Sunflower, who was standing by the sofa, held by amazement, suddenly ran to him, oblivious of her bandaged foot. A little more sedately Lucy followed her, so that there stood Mr Jelly holding a daughter in each of his massive arms, kissing them in turn, whilst the tears ran unchecked down his weather-beaten face.
Bony wrote on a leaf torn from his notebook:
“Will call for all at half-past eight Saturday.”
Slipping the note on the dresser when sure that Mrs Saunders observed him, he nodded to her, pointed to the note, placed two fingers against his lips to enjoin silence, and silently walked out of the house.
Chapter Fourteen
Mr Thorn’s Ideas
ALL DAY Thursday Bony cut and carted fence posts from the dense timber covering the eastern half of the government farm. For years posts had been cut from that area of timber when required, and he found that the posts suitable for the rabbit fence were not so plentiful as the uninitiated might think; for many trees, when dry, would easily become destroyed by the omnipresent termite.
Because he would need the horse for the afternoon trip to the timber, Bony stacked the posts among the trees near the gate beside the railway. He then parked the dray in deep shade, and, taking the horse out, tied it to a tree to eat its midday feed. Finally he made a fire, filled the billy with water from his canvas water bag, and set it against the flame to boil for tea; for no Australian could possibly eat a meal without the accompaniment of several cups of tea.
Trucks passed towards Burracoppin loaded with wheat and returned empty. The sun flooded the road with heat and seemed to hold the white dust level with the treetops. A long train came roaring down the grade to the fence, Bony observing with interest the long rake of wheat-loaded trucks on its way to the seaport.
Whilst waiting for the water to boil he leaned against the fence, near one of the new posts he had erected. The wheat train having passed, his gaze dropped to the flame-wrapped billycan and from it to a number of blowflies settled on the ground at the base of the post. When he moved his foot near them they took wing, but immediately his foot was withdrawn they settled again.
The question arising in Bony’s inquisitive mind while he waited for his billy to boil was: Why were those flies so much attracted to the earth around that one post? There was not at that place more moisture than anywhere else. So absorbed was he by his problem that he automatically flung a handful of tea into the boiling water and omitted to remove the billy until the question had been answered several minutes later, when the liquid had become blue-black.
That was the post at the bottom of which he had buried one of Ginger’s rabbits many days before. Fifteen inches below rammed earth lay the body of a rabbit, and it was the process of its decomposition, throwing off a strong smell, penetrating through the packed earth right to the surface, which was attracting the blowflies.
Unheeding the inky-black liquid his tea had become, he lifted the billy from the fire with a stick and thoughtfully carried it to the dray, on the floor of which he was to eat his lunch safe from the ants. He had not long been reclining with his back against one of the sides of the dray when he saw Mr Thorn reach the fence on his patrol bicycle and dismount. The Water Rat looked at his watch, then at the sun, and then round him, whereupon he saw Bony, and, after waving his hand in greeting, fell to unstrapping his billycan and lunch from the machine.
“Bit of luck, sightin’ you,” he said on reaching the dray. “I’ll shove me billy on your fire, if you don’t mind.”
“Not a bit,” Bony cheerfully assured him.
“Wish it was beer,” Mr Thorn said, filling his billy from Bony’s water bag.
“Tea is better at this time of the day,” the smiling half-caste pointed out to the Water Rat arranging his billy on the fire.
Mr Thorn was emphatic when next he spoke, proclaiming the fact that he knew precisely of what he was talking.
“Beer is best at any time of the day and night, and all through the year. It is especially best on a hot day like this. But I never was lucky. Even the blarsted pipes won’t bust now, but they’ll keep on busting in the middle of winter when the water freezes stiff. Going to the darnce Sat’day night?”
“At Jilbadgie Hall? Yes, I expect so. Are you going?”
“Well, I haven’t been aiming to, seeing as ’ow there’s no pub handy. I can’t darnce much on coffee. But the old woman says I’ve got to take ’er, and I love peace enough never to argue.” Mr Thorn’s face brightened with hope. He said: “Perhaps we could manage to take along a few bottles with us?”
