Bony - 12 - The Mountains have a Secret

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “It’s John Parkes, all right,” he said. “What you doing here?”

  “Anyone else in the house?”

  “No. Did you bring a drink?”

  “Thought you might like one. Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “Sleep! I daren’t sleep. Gimme a drink—quick. Can’t you tell I’m all in, lyin’ here waitin’—waitin’—waitin’ for——”

  “Waitin’ for what?” prompted Bony.

  “Oh, nuthin’ much. Me imagination’s bad tonight. You know, bein’ all alone in this big house. Gimme a steadier, John Parkes, and tell me what you been doin’ and all.”

  Bony felt about the bedside table, found a tumbler with a little water in it, added brandy to the water, and passed the glass to the eager hand. Pity stirred within him when he heard the ecstasy which followed.

  “Didn’t you take your sleeping-tablets tonight?” he asked, and the old man tittered and was silent for a space. When he spoke the fear was back in his voice.

  “Jim sent the women away. Musta made up his mind sort of sudden. Took ’em to Stawell early yestiddy afternoon. I got to thinking about that time they went away when Ted O’Brien was found drunk in the spirit store. This time there wasn’t no Ted O’Brien. There wasn’t no Glen Shannon, either. There was no one. Only me.”

  “Well, he could look after you,” Bony observed. “Why worry?”

  “Yes. Jim can always look after me. Too right. Jim can look after me. Cooked me a good dinner tonight, he did. Gimme a drink afterwards, too. Let me sit on the veranda till dark, and it was when it was getting dark that I started to think things, wondering, sort of, why he gimme that drink. After he had put me to bed he says I have to take me tablets, as he can tell I’m going to have a bad night if I don’t. So I keeps the tablets under me tongue and swallers the water. And then he put the bottle of tablets on the table side of the empty glass, and out he goes with the light. The tablets I spit out and put in me ’jamas’ pocket.”

  “Well, what was wrong with all that?” Bony asked.

  “Nuthin’, I ’speck. Only that drink, the first one he’s given me in years, and leavin’ the bottle of tablets on that there little table. He never done that since that time I took two extra to the two Ferris gimme. I was sorta bad that time. They had to get the doctor to me. I thought—I thought——”

  “What did you think? Just you tell your old pal.”

  “I thought—— When I heard that ruddy fowl say: ‘Get to hell outa here.’ I thought it was Jim come sneakin’ home—leavin’ his car back on the road a bit, like he’s done more’n once. Then I seen you at the winder, and I thought you was ’im. I thought——”

  “Well, go on, tell me what you thought.”

  “I thought he had come back to sneak in on me to see if I’d take any extra tablets.”

  Bony ignored the implication, saying:

  “Pass me your glass. Have another drink. Your nerves are on edge.”

  “On edge!” echoed the old man. “I’m all in, John Parkes, all in, I tell you, lying here in the dark and thinkin’ things and wondering what Jim was doing with that dray. I heard it—in the dark this morning—going away into the scrub. I got to thinking things—how he took the dray into the scrub that morning he said he sacked old Ted O’Brien. Didn’t bring it back till high noon, either. You won’t tell Jim I tell you things, will you?”

  “Hang Jim!” Bony exclaimed somewhat appositely. “Don’t worry about me saying anything to him. D’you know why he sent your wife and Ferris to Melbourne?”

  “No, but I think things.”

  “What things?”

  “He wants the coast clear to do something or other. Him and Carl Benson. That Carl Benson has made Jim what he is, with his flash cars and flash visitors, and all his brass. Too high and mighty to call in to pass the time of day with me and the old woman. Not like his father. Hey! What about getting a coupler bottles from the spirit store? I got a key. Let’s drink and drink, eh?”

  “Plenty in this bottle. Did Jim take the women all the way to Melbourne?”

  “Took ’em to the railway at Stawell. I heard ’em arguing about not going. They didn’t want to go. He made ’em. He makes all of us do what he wants—like he’s a sort of officer or something. Gets it from Carl Benson, I says. And from the flashies he takes over to Baden Park at times.”

