Bony - 20 - The Battling Prophet

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “You will not make a commotion. The owner of this property, into which you have unlawfully broken and entered, is a sick man, as you must observe. His trouble is of the heart, brought about by the assault on this house by gangsters, and added to by the illegal entry made by yourselves, I presume without a warrant.”

  “Who are you?” a man asked, and Boase straightened to restrain himself from laughing loudly.

  “Him! He’s Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  The questioner was large and tough and had a face well schooled to evade emotion. He said:

  “In that case, Inspector Bonaparte, you’re headed for a load of trouble. You better tell us now about these killings.”

  “You can get out of here,” weakly complained Mr. Luton. He endeavoured to rise on an elbow, sank wearily back to the pillow and called Alice. She appeared behind the burly figures masking the door-frame, pushed in between them and stepped hurriedly to the bedside.

  “Empty these pests out of my room,” commanded the ‘ailing’ man.

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  Alice straightened, glared at the intruders. She opened her mouth to take in steam, and Boase beat her to it by saying:

  “All right! All right! Get out of this, chaps. Anything to stop her starting. Come on, Bony. It’s up to you to watch your step.” They crowded into the living-room, and Bony freed the prisoner. And then Boase said: “Now, Bony, we’ll have it.”

  Bony leaned against the cupboard beside the stove. His long brown fingers were suddenly occupied making a cigarette. His eyes were masked, almost sleepy, and a slight smile puckered his lips. He applied a match to the cigarette before saying coldly:

  “You will now take it. The man on the bed in there is the owner of this house. I am his guest. We have had trouble from strangers before you came, and when you arrived there was no riotous disturbance in this house. You demanded admittance. When asked for a search warrant, you said you had one. I then asked Mr. Luton’s niece to admit you, but you broke down the door before she could do so. Your search warrant—at once.”

  “Now look here, Bony,” began Boase. “It won’t work. There’s been murder done inside and outside this house. You can’t play the fool.”

  “Waste of time,” the pan-faced one cut in. “For your information, Inspector Bonaparte, I have here a warrant for your arrest.”

  Boase waved him back.

  Bony bowed. “I know Sergeant Maskell, Super. Please present your other associates in illegal practices.”

  “We’re Commonwealth Investigation, Bonaparte, and you can chew on that,” gave the man with the arrest warrant. “Unless you give tongue, we’re taking you in.”

  Aware of the jealousies between the Commonwealth and the States Police Departments, Bony played it, for the events of the immediate past had befogged issues already involved. Looking to the two South Australian policemen, he said:

  “As you know, I am on leave of absence, and the guest of Mr. Luton. On several occasions I met Mr. Luton’s nearest neighbour, one known as Knocker Harris. This evening, at about seven-thirty, I was looking out of the front-room window, admiring the moonlit night and considering what bait I would use to-morrow.” He then described the actions of the two men who appeared in the clearing, their arrival on the veranda. “I opened the door in time to see Harris collapsing to the veranda floor, and the other man racing to the gate. He still carried the knife and was slashing at the dog. Although on leave from duty in another State, I have duties to observe as a police officer. I called on the man to stop, and when he did not obey my order, I fired to enforce obedience.”

  “By shooting him dead?” sneered the C.I.S. man.

  “In view of what occurred earlier this evening, Super­intendent Boase, and in view of the fact that with me in this house is an old man and a young woman, I am prepared at any time and place, either at official enquiry or in the press of Australia, to claim that I did not fail in my duty.”

  Bony outlined the events of the late afternoon, ending with the entry of the little man armed with an automatic pistol, and his capture and confession—what there was of it. He went on:

  “Prior to these events, there have been strange happenings in this part of the State of South Australia; unlawful activities by several persons. One: the office of the late Benjamin Wickham was broken into and ransacked, this crime not being reported, as far as we know. Two: men came here and employed threats and menaces for the purpose of pumping Knocker Harris for information concerning the late Mr. Wickham’s work and papers and, three: a Miss Jessica Lawrence was waylaid when she left this house late one night. The car used by these persons was destroyed and reported to the local officer as an accident. Also, a Dr. Carl Linke was removed by persons purporting to be police officers. And I had been enjoying two or three days of peaceful fishing when someone in Cowdry reported to someone to have me recalled to Brisbane, according to what Senior Constable Gibley inferred one pleasant afternoon.

