“This stuff will cleanse and heal,” he told Bony on his return. “Shove it on. There’s plenty more.”
“Thanks. The cut was beginning to smart. Done with a gun, by the way. My own fault. Yes, poor old Grumman was found in a ditch yesterday morning. Did the C.I.B. people contact you?”
“No,” replied Blythe. “I was informed through other channels.”
“Well, the morning papers will have a lot of it,” Bony promised. “But I’ll run through the details which will include material the papers won’t have.”
He related how he had found Bisker and another man standing on the edge of the ditch wherein lay the body of Grumman, and how he had subsequently entered Grumman’s room to find the dead man’s effects vanished. He told of the visit of the man, Marcus, and the shooting of Constable Rice, concluding by asking if the Colonel knew anything of Marcus, otherwise Alexander Croft, alias Mick Slater, alias Edward B. Martyn. Colonel Blythe pursed his lips and nodded.
“Edward B. Martyn is known to me,” he said. “Captain Kirby, my assistant, will know much more than I do. Kirby, by the way, is a Scotland Yard man. Er -just a moment. Come in!”
The Peace Officer entered carrying a tray containing coffee and biscuits, and Blythe suggested that both he and his mate on duty at the gate might like coffee-with a little dash of rum in it to keep out the cold. Bony felt that Bisker had made a mistake by not consenting to accompany him that night and morning.
“Well, go on,” Blythe urged when the officer had departed with the addition to the coffee in a glass.
“How Grumman was poisoned I expect the C.I.B. people will find out,” Bony proceeded. “It’s an item which interests me but probably not you. They were anxious to play ball with me and I saw no reason why I should not-up to a point. I could not understand why Grumman should be killed, presumably for his papers, and then his belongings removed. He was found dressed in dressing gown and slippers, and wearing pyjamas, so we may assume that he died before midnight-leaving his killer at least five hours to go through his effects for the papers. It became still more baffling after I observed the handy-man loitering about a tub in which grows an ornamental shrub outside the main entrance.”
Colonel Blythe listened with growing intensity of interest as Bony continued the tale of Bisker and his buried whisky, his eyes became wide open and he smiled happily as Bony described the scene in Bisker’s hut when he closed his hand over Bisker’s wrist to prevent accidental damage to the unwound spool of photographic film.
“Good work, old man!” he exclaimed. “Excellent.”
“Yes, it was a tremendous fluke,” admitted Bony.“One of those rare coincidences which sometimes favour me. However, the pens were subsequently taken from me.”
He related how he had gone back to Bisker’s hut and there found Bisker unconscious and his pockets rifled and the hut searched. He related the coming of the “drunk” and how he had been taken in by the ruse, and eventually how he had been held up and the pens in their holder taken from him by the man who escaped.
“What horrible luck!” Blythe burst out at the conclusion of Bony’s report. “You’ll have to get that chap. We must have those films, you know. They’ll be a damn sight more dangerous in the hands of some other Power than in the keeping of the OKW, for the OKW won’t be able to do so much with them for several years, and in that time, our own Government will nullify most of their secrets through the discoveries of our own scientists.”
“It was unfortunate,” Bony said sadly. “They were beautiful pens. I was intending to ask you for them.”
“Oh, yes, you could have had the pens, man. It’s the contents we want. Hang it! What fearful luck! What do you make of it all?”
“Very little,” Bony confessed. “However, I am strongly inclined to the belief that the man who baled me up and took the pens did not come from the city to do it. He was wearing a navy-blue suit which was so well pressed that it was obvious that he hadn’t worn it long, and hadn’t travelled by car in it. Also, it smelled of strong disinfectant: youknow, the stuff that is put with clothes to keep away silverfish. If he had come from a distance, or had been in the open air for even a short time, the smell would not have been so strong.
“Whether he had anything to do with the killing of Grumman and the theft of Grumman’s luggage is debatable. I think he’s not responsible for Grumman’s death and the theft of Grumman’s kit, for he put those pens in the shrub tub, or knew they were buried there by some person who had no need to steal Grumman’s kit.
“What have we? One party who killed Grumman and stole his kit. Another party who stole the pens and planted them in the shrub tub, and a third party, the man, Marcus, who mightwell have been after Grumman’s papers. This last raises the question of what a dope trafficker had to do with ahigh German officer in possession of plans and secrets of armaments.”
Colonel Blythe audibly sighed.
“Heck of a mix-up. What do you intend to do now?” he asked.
“Find out who killed Grumman. Find out who robbed me of those pens I wanted for keepsakes. Find outwho the man is who wears a twelve size in shoes, and one or two other things which have come to interest me.”
The Colonel began to pace on the sound-defying carpet. Bony poured himself his third cup of coffee and lit his third cigarette. Neither spoke for five minutes, when Blythe halted before the seated Bony.
“We’ve got to get those pens,” he said. “The blasted Peace Conference may fail to keep Germany in subjection as long as she ought to be, and the German General Staff might well get into the saddle again within a year or two.”
Bony, looking upward, noted the anxiety in the other man’s face. Blythe went on:
“Hang it, Bony. It’s not like you. I don’t understand you. You had those pens and then you- Oh, damn!”
“I’m going to get those pens, never fear,” Bony boasted. “I have never failed yet in finalising a case assigned to me. Those pens are going to be mine. They are lovely pens, gold-mounted. I want one to give to my eldest son Charles who has just gained his Medical Degree and the other I want to give to my wife.”
“You can have the pens-if ever you get them,” Blythe promised. “You must get them. Why, thecontents of those pens is without price. I want the contents. And I want the contents right now.”
“Oh!” Bony’s eyes gleamed. “If it’s the contents you are so greedy for, that will be easy.”
Colonel Blythe again audibly sighed with impatience. He began again to pace to and fro over the thick carpet. He had been first amazed on seeing General Lode in Collins Street, then his hopes had been raised high when Colonel Spendor had sent Bony down to him, for the little detective’s war work for him had been remarkably successful. And then for Bony to have the pens in his possession only to lose them to a gunman!
What was that! Bony was saying:
“I want the pens, and you want the contents, Colonel. Well, I have still to get the pens. The contents you can have now.”
Colonel Blythe halted once again before the seated Bony. He stooped down to peer into Bony’s upturned hands. His own hands tore through his long and still-fair hair. As a man believing that what he sees is a vision, he took up from Bony’s hands two thin cylinders covered with a material like wax, and the covering of one had been slit with a knife and now was bound with a piece of twine. Without speaking, he took the cylinders to a desk and turned on a desk light. With a knife he cut the twine, and out burst the roll of what looked like film. He held it before the light. He looked at portions of it through a glass. He was there a full minute, watched by the smiling Bony. For the third time he went back to stand over the detective.
“You blooming swab, you!” he chortled.“You-you-you not-a-policeman’s-bootlace-you, according to old Pop. You tantalising, obstinate, undisciplined shadow of a policeman-again according to Pop Spendor. Oh, joy! Oh, heaven!”
“Better go quiet, or you’ll wake the wife,” urged Bony, smiling delightedly at the effect of his
surprise. “Please remember that I seldom take unnecessary risks. I transferred the contents to another pocket immediately after I left Bisker to go to my room for blankets. I wasn’t sure of Bisker, for a start, but I believed him when he said he didn’t bury the pens. But-I could not take the risk of staying at the Chalet for the night in case that gunman found that the contents had been taken from the pens he had, and came back with reinforcements. I could not take the chance of ringing for a hire car, or even engaging the local hire-car man to bring me to the station. So I left as soon as I could, and I walked to the station, where I had to stay for five hours to catch a city-bound train. And then, having reached the city, I couldn’t take the chance of coming here direct-in case I had been picked up and was being followed.”
Colonel Blythe appeared as though he wanted to shake hands.
“Well, you’ve done a good job, my dear fellow,” he said. “Pop Spendor ought to be pleased at having you back with him so soon. All the better! He’ll not moan and wince so much the next time I ask him for you!”
