned to his saddle with a pannikin of coffee.
“You have had breakfast, Inspector?” Doctor Havant enquired solicitously.
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