Bony - 20 - The Battling Prophet

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Good luck to him,” said the Mount Gambier man, “and, by the way, my wife and kids really would appreciate that fish.”

  “They shall have it, Sergeant. I’ll go get it.”

  The old man padded away to the outside meat-house. Sergeant Maskell observed, thoughtfully:

  “Doesn’t sound as though Inspector Bonaparte said any­thing to him about his nosing around in Cowdry. Think the yarn about going to the bank for the will was true?”

  “Could be,” slowly admitted Boase. “Bonaparte would do anything. Slippery devil, but I like him. What’s your opinion of Gibley?”

  “Good enough policeman. Knows the book. But I still don’t get that bank angle. We ask the manager why he rang Gibley immediately Bonaparte left him, why he asked Gibley to look him over. The manager fidgets, and asks us to tell him why he shouldn’t be suspicious of a man with a name like that claiming to be a police inspector.”

  “Seemed on edge because we’d looked in,” agreed Boase. “I’ve a pretty good ear for clocks.”

  “Meaning, Super?”

  “Meaning that when a man don’t tick properly, I know it.”

  The slop-slop of slippered feet told Bony that Mr. Luton was returning with the fish. He heard Sergeant Maskell warmly thanking their host for the gift, and a minute later the sound of their departing car reached him, whereupon Mr. Luton closed and locked the front door. Bony crossed to the brandy steps, to hear Mr. Luton whisper through the auger-holes:

  “They’re gone. You hear ’em?”

  “Every word, Mr. Luton.”

  “How did I go?”

  “Magnificently,” replied Bony.

  “You want anything?”

  “No. I’ll come up for dinner after dark, if that will suit you.”

  “Do me. I’ll be on the watch, and have dinner ready by half-past six.”

  Bony descended the brandy steps and perched on the rum cases against the bar counter. Absently he rolled a cigarette and smoked, going over every word Boase had said, seeking beyond the words. He knew Boase was curious as to why he had come to Cowdry. Boase had not found out why he had called at the bank, because the manager wouldn’t tell, and had invented an explanation for calling Gibley. The suspicion that the telegram despatched by the manager, that day he had called at the bank, concerned himself became a conviction. Only through that bank manager had his superiors known he was at Cowdry.

  The wording of the telegram of recall was not in character with those who sent it, and to arrive at this knowledge one had to go back to their actions in the past.

  First: Bony had been promoted to Detective-Inspector because of special abilities, and for special investigations. He was not to be employed on city crimes, where, obviously, his talents would be wasted. He was to be employed on special assignments in the Outback and outer urban areas. And his services were to be available to other Australian States should they be asked for. That was the original intention when the appointment was granted, and it remained so, with only an occasional exception.

  The appointment was made some twenty years before by the Chief Commissioner of the Queensland Police Depart­ment, when Bony was a young man recently graduated from a training depot, and with a reputation which began some considerable time before he entered the depot.

  At the time, the Chief Commissioner, Colonel Spendor, was himself a new broom. A strict disciplinarian, he was given to choleric ranting and abuse of his officers and his secretary. Yet all his threats were merely blah, and all his decisions were just, and all his officers and the secretary remained through the years his most loyal junior colleagues.

  Of them, Bony was the most difficult. These are not the times when a police officer can be a Javert. If he does not apprehend a criminal within what is assumed to be a reason­able period, he may be put to another investigation and another officer assigned to his unfinished labours. Or he may be taken off his investigation, which is left in cold storage.

  What to do, therefore, with a born Javert? What to do with a responsible senior officer who, when once put on a trail begun by a killer, will not leave it when a Chief of the C.I.B. orders him back, and when he is so instructed by the Chief Commissioner himself?

  In the Army, a court-martial. In the Civil Service, a cup­board job where the delinquent can rust in his own stupidity. But not with Colonel Spendor.

  Second: there was almost a routine in these recalls sent to Inspector Bonaparte. An order to return to headquarters issued by the C.I.B. failing, a direct order from Colonel Spendor would be despatched. This also failing, Colonel Spendor would rant and rave, and send yet another telegram giving a date when pay would cease if, etc., etc. This, too, being ignored, the final telegram would sack Bony from the Police Department.

  Thus the routine. Silly in itself, as no police officer may be sacked unless on the advice of the Police Disciplinary Board, directed by the Chief Secretary.

  At the conclusion of every such routine, Bonaparte would report to his immediate superior, and would be ‘carpeted’ before Colonel Spendor. Colonel Spendor would go through his act, unique in itself, and venomously pardon him, after being in­formed that the culprit had successfully concluded the investiga­tion to which he had been assigned, invariably a homicide, and usually one on which other officers had fallen flat on their faces.

  How can you sack a man who never fails to bring home the pork?

  Those earlier orders were off the record.

  Only this last recall order was according to the book. But why the haste to have him leave his ‘spot of fishing’?

  Why was action taken to prevent him from yet again thumb­ing his nose at the ‘higher-ups’?

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Final Straw

  THE wind was blowing direct from the South Pole and, to counter it, the fire in Mr. Luton’s sitting-room was leaping up the chimney.

  Before the fire lounged Mr. Luton and his guest, both arrayed in pyjamas and dressing-gowns, the one smoking a pipe, the other inhaling from something vaguely resembling a cigarette.

  Adventure had come again to Mr. Luton’s days; content­ment seeped into his mind as the fire warmed his body.

  “What’s the next load we pick up?” he asked in the manner of the teamster. “Police? Foreigners? Ben’s relations?”

  “Police, probably,” lazily answered Bony. “By now the hounds will know I did not arrive in Melbourne. …”

  “Hounds! Don’t like the word, Inspector. Makes me think of a fox, and you the fox, or Brer Rabbit, like you said.”

  “I’m sure Brer Rabbit never had a more comfortable burrow. And all the adventures Brer Rabbit had with Brer Fox and Mr. Man were not so interesting as our encounter with Mr. Badger. You see, the police will be rushing here and there questioning people about me, wearing themselves out, while I snugly relax.”

  “But what the hell are they after you for?” demanded Mr. Luton.

  “They haven’t yet explained,” Bony replied. “Meanwhile, I have ideas, one of which is gaining prominence. Shall I tell you a story?”

  Mr. Luton nodded, and wiggled his toes in his carpet slippers.

  “Once upon a time,” Bony began, “there was a great and mighty king, wearied by his courtiers, had writer’s cramp through signing so many documents, and longed to bestir neighbouring kings and presidents.

  “This great king wasn’t English or Australian. He believed that, when dissatisfied, the only possible counter was to do some­thing about it. And so he decided he would travel to far countries and start something.

  “In the course of his world tour, he came to Australia, where the courtiers and the officials grovelled before him, and all the people were told to gather and give him cheers.

  “This kind of reception, however pleasing to the grovellers and the common herd, bored him so much that he determined to find his own amusement. So one dark and stormy night he made a rope of his bed-sheets and slid to the ground and stole away unseen, as all the guards were in the canteen a
nd betting on who would receive the coveted medals.”

  Mr. Luton’s pipe had gone out, and he had forgotten to wiggle his toes. Bony lit another alleged cigarette and began the next instalment.

  “All this, of course, happened in Australia, actually the country into which stepped Alice through the Looking-Glass. Once the great king had eluded the stuffed shirts, he wanted to sing and dance—and did. People looked at him and won­dered, because it was hours after the six o’clock pub-shut, and how, thus, could he be drunk?

  “Still controlled by this mood of abandonment, he came to the end of a dark street, when a woman appeared and said: ‘Hi ya, sailor! Looking for a sweetheart?’ Now the famous king had never before been addressed with such democratic forthrightness, but this he minded less than being asked if he were looking for a sweetheart. Not since the age of two, when his nurse had asked him what he was looking for under the bed, had he had to look for anything such as a pair of socks, a two-shilling piece, or a sweetheart.

  “He drew himself up to his full majestic height and told her all this, but all she said was ‘Your sort couldn’t find any­thing.’

