“Out riding, I suppose.” Turning to the others, he bawled with unnerving abruptness, “Where Miss Kimberleygo?”
Arms waved to various compass points. General laughter, questionsinterchanged, no direct answers. One of them must have gone out that morning for the saddle-horses, brought them to the yard, and someone must have saddled a horse for Kimberley Breen… if she had gone out riding. Bony recalled that Kimberley had said Silas had gone off shooting crocodiles and accompanied by most of the boys. The boss stockman had said he had left with three boys, and actually named one. He said, softly, his eyes suddenly blazing at Mr Patrick O’Grady:
“Why were you armed with that revolver?”
The boss stockman was wounded by the reversion to a subject which had been adequately settled, and because he hesitated to reply, Bony shot another question at him:
“When did you see Jacky Musgrave?”
The group became tense. Bony, who was seeking to penetrate the depth of the black eyes he was holding with his own, did not observe the swift immobility, but felt the instant change. This time, he waited for the answer, and, waiting, watched the shutter fall.
“Don’t know,” replied the boss stockman.“Long time ago.”
“Not last week?”
A vigorous shake of the head. Interest maintained in the homestead, the trees, in anything but the blazing blue eyes. A grey-whiskered man rescued the boss stockman.
“Jacky Musgrave him tracker for MrStenhouse. Jacky no belong Breen country.”
“That’s right,” agreed Patrick.“Haven’t seen Jacky for years. Two years back, anyway. Miss Kimberley says MrStenhouse has been shot and Jacky shot him and cleared out to his own country. Jacky’s wild black. We’re station blacks.”
“Well, you had better stay in camp… all of you,” Bony said, sternly. “You tell Miss Kimberley that Constable Irwin and I called to see her.”
“And if I find you wearing a gun again, I’ll take you to the Wyndham gaol,” added Irwin.
Silent men watched them as they drove away, passing the homestead and proceeding southward. Half a mile from the homestead, the track took the vehicle into concealment behind a long and low ridge of bare rock, and here Bony ordered a stop, and climbed to the summit of the ridge to watch.
The boss stockman was striding to the house, walking with the mincing tread of the man who has lived longer in a saddle than out of it, and he proceeded to the door of the detached kitchen. The lubra who had been sweeping the veranda had disappeared. Minutes passed, when Bony saw her traverse the covered way between kitchen and house. She was in the house for a full minute before leaving it again for the kitchen, and then the boss stockman passed from kitchen to house and stood at the side door talking with someone within.
Jasper was away with the cattle. Silas was away on a crocodile hunt. Ezra was with Jasper. There was no one left with the right to be in the house but Kimberley.
“Kimberley Breen was home, after all,” Bonysaid, when they were on the move. “I didn’t see her, but the boss stockman reported at the kitchen and was told to cross to the house.”
“Don’t understand why she wouldn’t see us,” Irwin growled. “Don’t think much of the entire set-up. Thatabo was a liar all through. They stiffened into a lot of trees killed by a bush fire when you brought up Jacky Musgrave.”
“They know that Jacky Musgrave was shot, and that he was subsequently turned into a horse, and they know that Jacky’s tribe is coming to investigate his death. That stockman was armed because they’re all afraid of Pluto’s Mob. I don’t think they will attack theBreens ’ blacks… unless, of course, they find out one or more of them were mixed up in Jacky’s murder.”
After a long silence, Irwin said:
“The boss stockman being armed, and the rest being uneasy, would seem to point to guilty knowledge, wouldn’t it?”
“By no means. They would be frightened by the very presence of those desert blacks, fearing that, given the opportunity, the strangers would capture some of their women. Patrick O’Grady and others are well aware that the wild blacks are betterbushmen than they: that, to express a colloquialism, the wild blacks can run rings round them.”
“Then what’s wrong with the set-up? On the same argument, the blacks over at Wallace’s station will also be nervous.”