“I shall, I think, not be returning immediately,” Bony countered.
“Oh! But you’ve done the job.”
“Your job, yes, but I haven’t finished my holiday,” objected Bony. “When I saw the Chalet on Mount Chalmers, I decided I’d stay for two weeks. When I had lived there twenty-four hours I made it a month. Why the food is super-excellent. The service is good. And I must get those pens.”
“But your work is accomplished,” persisted Blythe. “You can take a year’s holiday at Wideview Chalet as far as I’m concerned. I’m willing to bet that by the post this morning I’ll have an air-mailed letter fromPop demanding to know how long I intend keeping you.”
Bony rose from his chair.
“You have probably found Colonel Spendor little more difficult as a father-in-law than I have found him as a Chief Commissioner,” he said. “He can damn and blast as much as he feels like it. I am going back to Wideview Chalet to get those pens I have promised to my wife and my son Charles. The Victorian Police can go-get Marcus. The killer of Grumman is my meat. So, too, is the gunman who took those pens from me. Why, if I went back to Brisbane without nailing that gunman, I’d hear his laughter all the rest of my life. So you just tell Colonel Spendor that Bony’s still on the job for you. Or else…”
Colonel Blythe clenched his fists and grinned like a schoolboy.
“I’d like to have a bit of you,” he threatened. “I would, too, if I didn’t admire your guts. Now for a shower and a couple of hours’ sleep, eh? Then a late breakfast and a confab with Kirby about friend Marcus. You’d like to get ahead of the Melbourne lads, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, it would be a little comforting,” agreed Bony.
Chapter Nine
Calm at Wideview Chalet
AS USUAL, Bisker’s alarm clock rang at half-past five on the morning of September 2, and, as usual, a callused fist crashed down upon its “stop” button. It was absolutely dark inside the hut. Bisker groaned and got through the first sentence of his morning hate before he remembered the excitement of the previous day.
He lit the lamp, and drew to his mouth the early-morning pipe so carefully loaded with “dottles” and now drawing at this trebly poisonous concoction, he surveyed past events and recalled those last orders given him by Napoleon Bonaparte.
Like allbushmen, he had a profound contempt for the city gunman and thug who made himself temporarily superior to ordinary folk through the possession of firearms, and who exercised his trade by armed force instead of the brain that is necessary in the robbing of a bank. Therefore, it was natural for Bisker, at this early-morning hour, to muse on the indignation he had taken to bed with him following his own ill-usage at the hands of such a man.
Dressing with his customary carelessness, and with his customary care filling his pockets with tobacco and spare pipe, clasp-knife and match tin and corkscrew, Bisker took up the lamp and stepped out into the cold, dank and uninviting morning.
On closing the door, he did not follow the path to the open space fronting the garages. Obeying instructions, he sidled along the wall of the hut to its corner and then proceeded direct to the top fence. This he followed past the rear of the garages to reach the scullery door of the Chalet, and so did not obliterate possible tracks made by the gunman, tracks which would be of undoubted interest to Bony when he returned from the city. He had made the morning tea for himself and the cook when Mrs. Parkes arrived in the kitchen.
“Mornin’!” he snarled.
“Morning!” she snapped back at him.“Tea ready?”
“Too right! Makeyerself at ’omeby the fire. I’ll do the serving act.”
Mrs. Parkes dragged a chair along and sat before one of the fires in the central range, and when she sat there was nothing to spare of the chair seat. Her brown hair was not yet “done,” and the absence of her teeth appeared to create an emphatic cleavage between the button of her nose and the line of her wide chin. Brown eyes gazed into the fire, eyes small and now unblinking. Without a word, she took the cup of tea brought to her by Bisker, and not until she had drunk it and handed the cup back to him to be refilled and had taken a cigarette from her apron pocket and lit it, did she begin to articulate.
“Any more murders this morning, I wonder?”
“Dunno. Itain’t light enough yet to discover any corpses,” Bisker said, faint hope in his voice. “The papersoughter beintrestin ’ today.”
