“Ah-ha!” exclaimed the sergeant. “Suspicious circumstances?”
“Yes.”
“As you will remember, Inspector, I was never satisfied about Gillen’s disappearance, even before the money interest came out. Is this fire business mixed up with the Gillen affair?”
“It might be,” cautiously replied Bony, recalling that Mansell’s first report on Gillen cast no doubts on accidental death. “Is Draffin coming on behind us?”
“Yes. Loaded with stores and gear and stuff, including a coffin.”
“Did you bring a constable?”
“Too right, Inspector. He’s travelling with Mr Wallace.”
“Good. Until the morning carry on as though everything is routine. Let no one suspect you think anything wrong in the case of Mrs Fowler. Tomorrow I will begin my inquiry into the deaths of Mrs Fowler and Raymond Gillen, following which you, Doctor, can with Sergeant Mansell decide your subsequent actions.”
“The fire victim is to be our first charge, Inspector?”
“Yes. On our arrival there will be much confusion till the place is put in order by Wallace and his men. The remains of Mrs Fowler, and the office safe, must not be tampered with until daylight.”
Confusion there was, and yet order was eventually established by Wallace. Barby was dispatched to Johnson’s Well to transfer his camp and return the men’s belongings. In the hearing of all, Doctor Clive said he would like to examine the body of MacLennon as quickly as possible, and that the remains of Mrs Fowler could be retrieved at daylight. That brought sobs from Joan, and Wallace himself took her to sit in the old armchair on the veranda.
Martyr went off with the doctor to Johnson’s Well; Lester and Carney proceeded to build a camp fire and erect over it a beam from which Barby could suspend his billies and dixies. The fire illumined the front of the quarters and the line of out-buildings, and, when Draffin arrived, it aided the helpers to unload the stores and gear ... and the coffin, so handled that Joan did not see it.
With utensils Draffin brought from the main homestead, Lester brewed coffee, and opened tins of biscuits, meat and cheese. Oil-lamps were lit and Wallace took a large suitcase to an empty room, then told Joan his wife had packed it for her. The room was next to that occupied by Lester.
Barby returned with his load, and at once washed and then took charge of the fire and the cooking. All the dogs were loosed, and the two cats cleaned themselves under Barby’s feet and his galah in the cage woke to mutter words which disgraced its owner. With tragedy absent, it could have been a festive occasion.
A kind of buffet dinner was set out on a trestle table distant from the fire for comfort and yet advantaged by its light They stood around to eat, and spoke in subdued tones because of the dead and the presence of Joan Fowler, now arrayed in a lime silk dress once packed in that suitcase.
Nothing about her registered the strain she had undergone for many hours. Firelight burnished the red-gold hair, and the silk dress gleamed as greenly as her eyes.
“What happened to you, Mr Martyr?” asked Carney when the chance offered.
“Had fan-belt trouble a mile this side of The Shaft,” replied the overseer. “Spent a couple of hours messing about with it. Didn’t get to Sandy Well till after eleven last night and then no one was in the office.”
“Don’t wait up on the chance of hearing disaster on the phone,” remarked Wallace. “Heard about it, of course, this morning. Mr Martyr wanted to return here, on a bit of rope for a fan-belt and a prayer. Just as well he didn’t, with the heat rocking the mercury all over the States. Could easily have perished. As for us ... we left about five this afternoon, and even then the petrol almost exploded a dozen times before we got to Sandy Well.”
Lester came to sniffle and announce that the thermometer still registered 101 degrees, and when told by the sergeant of the record at Menindee he was as pleased as though he had backed a Melbourne Cup winner. Obviously he was trying to be cheerful ... as the others were ... and it did not appear that Joan ignored their efforts.
“We weren’t to blame, Mr Wallace,” she entreated Wallace. “Mother was always so careful with the stove and the frig. It was so quick, so sudden.”
“Try not to think about it too much, Joan,” advised the big man. “We’ll straighten it all out tomorrow. The place was old and the heat would make it tinder-dry. You did your best, and all of us can imagine how quickly it happened.”