  “For the first time in his life, he forgot he was a king who could do no wrong—and did it. He took the woman’s scrawny, unwashed neck into his hands, and strangled her. And he was still at it, when young Constable Napoleon Bonaparte chipped in with: ‘What’s all this?’

  “Hearing this gruff voice, the great and famous king thought he would have a try at another neck, and, for the first time in his life, didn’t get what he asked for … or did he? When he recovered from his astonishment, he found himself in the local police station. The Chief Commissioner was bathing his bruises, a superintendent was replacing a broken shoe-lace, and five inspectors were offering him sweetmeats. Only Constable Napoleon Bonaparte was chewing his finger-nails. With brilliant secrecy, attended by the entire police force excepting Constable N. B., the great and famous king was returned safely to the bosoms of the stuffed shirts.

  “ ‘How dare you assault His Majesty?’ demanded the Chief Commissioner. ‘Had to, sir, to make him loose his fingers from the dead woman’s throat.’ The Chief Commissioner was cry­ing, such was his horror at this act of lèse-majesté, and as all his under-strappers waited for him to pronounce a hundred years’ hard labour for the offender, up spoke Constable N. B., saying: ‘I’ve made out the charge sheet, sir, naming His Majesty, and indicting him of having feloniously slain one, to wit, May Jones, of Albion Mews, a known street-walker aged forty years and five months.’

  “The Chief Commissioner fainted. The superintendent rushed for the whisky, and all the inspectors rushed Constable N. B. to the nearest cell, the cell next to the morgue, where, on a cosy slab, lay the remains of the tragic victim of royal disdain.

  “Next day the unfortunate constable was taken from dur­ance vile to the presence of the Chief Secretary, who said: ‘Now, my man, listen—or else! When on duty last night, you came on two men attacking a third man. You rescued the third man from the thugs and took him to the police station for medical examination, and there it was discovered that the victim of assault was none other than His Majesty, King Wonky of Martonia. It happened that His Majesty, feeling slightly depressed after his uproarious welcome by the populace, decided to leave Mansion House and take a stroll. His Majesty now wishes to bestow on you the Order of Mug-Wumps, twenty-fourth grade. And, Constable Bonaparte, the Australian Government has decided to relieve you of paying income taxes for ten years. O.K.?’

  “Now, the young constable, being altruistic, reminded the Chief Secretary that a corpse lay on the cute slab in the morgue, and no matter what expert morticians could do to it, the proof was plain that the woman had been properly strangled. The Chief Secretary said: ‘So what?’ The Chief Commissioner said: ‘So what?’ So said the superintendent and all the inspectors. And they said ‘So what?’ so often that the promising young constable retired from the Police Department and set up as a ‘private eye’. And everyone lived happily ever after. … Why worry about a mere corpse?”

  Mr. Luton pondered for precisely two and a half seconds, and then burst out with:

  “So what?”

  “Ah! There you have it, Mr. Luton. I will interpret the facts. Constable Bonaparte was prevented from doing his full duty. Inspector Bonaparte must be prevented from doing his duty here in the vicinity of Mount Mario.”

  One of the charming attributes of the aged is that they are neither avidly curious nor impatient to ask questions. Mr. Luton remained passively interested. He had seen the broadly outlined picture Bony had painted and knew that Bony would complete the picture soon, for Bony was pensive, and the cigarette threatening to burn his fingers was proof of it.

  They were both startled in like manner by the abrupt bark­ing of the dogs. Against the inner stillness of the mind beat the wind about the eaves and the branches of the trees. The clock in the adjacent room whirred, struck nine deep notes, and when the last note was softly fleeing there came the rush of feet up the steps and across the veranda, and urgent knocking on the door. The men rose; Bony to move into the dark interior of the living-room, Mr. Luton to deal with the caller.

  “Mr. Luton!” cried Jessica Lawrence. “I …”

  “Why, Sunset! Come in! Come in!” The girl almost ran into this haven. She was wearing a light coat buttoned to the chin, a beret charmingly counteracting the wide eyes and panting breath.

  “Anyone with you?” asked Mr. Luton, holding the door a fraction from closing.

  “No. No, I came alone. Dr. Linke … Carl … has gone away. I … I’ve been running. I was being followed.”

  “Sit you down, Sunset.” Mr. Luton closed the door and shot the inside bolt. Bony entered, and the girl went to him and gripped him by the arms.

  “You here, Inspector! I heard you had left, gone back to Brisbane.”

  “Rumour is often humour, Miss Lawrence.” He pushed her gently into a fireside chair. “Take it easy. All my friends call me ‘Bony’. I hope you will so honour me. Never believe that Bony deserts his friends.”

  “Cup of tea, Sunset? Coffee if you like. Brandy in the coffee, too,” suggested Mr. Luton.

  “Whatever … Thank you.”

  The old man hurried to the stove and the dresser for cups and saucers. As the girl seemed unable to decide, he chose coffee, with brandy, for all three.

  “Cigarette?” offered Bony. “Shall I make one for you? I’m not an expert, but …”

  “Thank you. I have some here. Oh! I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Nice of you. Dr. Linke … you said he went away. Where has he gone?”

  “I don’t know. They came for him this afternoon.”

  “Your cigarette is out. Relax!” Bony smiled at her, and that helped defeat hysteria. “Mr. Luton won’t be long with the … I’ll wager it’ll be coffee with a kick in it.”

  Mr. Luton came in a few minutes later to find the girl less agitated and Bony studiously not looking at her. There was no doubt about that coffee.

  “Coffee,” remarked Mr. Luton, accepting his cue, “is never worth drinking if there is only a drop or two of brandy in it.”

  “So!” murmured Bony. “You don’t just drip the brandy into it?”

  “You insult coffee and brandy by mating them too care­lessly,” observed Mr. Luton, and then flushed because he might have drawn the wrong analogy. “You pour brandy into coffee. Drops reminds me of medicine.”

  “Thank you, Bony, and you, Mr. Luton. I’m better now.” Jessica Lawrence spoke firmly. “But I was followed, and I did run in a panic.”

  “Tell us about that first, Jessica.”

  “I decided I must contact you somehow, and I thought Mr. Luton would tell me how. About Carl. So I left the house without telling anyone. The moon is bright, but the clouds are racing and there’s plenty of moon shadow. I came to the high­way all right and chose it down to the bridge, instead of taking the path across the paddocks, because it’s a good night for walk­ing. Then,
when half-way to the bridge, I had a sort of feeling, and I looked back and saw a man on the road.

  “I hurried along, and he seemed to hurry too. I don’t know what made me do it, but I stopped and looked at him. He was about a hundred yards away. He stopped too. I called out and asked him who he was. He didn’t answer, and I walked back to see him more clearly. And he went back too. When I turned and came on, he turned and followed me again.

  “I came to the turn-off at the bridge and followed the track to this cottage, and the man stopped at the bridge and lit a cigarette. I thought, I’m all right now, and I walked the track beside the trees and came to the patch of scrub. As I was passing the scrub, suddenly I saw another man. He was stand­ing behind a bush, but I could see his head above the top of the bush. He was very still. It was then that I took to my heels and bolted, coward that I am.”

  “Sure that the man behind the bush wasn’t the man who followed you down the highway?” Bony asked.

  “Positive. There must have been two of them.”

  “Could you describe them?”

  “Well, the man who followed me on the road seemed to be tall. He was wearing a raincoat and …”

  “Pardon. A raincoat! Could you distinguish the coat?”

  “No. It was the shape of the man that told me he was wearing a belted coat. The other one, the one behind the bush, was shorter, I think. Not much taller than I am. Both wore hats.”

  “Could you hear the man walking on the hard road?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything peculiar in the sound of his footsteps?”

  “Well, yes, there was. The sounds didn’t come evenly. I know! He was slightly lame.”

  “Anything more about them?”

  “No, Bony.”

  “Tell us about Dr. Linke.”