Wings Above the Diamantina

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Nitro-glycerine! Cartwright, he decided, was broadminded and altogether a decent sort: a man, moreover, extremely clever. He would have liked to know how the fire assessor could, from the evidence at hand, determine that it had been nitro-glycerine which had partly destroyed the aeroplane, not gelignite, or dynamite, or gunpowder. The fact that some explosive had been used to assist destruction certainly pointed to one assumption. The man who walked through the bush to destroy the machine certainly did not carry the explosive with him. His object was to destroy any clues, and to do that it was sufficient to set fire to the plane. The explosive agent, therefore, must have been in the machine when it landed, and the inferences to be drawn from that were plain.

  Mounting his horse, Bony turned it due north. He had to give the animal his attention, for it was thirsty and hungry and wanted to return to its home paddock. Reaching the boundary fence he found a place where the wires were slack, and, strapping them together, he coaxed the animal to step over them. Having released the wires he rode smartly northeastward to Gurner’s Hotel.

  Dusk was falling when he reached the single-story, rambling, wooden building facing north across a three-chain road. The wayside hotel was set down in the centre of sparsely scrubbed land, and there were no other buildings within sight. On riding into the yard adjoining the building, he espied a horse-trough and dismounted beside it to allow the beast to drink. To him came a tall, lank, unprepossessing aboriginal, grotesquely attired in the tattered garments of a tramp.

  “Are you the yardman?” Bony inquired.

  “Too right, boss!” replied the black. “You stay here?”

  “For an hour. I want a feed for my horse.”

  “Orl ri’! I feed him up goodo. You gibbit tchilling?”

  “Here you are. Here’s your shilling. Give him a good feed, mind.”

  Without haste, the detective strolled out of the yard and so to the door of the bar. The place was very quiet. East and west, the winding track snaked along the wide cleared road until masked by the falling night. Above, the stars hung like hurricane lamps beneath the roof of a shearing-shed. In the bar, Bony found a little rotund man with a round red face and dark appraising eyes.

  “Good night!” said this individual, somewhat haughtily. “Travelling?”

  “Are you Mr Gurner?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I am glad to find you disengaged. I am Detective-Inspector Bonaparte. I want a drink first, then a confidential chat with you, and then dinner.” Mr Gurner’s superior air had by now utterly vanished.

  “The drinks will be on the house, Mr Bonaparte. I heard that you had come from Brisbane. Riding a hack? Staying the night?”

  “Yes to the first; no to the second. I’ll take a nobbier of port wine in a tumbler filled with soda water. See about dinner, will you? Then we can talk.”

  “Very well. It’s been a hell of a day, hasn’t it? That duststorm was about the worst I’ve ever known.”

  When the little man returned his expression would have been jovial enough had his eyes been less hard. Bony called for another drink and opened the inquisition.

  “I understand from Sergeant Cox that none of your people here heard an aeroplane passing overhead the night Captain Loveacre’s monoplane was stolen at Golden Dawn. Who was here that night, and where did they sleep?”

  “In the house. There was me and my sister, who does the cooking and housekeeping, the maid, and three guests. Jack Johnson, the yardman, slept in one of the sheds. No, no one here heard any aeroplane that night or any other. Extraordinary affair, don’t you think? How is that young woman going along?”

  “There is no change in her condition. Twelve miles north of here is a stockman’s hut, occupied by a man called Larry the Lizard. What kind of a man is he?”

  “To look at? Six feet or a bit over. Red hair and beard. Voice like a thunderstorm. He’s neither better nor worse than the average bushman.”

  “And what waters are in the vicinity?”

  “Well, there’s Bore Fourteen, south of here and this side of Coolibah’s boundary. There’s another bore over at Larry the Lizard’s place, and there’s a surface dam seven miles along the road to St Albans on what is called Martell’s Selection.”

  “Thanks. My thirst is still rather chronic.”

  While Mr Gurner attended to business, Bony noted the clean, scrubbed counter, the spotless shelves of bottles, the set of sporting prints high on the walls, and the petrol-lamp suspended above the bar. With the drinks set up between them, he leaned towards the publican and began to speak in a low, confidential tone.