Reaction set in and she burst into tears. Martyr stared hard at Barby’s fire. Carney turned his back on her and sipped coffee. It was Lester who gently patted her shoulder. Wallace looked meaningly at the doctor, and Clive nodded. She did, however, insist on helping Barby to clean up.
It was not unusual for the “government house” party to camp apart from the men, and Red Draffin put up stretchers for Wallace and the doctor, the sergeant and Martyr outside the store which was the closest to the site of the burned homestead. The men gathered in the light given from the cooking fire, and presently Red Draffin joined them.
He was barefoot as usual, his trousers and shirt were greasy and stained, as usual. And, as usual, his face was enlivened by his smile and twinkling eyes. Joan happened to be in her room.
“How did the rabbits go, George?” was his first question, and Barby glowered.
“Still going,” he answered, carefully stepping over a cat. “Fenced the Channel yesterday. This morning the Channel is yards under dead rabbits and ’roos and birds.”
“I oughta been with you.”
“No good. The ’roos tore the fence down, and the sun did the rest. There’ll be millions of rabbits digging under the dead uns to get at the water this very minute.” The glower lifted, the dark eyes cleared. Triumph crept into Barby’s voice. “But we needn’t worry about the rabbits. A bit of a heat-wave can’t knock them out. There’ll be millions get through this summer, and when she rains they’ll breed like hell. You ever seen a picture of the mouse licking up the drops of wine leaking from a barrel, and the cat’s sitting on the top step of the cellar? The mouse says: ‘Now where’s that bloody cat?’ And that’s what all the rabbits will be saying, Red: ‘Now where’s that bloody myxotocksis?’”
Chapter Twenty-four
Inspector Bonaparte Works
AFTER BREAKFAST, eaten before sun-up, everyone went into action, determined to accomplish as much as possible before the intense heat once again singed the earth and them. By nine o’clock the heat was severe, but a high-level haze smoked the sky and forecast a change accompanied by wind.
Sergeant Mansell and his constable appeared much interested in the interior of the machinery shed, whilst the others, including the owner and the overseer, relaxed on the veranda of the quarters.
Then the constable crossed to the group on the veranda to address Bony:
“Sergeant would like a few words with you.”
The general conversation petered out as Bony accompanied the policeman to the machinery shed. The doors were wide, the roof was high, the temperature was not yet unbearable. Packing-cases had been placed to form a desk and serve as seats, and the sergeant was taking from his brief-case paper, pens and ink.
“This do, Inspector?” he asked a little stiffly.
“Yes. We’ll sit, so. As we deal with each of these people they must be kept here, not allowed to circulate. We’ll begin with Carney. All right, Constable. Produce Henry Carney.”
Like those who were to follow him, Carney received a succession of surprises. He was surprised by finding Bony sitting with Mansell behind the “desk”, and was surprised by the invitation to sit on a tea-chest before them. Carney had been told that the sergeant wanted a few words with him, therefore the culminating surprise came when Mansell said:
“This is Inspector Bonaparte, Harry. He wants to ask a few questions.”
“Concerning Raymond Gillen, Mr Carney,” Bony said smoothly. “We won’t waste time by going into what is general knowledge but keep to essentials.”
Carney stare
d, knew he stared. The easy-going, softly-spoken horse-breaker had undergone a remarkable metamorphosis, for he sat squarely, his eyes were deeply blue, and there was no trace of the previous reticence of the aboriginal part of him. The voice was precise and authoritative.
“Mr Carney. Did you ever have a serious disagreement with Raymond Gillen?”
“No. Never,” answered Carney, barely side-stepping the “sir”.
“What was your feeling towards Gillen?”
“Friendly enough. We got on all right. Camped in the same room. Most of us liked him. I know I did.”
“Despite the fact that you were both in love with the same girl?”
“That’s only partly true. Ray wasn’t in love with Joan. He thought he had a chance, that’s all.”
“You were in love with her, were you not?”
