Mr Jelly’s Business

by Arthur W. Upfield

  For a little while the detective stared down into the strong, lean face. That Hurley had kept a promise delighted him.

  “I am glad to hear you say that, my dear Eric,” he said. “A man who can successfully guard his tongue will never want for friends. Let us go along to your temporary camp and boil the billy for tea. It’s too hot to shovel sand just now, and I’ll make up your lost time by working for an hour with you this evening.”

  And then, while they sipped tea from enamel pannikins:

  “You must have thought a lot about Mr Jelly’s mysterious absences. Have you any idea of the reason behind them?”

  “The old feller’s all right,” Hurley said without hesitation. “A bit strait-laced, and a crank on one thing. If he’d give up collecting murders, Lucy and Sunflower would be a lot happier.”

  “You would, of course, like to have those girls more happy?”

  “Naturally. But there’s nothing crook about the old man,” Eric loyally maintained. “Some reckons he goes after a woman, being a widower, and others say he goes away on a bender. Well, a man is entitled to do both—within limits. A man who indulges in either near his family is a blackguard, which old Jelly is not. I don’t think it’s either women or wine, because the old chap always comes home richer than when he went away.”

  “He has gone away again. He was not home when Lucy got up on Sunday morning,” Bony stated.

  “It’s a pity he can’t stay home for the harvest. It leaves old Middleton shorthanded, and he’s not as young as he used to be. Lucy will be worried again.”

  “She is doubly worried this time, because her father was wounded when he went away early Sunday morning.”

  “Wounded!” Hurley echoed.

  “Yes. He was prowling about the Loftus farm and Mick Landon shot him.”

  “What the devil was the old feller doing messing about the Loftus farm?”

  “That I do not know. He was shot about a quarter past three in the morning. He went home wounded. I tracked him Sunday evening. Lucy told me that one of his bed sheets was torn up, presumably for bandages, and there was a tinge of blood in the wash-basin.”

  “But what was he doing on the Loftus farm at that hour?”

  “We do not know.”

  “What does Mick Landon think about it? Why did he shoot?”

  “Landon does not know that it was Mr Jelly he shot. No one knows that Mr Jelly was shot, other than Lucy and myself, and now you.”

  “Then how did you know? How did you come to track him?”

  “Because I saw him shot.”

  “Then what were you doing on the Loftus farm?”

  “Having a look round.”

  “I give in,” Hurley announced resignedly. “You’re like a stonewalling batsman. You’ll answer a hundred questions and yet give away no information.”

  The detective looked down from the cigarette he was making.

  “Because it is proved that you have a silver tongue, because you are in love with Lucy Jelly, and because I need your assistance, I will take you into my confidence,” Bony said slowly. Whereupon Hurley learned many things which had occurred after the dance at the Jilbadgie Hall.

  “I cannot but think, Eric, that the disappearance of George Loftus is connected in some way with the occasional absences of your prospective father-in-law,” Bony said when the fencerider ceased to chuckle at the story of the aniseed trail. “Strictly between ourselves, I have promised to reveal to your young lady the reason or cause of her father’s going away. She asked me to help her know so that she could help her father if he was practising some habit which love could help him conquer.”

  “What makes you think the two mysteries are connected?” was Hurley’s reasonable question.

  “George Loftus and Mr Jelly were great friends. They were neighbours, assisted each other over any difficulty. When the majority of farmers in this district are broke Mr Jelly goes off and brings back money, and Loftus had one hundred pounds on his person when he left Perth of the hundred and seventy-odd pounds he had hidden away in a private bank.”

  “Someone told me that they had found Loftus at Leonora,” Hurley said interrogatively.

  “Of the suspect at Leonora they took photographs, and the Merredin police got them quickly through a motorist who happened to be leaving the northern goldfields. The man at Leonora is not Loftus. At no time did I really believe that he was. I know where George Loftus is today.”

  “Oh! Where?”