“They are. What is wrong with the place we’ve just left is Kimberley Breen. She didn’t want to see us, and when they heard us coming, she instructed the lubra to tell us she was out. There was no time to give the same instructions to the boss stockman, even had Kimberley calculated we would interview him and his fellows. Even in that there need be no guilty knowledge ofStenhouse and his tracker. D’youknow if young Wallace is interested in Kimberley?”
“Couldn’t say,” replied the frowning Irwin.
“Well, then, do you think we can get back to Agar’s tonight?”
“Yes, we could,” Irwin said, and Bony noted the reluctance to accept the idea. “Make it a bit late getting there. Have to tackle the other side of the Range after dark.”
Bony surrendered.
“I don’t fancy slithering and sliding over those rock-bars in the dark,” he said. “It was bad enough coming up. We’ll camp in that natural bowl on the summit; youknow, the place where the baobab trees grow.”
They passed cattle in fair condition, and a bull with them was certainly no runt. A small herd of donkeys looked sleek and fat, and in this red land were no luscious green pastures, no lazy water dreaming in the shadows of downcast willows. Irwin suggested lunch, and they halted beside smooth-faced purple rock teeth rising from a sandy floor for a hundred feet, forming a line for a mile and providing another oddity in a world where uniformity had been banished a million years ago.
“You going to report the finding of the body of Jacky Musgrave?” asked Irwin, who was waiting beside the flame-surrounded tea billy.
“No. I am going to prospect a few leads in Agar’s and then we’ll hunt for the scene of these two crimes. There must be a figurative road back from an effect to its cause. So far, we have observed effects, meaning two bodies. Neither crime was committed at the place where either body was found, which clearly infers that the scene of the murders is of importance to the murderers. At the scene is the motive. The signpost to the motive is at Agar’s Lagoon.”
Irwin dropped a handful of tea into the billy and lifted it from the fire. “It’s a hell of a large country,” he drawled.“A hell of a large country to locate a murder scene whenabos obliterate all tracks, and otherabos are reluctant to work for us. Supposing we did find whereStenhouse and his tracker were killed, supposing we do find bloodstains on the ground and other evidence, what can we deduce from that? We already have the bodies.”
On his knees, Bony was slicing bread on the strip of canvas they used for a table-cloth, and when he had done, he sat on the ground beside the meal.
“Let us assume that these murders were due to opportunity. Visualize the action. Stenhousein his jeep, with Jacky sitting on the load behind him. They meet someone who accepts the opportunity of paying a score. The score settled, the stage is set to tell the story that Jacky Musgrave killed the policeman, and all ground evidence of the murders is obliterated to give the story support. There is something lacking in that picture. What is lacking is the imprints of the jeep’s tyres on the great northern highway to support the story that Jacky killed the policeman, those tracks should have been visible, becauseStenhouse was supposed to be going somewhere when Jacky was supposed to have shot him.”
“All right, then,” argued Irwin. “The jeep must have been taken to the place where it was found… on a truck.”
“No, to that theory, in view of the absence of tracks about the dead horse.”
When the noon camp had been left behind, they continued to talk about the case, Irwin arguing less for the purpose of putting forward an opinion or a theory than for reaching an objective through mental battle. He was handicapped because Bony had said nothing of the
book-gouged receptacles, and nothing of several other matters.
The sun was westering when they began to mount the slopes of Black Range, and it was dancing on the summit of the distant ridge when they topped the lip of the bowl in which they had previously camped. Irwin parked the truck at the same place, and Bony made a fire on the white ash of their earlier fire, and took thebillies to the little grass-edged stream. On returning, he said to Irwin:
“The wild aborigines are lappers, not drinkers… from their cupped hands. At the edges of the stream are faint imprints of several pairs of hands. The imprint of one hand reveals that it was gripping a spear. I think Jacky Musgrave’s people have passed on their way to the dead horse.”
Chapter Sixteen
Polite Conversation
HAVINGSHAVEDand trimmed his moustache and added a little grease to its upturned points,’Un was seated in the hotel veranda chair waiting for the first invitation to a drink before dinner.
The job suited his temperament, and he was now satisfied with a small but regular wage, following the fiery years he had chased Dame Fortune, starved in the chase, accepted her generous gifts, and drunk himself to the grave’s very edge… to begin the cycle all over again. He took pride in his contribution to the bottle ring round Agar’s Lagoon, and, having carted to the ring the empties of the previous day, and having swept the back and front of the premises, cut wood for the kitchen fire, peeled the potatoes and mopped out the bar, he was entitled to his leisure.
The hens were with their lord and master; the town goats were unconcerned; and beyond the post office at the far end of the township an unusual number of aborigines were camped along the bed of a water-gutter.
Several people had come to town that day, and ’Un anticipated a very busy evening behind the bar counter, as Ted Ramsay was already approaching that condition when insensibility overtook him with remarkable acceleration. Then there was Constable Irwin with the half-caste Inspector who had been looking into theStenhouse shooting, and from the plane which had arrived that morning had come aP.M. G. Inspector, and a Mrs Gray with her two children from Perth.
Yes, life wasn’t so bad for ’Un. A little work, a little money, plenty of free beer, and an almost endless procession of guests who seldom stayed more than one night furnished all he needed to ask.
When Bony appeared from the private entrance, ’Un immediately vacated the chair, smiled at this guest, and said:
“How’s things, Inspector?”
“Well, but dry,” replied Bony, seating himself. “I’m tired of being jerked about on your splendid highways. Ah! This is good! Think you could bring a couple of beers?”
“Yes, I’ll get ’em.”
’Un brought the drinks, and sat on the floor with his back to a veranda post. He gave all the local news he considered worthy of telling, and omitted an item which had interested Bony, who observed:
“The blacks appear to be quite numerous.”
“Yes, ain’t they? Must be going to have a corroboree or something. Poor critters… bloody Orstraliaain’t done much for ’em. Still, if I don’t eat youyou eat me, and that’s the way of the world all over.”
“Yes, there’s jungle warfare among the best of us,” agreed Bony, producing money and handing his empty glass to the obliging yardman. War! War between the criminal and the policeman, between the boss and the bossed, between men and women who poison with kindness since it is no longer fashionable to slay with weapons or hire assassins. How the little yardman had survived in this land of iron was quite a little mystery in itself, for he was a gentle soul. Returning with the drinks, he resumed his position with his back to the veranda post and winked.
“Place getting quite important. A Police Inspector and a Post Office Inspector staying here at the same time. DaveBundred’ll have to stick his nose into his records for a day or two. Always behind to hell. Be worse, too, if his wife didn’t do most of the work.”’Un laughed from somewhere down in his boots. “The monthly rain sheet blew out of the winder once and a goatet it. Terrific to-do. Near the end of the month and it had rained every day. So we played darts and put down the highest score as the daily points. Record month for rain that was.”
“I wonder that DaveBundred hasn’t sought a post office down south,” murmured Bony. “The Department doesn’t insist on its officers remaining here for years.”
“No, it didn’t insist, but Dave won’t go down south. Nothing to go with. What he don’t pour down his neck he sends away to the bookies. The horses have had him in for years. Now me, I never gambled on racing, and not much on cards. But I gambledmore’n a bit onmeself. Another? Right away.”
Having again been attended to by the yardman, Bony tried another question which might lead somewhere:
“Much mailgo through Agar’s Lagoon?”
“Fair amount,” replied ’Un.
“Most of it air-mail, I suppose?”
“All of it. Good deal of freight, as well. Then there’s more telegraph work than you’d think. I’ve often given MrsBundred a hand with the mail when Dave’s beennon compos, so I’d know.”
“Yes, there must be a great deal of mail orders in a district like this, although the population per square mile would be about decimal nought one. No shops but the general store, no frills for the ladies, serviceable working clothes for the men. Don’t think I’d like it much, what with week-old newspapers and no books.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” opposed ’Un. “People up here get plenty of books. Libraries send ’emup. Fair amount come from libraries. Iuster pay two quid a quarter for three books a fortnight. Westerns I like best. Zane Grey’s always good. He oughta have come out here. He was pretty good at describing deserts and sunsets and things.”