“Yes. I was, then.”
“You imply you are not in love with her now. Would you tell me what changed your feelings?”
“That had nothing to do with Gillen,” prevaricated Carney. “Gillen was a good type. Dare anything; try anything. He had a try for Joan, and it didn’t upset me because I thought he would never get her. I know what she is. Yes, I loved her and hoped she’d marry me. I knew that Gillen meant to buy her, and I knew that because Gillen told me, and showed me money enough to buy a dozen women. It was in his case ... rolls and rolls of it.”
“Did he tell you where he obtained the money?”
“Spun a yarn about winning it in a lottery.”
“Do you know what happened to the money?”
“No.”
“You will remember that when MacLennon was shown the locket belonging to Gillen, he became enraged and said that Gillen had left a letter in his suitcase which you had found. Was that true?”
“Yes,” replied Carney. “I’ll tell you what happened from the time Ray had been here about a month. We’d become good friends, and he knew I was keen to marry Joan. He asked me, and I told him straight. He asked what I thought of my chances, and I said they were good ... until he came to the Lake. He said ‘Look, Harry. Don’t be a mug. You’ve got no money and that’s all she’s after. She’s a teasing bitch.’”
Carney’s mouth was grim, and his brown eyes were empty of the laughter Bony so often had seen.
“I knew what Ray said was right,” he went on. “And then he said if I gave away the idea of marrying Joan, he’d give me a hundred to get her out of my system. When I laughed at him about the hundred, he opened his case and told me to help myself. He said again he’d won it in a lottery, but I couldn’t believe that. But he did offer me a hundred to work off on Joan. I wouldn’t take it. But I thought a hell of a lot of Ray Gillen.
“Then one night Joan said she wanted to go for a walk. She told me that Gillen had a case full of notes, and that he must have pinched it, and she wasn’t being mixed up with hot money. She said she’d marry me if I stole it from Gillen, because then Gillen couldn’t do anything about it, as he stole it in the first place. That woke me up to her properly. I didn’t hate her exactly. I still loved her, or what I thought she could be. I still love her that way. I’m sorry if I can’t make you understand.”
“I do understand,” Bony said slowly. “Go on.”
“It turned out that Gillen got to work on her, offering her a thousand quid to clear out with him on his bike. She wouldn’t fall for it. So he raised the ante ... just like he would. She said she didn’t believe his yarns, and so he took her to his room and opened his case for her to see for herself.
“D’you know what, Bony? Joan planned to get all that money for free. She told her mother about it, and then the mother sooled MacLennon to steal it for her. Mac must have thought it over, and must have tried to open Gillen’s case, because Ray found marks on the locks.
“Four days after that, or four nights after, Ray went for his last swim. Or so it turned out. When he wasn’t on hand the next morning I looked at his case. It wasn’t locked. Instead of the money, there was a letter. And the letter read: ‘What you want isn’t here. It’s well planted, and the clue is inside the locket around my neck. Try for the locket if you have guts enough. Ray G.’
“I thought one of them had murdered Gillen, for the money. I don’t think so now, not after you opened the locket for everyone to see.”
“Did Gillen tell you he was going to plant the money?”
“No. Not a word.”
“What did you do with the letter?”
“I gave it to Joan for a birthday present,” Carney grimaced. “She didn’t even thank me.”
“Did Gillen write letters?”
“No. He told me his parents were dead.”
“Did he seem to be worried ... just before the night he disappeared?” “No. I’ve been trying to tell you what Gillen was, a chap who feared nothing, and no one. He never lost his temper.”
“He did fight Mac. Why?”
“Over what he said about Ma Fowler. But he didn’t lose his temper about it. Mac did, and got a hell of a thrashing. Gillen laughed all the time he was dealing it out.”
“Let us return to the suitcase. The rooms are small, and each contains two beds. You camped with Gillen in the same room. When on your bed could you see Gillen’s case under his?”
“At times. Depended on how far he pushed it under.”
“Quite so. When you could see the case, it was invariably locked?”