  “All in good time, Eric,” Bony replied, smiling blandly. “I am not going to reveal one mystery until I have progressed further with that surrounding Mr Jelly. I am now afraid to finalize the Loftus affair for fear of wiping out the thin, faint trail leading to the Jelly affair. Do you think Mr Jelly suffers fits of insanity?”

  “No. He’s sane enough.”

  “That is what I think, but I am not an expert analyst.”

  Neither spoke again for a little while. Bony gazed idly along the fence at Hurley’s horse, in hobbles, placidly grazing on the sun-killed herbage. The humming harvester machines vied with the humming blowflies at which now and then Ginger languidly snapped. The fence road was little used along that particular section since the main road to Burracoppin passed through it at the Fourteen-mile Gate. They could hear the roaring trucks on that road, drops of the stream which carried the flood of wheat to the railway siding as the wheat was poured into Pharaoh’s granaries during the seven good years.

  “Do you know if Mr Jelly has any friends in Merredin?” Bony next asked.

  “Don’t think. Never heard him or Lucy say so.”

  “Tell me. Why should the Loftus people stack hay when there are no horses and only two cows on the farm?”

  “There’s nothing funny about that, Bony. Many farmers cut wheat for hay, especially when the straw is long, as it is in a good year. Almost any year it pays to cut hay for chaff, because if the price is low in a good year it is bound to be high in a bad year, and hay will keep several years.”

  “I thought that might be the reason. Whilst studying the produce market reports I have been thinking that it would be an excellent money gamble to buy hay now, and have it cut into chaff by a contractor, and stored until a bad harvest comes, when, as you say, the price is bound to be high.”

  Hurley laughed.

  “You must have a lot of money,” he said.

  “I haven’t much.”

  “Then I wouldn’t risk what you’ve got,” was the advice instantly given. “If you are going to gamble on hay, don’t cut it into chaff until you are going to put it on the market; otherwise storage costs will more than wipe out any profit—if there is any profit.”

  “I am inclined to accept the risk. Do you know any farmers who would sell me their haystack?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “What would be a fair price to offer for hay in the stack, do you think?”

  “Dunno. Chaff is three pounds fifteen a ton.”

  “Do you think I could buy for two pounds a ton?” Bony persisted.

  “What the devil are you coming at?”

  “Hay, my dear Hurley, hay. I am keenly interested in the hay and chaff market. I want a gamble in chaff. Would you be my buyer, say at a commission of one per cent of the purchase price?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so, if you have made up your mind to chuck your money away. I could ask some of the cockies when I go south next trip.”

  “Excellent! I want to buy the haystack on George Loftus’s farm. It contains about sixty-four tons. It is magnificent hay. I would be satisfied with that stack for the present. As a matter of fact, I want to buy that stack very much.”

  “That particular stack?”

  “That particular stack,” Bony repeated with emphasis. The rider searched the detective’s smiling features.

  “You make a good third for a mystery,” he said with conviction. “Now why do you want to buy that haystack?”

  “Because it is built with such perfect symmetry that it
pleases my artistic eye,” Bony replied without smiling. “I desire that stack, and I have the money to buy it at two pounds per ton. I want you to do me the favour of acting as my buying agent. Forget that I am a crime investigator. You say that you will reach Burracoppin tomorrow. Arrive early in the afternoon. I have spoken to Inspector Gray, and he will have both eyes shut if you get in about three o’clock. You will then be able to set off for the Jelly farm about four o’clock. You will find that Lucy is anxious to see you. Convey to her and Sunflower my regards. On your way call on Mrs Loftus and say that a farmer, who shall be nameless, wishes to buy a whole stack of hay. Ask her if she would sell her stack, as she has no horses to feed. Is that clear?”

  “It is, but I don’t know what you’re getting at. I’ll do as you ask, and thank you for working that early arrival at Burracoppin. What are you going to do with the blasted hay when you get it?”