  “There, Superintendent Boase, you have sufficient material on which to base your investigations. The foreign gentleman present will no doubt supply valuable information. The dead man at the gate is obviously his accomplice, and the third man with whom he came from Adelaide is the person attacked by the dog he failed to shoot. There are other matters we can discuss at your leisure.”

  “Now is the time, Inspector Bonaparte,” Superintendent Boase decided, and the left eyelid just barely flickered. “I arrest you on a charge of manslaughter.”

  “But you can’t do that, Super,” interjected the C.I.S. man. “I have already a warrant for his arrest, and power to conduct him to any lock-up in the country. You know that.”

  Boase stretched, yawned, grinned without mirth.

  “This is my territory,” he said stonily. “Bonaparte is my prisoner.”

  “But you can’t …”

  “Don’t be a blasted fool. Killings are my job.”

  “Yes, and get to hell out of it!” shrilled Alice, appearing among them. “My uncle wants peace and quiet and some­thing to eat. Now defongerate. This isn’t an opium den. Go on! Imshi!”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The Blackmailer

  SENIOR CONSTABLE GIBLEY arrived with reinforce­ments, and thus enabled Sergeant Maskell to relieve Boase of the routine work.

  “Bring in that dog-fighting fellow,” Bony said curtly, and Boase found himself repeating the order.

  The dog-fighter appeared decidedly ill-used. His overcoat and trousers were ripped. He might lose at least one ear, and his hands were lacerated.

  “This one of the men you accompanied from Adelaide?” Bony asked Tolnic, and, after hesitation, the little man nodded.

  “Very early on Wednesday morning the dog-fighter there was here with another man; not that man found dead in the gateway. They walked into this house, bashed Mr. Luton, lashed him to a chair and kicked his knees. They demanded to know where Wickham kept his papers, and referred to an important notebook. When Mr. Luton declined to say any­thing, this dog-fighting thug produced a hypodermic and pre­pared to inject a drug to force the information from Mr. Luton. It was unfortunate for him and his accomplice that I arrived back from Adelaide in time to prevent a most serious crime.”

  “They came this time for what?” asked the would-be arrester.

  “You ask Tolnic. That’s your job,” Bony replied coldly, his blue eyes blazing, and reminding Gibley of an uncomfort­able moment.

  The Commonwealth Investigation man asked. He asked twice, and Tolnic was dumb. From the next room Mr. Luton roared:

  “Leave him to Alice. She’ll make him talk.”

  “You be quiet, Uncle,” shrilled Alice. To those either side of the dog-fighter she commanded: “Take that stinking thing away.” When the command had been obeyed, to Bony’s amusement, she turned to the little man. “Now you, Tolnic. Speak up. Remember me? Every time your wife is dissatisfied you will remember me. I’m telling you something. You’re in the soup, d’you understand? You’ll lose y
our job and you’ll be locked up, but this is a good country, and ordinary people like you and me, and these policemen, don’t go in for torture. They won’t stand for your wife and kids being badly treated. You just tell the policemen what’s what. Inspector Bona­parte’s already told them what you told us, but I think there’s a bit more. Now, about being stuck up on the street and told to take this job ‘or else!’ … is that true?”

  The little man breathed the affirmative answer. Only Tolnic and Boase saw the soft gleam of sympathy in the girl’s brown eyes. She nodded encouragingly.

  “You tell everything that happened from the time you left Adelaide with these men.”

  Added to the men’s original objective in bringing him, Tolnic’s role had been also to ascertain who was in the house with Luton, with emphasis on the man who had frustrated their earlier attempt.

  As their car had passed Mount Mario, they saw a car turn off at the bridge and take the track to Luton’s house. They had parked their car deep in the scrub, and they waited there until Dr. Maltby had left.