“The locks were in place and the catches were up. By looking at the case, I wouldn’t know if the key had been turned in the lock.”
“When did you first find the case unlocked?”
“That morning Gillen was missing. I sat up and found Ray wasn’t in his bed. I could see his suitcase under the bed. The ordinary catches weren’t in place, and the slides were open. In fact the lid wasn’t closed properly. That’s why I pulled the case out and looked for the money, and found the letter.”
“In an envelope?”
“No. Just folded three times. It was lying on top of the clothes.”
Bony lit a cigarette.
“You have been candid, Mr Carney. Now tell me why you did not hand that letter to Mr Martyr, or to Sergeant Mansell.”
“I thought it might be a forgery, put in the case by whoever had taken the money, and could have murdered Gillen. I decided I’d stand by and wait to see who left here, and then I’d have the satisfaction of reporting it to the police. But no one left the place.”
From the floor at his feet, and hidden by the cases from Carney, Bony picked up the parcel of money.
He was satisfied by Carney’s reactions that Carney did not know its contents, but he asked the question:
“Have you seen this parcel before?”
Carney shook his head, and was directed to relax on the row of cases placed along one wall of the shed.
“Produce Robert Lester.”
The constable disappeared. The sergeant lit his pipe. He was the senior officer of a police-controlled district, and yet refrained from asking questions of the man who could give orders like that.
Lester sniffled before he came on. On seeing Bony, he sniffled again, and for the third time when told to sit on the teachest. On being informed that Inspector Bonaparte wished to ask a few questions, his watery eyes dried up. The bright blue eyes were expectant, and he knew there was a trap baited to take him, and wished he were far, far away.
Nonchalantly Bony removed the trap and placed it on the ground at his feet ... the parcel of money. He reached for pencil and paper and drew a sketch of the front of the men’s quarters, the while Lester sharply watched him, the sergeant curious, and the audience of one, Carney. Then the voice so different from the easy drawl of the horse-breaker:
“Now, Mr Lester, tell me: do you sleep soundly at night?”
“Fairish, I think,” replied Lester.
“Do you sleep soundly in the daytime?”
“Caw! Hell of a hope sleepin’ in daytime. I can’t answer that one, Bony.”
The sergeant
coughed disapprovingly at such lèse-majesté.
“You remember that afternoon when you were feeling off colour following a nightmare in which you were climbing in and out of a tank? You were awakened by Miss Fowler and told the house was on fire. You were having a nap on the veranda, remember? Were you sound asleep then?”
“Must have been. Never heard the fire; leastways, I thought it was a willi-willi passing by.”
“You had lunch at the usual time ... half-past twelve. After lunch you returned to the quarters. Who served the lunch?”
“Joan.”
“Did you see Mrs Fowler?”
“No.”
“Did you hear Mrs Fowler talking in the kitchen, or moving about in the kitchen?”
Lester proved that he had indulged in retrospection.
“Not a sight or sound of her.”
“After lunch, did you dally at table talking with Miss Fowler?”
“No. She seemed in a bit of a temper.”
“With whom? You? Her mother?”
“Didn’t let on.”
“So that you must have left the kitchen after lunch at about one o’clock?”
“Yair. Musta been.”
“What did you do after leaving the annexe?”
“Went over to the quarters. I had a smoke, and wanted a paper to read, but there wasn’t any and so I made meself comfortable and took a nap.”
“Would you say you were asleep before one-thirty?”
“I would,” answered Lester, adding confidently: “And by the shadders I’d say it was just before two when I was awoke by Joan to see the ruddy house going up.”
“Thank you! Now look at this sketch of the quarters showing the room doors, the steps up to the veranda.” Bony rose and passed round to stand beside Lester. “Was the old armchair about here?”
“She was. Yes, that’s about where she was. Always is, remember?”
“I should do, Mr Lester. Was the back of the chair towards the steps?”
“Yair.”
“Would the door of the sitting-room be, say, ten feet from the chair?”
Death of a Lake Page 18