“Yes, they ought,” agreed Mrs. Parkes. “You get me all the morning papers when you go down to the store. Thank goodness, I won’t be in ’em.”
Bisker ambled across to the wall bench and filled his cup. He returned to sit on a part of the stove not yet heated by the fires, and cut chips from his plug for another pipe.
“You never know,” he said. “One of them reporters asked me all about the staff ’ere, and I told ’imabout George, and youbein ’ the cook.”
“You would. And a mightylot more about yourself. Any’ow, I’m glad I’m not mixed up in it, for my old man to sling off at me when he comes ’ome. Iain’t sure this is a respectable place any longer. One thing about it, there’s only six guests to cook for this morning, and the name of the place ought to keep more from coming.”
“There’ll be only five guests this morning,” Bisker said. “Mr. Bonaparte went to town late last-night and won’t be back till sometime today.”
“Oh! Howd’you know?”
“ ’Coshe told me. Nice bloke that. Talks civilised, sort of. None of the ‘Haw! Haw! Bisker! Get me a paper!’ about ’im. As for that Grumman bloke, well, Iain’tpartic’ly sorry he’s turned in ’is cheques. ’E wouldn’t even say good day to a man.”
“I wonder who done him in,” Mrs. Parkes said slowly, getting the last “draw” out of her cigarette. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t that Bagshott man. From them books of his he knows all about poisons and how to give them. I did hear that he practises on rabbits and things.”
“You don’t say!” Bisker exclaimed.“No, I wouldn’t put it past ’imneither. I never thought of ’im.”
“And you’d better not think of him now,” Mrs. Parkes said. “Look at the time. What about the boots?”
Bisker collected the boots-four pairs of men’s shoes and the pair he picked up outside Miss Jade’s room. During this work he took from a coat pocket a note addressed to Miss Jade by Bony and this he left on the small table set to one side of the office door. Whilst cleaning the shoes he whistled so loudly that Mrs. Parkes came to the scullery door to tell him to “shut up.”
He had more time this morning, because of the smaller number of shoes to clean, and he wandered round to the main entrance, the door of which was not yet opened. There he visited the shrub tub to smooth the earth he had so rudely disturbed the previous evening. It was as well, for Miss Jade would certainly have noted the disturbance and asked questions. In the light of day, it appeared as though a rabbit had been burrowing. There was the hole fro
m which he had taken the whisky bottle, much larger than when he had made it, and there beside the hole were the impressions of four fingers and a thumb of a man’s outspread hand.
Whilst filling in the bottle hole, Bisker’s mind worked with, what was for it, abnormalspeed. He went over his own actions during the time he had sat on the edge of the tub, and during the last time when he had dragged from the soil the two fountain pens and the bottle and he could not recall that he had pressed either of his hands flat out like that on the soft earth.
Had the impression been made by the hand of the gunman? Bisker worried at this question. There were, of course, no fingerprints, but the shape of the hand was clear, a left hand, and the impression had certainly not been there when he had sat on the edge of the tub the previous evening as dusk was falling. The man whose left hand had made the impression had stood at the tub and used his right to delve into the earth, and the only man beside himself who had had an interest in the tub was the gunman.
“Whay!” murmured Bisker. There was yet another man-the bloke who had buried the pens. The impression might have been made by his left hand.
Now what to do? If he left the impression, the gunman, or the man who had buried the pens might come along and see it, and then press it out. And Mr. Bonaparte might like to see it. He might want to measure it, measure the span and so get to the size of the hand. Yes, what to do?
It was almost full daylight. The sun was due to rise. All was still quiet inside the house, and it was yet ten or fifteen minutes before one of the maids would open the front door and sweep the porch. The idea of placing a strip of tin over the impression occurred to Bisker, and then he saw that this would attract attention to it. So better leave it alone.
He crossed back to the wood-stack and from there passed along the rear of the garages. In this way he came to his hut at its rear, sidled along the wall to reach the door, and at the same time regarded with interest the narrow cinder path he had avoided on going to the house.
The Devil_s Steps b-10 Page 8