  “Think back to the night that aeroplane was stolen, Mr Gurner. Did you have a visit from the Coolibah boss stockman, Ted Sharp?”

  “Yes!” replied Gurner without hesitation.

  “What did he come for?”

  Mr Gurner smiled knowingly. Affability itself, he seemed most anxious to assist the police in the investigation of a crime which had stirred the State.

  “Ted Sharp came here to meet a man,” he replied.

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes, rather a mysterious sort of fellow, too, if you ask me. I got a telephone message early that day from Yaraka from a person giving his name as Brown. Brown asked that a bedroom and a sitting-room be reserved for him that night. He got here about five in the afternoon. I put him in Room Four, and I let him have a spare room for a sitting-room. It was the first time I’ve ever been asked for one.”

  “What kind of a man was this Brown?”

  “I certainly couldn’t place him, Mr Bonaparte. He was a tall, thin, dried-up, miserable man about fifty or thereabouts. He arrived in a hired car, and he tells me that he and the driver may be stopping the night or they may not. He says he’s expectin’ a gentleman to call on him.

  “Well, in they come. Mr Brown, he goes to his room carrying a suitcase in one hand and what they calls an attaché case in the other. The driver reckons he’ll leave his gear in the car until he knows what’s going to be done. Dinner-time comes round, and out comes Mr Brown to ask the way to the dining-room, and he’s still carrying the attaché case. All through dinner he sits with that attaché case on his knees. After dinner he goes into the sitting-room I fixed up for him, and I’m told to take in a bottle of whisky, a jug of water, and two glasses. And there he stays all the evening.”

  It was evident that Mr Gurner was enjoying himself.

  “Then,” he went on, “a little after ten o’clock, who should arrive in his runabout truck but Ted Sharp. And what should he do when he comes in here, where I’m serving half a dozen customers, but whisper in me ear for this Mr Brown. Old Harry Wilson, the teamster, asks Ted to have a drink, and Ted puts him off, saying that he’ll be glad to later on. So I shows Ted Sharp in to Mr Brown, and on the table I seen several papers with typewriting on them.

  “They’re in there as thick as thieves for more’n an hour. Anyway, it was well after eleven when Ted comes into the bar. I was tired and was trying to get Harry Wilson and Nutmeg Joe to clear off with another bloke called McNess, who was taking them to St Albans. Anyway, Ted shouts for all hands twice, and then he wants to know if he can use the telephone.” Mr Gurner indicated the instrument on the wall between the bar counter and the rear door. “He rings through to Golden Dawn. Of course, the row is pretty bad. There was an argument going on between Nutmeg Joe and Peter Leroy, and I couldn’t follow what Sharp was saying. I did hear him ask the night operator in the telephone exchange at Golden Dawn to take down a telegram and see that it was dispatched early the next morning.”

  “As you said, Mr Gurner, it sounds a little mysterious, but no doubt there is quite a simple explanation,” Bony murmured. It was obvious that the publican did not feel any affection for the Coolibah boss stockman.

  “Yes. Let’s hope so, anyway,” Gurner agreed. “I overheard a few words. ‘Adelaide’ was one. ‘Kane’ was another. I heard him say: ‘Be careful.’ And then: ‘Nothing must ever leak out.’ That was all I did hear, and after Ted
Sharp had shouted again out he goes to his runabout and drives off back to Coolibah. Oh, I forgot! He buys a bottle of whisky to take along with him.”

  “And when did Mr Brown leave?”

  “Early next morning, heading back for Yaraka.”

  “Do you know the driver of the hired car?”

  “No. He was a stranger to us. Like Mr Brown, he said nothing gratis.”

  “Hum!” murmured Bony reflectively. “Well, Mr Gurner, I am much obliged to you. Might I ask you to hold our conversation in strict confidence?”

  Mr Gurner smiled.

  “Of course. I am only too willing to assist the police. If you would slip a word to Sergeant Cox that I have helped you a little...”