“We might.”
“How are you going?”
“In a car. I am taking the Jellys.”
“Oh!” Mr Thorn uttered the exclamation very slowly and most distinctly. Then he whistled. Then he said: “Old man got money, eh? Just come outer smoke, eh?”
“I really don’t know when he returned,” Bony lied expertly, and yawned.
“She’s right,” announced Mr Thorn, referring to the billycan. “Give us your pannikin,” he requested when due time had been allowed for the tea to “draw”.
“How did you enjoy the benefit dance?” Bony asked him.
“Good-oh!” Mr Thorn’s round red face lost its creases of anxiety regarding the beer supply at the coming dance. Into his small grey eyes flashed an expression of sweet memory. He added with faint expostulation, “You oughta ’ave come with me acrost to the pub when I gave you the oil. We ’ad a good time for nearly an hour. But I nearly made meself sick eating peppermints to take orf the fumes; and then, when I got back, the old woman swore I was drunk, and a disgrace, and a low, swilling beast. You married?”
“For more than twenty years.”
“Poor blighter,” murmured Mr Thorn sympathetically. For a little while he did not speak, and then presently he burst out: “The driver of Number Ten goods this morning told the lumpers in Burra that George Loftus ’as been located at Leonora. He heard about it in Merredin, and the bloke ’oo told ’im was the yardman at one of the pubs ’oose sister is married to one of the policemen. I knoo old Loftus ’ad done a bunk!”
“But why did he do a bunk?” Bony asked calmly, yet feeling deeply disappointed.
“Dunno, I’m sure. Any’ow, they can’t do nothink to ’im for clearing orf. Doing a bunk ain’t no crime. Between me and you, I think he did a get because he was fed to the teeth with his flash wife. ’Course, she’s very popular in Burra, but there’s them ’oo thinks she ain’t so popular with them. My missus don’t think much of ’er for one. Mrs Loftus is too stuck up for gov’ment workers, but she’s backed by a clique ’ere ’oo’d crawl under a snake at the bottom of a hundred-foot mine shaft.
“Expect now Mrs Loftus will sue for divorse. My missus always did reckon that if Landon got the chance he’d marry ’er to get ’er—and the farm. Got ’is ’ead screwed on right, has Landon, but he’ll do better when he loses interest in the skirts.”
Having finished his meal, Mr Thorn proceeded to replace pannikin and cloth in his lunch tin and then slowly and with concentrated interest to fill and light his pipe. Having got the tobacco to burn to his satisfaction after the expenditure of four matches, he continued his monologue, for Bony was lying back with half-closed eyes.
“Talking about that benefit darnce reminds me,” said he. “The Wednesday before, my missus drawed five one-pound notes from the bank. Come Sat’day night she reckons that the last three of them would be safer in ’er ’andbag than under the mattress at ’ome. And as she says it she’s looking ’ard at me. So the notes goes with ’er to the darnce, and sometime about the middle of it she must needs open ’er bag to powder ’er dial and drops the folded notes without knowing it. There went a ’undred and twenty nice cold pots down some other bloke’s neck, ’cos we never found ’em.
“She quite calm when she tells me. If I ’ad lorst a deaner I’d have got hell for a week. I see Mick Landon without a girl, and he reckoned the bank might ’ave kept the numbers. Most obliging chap,
Mick. He was in the next day squaring up the darnce, and he sees the bank manager and arst ’im, and the manager told ’im that they never keeps the numbers of pound notes.
“Good bloke, Landon! Good spender, too! If ’e does marry Mrs Loftus they’ll make a good pair as far as looks go. But she’ll find that Mick Landon won’t be as easygoing as old Loftus was.”
And so on and on about people in Burracoppin, whilst Bony silently listened and wondered about Landon being so interested in the numbers of lost notes and about the news that Loftus had been discovered at Leonora, away up in the northeast of the State.
At last Mr Thorn announced the end of his lunch hour and rolled off the dray.