  Bony now smiled a little grimly. His eyes were almost invisible behind the puckered lids when he replied:

  “Have no fear. I shall not get the sack. Mrs Loftus will not sell.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Return of John Muir

  COLONEL SPENDER’S reply telegram, a letter from Marie Bonaparte, and Detective-Sergeant Muir all arrived at Burracoppin the next day, Wednesday, Sth December. The telegram and the letter Bony received at nine o’clock, when the post office opened for business. It was the letter Bony opened first. It read:

  DEAREST BONY,

  You must come home, really you must. They are very angry at the office because John Muir introduced you to a case in Western Australia, which they fear will delay you reporting for duty at the end of your leave. By what you tell me of it in your letter, just received, it is the kind of case which will hold you until you clear it up. I sigh, because I know that you will not give it up till you finalize it. I think you will never forget how you failed at Windee.

  Inspector Todd came out this morning especially to ask me to urge you to return in haste, as there is a particular case they want you to investigate. They are relying on you because there are aborigines mixed up in it and because the victim of a brutal murder is related to the Premier. He is now blaming Colonel Spender and his officers for incompetence.

  And, aside from this, dear Bony, your leave is quite long enough, taken away from us, for your absence to be prolonged. I am getting worried about Bob. He has not written for some time. Ed is well and sends you his love. And Charles has passed his examinations even better than he hoped. I am so glad and proud, and know how proud and glad you will be, too.

  Wire me to say that you are coming home. You owe a lot to Colonel Spender, and he wants you now so badly.

  Ever your loving wife,

  MARIE

  P.S.— I gave John Muir a good talking-to for being so silly as to interest you in the wheat-belt case.

  P.P.S.— He has not altered a bit. Rushed in yesterday to tell me that he had got his prisoner to Brisbane and was leaving with him the next morning. Danced me round the kitchen and then insisted on making afternoon tea.

  Bony read Marie’s letter a second time. He felt proud of her and very proud of his oldest son, Charles. He was conscious of the position; to which his achievement had raised him, feeling warmly satisfied that he, a half-caste, was urgently wanted not only by his adored wife, but by a Chief Commissioner of Police. The telegram he opened with a wry smile. It was short—and to the point.

  NO EXTENSION OF LEAVE CAN BE GRANTED, REPORT FOR DUTY AT ONCE.

  G.H. SPENDER

  Such a message would have made many men downcast with disappointment, but Bony chuckled, for he could so easily visualize the Colonel whilst he dictated the telegram. With red face and stuttering speech, he would have raised himself and his chair and banged the chair on the floor at least six times. Bony should have reported for duty before that day, and even if he left Burracoppin that night for the eastern States he would have overstayed his leave by ten days. He foresaw the inevitable “sack” then on its way to him through the mails and tentatively considered an original method of gaining reinstatement.

  After dinner this evening Mr Poole and he sat on fruit cases outside the boarding-house shop, when the western sky was like a celestial slaughterhouse and the air was coloured like old port. A long goods train drawn by two engines was then halted at the station, while the engines took on water from the huge iron tank high up on supporting staging. Steam escaping from one engine, with a low roar beneath the hissing, beat on their ears so that when eventually the escape was shut off the drooping Mr Poole sighed his relief.

  “The old ’un is a bit waxy tonight,” he said whilst engaged in fashioning one of his long, drooping cigarettes. Mrs Black riles her a deal. The blanky cow was dry again this mornin’ when I went to milk her.”

  “Why not keep the cow tied up all night?” Bony suggested.

  “That’s my idea, but the missus won’t ’ave it,” Mr Poole said, going on to talk as a sage of ancient times. “You know there’s been wiser coves than me wot’s tried to understand a woman and give it up as hopeless. To take my missus. I suppose she’s just average woman. Sometimes she’s lovin’ and soft, and at others she’s like one of them railway engines, ready to bust if the steam ain’t let out. But wot raises the steam no man yet, or a woman either, can say. Now a man’s about the same all through the piece. You and me can count on bein’ tomorrer night just wot we are tonight, but there’s no telling what a woman will be like one hour ahead.

  “If it was me I’d beat Mrs Black by havin’ the cow tied up all night, as you said, but the missus will let the cow loose before we go to bed. Why? I’ll tell you. Because she likes arguin’ with Mrs Black, and the blanky cow gives her a good excuse. She would be real unhappy if Mrs Black gave up milkin’ our cow. Here comes old Thorn. Look—he’s gettin’ rounder every day.”