  The publican winked, and Bony winked back. Someone beyond the bar called that the dinner was ready, and Mr Gurner raised the counter flap invitingly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Return To Coolibah

  THE DATE THAT Bony met Captain Loveacre and Mr Cartwright on Emu Lake was 6 November—nine days after the unknown girl had been found in the red monoplane. About eight o’clock on the following morning, Bony had rung through to Nettlefold asking him to transmit a message to Sergeant Cox, which was in effect a request to Headquarters to have the findings of the Air Accidents Investigation Committee kept out of the newspapers. Bony then said that he would be absent from Faraway Bore for a day or two, and as he would be returning to Coolibah by a devious route he would like his suitcase to be brought in.

  Nettlefold had called at Faraway Bore for the suitcase, and there he gained the distinct impression that while Ned Hamlin knew nothing of any developments, the two blacks did, but would not speak of them.

  On 8 November a car brought a newspaper reporter and a photographer. They went on to Emu Lake, and on their way back they bailed up Nettlefold for a story. Nettlefold cautiously told them something, though very little, about the finding of the aeroplane, but said nothing about the girl found in it. The natural result was that the reporter scented a hidden story, and stopped at Golden Dawn, apparently prepared to remain in the district indefinitely.

  On the ninth, Cox rang up Coolibah Station four times asking for Bony, and that evening there arrived at Golden Dawn a dust-grimed and powerful car driven by a distinguished-looking man who asked to be directed to Dr Knowles’s house.

  Early the following morning Sergeant Cox again rang up, asking for the whereabouts of Bony and expressing some anxiety about him. An hour later Dr Knowles got through to inform Nettlefold that he was bringing a specialist, or rather the specialist was bringing him, as Stanisforth refused to risk his life in the air. Towards twelve o’clock they arrived, to be met by the genial cattleman.

  “Welcome to Coolibah, Dr Stanisforth,” Nettlefold greeted him. “I only regret that your visit is a professional one. We have so few visitors that we shall be delighted if you will consider yourself our guest for just as long as you please.”

  “I would like to stay a year,” the great specialist returned. “I am wanting rest and quiet, but—” and he sighed. “Like a fool I have allowed my practice to become an old man of the sea.”

  “Well, come along in and have a refresher before lunch. My daughter is with the patient just now. On day duty, you know. Oh, here is Tilly! Tilly, please inform Miss Elizabeth that Dr Stanisforth and Dr Knowles have arrived.”

  He conducted his guests through the house to his study.

  “I trust you did not find the long journey too wearisome?”

  “On the contrary,” said Stanisforth, “once beyond the settled areas, I could drive fast, and I find fast driving an excellent tonic.”

  “You would have found a better tonic had you consented to fly here with me,” Knowles put in, smiling wryly.

  “I fear not, my dear Knowles. Not after what a housekeeper told me when she brought the early morning tea. I hate heights, anyway. When a car stops through engine trouble one can get out and tinker with the machinery; when an aeroplane engine stops one can do nothing but regret that his executors will shortly be having a lot of worry. Ah—”

  Elizabeth entered. Stanisforth bent over her hand and regarded her with interest.

  “So you are the young lady who has taken it on herself to nurse a stranger found within the gates! You strengthen my faith in mankind, and it requires strengthening at times, believe me. How is your patient?”

  “Just the same, Doctor. There is never any change in her,” replied Elizabeth. “Sometimes, it seems like looking after a mummy—a living mummy! If you are ready I will show you your room before going back to her. Lunch can be served whenever it suits you.”

  “Excellent, Miss Nettlefold. I am really very hungry. Self before others is my motto. I will examine the patient immediately afterwards.”

  “Dr Stanisforth considers himself a humorist at times,” Knowles hastened to explain when he saw a faint resentment in Elizabeth’s eyes. She smiled then, and said:

  “Of course! Come along. The roads are terribly dusty, but you are fortunate to have missed the sand cloud the other evening. It was one of the worst we have experienced.”

  She led the guests away, her father remaining to fill his pipe from the customary black plug tobacco.