  “Rich men, I suppose?”

  “Might be. Come here in good cars. Sleeps here most times. Funny about them?”

  “What’s funny about them?”

  “Can’t hardly tell. They’re different from the ordinary run, what comes to spend the Christmas and Easter. Some of ’em are foreigners too. Cocky lot. Throws out their chests as though they own the Grampians.”

  “And Jim takes them over to Baden Park. How often do these parties arrive?”

  “Not often, but often enough for me. You find out anything about Ted O’Brien?”

  “No. D’you think he ever left here?”

  The old man caught his breath and then snarled:

  “What you wanta ask me that for? How do I know that one?”

  “Now don’t get off your horse,” Bony commanded. “Have another sip. Remember telling me about a man named Bert­ram, who played the fiddle, with Jim on the organ?”

  “Yes. Been here lots of times.”

  “Did Jim ever take him over to Baden Park?”

  “Every time he come. Went over there to play the fiddle to ’em, I suppose. But what’s all this got to do with Ted O’Brien?

  “Ted O’Brien may have gone over there to work.”

  “Eh!” exclaimed the old man, and fell silent. Then: “No. No, he wouldn’t have gone to Baden Park. Didn’t like the present man. But he might have. Cora Benson was always singing out for kitchen help. Servants wouldn’t stay account of being too far from the pitcher shows and things.”

  The invalid fell silent again, and presently Bony asked:

  “Is this the only road to Baden Park?”

  “The only road now,” replied Simpson. “The present man’s father drove a track out to the south. Linked up with a track from Moorella to Dunkeld, but avalanches kept blocking it. The present Benson made the road out through here. Spent a lot of money on it too. Done it all back in ’45—same year he built that vermin-proof fence.”

  “Built the road to run that expensive Rolls-Royce on it, eh?”

  “No, he did not. He brought that motor-car back with him when they went to Europe end of ’38. Bought them two organs as well, that time, he did. Thousand pounds each he give for ’em. Kurt died in ’22, and——”

  “Kurt! Who was Kurt?”

  “The present man’s father, of course. When he died it was found he wasn’t as rich as people thought. The present man got going and he made money enough to get himself through the depression, and after that he made it pretty fast. Him and his sister went to Europe in—lemme see—yes, in ’35. Then again in ’38. Got back just in time to escape the war. Crikey! Him and his sister musta spent a power of brass on traipsing around. Ah! Thanks, my boy. Goo’ luck!”

  Bony said nothing to interrupt the flow of memory.

  “Then the war come and they went quiet. Went on improv­ing the strain of their sheep. After the war they had that there fence put round Baden Park. Ain’t never seen it, but I’m told it ’ud keep everything out from an ant to an elephant. They lived quiet, exceptin’ for them parties of visitors from the city. Flashies, that’s what I say they are. And Jim’s like ’em too. Old Kurt Benson was all right. Nothin’ flash about him.”

  “Good friend to you when you first came here, wasn’t he?”

  “Terrible good, he was. Hadn’t been long in Victoria, either.”

  “When did he settle in Baden Park?”

  “Five years afore me. In ’07. Come down from New South Wales. Inherited from his father. His father was a vintner, as well as a vineyardist. Name of Schoor.”

  “Oh! He changed his name, did he?”

  “No, his son
did—the present man’s father changed it to Benson. Old Schoor was a foreigner, if you get me. Swiss or Austrian, I don’t know which.”

  “The present man didn’t marry, eh?”

  “No, he never married. Neither did his sister, Cora. Got no time for her, John, no ruddy time at all. Times have changed and the new generation’s got highfalutin ideas. All they thinks on is getting brass without working for it. What about a drink?”

  “There’s just one more in the bottle. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine, John-oh, fine. Me pains have gone away.”

  “Think you will sleep now?”

  “Why? You leavin’ me? You ain’t leaving me—not now, are you?”

  “Well, I want to have some shut-eye, too, you know.”

  “But—Jim—he might come back afore daylight.”