  “You seen the old woman?” demanded the Water Rat of another and a Rabbitoh.

  “Nope. You chasm’ her?”

  “No fear. Only I’m goin’ along to ’ave one, and I didn’t want to run into ’er. Comin’ down to the pub for a snifter?”

  Mr Poole glanced sharply back into the shop before saying:

  “All right. Comin’, Bony?”

  “Well, yes,” assented the detective hesitatingly. “I will not stay with you long, as I have letters to write which should have been written a week ago.”

  For the third time during his stay there Bony found himself in the bar of the Burracoppin Hotel. Mr Wallace waited upon some dozen customers unsupported by his wife. The general conversation was held in a loud tone, but as yet the evening was too young for hilarity.

  “Good night, Leonard?” inquired Mr Thorn when he came to rest against the bar counter with a seraphic smile. The red face was beaming. His manner was affable as he openly nudged Bony.

  “None the better for you asking,” replied Mr Wallace with a snarl of temper.

  “Oh! Fightin’ the missus again? Give up, Leonard,” advised Mr. Poole. “You’re old enough to know that you ain’t got a hope of besting a woman on a wet wicket.”

  The publican leaned over the bar counter the better to get his mouth closer to his customer’s ear. He said:

  “She makes me sick. Locked me out again last night after telling everyone I’d murdered George Loftus. If only I could get hold of a gun them times.”

  Mr Thorn laughed wheezily and added his advice to that given by Mr Poole.

  “Give in, Leonard,” he said. “Be like me. Take no notice. Make out you’re taking it lying down, but chalk up a mark on the quiet, and don’t wipe out the mark until you get your own back in your own little quiet way. Use your brains. You can always beat a woman with brains.”

  “I’ll use a gun one of these nights,” Wallace said darkly, and turned then to attend an impatient customer.

  “I overheard him trying to borrow Inspector Gray’s gun not long ago,” Bony remarked softly. That made his companions chuckle.

  “Everyone in
Burra knows these two,” Poole explained. “And, of course, when either of ’em wants to borrow a gun everyone says their gun is out at the farm or away bein’ repaired. You see, they do get terrible narked with each other on occasions, and they might use a gun then, but neither of ’em in cool moments ever dreams of buyin’ a gun. Poor old Wallace! He—”

  “Good evening, people! Mrs Wallace said gaily when she appeared dressed in her usual black silk. She smiled at every customer in turn, but when finally she noticed her husband the smile vanished. “Go and get your tea. Do you think the maid is going to wait all night for you? Don’t stand there like a stuck ninny. Go ... and ... get ... your ... tea.”

  She was then facing the main door, and her frown of displeasure became magically replaced by a radiant smile of welcome. The general hum of conversation ceased. A man’s laughter was cut short. For the second time that night Mr Thorn nudged Bony, and the detective, turning towards the main entrance, observed the well-built military figure of John Muir standing against the bar counter. Mrs Wallace’s carefully attuned voice was one degree higher than it should have been.

  “Hullo, Mr Muir! You’re quite a stranger. I do hope you are not going to ask me any more questions about my dear husband and poor Mr Loftus.”

  “I am going to ask you one serious question, Mrs Wallace,” Muir said with affected grimness.

  “Very well. Only one, then.”

  “Is the beer cold?”

  “Oh! It is, I assure you. Why, you frightened me. Yes, it is ice cold. Will you take a pot?”

  John Muir overlooked the customers, including Bony. Between them no sign of recognition passed. Not a few there eyed the sergeant in a furtive manner. Mr Wallace disappeared towards the dining-room, and his wife again laughed gaily and chatted with the new arrival as though her life was one long dream of domestic bliss.

  John Muir’s appearance acted like a refrigerator with warm meat. His presence froze the conviviality of perfectly law-abiding men, a manifestation of crowd psychology which Bony often before had observed. It was the main reason why he always worked incognito, a circumstance to which most of his successes were due.