  They had overheard Alice’s reception of the doctor, then Tolnic was instructed to proceed as planned. They had not thought of the dogs now free of the kennels, and the dogs bluffed Tolnic at the gate. From the veranda Alice had further bluffed him, and he had returned to his masters to report.

  Then Gibley had called at the cottage. They overheard that Mr. Luton was abed with a cold, that his clothes had been hidden to immobilise him, and when Gibley drove away they were convinced that the only person with Luton was this woman with the devastating tongue.

  When the dogs had raced away after Gibley’s car, the position was open and shut for Tolnic to offer his wares at the back door. He was to hold up the woman, gag and secure her, then to knock Luton out if he proved difficult. Meanwhile, they would lie in wait for Knocker Harris should he appear, and at dark would take over from Tolnic. Tolnic was to encounter all the risks, and if he was apprehended, and talked, his wife and children were to be bashed. The usual technique!

  Alice smiled at him. Then she swung about to face the men.

  “Having given you a few lessons on interrogation,” she told them, “I am going to make tea and sandwiches. So you all get out of my kitchen, and stay out, see?”

  They drifted, and Boase asked with mock humility: “Can’t I stay here with Bonaparte?”

  “Yes, let’s,” Bony supported, and they sat at one end of the table and regarded each other like representatives of East and West. After Alice had slammed the door to the sitting-room, there was quiet. Bony said:

  “You and I, Boase, have to be good. This affair is big, proved so by the interest of C.I.S., and, I am confident, also by S.S. Politics, Boase. Crime is as a sweet rose nodding in soft sunshine over the black evil of a political cesspool. Admit that the C.I.S. has been putting much over your Department.”

  “Correct,” snapped Boase, taking from a pocket a pipe and pouch. “What annoys me is I don’t know how much.”

  “I could tell you. I know most of it now. They put a lot over me, too. I am not a politician, and no one can be per­mitted to use me as a scapegoat. To employ an old saying, ‘I shall get out from under,’ and although in calm moments you won’t blame me, you will get hurt in the process. Wait! You and I have always worked amicably. I think we could agree that off duty we have a mutual personal liking. I need your assistance now. You will need mine later.”

  “What do you want?” asked Boase, eyes small, tapping the stem of his pipe against the stiff hairs of his moustache.

  “I must return to Brisbane as fast as I can.”

  “Oh! Pretty hard—with all this mess. What can you do?”

  “The loud pedal will be down hard on the cremation of Wickham’s body, in view of the protest made by Luton both to Maltby and Gibley. I must push it down, because, in order to emerge safely from under, I can spare no one. You assist me to get to Brisbane within hours, and I’ll present you with a soft pedal that you can push.”

  “All right, Bony. I’ll buy.”

  “I have proof sufficient to satisfy any reasonable man that Ben Wickham was murdered, how, by whom, and why.”

  Superintendent Boase actually permitted his chin to drop. It didn’t occur to him to doubt, for Bony’s reputation was too solidly on the ground of achievement. So he said levelly:

  “Blackmail, eh?”

  “Blackmail, Super.”

  “If I don’t pay, you let a murderer slip into limbo?”

  Bony shrugged, smiled, and Boase burst out with:

  “None of your Mona Lisa grin with me, Bony. When do I pay, and when do you?”

  “Immediately we reach Brisbane, I shall be on the mat. You will be there; a unique experience for us both. You will hear me contending with stupid officialdom. You will hear me uttering dire threats. And, when you leave Brisbane for your own city, you will acknowledge that I shall ever be the ‘Great Australian Blackmailer’. And, Super, you will be rejoicing that the matter of that cremation will never come up to annoy you and reflect on your Department.”

  “May I confer with my Chief Commish?” Boase said ironically.

  “Certainly. We should fly to Brisbane, via Broken Hill. The political police could be a hindrance at Melbourne and Sydney. By the way. Alice, just a moment.”

  “I’m just serving supper. Sugar, Superintendent Boase?”

  Boase looked at her sharply. He had not before heard this voice, this normal voice. And it appeared that not previously had he seen the normal face of this talented young woman. She placed tea-cups and plates before them, added plates of scones and cakes. Then seated herself between the big man and Bony.

  “I present, Super, Policewoman Alice McGorr, of Melbourne.”