  “If he doesn’t he should do,” Bony argued. “Now you have this last drink and settle down to sleep.”

  “Where you goin’ to sleep?”

  There was wild urgency in his voice, and Bony told him he had made camp in the scrub off the clearing and everything would be all right. That old Simpson was fearful of his son was pathetically evident.

  “You bide there, John, just for a little while,” pleaded the old man. “Bide there till I sleeps. I ain’t feared when you’re sitting there in the dark.”

  “Settle down,” Bony said softly. “I’ll stay with you.”

  The invalid sighed, and presently his breathing told of peace. The ethics of giving him drink was not debated by the man who continued to sit on his bed, who sat there until the sound of the Buick reached him. Even then he withdrew only to the fruit trees beyond the veranda, waiting there until assured that James Simpson had gone to his own room.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Shannon’s Private War

  THERE were, of course, several methods by which to effect entry into Baden Park. One could go through the fence, follow­ing the employment of wire-cutters, which Bony did not have with him; one could dig under the fence with a pick and shovel, neither of which tools Bony could carry around; and it was possible to enter by the gate by clinging to the back of Simpson’s car when the night was dark. All these methods, however, lacked finesse, and each one would place a limit to visiting the home of Carl Benson, when several visits might be essential.

  Bony moved his base of operations to the concealment afforded by seven great boulders closely hemmed in by scrub. Quite close ran a trickling stream and along its borders grass grew green and luscious and much favoured by rabbits, which in turn were favoured by Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte at this particular period.

  Less than a hundred yards distant from the boulders ran the great fence, seemingly easily scalable to one who, like Bony, was this evening lying in a declivity near the summit of the tallest boulder. The golden sunlight fell obliquely upon the flat and brilliantly green valley, upon the homestead with its sentinels of trees, the near-by observatory, and upon the ribbon of white road lying straight across the green.

  The day was departing when Bony watched Simpson’s car speed along the white road and disappear among the home­stead trees, and it was gone when with a fire-hardened stick and his hands he began to tunnel under the fence.

  To tunnel under the fence was the only way, were he to enter and leave Baden Park when he wished, and the site he chose was where bush debris lay against the barrier and thus offered concealment for both ends of his tunnel. He was com­pelled to excavate to a depth of three feet and adequately to conceal the earth he removed. When he completed the work day was breaking and his back was breaking, and his hands were torn and painful.

  He breakfasted on grilled rabbit and a crust of damper, and there would be no more bread, because there remained no more flour. There was no more tobacco, either, but he did have a store of cigarette-ends and about twenty matches, a fistful of tea and a little sugar.

  He slept through the day till shortly before five o’clock, when leisurely he brewed a pot of tea and ate the remainder of the rabbit. He planned that night to investigate the homestead and those who lived there, and he was with deliberate unhaste drawing at a cigarette when he heard the sound of shooting. There were four reports, to him being no louder than a cork drawn from a bottle.

  Within the space of five seconds he was high in the niche near the summit of the tallest boulder and directing his gaze towards the homestead. He could see the golden discs of oranges, but nothing that moved in the vicinity of the house and observatory. He could actually see the blue smoke rising lazily from one of the three chimneys. Then again he heard the shooting, a fraction more distinctly, but not nearer, and coming from the range at his back.

  Several minutes edged by him, and then he heard two further reports, followed after a short interval by one. When no additional reports reached him he decided to investigate what were obviously the reports of a rifle or rifles.

  Then he heard the aeroplane.

  It was high up and approaching from the west, a pencil of gold which grew wings prior to circling the homestead. A machine of medium size, it landed in a paddock skirted by the creek and taxied towards the homestead like a cicada first trying its wings. A man appeared outside the garden hedge and walked forward to greet three people who alighted from the machine.

  It was evident to Bony that the people at the homestead had not heard the shooting, and the shooting submerged the interest aroused by the advent of the visitors to Baden Park. He considered it probable that the shots had been fired in Shannon’s private war, because it was most unlikely that sportsmen would be shooting kangaroos or wallabies or wild dogs. Damn Shannon, if he were the cause of the firing, and thus almost certain to stir up a hornets’ nest when it was vital that the hornets should remain quiescent.