“Suppose most of the books sent up are Westerns or mysteries,” prompted Bony.
“No. Some people go in for travel books, like theLangs, especially Bob Lang, and one of his sisters is studying handcrafts. TheBreens, they don’t get many books, but what they do get is pretty solid. Ezra told me he was studying stock breeding, aiming to improve their cattle.”
“Oh! Buy them or obtain them from a library?”
“Library. Great reader, Ezra. Always was ever since he came home from hisschoolin ’ in Broome. The others can’t hardly read a paper, ’ceptin’ Kimberley.”
Bony lit another cigarette, emptied his glass, added another question to his list:
“Where does Ezra get his books, d’you know?”
“Yes, I can tell you that,” replied ’Un.“Handled ’emenough, what with entering the parties in the receipt book and the registered dispatch list. Bloke namedSolly, stationer, Peppermint Grove, near Perth, sends ’emup for Ezra Breen. Sends up a parcel amonth, and Ezra sends down a parcel a month. Did hear… can’t remember who told me… thatSolly is a sort of relation to theBreens. Now me, Iain’t gotno relations, but I had me will made.”
“Wise man,” Bony smiled.
“Reckon everyone oughta have their will made. I’ve a bit saved up, and when I kick off I might have a tidy bit of cake in the kip or I may be broke. D’youknow who I made me heir?”
“No. Who?”
’Untwirled the points of his white moustache. Slowly a smile stole into his faded grey eyes and removed the emphasis of his long and pointed chin.
“I leave all I possess… that’s after the bloodyGov’ment takes its whack… to old Pluto. He’s the chief of them wild blacks on the Musgrave Range. Put me and Paddy the Bastard on to a bit o’ gold once, and I haven’t forgotten. Fun’s going to be when my solicitor starts wanting to pay out to Pluto, or his heirs and assigns. Pluto and hiscrowd’s so wild that he won’t be able to get within a million miles of ’em. People reckon I’m the only white man alive, nowStenhouse’s dead, who’s ever seen Pluto… and ever likely to. Think when a bloke’s dead he can see what’s going on down here?”
“Some authorities say yes and others say no,” stalled Bony.
“Well, I hope I can watch the antics of that s
olicitor tearing all over the country trying to catch up with Pluto and hand him my cake. I told him that Pluto owned the pub here and that the beer is always good. Hi! That’s the dinner bell.”
Bony was still laughing at ’Un’spictures when he joined Irwin and Clifford at the table reserved for them. Irwin’s reaction was a guffaw of laughter. Clifford was more restrained.
“Can’t recall where I last heard the word ‘cake’ applied to money,” Bony said.
“Not used nearly as much as it used to be,” Irwin told him.“Cake! That word, and when I see cake, will always remind me of Kim Breen taking her cake from that hat box. Gosh! What a place to keep it!”
“And locked up, too.”
“Have to lock it up, sir. Those lubras would go around on hands and knees licking cake crumbs off the floor.”
“It was certainly delicious. By the way, do you see the post office inspector here?”
Irwin indicated a lean man at an adjacent table. He was as weather-pickled as the constables, differing only from these northern men in the clothes he was wearing.
“The name’s Linton,” murmured Irwin. “Fred Linton. Good bloke. Done more travelling around than I’ll do if I live to be a hundred.”
“Do you know him… personally?”
“Oh, yes. I know all these Government people. The bloke next to him is the chief telegraph linesman between here and Wyndham. How many telegraph postsd’you reckon there are? He says he’s climbed every one of them. There’s 4,262, plus ten sixty-five-feet-high towers.”
“Must have had a lot of splinters in his hands.”
“All iron posts.”
“I’d be obliged if you would introduce me to Mr Linton,” Bony said, casually. “I see Doctor Morley dining with a lady. What do you know about him, Irwin?”
“Fair amount, I think. Came here long before I was born. Practised here for years, but he couldn’t have earned enough to keep himself in grog. People too healthy. Never get sick until they’re ready to drop dead.”
“Private income?”
The Senior Constable chuckled.
Sinister Stones b-19 Page 11