  Boase glared at Alice, squinted at the plate of cakes, raised his gaze to meet the laughing eyes of Bony.

  “The States, you see, are well represented. Alice—I am sure she will be delighted to be so addressed by you—is on leave, and will be staying here for another week to look after her poor sick uncle.”

  Bony had purposely raised his voice, and from the bed­room came the lion’s roar.

  “Poor sick uncle be damned!”

  Boase lifted both hands off the table. He said:

  “I give up. I give ruddy well up.”

  And Alice said meekly:

  “Now, Super, just drink your tea, and swear after if you want to.”

  Bony pulled the bell at the front door of Mount Mario and, while waiting, the moon told him it was about ten o’clock, the moon being less usable than the sun as a clock. To the maid who answered the bell he said:

  “I am Inspector Bonaparte. I wish to see Mrs. Parsloe.”

  He was invited inside and offered a chair in the hall. Two minutes later he was bowing to a white-haired woman, large, austere, and, he was thankful to note, intelligent.

  “I have been wondering why you didn’t call when you were down last, Inspector,” she said. “Please take that chair. It’s very easy.”

  “Unfortunately I cannot stay as long as I would like, madam. I am leaving almost at once for Adelaide. There are several questions I wish to ask, and a service to render which I believe will relieve your mind relative to a certain matter.”

  Mrs. Parsloe flipped a cigarette from a pop-up box, and Bony was not slow with a match. She looked above the flame and smiled.

  “It seems that you are addicted to trading questions, Inspector. We have heard all about you from the Reverend Mr. Weston. I too agree to trade.”

  “I thank you, madam. Will you begin, or shall I?”

  “Perhaps your questions would be more exciting?”

  “As you wish. Why did you not report the burglary of the office?”

  “I was asked not to report the matter to Gibley, and I would prefer not to mention by whom.”

  “Was the ‘whom’ the person you reported Dr. Linke to, the following morning or afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “This ‘whom’ had been i
n contact with you previously, had he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “You reported Dr. Linke for what reason?”

  “My brother’s weather calculations and other papers and a book were missing, Inspector. Dr. Linke, a very nice man, is a foreigner. His … er … work for my brother wasn’t quite regular, but, according to my brother, invaluable.”

  “Have you knowledge or even an idea where he is at the moment?”

  “Oh yes. He returned to us this afternoon.”

  “Ah! I am happy to know that. I must see him, and Miss Lawrence, before I leave.” Bony smiled and extracted a sheet of paper from a pocket. “In the course of my … er … fishing expeditions, I came across your late brother’s will. As it was in an unsealed envelope, I took the liberty of read­ing it. I present you with a rough draft of all the clauses in it.”

  “You found the will!” exclaimed Mrs. Parsloe, abruptly standing. “And that notebook!”

  “Yes, and the notebook. I know that Mr. McGillycuddy was most interested in the notebook, but the will expressly states he is not to have it.”

  “He wasn’t going to get it,” Mrs. Parsloe asserted sharply.

  “Unless the Commonwealth paid the figure you named to Mr. McGillycuddy?”

  “Unless … Why, you seem to know everything, Inspector.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Parsloe, now I know everything. Later, when I have gone, you might ring Mr. McGillycuddy and say I said so. Now, where can I see Dr. Linke and Miss Lawrence?”

  Mrs. Parsloe was an angry woman when she left the room.

  Thirty seconds were given to Bony to admire the pictures, when Linke flung open the door and followed Jessica. She clasped both of Bony’s hands, and Linke gripped his arm.

  “Bony! Is everything all right?” Jessica asked anxiously.

  “Splendid. Mr. Luton is in bed with a slight cold. He is being nursed by the young woman you contacted in Melbourne. She is very efficient, and will be staying with Mr. Luton for a week at least.”

  “Yes? Go on. There’s more.”

  “Greedy, are you not? The enemy has been captured, and the police are all over the place mopping up. I am going to Brisbane for a few days, and shall be back for the extension of my leave. Go and see Alice and Mr. Luton tomorrow. You’ll like Alice, and she’ll like you.”