  He began the long ascent of the mountain back, which ended in the precipice overlooking Baden Park Hotel, feeling annoy­ance, yet doubly cautious.

  On reaching the crest, he moved slowly parallel with it for a quarter of a mile before going down the slope almost at right angles. Half-way down, a flash of colour sent him to earth. It kept him there for some time. The colour had been light brown, and he was puzzled because the birds in the vicinity were not alarmed. On again, in action not unlike a goanna, he had proceeded only a dozen yards when he saw a saddled horse anchored to the ground by its trailing reins. Several minutes lapsed before he crawled a little nearer, to be halted once more by the sight of the rider.

  If the man was “foxing” he was doing it remarkably well, so well, in fact, that the birds were not taking the slightest interest in him and giving all their attention to Bony. The man lay upon his back several yards from his horse, one hand clutching a rifle, the other resting high up on his chest.

  Assured now that the man was dead, Bony went forward, foot by foot, the horse now facing him with its ears pricked. Then Bony sighed with the resignation of the martyr, for buried in the rider’s throat was a throwing knife.

  Tragedy was written clearly on this page of the Book of the Bush, and Bony could have read it easily enough had not caution demanded the harder way. Instead of going directly forward he had to encircle the man and horse, still on hands and knees, until finally he read a paragraph.

  Two riders had been travelling together from the east, from the road to Dunkeld, from which they might have set out. One had drawn his rifle from its scabbard and had received a knife in his throat, and the other had ridden down the slope and not towards the Station gate.

  Bony followed the tracks of the second horse, relying on the birds and his eyesight to warn him of a waiting enemy, often halting to sniff the breeze and to listen, although the wind was coming from behind and of little assistance.

  Then he saw the second horse. It was gazing down the slope, curiosity its master. The reins had been slipped from its head, the loop tossed over the broken limb of a low tree. A brown fantail was dancing on the pommel of the saddle.

  Determining the point at which the horse was seeing or hearing some
thing invisible to him, Bony began a wide detour, hoping that the animal would not betray his presence by whinnying. Five minutes later he saw the second man. He was lying on his chest, as though sighting his rifle round the bulge of a boulder, and, like the first, he was dressed as a stockman.

  The stalking Bonaparte cut Shannon’s tracks, and the tracks revealed that the American had been running in zigzag fashion when the second rider went to earth. That he had died whilst sighting along the rifle was proven by the red bar of colour joining his face to the ground, but Bony could not decide how, whether by knife or bullet, as he dared not approach too close.

  Now, on Shannon’s tracks, he saw that the American had been racing for the cover provided by a lone granite monolith poised so acutely that it was astonishing the wind didn’t topple it over. Distance from the second dead man, as well as the position of the dead man, told that Shannon had killed him from the cover of this column of granite, and Bony could not be confident that the American was not still behind it and still full of sting, engrossed by his private war to the extent of shooting at sight. The silly thought flared through Bony’s mind that it would be just damned stupid for a married man with responsibilities to be shot dead by an ally.

  Further detouring was, therefore, clearly indicated. He found Shannon seated on the ground and with his back rest­ing against the monolith. His eyes were closed and he could have been asleep, were it not for the narrow rivulet of con­gealed blood giving his right temple and cheek the appearance of being split open. Resting on his lap and grasped by his right hand was the pistol with the silencer attachment.

  Slowly Bony crept towards him, intent on possessing him­self of the pistol and undecided whether Shannon was sleep­ing or unconscious.

  Shannon was neither unconscious nor asleep. He was feeling sick. The ache of his head was something to remember for many years, and he had to be still and keep his eyes closed. He heard no sound, but instinct warned him. He opened one eye with an effort and then the other. He stared into blazing blue eyes in a dark face less than six inches beyond his feet. A dark hand was thrust forward towards his pistol. Bony said politely: