“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 aspleafsed 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 andthe 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 atBarby’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 RedDraffin 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 RedDraffin joined them.
He was barefoot asusual, 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 ’roosand birds.”
“Ioughta been with you.”
“No good. The ’roostore the fence down, and the sun did the rest. There’ll be millions of rabbits digging under the deaduns to get at the water this very minute.” The glower lifted, the dark eyes cleared. Triumph crept intoBarby’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: ‘Nowwhere’s that bloodymyxotocksis?’ ”
Chapter Twenty-four
Inspector Bonaparte Works
AFTERBREAKFAST, 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.
SergeantMansell 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’llsit, 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 withMansell 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 whenMansell 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 stared, 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 whenMacLennon 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’youknowwhat, Bony? Joan planned to get all that money for free. She told her mother about it, and then the mother sooledMacLennon 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 SergeantMansell.”
“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 tea-chest. 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 hopesleepin ’ in daytime. I can’t answer that one, Bony.”
The sergeant coughed disapprovingly at suchlese-majeste.
“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 yousound 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. Mustabeen.”
“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 mademeself comfortable and took a nap.”
“Would you say you were asleep before one-thirty?”
“I would,” answered Lester, adding confidently: “And by theshadders 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?”
“About that, I reckon.”
“Then the back of the chair would be sixteen to twenty feet from the door to your room?”
“Yair. That’s so.”
“And even if you had been awake, you would not have seen anyone move up the steps, walk across the veranda and enter your room?”
“I might have heard ’em.”
“But you were asleep.”
“Dead to the wide, matter of fact.”
“Right!” snapped Bony. “See that brown paper parcel?”
“Yair,” assented Lester, staring at the trap brought up from the floor.
“What was it doing under your bed after the fire?”
“Search me.” Lester was plainly puzzled, and Bony was satisfied.
“Thank you, Mr Lester. Please join Mr Carney.”
He slouched away to sit with Carney. He sniffled before automatically biting a chew from a plug. He sniffled when Bony said:
“Produce Richard Martyr.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Telling Tales
MARTYRSATONthe tea-chest. He looked to SergeantMansell. The light-grey eyes, invariably in startling contrast with his complexion, were almost lazy until the sergeant said that In
spector Bonaparte wanted to ask questions. When Bony looked up from his notes, the pale-grey eyes were small, and the firm, determined mouth was small, and there wasa paleness about the small nostrils.
“Mr Martyr, what time did you leave the homestead on the morning of the fire?”
“Ten past eight.”
“You did not return until after the fire, accompanied by Carney?”
“No. We saw the smoke plume from Winters Well… sixteen miles away.”
“I was here with Barby, Lester and Miss Fowler when you returned with Carney after the fire. You gave instructions to the effect that we were to accompany Barby to Johnson’s Well, and remain there until you returned from reporting the fire to Mr Wallace. You left before we did. When you had passed over the first ridge, you stopped the utility, watched the out-station to see us depart for Johnson’s Well, and then you returned to the out-station. Why?”
“I did not return from beyond the first ridge.”
“You did. Your tracks betrayed you.”
“All right! I remembered that the Boss would ask me did I look into the safe to see if the books had been destroyed. I ought to have done it before I left. The stock books and records are important, and the Boss would be anxious about them.”
“You opened the safe and found the books… in what condition?”
“Fairly good, to my relief.”
“What did you do then?”
“I locked the safe and carried on.”
“Leaving the key in the lock?”
“I…” Martyr automatically touched the pockets of his jodhpurs.
“Must have done. Damn!”
“What else is in the safe besides the books?”
“Oh, tax stamps, a few pounds in petty cash.”
“Do you customarily carry the safe key in your pockets when you leave the out-station?”
Those pale-grey eyes stood by their owner.
“No. Usually it’s kept on a little nail in the wall behind the desk.”
“And yet a little while ago when the key was mentioned you unconsciously tapped your pockets.”
Death of a Lake b-18 Page 18
