Bony - 07 - The Mystery of Swordfish Reef

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Joe’s face expanded in a grin of anticipation and he brought the Marlin round to an easterly course. Immediately she began to overhaul the trawler that had on her bow the cipher, A.S.1. Presently the Marlin was running with the bigger ship, a bare twenty yards separating them.

  “They’ve finished cleaning up,” Joe said, and chuckled at a joke he kept to himself. To Bony’s quickened interest there was not a man to be seen on the trawler’s deck, and Wilton explained that after the “clean-up” the crew went off duty. They could see two officers on the glass-protected bridge; one of them came to the end to look downward at the little Marlin.

  “Marlin ahoy!” he shouted between cupped hands. “How’s the swordies?”

  Wilton took over the wheel from the grinning Joe who came a little aft in order that his voice would not be deflected by the shelter structure. He also cupped his hands and distinctly, but with surprising volume, said:

  “No respectable swordfish would be in the sea with that stink­pot afloat on it. You ’ad bites today?”

  “Only one. A bit of a nibble. We don’t want no rod ticklers. Nothing less’n fifty-ton whales satisfies us when we does a bit of fishing with hand lines. How’s your corns?”

  “Itching to connect with yer stern, you lop-eared cast off,” yelled Joe. “ ’Ow’s old Whiskers ’Arris today? Tell ’im a gentle­man’s down here wishing to ’ave a word or two with him.”

  The trawler officer continued to lean elegantly over the end of the bridge. He expectorated in a manner denoting careful practice. Then he said, conversationally:

  “The captain is unable to oblige, you flat-footed, paunchy tadpole. The captain never speaks with ex-deck-hands who never wash their necks—you shark-eating old mother-basher.”

  Joe winked at Bony, cupped his hands and continued the chat.

  “You tell ole Whiskers ’Arris that when I meets ’im again I’m gonna uncomb the tangle for ’im. I suppose he’s down below, drunk again. I pity ’is poor missus and kids. And as for you, you la-de-da queen, I’m gonna spoil that nice uniform you wears ashore. You know, that one with all the yards of gold braid pinned to it. No wonder the price of fish in the cities is so high that people can’t afford to eat fish. No wonder the Gov’ment provides soft jobs for their friends, sending them to sea in a flash craft to look for fish. They gotta do somethink to make believe fish is scarce, ’cos you blokes is asleep ’arf the time. Why don’t you wake up and catch fish, you scented barber’s pole?”

  Wilton had turned the bow of the Marlin away from the trawler and quickly they drew apart. The officer on the bridge and Joe continued their chat until both realized that the other could not possibly hear him. Then Joe turned to Bony, to say:

  “I served a twelvemonth on ’er. That pup on the bridge thought a lot of ’isself even in them days. Not a bad sorta bloke, though.”

  “Zigzag her across the reef and make towards Montague,” Wilton ordered.

  Again Bony saw the sea above Swordfish Reef. Today a steep chop marked its position, the waves close and ever-curling. They seemed to be barely moving like people who hurried, yet never arrived. The trawler already far astern sent a smoke plume from her funnel as though in derision of Joe Peace.

  After two hours had passed in lethargic waiting, Montague Island appeared larger to Bony than ever before. Wilton, seated on the deck well forward stamped his foot. Instantly Joe became “alive”, raising himself above the shelter structure to hear his partner’s observations.

  “Swordie jumping! ’Way over there!” shouted Wilton. “Speed her up.”

  Bony leaned far out the better to see forward past the Marlin’s side. He noted how quickly his pulses raced at the very mention of the king of fish. Then he saw the jumping swordfish. No doubt, the ancient originator of the story of Venus rising from the sea got his idea from a swordfish jumping. Bony saw the slim, beautiful figure glinting green within its rainbow sheath of spray.

  “He’s showin’ orf,” shouted Joe. “There’s others about for ’im to do that. Keep an eye on yer bait-fish.”

  Again the great fish appeared to dance for a space on its tail, then slide down into the water at an angle.

  Wilton waved a hand in a circular motion, and Joe steered the Marlin in giant circles about the place where the swordfish last leaped. Bony slipped on the body harness and attached it to the rod reel, then with gloved hands ready to control bait-fish and racing line, waited, his blood fired by expectation and the hope of seeing a fin. Presently Wilton came aft.

  “There’s plenty of birds south of the island,” he announced. “Likely enough there’s a big shoal or two of fish. If you’d like some quick sport I’ll get the light rod and line ready.”

  Bony nodded. He still hoped to see a fin. The Marlin con­tinued a straight course to the north, and in less than half an hour those on her saw ahead the water lashed to fury and darkened as though by a fierce wind squall.

  The porpoises had been tightly packed in the water astern of the trawler, and their number within sight at any one instant had been astonishing but the Marlin trolled on to an area of hundreds of acres almost solid with fish. With the light line and tackle Bony brought to the launch fish after fish that all weighed in the vicinity of ten pounds. They were blue-fin tuna, firm and rounded, strong and desperate fighters. In twenty minu­tes Bony gave it up. It was too much like hard work, this in­cessant reeling of fish to the light gaff wielded by Wilton. There was no chance of missing a strike. If one fish got off the feath­ered hook another would take it. When one fish was drawn towards the launch it would be followed closely by hundreds of others.

  “More fish in that shoal than would be wanted to feed Australia for a year,” Wilton said, seriously. “If all the fish in that shoal was put aboard a twenty thousand ton ship they’d sink her. And, Bony, Australia imports every year more than a million pounds’ worth of tinned fish.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Bony said. “And I recently heard Joe refer to the various governments sending out ships to look for fish along our coasts. I wonder if they have ever heard of Bermagui and Montague Island. I don’t suppose so. There’s enough fish in this sea to provide us all with fish at a penny a pound. Yes, Jack, it’s a mad world, and it’s getting madder every year.”

  An hour later they trolled in water clear of shoal fish only to pass into another area crowded with countless billions of king-fish averaging four pounds each in weight.

  “And men on the basic wage working in the cities and won­dering how to feed the kids,” Wilton said, bitterly. “And fisher­men along this coast struggling to make a living in a limited market.”

  Again they got free into clear water, and Bony watched the receding area of tortured sea whilst he wondered at the selfishness of man which denied a stupendous harvest of the sea to the hungry. As he had said, it is a mad world.

  Wilton was standing up for’ard and Joe was talking to Bony when the giant reel abruptly began its screaming. Three pairs of eyes at once were focused on the water astern of the launch. There was no commotion. The reel continued its high note, and the line was racing fast down into the clear green depths. Bony jumped for his place at the rod, slipped on his gloves and re­leased the brake and controlled the line running off the drum of the reel. He did not see the glance of approval pass between his launchmen.

  “What took the bait-fish?” Joe demanded.

  “Don’t know. Never saw it go. Did you, Bony?”

  “I was not watching,” Bony admitted.

  “Sounds like it was a swordie galloping away with the bait-fish,” Wilton surmised.

  “A bit too steady for a swordie,” Joe doubted. “More like a shark.”

  “Perhaps,” Wilton conceded. “Hope it’s not a hammer­head. We’ll be hanging around a long time if it is.”

  “ ’Tain’t a ’ammerhead,” Joe argued. “He’s going too far and too fast for a hammerhead. Might be a mako. Hope so. I like to lower their dignity.”

  “More than half my line is out,�
�� Bony cried, that longed-for thrill of exultation coursing through his veins like fire. “Shall I strike him?”

  “Might be as well,” assented Wilton, standing at his angler’s back.

  Bony applied brakage and struck. There was no give in the weight at the end of those hundreds of yards of line buried in the sea. There was no pause in the scream of the reel.

  “Shark all right,” confidently predicted Joe. “He’s going south. A swordie would get away to the north-east. Hullo! Look! He’s coming up. He’s a mako for sure.”

  Bony was gaining line and striking as rapidly as he could. He was experiencing pride in the fact that Wilton was not telling him what to do. Then he shouted when his launchmen shouted, for they all saw leap half-way out of the water a greyish shape having an eel-like head. The head shook, epitomising rage and hate. They could see its fearsome mouth snapping at the wire trace they could not see. They could see the whitish circle on the broad triangular dorsal fin marking probably the most fero­cious species of shark.

  “He’s a good ’un,” yelled Joe, his back to the wheel. “Sock it into ’im. ’E can’t throw a bait like a swordie can. What goes into ’is mouth stays there. Go on, Bony, sock it into ’im.”

  Thirty minutes passed before the sweat-drenched Bony saw the bright swivel connecting line with trace come up out of the sea. He thought then that victory was near, but the brute decided to prolong the fight and went away with two hundred yards of Bony’s line. That two hundred yards of line took Bony another twenty minutes to regain, and then, when Wilton was about to grasp the trace with gloved hands preparatory to bringing the fish closer for Joe to gaff, the shark attacked the Marlin. The craft shuddered from the blow delivered by a battering ram weighting four hundred pounds. The battering ram ran away with a hundred yards of line, and “played” for a space with the exhausted angler. It again attacked the Marlin ten minutes later, heaving itself nearly clear of the sea in effort to get into the cockpit at the angler himself.

  That made Bony feel cold beneath the heat of battle, and Joe yelled and danced and waved a bar of iron. After that, and five more minutes of struggle, the shark gave in. It was drawn to the side of the launch and expertly gaffed. Joe made fast the gaff rope to a bollard. Sheets of spray leaped upward further to cool the angler and to be ignored by the launchmen. Wilton hung on to the thin trace. Taking the vicious tugs of the brute’s head, and then Joe leaned over the gunwale and proceeded to lower the brute’s dignity with the iron bar. That done, he stood up and turned to face the triumphant angler.

  “That’s fixed ’im,” he said, grinning. “I like taking it outer them sort. They ain’t fit companions for your gals.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Intuition

  THE SYDNEY newspapers arriving at Bermagui on 17th January contained matter highly gratifying to Bony but annoying to Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.

  He had had an unfortunate day at sea, having lost a striped marlin swordfish through haste in bringing it to the gaff in short time. Then a seal had followed the Marlin for two hours, apparently to gain relief from boredom. Its presence keeping away probably swordfish from Bony’s bait-fish, Wilton and Joe between them did everything possible trying to “lose” it. They put the launch at top speed to tire the seal, but it evidently liked speed. Every time it went below the surface the Marlin was put hard to port or starboard with the hope of escaping, but on coming again to the surface the seal would raise itself high out of water, look about like a crop-eared dog, spot the launch and come tearing along after it. Short of shooting it there was no getting rid of its unwelcome presence until it chose to leave, and neither Bony nor his launchman thought to do that.

  Then, when returning to his hotel after this unfortunate day, Blade called him into his office.

  “These newpaper reports will interest you.” Blade told him. “The papers arrived this afternoon.”

  He displayed several sheets on which he had enclosed matter with neat blue crosses. Bony’s attention was at once attracted by the headline over one of the reports. It read:

  “Brisbane Detective-Inspector Captures Giant Swordfish.”

  Two inches were given to facts of the capture of Bony’s second fish and its weight and measurements. Four inches were given to him:

  “There is, of course, in Australia only one Mr Napoleon Bonaparte. He is an inspector attached to the Criminal In­vestigation Branch in Brisbane, a man whose career is as roman­tic as it is remarkable. It is said that he has never failed success­fully to finalize a case assigned to him, and that his bush craft and gifts have raised him high in the estimation of his superiors. His presence at Bermagui probably indicates that he is enjoying a busman’s holiday; for the disappearance of a launch off Bermagui, and the subsequent recovery in a ship’s trawl of the mutilated head of the angler who disappeared with the launch, a relic which unmistakably proved that the unfortunate man was shot, presents one of the most baffling mysteries of modern times.”

  Yet another Sydney daily mentioned Bony’s profession and hinted that he was taking a busman’s holiday. It added:

  “His record of successes has created strong confidence in him by his superiors, and on several occasions he has been loaned to the Police Departments of other States to clear up a par­ticularly difficult case. Should D-I Bonaparte really be working on the Do-me case, it may be taken for granted that startling developments will ultimately take place.”

  Setting the papers down on Blade’s desk, Bony walked to the door where he stood and pondered on this particular “start­ling development”. Blade came to stand behind him his face troubled.

  “I feel that I am partially responsible,” he said. “Not, however, for the information concerning your profession and presence at Bermagui. Those secrets have been well kept by all you took into your confidence. We’re not gossipers.”

  When Bony turned to the club secretary he was smiling although his eyes were serious.

  “It is obvious, Blade, that the facts concerning me were given by editorial direction,”

  “I am glad you accept that,” Blade hurriedly cut in. “It has been my practice to post the newspapers with any unusual happening down here, and, of course, your five hundred and eighty-pounder swordie was an unusual happening. It’s good for the town and the club, you understand. I hope that the unfor­tunate revelation won’t have any serious effect on your investi­gation.”

  “I think not, Blade, and it is not worth worrying about really. It will cause comment, and people here will want to know why I am enjoying myself fishing for swordfish if I am investigating the disappearance of the Do-me; and they will want to know why I am not investigating the disappearance if I am really here on holidays.” Bony chuckled. “And I was thinking of capturing half a dozen more swordies before I finalized this investigation. Now, I will have to work.”

  “Are you making any headway at all?”

  “Yes, a little, a little. I am almost in the position of being able to say how it was done and who did it. I am waiting to know why it was done. That is strictly between ourselves. Ah—here’s Constable Telfer.”

  “Afternoon, Mr Bonaparte,” the man with the big hands, the tough and big body, and the red and tough face said in cheer­ful greeting. He glanced at Blade, hesitating to speak further. Bony said:

  “Did the inquiry about dark-grey kalsomine paint bear fruit?”

  “Yes. The party bought ten packets of dark-grey kalsomine on 11th September at Milton’s hardware store in Cobargo.”

  “Oh! That, Telfer, is most satisfactory. By the way, I will probably be out fishing tomorrow, and should Sergeant Allen or another officer arrive when I am away, I want you to be careful not to disclose an item of interest concerning our work on this Do-me case. We are not going to permit any loss of credit to ourselves.”

  The constable’s face and eyes indicated happiness.

  “In fact, Telfer, it would be well for you, and you too, Blade, to be extremely dense and mentally vague. Allen migh
t ask if you know a man having blue eyes and soft hands, a command­ing presence and an English accent, and in age about sixty. I am expecting Allen or another officer to bring me important information concerning the man I have just described, and he may think himself sufficiently clever to put one over on poor old Bony. Keep him occupied, therefore, with subjects such as the weather.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep him interested,” Blade assented.

  “And I’ll be a gawk from Woop-Woop,” Telfer added, de­lighted by the prospect.

  “I am sure that we, with the possible assistance of the Cobar­go uniformed police, can deal with our own affairs,” Bony said. “My impression of Allen is that he wouldn’t hesitate to steal a march, and it is he who is likely to convey the information, being so familiar with the ground. Now I must prepare for dinner. I am displeased with myself for having lost a swordie through sheer brainless stupidity. Au revoir!”

  “Must we let the Cobargo crowd in on this job?” Telfer asked, doubtfully.

  Bony nodded.

  “There are more bolt-holes than you and I could cover, and more than one rabbit.”

  When he had gone Telfer regarded the club secretary. Blade smiled and said:

  “He said that you and he wouldn’t be able to manage all the bolt-holes. He didn’t include me, but I am going to look after one of those bolt-holes, and you’re not going to stop me.”

  “I don’t aim to.” Telfer sighed and added: “I wish I could get results like he does, and go fishing while I’m doing it. When I think of all the nights I’ve stopped up out of bed teasing my nit-wit brain to work out a theory or two about the Do-me, and him away fishing and doing his real job at the same time, I reckon I ought to get away from The Force and take on wood chopping.”

  At dinner Bony had to assure his table companion, Mr Emery, that although he was a detective-inspector he was really and truly on holiday and not at all interested in the fate of the Do-me. He did this with no betrayal of “hate” of telling lies. He could “sense” the additional interest in him exhibited by every­one about him. In itself this interest fed his abnormal vanity, but beneath the pleasure it gave him lurked a feeling of an­noyance. Time had forestalled him, had played a trick on him by revealing him to this Bermagui world before he was ready for the revelation.