“I must go,” he said regretfully. “See you at Jilbadgie, Sat’day. Don’t forget to bring ’arf a dozen bottles with you. I’ll bring my share, an’ we’ll make a plant nice and ’andy so’s we can nip out now and then on the quiet and ’ave a deep-noser!”
“A deep-noser!”
“Yes. A snifter.”
“Do you mean a drink?”
“Of course I means a drink. A snifter’s a pot, an’ a pot’s a deep-noser. Didn’t you understand that?”
“No. I fear I did not. I shall know in future.”
“You’ll know all right when I whispers into your ear: ‘Come an’ ’ave a snifter.’ We’ll be all right if we makes the plant. Hooroo!”
“Au revoir,” replied Bony pleasantly. While Mr Thorn’s rotund, well-nourished figure waddled away Bony smiled quizzically. When the Water Rat had clambered across the pipeline, mounted his machine, and had pedalled away along the patrolman’s stone-cleared path, he said softly: “Thank you, Mr Thorn. You deserve your plant Sat’day night.”
Chapter Fifteen
Secrets
ON THE Friday before the Jilbadgie dance Bony received a long letter from Sergeant Westbury which revealed his prose to be less staccato than his speech. He wrote in a triumphant vein to state that George Loftus had been discovered in company with two other men sinking a shaft in the hope of striking a gold-bearing reef near Leonora. As no charge had been laid by Mrs Loftus on the ground of desertion, and as no serious damage had been done to government property through wrecking the car, no action could be taken against the farmer. He had been photographed, however, and copies would be forwarded for purposes of identification.
The man himself stoutly denied that he was George Loftus, giving his name as Frank Lovelace and stating that he was but recently arrived on the goldfields from South Australia. Yet his particulars were identical with those of George Loftus supplied by the Merredin police. In conclusion, Sergeant Westbury expressed pleasure that the case was almost finalized and hoped that Bony would call on him for a chat before returning to his native State.
Even his communication did not wholly convince the Queenslander that the missing man still lived. That sixth sense warned him against accepting a probability not backed by proof, and until proof was produced he would carry on.
With a disturbing sense of disappointment Bony admitted the probability of the man at Leonora being George Loftus, but there was yet to be explained the all-compelling reason for a man leaving a comfortable home, with all its attendant amenities and the society of a pretty wife, for the rigours of a gold-miner’s camp in the heat of summer. There was no reason for a man deliberately to wreck a car to make that change in his life.
The passage of time had tangled the threads, broken them, made them more numerous. Day had succeeded day, and Bony could discover no clue of importance that would lead him to the heart of the mystery. There was growing in his mind a conviction, based on no tangible evidence, that the cause of George Loftus’s disappearance was that which controlled the absences of Mr Jelly. He came to believe that could he solve the puzzle of Mr Jelly and placate the mind of Lucy Jelly, he would satisfy his own mind regarding Loftus.
By now Bony should have left for Queensland if he was to report for duty at the expiration of his live. Yet he found he could not desert this dual case. He had promised Lucy Jelly to make clear the mystery hanging over her father and which shrouded Sunflower’s life and her own. He had promised to clear up the Loftus case for John Muir. In his heart he knew he would not give up, even had he not made those two promises, and indications pointed to his being once more dismissed from the Queensland Police Force for engaging in a case outside his State without official permission. Memory of a much-tried Colonel Spender caused Bony to sigh.
In reply to Sergeant Westbury’s letter he wrote out a long message to be telegraphed to his chief, maintaining the secrecy of his identity, which such a message telephoned from Burracoppin would have destroyed. In view of the location of George Loftus at Leonora, Bony’s request to Colonel Spender for a month’s extension of leave to proceed with the Burracoppin case produced great astonishment in the mind of Sergeant Westbury.
Bony realized that he must depart a little from the straight line of his philosophy of crime detection and give Father Time a sharp nudge. It was almost certain that Mrs Loftus and Mick Landon would attend the dance at Jilbadgie. It was less certain, but likely, that Miss Waldron would also go, and if she did not an excuse could be invented to assure her attendance. The Loftus farm, therefore, would be guarded only by three dogs, two of whom appeared to Bony, when he called for a drink of water, to be capable of energetic action at night. In the house they would guard might be found the explanation of the farmer’s departure for Leonora—if he had departed for the goldfields, which Bony’s intuition compelled him to doubt.
