These two men found much in common. They were both insatiably curious. The minister was the less patient.
“Would you be offended if I asked you one or two candidly personal questions?” he asked.
“Not at all, provided they don’t touch my income-tax returns. I suggest that we trade a little. It could be that we stand either side a fence.”
“Agreed. We’ll trade. You open the negotiations.”
“What was the basis of Ben Wickham’s friendship with John Luton?”
“Alcohol. His father was a solid drinker, and he lived long. Ben took after his father, but he didn’t have his father’s rigid social code.” Weston smiled when he added: “Nor did he have his father’s capacity and staying power.”
“Thank you, Padre. I have two more,” Bony said.
“Good. Shoot them.”
“At whose instigation was Wickham’s body cremated?”
“Difficult. I think it was I who first suggested it. There is much to be argued in favour of cremation, æsthetically chiefly. I recall that the suggestion was opposed by Mrs. Parsloe, and supported by Dr. Maltby and his wife. Mrs. Parsloe surrendered when Maltby further suggested the dispersal of the ashes over Mount Mario, as a fitting gesture to a famous man.”
“Again, thank you. My third question: Is Dr. Maltby well off?”
“I can best answer that by saying that Maltby and his wife are worried by the non-location of Wickham’s will, under which, Wickham once told them, they were to receive substantial sums.”
“Would you permit a fourth question?”
“Certainly,” assented the Rev. Weston, brows uplifted to narrow forehead.
“When Luton asserted that Wickham died of a cause not due to alcohol, why was a post-mortem not insisted on:
Weston chuckled, and the humour in his eyes seemed to be genuine.
“It was obvious, even to Maltby, that the cause of Wickham’s death was the effect of too much alcohol on his weak heart. Luton could produce neither proof nor logic in support of his astonishing assertions. I think I see what you are driving at, Bonaparte. The feeble-minded might be led to indulge in a whispering campaign, but that couldn’t touch the family. Anything more?”
“No,” replied Bony, smiling. “It’s now your turn.”
“Very well. How did you manage to rise so high in your Police Department? I am not being impertinent, I do assure you. You must have met many obstacles, extraordinary hurdles, and I sense a story far more irresistible than that of errand boy to millionaire.”
“My beginning was subordinate to that of the errand boy,” replied Bony. “I was found beneath a sandalwood tree, found in the arms of my mother, who had been clubbed to death for breaking a law. Subsequently, the matron of the Mission Station to which I was taken and reared found me eating the pages of Abbotts’s Life of Napoleon Bonaparte. The matron possessed a peculiar sense of humour. The result—my name. Despite the humour, she was a great woman. Aware of the burden of birth I would always have to carry, she built for me the foundations of my career. My entry to the Queensland Police Department came about after I had won my M.A. at the Brisbane University, and my progress in the Department has been due to the fortunate fact that the Commissioner abhors failure in anyone, and has managed to evade dropping dead from rage-induced apoplexy long enough to ensure that I received just recognition. You see, I have never failed to finalise an investigation.”
“You must find that most gratifying,” dryly remarked Mr. Weston, and the undertone was not unnoticed by Bonaparte.
“I must not fail, and that is not gratification of vanity. You may fail and try again. Another’s failure will be accepted without comment, and little effect on his career. To yet another, failure will have no adverse effect on his mind or his career, for he will take it as temporary. But I must not fail, ever.”
Mr. Weston was not unintelligent.
“Tell me more,” he urged, “of your career.”
“That Mission Station matron began it,” Bony went on. “She gave me all her affection and, too, she gained mine. She began my training before I could crawl, began the building of this misnamed man of two races. She inculcated in me beliefs and ambitions which were to become the driving forces of my life; and with these forces I have had to contend against prenatal influences inherited from my aboriginal mother. She instilled into my mind the ability to see and evaluate my own limitations, and enough wisdom to detour, as it were. She taught me to fear nothing of the living, to fear no one other than myself. She didn’t think of it, I suppose, because she didn’t teach me not to fear the dead.”