  “May I come in?” asked a low voice from the open french windows at his back. Swinging round, he blinked at the roughly-dressed man standing on the veranda. It was Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.

  “Why, it’s Bony!” he exclaimed with pleasure. “Come in, of course. We have been wondering where you were.”

  “Be good enough to overlook my appearance,” pleaded Bony. “With your permission I will close the door. Then, if I might so presume, will you give me a glass of soda water—with a dash of brandy?”

  Without speaking, Nettlefold hurried to the wall cabinet.

  “I noticed that you had visitors—ah, thank you!” Bony continued. “Not being very presentable, I concealed myself until the opportunity occurred to enter unobserved. Could I trespass on your kindness still further by asking you to smuggle me to a bedroom? As I know the situation of the bath-room, you could then leave me to gain its sanctuary.”

  “Yes, of course. Your room is ready for you at any time. But where have you been? Cox has been ringing up every day asking for you.”

  “I have been on a quiet little walkabout,” Bony replied. “There were several matters I wished to clear up. How is the young woman?”

  “There is no change in her. Knowles has just arrived with a specialist from the city, a Dr Stanisforth. They will be seeing her after lunch. And lunch is ready. You must be hungry.”

  “Not as much as you might expect, for I have been living on the country. Could you expand your generosity still further by putting up a fourth guest?”

  “By all means. There’s any amount of room.”

  “Then, when I am safely out of sight, please ring Sergeant Cox and ask him to spend the night here. Do not say I have returned. Just say you have had word from me.”

  “Very well. I’ll see if the coast is clear.”

  They were at lunch when Bony entered the dining-room. Bathed and shaved, and dressed in a light-grey lounge suit, he had effected a complete metamorphosis. The ragged bushman had now become the polished inspector, more at ease with the company than Nettlefold himself.

  “We were beginning to worry about you, Mr—er, I mean Bony,” Elizabeth remarked.

  “Indeed! Thank you for your solicitude, Miss Nettlefold,” he told her gravely. “My business has been lightened by the addition of a little pleasure. How did you weather that sand cloud the other evening?”

  “It was terrific, wasn’t it? Fortunately we were warned of its coming by Ned Hamlin; yet, despite all our efforts to keep the dust out of the house, the place was in a shocking state when it had passed. We must have collected bucketfuls of sand.”

  Sand clouds provided a topic that lasted throughout lunch, and when the two doctors had been taken by Elizabeth to the patient, her father and Bony drifted t
o the study.

  “Ah—it is nice to get into a comfortable chair again,” Bony remarked. “I have been walking and sitting on my heels and lying on the ground o’ nights, and I find that my body is less tough and supple than it was once.”

  Nettlefold chuckled. “When I was young,” he said, “I gloried in camping out and sleeping on a waterproof sheet with one blanket over me and the saddle under my head. Now I look for a flock mattress and sheets and a feather pillow. Did you do any good outback?”

  “Yes—and no. First, tell me how things have gone here.”

  “According to routine, excepting that I insisted on Elizabeth taking a turn off night duty. Ted Sharp continues to sit up on the veranda outside the sick-room, or prowl about close by. It seems improbable that that feller will make another attempt on the patient’s life.”

  “It is not at all improbable,” Bony contradicted. “We cannot expose either your daughter or the housekeeper—not to mention the patient—to the risk of another attempt. How many men do you employ?”

  “Fourteen: including the men’s cook, a groom, a Chinese gardener, and a tradesman.”

  “How many of them are usually about the homestead?”

  “Two, with the Chinese gardener.”

  “Are there any new hands?”

  “No. The last to be engaged is the tradesman. He’s been here a year. Ted Sharp has been with me eleven years.”

  Bony’s brows rose a mere fraction. He broke a little silence by asking:

  “Where did he come from?”

  “Candidly, I don’t know. I never asked him. One doesn’t ask such questions out here.”

  “I am aware of that. He has never volunteered the information, apparently. Good man?”

  “Excellent in every way. He’s a good man’s boss, and a good boss’s man. We—er—we rather like him.”

  “Does he know anything about sheep?”

  The cattleman shook his head. “I don’t think so.”