When he had finished work for the Rabbit Department at noon on Saturday he paid a visit to the garage to hire Fred and his car for that evening. He then drew Fred’s partner aside and opened negotiations for services of an entirely different nature.
These two men belonged to that small class who are habitually cautious in their dealings and in their speech. Bony had noted this reserve when they spoke with Mr and Mrs Poole and others, and he felt no unease when divulging his secret business to William. In the precise centre of the yard behind the big iron shed he said:
“I want you to do something for me, if you will. Fred is to take me to the Jilbadgie dance tonight, as you know, but the matter about which I wish to speak to you has nothing to do with his commission. I must entrust to you a little secret.”
There was enquiry in his voice, and William nodded assent.
“It is a fact,” Bony went on, “that I am a police officer engaged in looking into the matter of George Loftus’s disappearance. I think it possible——”
He permitted William to read the sergeant’s letter.
“But they have found him, haven’t they?” William cut in.
“They say they have, but I do not think they have,” Bony said emphatically. “Even if the man at Leonora is Loftus there remains much behind this affair, and I believe I could learn at lot if I could but get an hour’s freedom in Loftus’s house. It is almost certain that Mrs Loftus and Landon will go to the dance tonight. If Miss Waldron does not go I must invent some excuse to persuade her.
“What I require of you is to leave here about ten o’clock on your motor-cycle and wait beside the main road, out of sight, about four to five hundred yards this side of the hall. At a favourable opportunity I will slip away and join you, because I want you to take me on your machine to the Loftus farm, leave me there, decoy away the dogs, and after about an hour take me back to the dance. Did you wish to attend the dance?”
“No.”
“Excellent. Please tell everyone that you are not going. Fred will stay and dance all the evening. Consequently, curious minds will not associate my short absence with any person actually there, unless it is with Mr Thorn, and the reason of his absences is well known, I think. Will five pounds be sufficient remuneration?”
“You bet. That job’s mine.”
“You will keep the secret of my identity?”
“Even from Fred. And he’s close-mouthed enough.”
“Good! I will fet
ch a little parcel later, which you must be sure to bring with you. Au revoir!”
Punctually at the time appointed Fred waited on Bony with a roomy and comfortable car. To placate the friendly Water Rat, six bottles of beer and a glass were packed securely among the tools under a seat. Bony was smartly dressed in dark navy blue.
Reaching the Jelly homestead a little after half-past eight, Bony and Fred, who was dressed even more smartly than the detective, found little Sunflower and Mr Jelly waiting for the others to finish their toilet. Scones and small cakes were surrounded by teacups, and on the fire simmered a fragrant coffee-pot.
“Everyone ready?” Bony asked when he entered the kitchen.
“Sunflower is ready and so am I,” announced Mr Jelly. “Lucy has a new frock and must not be hurried. Nothing in this world will hurry Mrs Saunders, and I doubt if anything in the next world will, either.”
Mr Jelly was his usual complacent self. Benevolence and good humour radiated from his large face. Again he was the jovial farmer whom nothing could daunt.
Mrs Saunders appeared, placidly cheerful as always. She busied herself with the coffee. Gowned in white satin, Lucy Jelly came into the kitchen, cool, controlled, and calm.
They were all laughing at something Mr Jelly had said when the car sped away to the fence, where they turned southward along the government track. It was a happy party which reached the Jilbadgie Hall.
Bony danced twice with Sunflower and once with Lucy Jelly and told them he had business to do which would occupy him an hour, begging them to excuse him and not remark his absence.
“Father!” exclaimed Sunflower.
“No. Mr Loftus is the cause.”
“Father?” inquired Lucy.
“No. Mr Loftus. Your father will give up his strange hobby and mysterious journeys in the near future. He promised me that he would.”
Mr Jelly’s Business Page 13