“And you really feel yourself omnipotent to—er—finalise your present investigation?”
Mr. Weston found himself drawn to meet the blue eyes of the man who turned slowly to look at him. It was then that Mr. Weston realised that his ideas of half-castes were somehow just so much tosh. It was then that he first realised that the circumstances of a man’s birth are no obstacle, save to the snob. He heard a voice which seemed to have no association with the mind beyond those extraordinary eyes.
“My present investigation, Padre?”
“Well, er … I thought … I thought you might have credited old Luton’s crazy theories with a modicum of truth. There could be a basis of truth in them, don’t you think?”
“What do you think, Padre?”
Mr. Weston felt like a small boy caught out in some deceit. Abruptly, he regretted having been so superior, of having thought of himself as being a pinnacle high above a half-caste. He was angry now, because he suspected he had been subtly encouraged to tumble into a trap. He had to answer that question; and truthfully.
“I think there might be something in what the old boy says.”
“Mr. Luton has had a wide experience of delirium tremens,” reminded Bony. “Proof of his assertion that each type of spirituous liquor will produce its distinctive demons, is, however, not forthcoming. Were you referring to Mr. Luton’s assertion that Ben Wickham did not die of alcoholic poisoning?”
“If we admit that Mr. Luton is right on the first, then he could be right on his second claim,” allowed Mr. Weston, mopping his forehead with a red silk handkerchief, and obviously relieved that Bony was gazing outward over the river.
“There are, I understand, many people made happy by his death.”
“That is so, Inspector Bonaparte.”
“Do you think that among them are those living locally?”
“I could admit only to the possibility.”
“When did you first come to think there could be something in Mr. Luton’s theories?”
Mr. Weston hesitated.
“It was some time after Ben’s body had been cremated. I am sure of that.”
Bony said suavely: “Should I begin an investigation relative to the death of Ben Wickham, be sure that I shall continue until I prove to myself, at least, that he was murdered or that he was not murdered. Meanwhile, I am enjoying my stay with my old friend.”
“Of course! Of course! Then am I to understand that you are not investigating the circumstances surrounding the demise of my late friend?”
“You are to understand precisely what appeals to you most.”
“Ah! You do right to chide me, Inspector. Pray accept my questioning as from an interested party. Perhaps Mr. Luton has told you of my position in the house up yonder. I have for long years been very close to both poor Ben Wickham and his sister, Mrs. Parsloe.”
“He did mention you,” Bony replied with a chuckle. “He told me of your concern for his health after I had informed him how you had caught a fish from under my own hook. It was then I told him I would balance the scales. Acknowledge that I have now. The secret? I’ll give it to you. Witchetty grubs are first-class bait. You’ll find them if you split firewood.”
Mr. Weston stood with Bony and smiled. Gone was the unease, and healed were the wounds to his vanity, for he was now in the presence of a merely ordinary man, and a likeable one. It
was long after he left Bony on the river-bank that he remembered being led into a trap, and suffered a sneaking fear that he was to be lured into another.
Bony watched his tall and angular figure trudging along the track to the main road, and when the parson had disappeared he sat again on the tree-trunk and again rolled a cigarette. Casually he said twice, the second time loudly:
“The enemy has retreated. You may come out, Mr. Harris.”
Knocker Harris emerged from the hollow log to rise stiffly to his feet, and with a thankful sigh to sit beside the fisherman.
“Beaut, ain’t he?” he said, nodding at the kingfish. “Nearer fourteen than thirteen pounds.”
“Why were you holed up under my favourite seat?”
“Well, it’s like so,” defended Knocker. “I’m on me way to visit John and you, see? I’m drawin’ nigh when I sees the Reverence castin’ down-river a bit, like. I sees I can’t side-step without him seeing me if he looks my way. So I acts the abo. When he does look up-river, I’m a fence-post. When he looks somewhere else, I moves forward to this log. Only cover for me is inside, like. Then his reverence comes along right beside here, and I know he’s here ’cos the dogs barked.”
“They didn’t bark when you came?”
“No, of course not.” Mr. Harris chuckled while splitting open a cigarette for the tobacco, which he tossed into his mouth. “Got no time for him, Inspector. Nasty bit of work. What’s the use of parsons, I’d like to know? Only bludging on the people. Never does no work. Parishes, I calls ’em. Always sticking their dirty noses into other people’s bis’ness, like. Gonna put me and old John into a home, says he. What a ruddy hope! He get any change outer you?”
“You heard what we said,” Bony said, coldly.
“That I didn’t. Wished I could of. The hole into the log’s a bit small, like, and it was sort of blocked with me feet. How did you know I was in there?”
“I could smell you.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Recall
“FUNNY how the Reverend sort of got to like this part of the river lately,” remarked Knocker Harris. “You know, before Ben konked out, me and John had some peace, like. But not since.”
“Mr. Weston doesn’t often fish here?” prompted Bony.
“No. First time he came here fishing was the other afternoon. Come to pump you, like. Ain’t to be trusted further’n you could belt with one hand. Landed over at the house one time when Ben and John was coming out of the hoo-jahs, and what he said to them you’d never read about. And them that crook their eyes was fixed like marbles in a bottle, like.”
“They were, doubtless, rather ill.”
“Ill! You wouldn’t know ’em. Corpses they was, livin’ corpses. See that kingy’s eyes? They had eyes like that when they was soberin’, like. Dammit, they had mouths like that, too. Sort of saggin’ open. I’d better gut this fish for John.”
Knocker Harris slid forward to kneel beside the fish and proceeded to scale it and remove its innards on to a sheet of bark, as he said, to give to the chooks. He was obeying still the commands of his mother and father— “Waste not, want not”.
“They were truly sick when recovering?” persisted Bony.
“Sick!” echoed Knocker Harris, as though the question was an aspersion upon his friends. “You wouldn’t know ’em, as I told you.”
“There is, you think, something in what John Luton says about the effects of the hoo-jahs being in accordance with the grog?”
“Course there is. I know. I’ve seen them fellers often enough when they was having the hoo-jahs. Last time, it was knockin’ hoo-jahs off their ears and shoulders, like. Time before, they was knockin’ them off their chests and knees. That was rum, I think. Knoo a bloke once who used to have the hoo-jahs on metho with a dash of battery acid.” Knocker turned from his task to laugh without restraint. “Once, when I seen him in the horrors, you could have got a thousand quid for him from a waxworks joint. He was properly stiff with horror, hair and all, like.”
Knocker took the fish to the river to clean, leaving Bony with the picture of two near-lunatics being nursed by one who, unless of simple mind, could not have borne the load with such patience. The picture gave place to another, of saltbush plain and mulga forest, and two dust-grimed, sweating men striding beside groaning bullocks hauling a veritable mountain on wheels. The visions were part of a greater which made psychological sense.
He heard the car turn off the highway and shouted the fact to Knocker Harris. Harris appeared up the steep sandstone bank, taxed by the fish he managed to keep from dragging on the ground. Nodding to Bony, he hurried to the house, yet had to pass the car, which beat him to the gate. Constable Gibley spoke to him, clearly about the fish, and Bony was thrusting hooks into safety corks when the policeman said at his elbow:
“My boss at Mount Gambier rang up about you, Inspector. I’m to inform you that Headquarters, Adelaide, telephoned the following:
“ ‘Request Inspector Bonaparte to obey instruction received by telegram from his Department, so that personal relationship with Adelaide officers can be maintained on friendly footing.’ ”
“Too bad, Gibley,” purred Bony. “Just when I am catching a nice fish or two. When did you inform Adelaide I was holidaying here?”
“I didn’t, sir. I did check up on you with Mount Gambier. According to the book.”
“Quite a little mystery, isn’t it? I am granted leave, and then am peremptorily ordered back to duty. It would almost appear that my presence here is distinctly inconvenient to someone. Would you know who it is?”
“No, sir. I’m only a senior constable.”
“And I, Gibley, am only an inspector. All right! I’ll go quietly. Inform Mount Gambier that I’ll be leaving for Murray Bridge by coach in the morning, and will board tomorrow night’s express for Melbourne. You might reserve my coach seat on your return to Cowdry.”
Gibley looked relieved.
Next morning when Mr. Luton walked with Bony to the highway he was distinctly depressed, and as they waited at the bridge he asked:
“D’you think you’ll be coming back?”
“Some day, I hope,” replied Bony. “Soon, perhaps. Whatever has actuated my chiefs in this matter of recall must be of a most unusual character. That is the reason why, in this instance, I am obeying orders. Well, here comes the bus. I have the address of Ben Wickham’s friend in Adelaide, and I may communicate with him, and present certain facts. Doubtless he will call on you. Thank you for those most pleasant few days under your roof. Should you ever come to Brisbane, I shall be hurt if you don’t look me up. So, au revoir, Mr. Luton, and all the best.”
Mr. Luton long remembered the flashing smile illuminating the brown face and the blue eyes, and Bony remembered the brilliant background of trees and white bridge behind the tall, erect figure flanked by the two dogs.
Superintendent Boase, Officer in Charge, Criminal Investigation Branch, S. A. Police Department, was tall and rangy, grey and close to sixty. Of him there was nothing remarkable save that his grey hair stood up, and his grey moustache stood out. When Bony entered his office, the corners of his mouth indicated what the rest of his face wasn’t permitted to do—the smile of welcome.
“Hullo, Bony! How come?”
“Just before leaving Adelaide I decided to run down to Cowdry to spend a few days with an old friend, as I had obtained ten days’ leave. No one here knew of my intention, and I managed to secure a seat in a tourist bus going to Mount Gambier. At Mount Gambier, I spoke to Sergeant Maskell, whom I had met several years ago. It was a personal, not an official, contact, you understand. Told Maskell I was going on to Cowdry for some fishing. On my way up to-day I saw Maskell again, and he assured me he did not, because there was no reason to, report that I was with my friend but a mile or so from Cowdry. Prior to my telegram to Traffic Branch about a car, did you know I was staying near Cowdry?”
“Didn’t even know you sent an ‘Information pleas
e’ to Traffic. First I knew of your being down there was day before yesterday when the Chief rang me to check when you left for Brisbane.”
“Would you mind ringing Traffic and asking Tillet what action he took about me, other than supplying information about a car?”
“Not at all.”
“Ask him if he reported my presence at Cowdry to the higher-ups.”
Boase turned to his telephone, and on replacing the instrument, said:
“Tillet says he didn’t mention to anyone your being at Cowdry. Said he had no cause to do so. Thought you were on normal duty. What is this?”
“Yesterday I received a telegram from my immediate superior, Linton, ordering me to report at once. Later yesterday the local constable at Cowdry came to tell me that his Divisional H.Q. had telephoned him to pass a message from Adelaide which is a follow-on to the telegram direct to me. If you know nothing, it would seem that action is being taken on a high level.”
“Certainly seems so. But what’s it all about?”
“What I want to ascertain is: who informed Brisbane I was in Cowdry? Tillet says he’s out. You say you are out. Mount Gambier was straight enough in saying they had not reported my presence there to Adelaide. Will you find out from your high-ups how they learned I was at Cowdry?”
“Sinclair would know. I’ll trot along and X-ray him.” Superintendent Boase tried to stare Bony down, and, not for the first time, was beaten to it. “You know, occasionally you’re the most exasperating feller. You are not pinching anything off my territory, are you?”
“I am merely doing some psychological research work, which I believe might be of ultimate value to the world.”
Boase sighed at such recalcitrance. He was away ten minutes. On being seated again behind his desk, he loaded a pipe and applied a match, and then studied Bony as he might a fingerprint.
“The high-ups didn’t know you were in Cowdry, and didn’t give a damn where you were until they received a hot message from Brisbane asking them to shift you out of South Australia at the double. Someone in Cowdry has put your pot on. What’ve you been doing?”
Bony - 20 - The Battling Prophet Page 10
