The Barrakee Mystery

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Worrying about something?” she asked.

  “No, not worrying. Just thinking—thinking out some problem. I may be quite wrong. Do you love him, Kate?”

  “Of course I do,” she flashed back.

  Mr Thornton sighed. He knew that her unhesitating answer indicated one thing only. She went on:

  “Why do you ask that, Uncle?”

  “I was wondering,” was his answer. “I should like to know in plenty of time, so that I could see about the wedding.”

  The car was travelling over the fine last stretch of road at fifty-five miles an hour. But Kate was insensible to the speed. A soft blush suffused her cheeks when she met the direct gaze of her companion.

  “I don’t love him that way, Uncle,” she said. “Or at least I don’t think I do.” She added reproachfully: “You really should not have drawn that confession from me.”

  He saw her embarrassment, took her nearest hand in his two and pressed it. His voice was only a whisper when he said:

  “Perhaps not, Katie. But never keep any secrets from your old uncle. Some day you will love. Some day Ralph will fall in love. Your aunt and I would be happy if you were to fall in love with each—But no matter, my dear. Whoever is Mr Right—and the man you choose will be Mr Right—be assured, Katie, that you and he have in me a lovers’ friend and confidant. I only want you to be gloriously happy.”

  Looking into the beautiful face, he wondered as he always did at the purity written upon it. Just then her eyes were moist and her lips a little parted. She was about to speak, but refrained. Her eyelids fell and the blue liquid pools were hidden. Putting her other hand over his two, she clasped them with a tight, affectionate squeeze.

  When they reached the homestead dusk was falling. Their explanation of Ralph’s absence given, they saw a momentary flash of disappointment in the Little Lady’s face.

  “Well, well, don’t keep him out there long, John,” she said, putting her arm through his. “You see, he will always ride the most outrageous horses, and sometimes I am afraid.”

  “Afraid you needn’t be. Ralph can ride anything,” replied her husband with conviction.

  After dinner he left his wife reading in the long drawing room, and Kate playing soft airs on the piano, and proceeded to his office to read the mail arriving that day, and to ring up his riders. For an hour he lounged in the swivel chair behind his desk and was thinking of rejoining the ladies when someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” he answered, and reached for a cigarette.

  A man entered, closing the door again softly. Striding to the desk, he came into the light from the low-hung bulb, and proved to be a stranger.

  “Mr Thornton?” he asked in faintly drawling tones.

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  The squatter saw before him a man, whose age he guessed to be between thirty-five and forty. His features were those of the white man; his complexion was a ruddy black, not the jet-black of the thoroughbred aboriginal. He was dressed as a bushman.

  “I have a letter for you, Mr Thornton, which will explain my presence.”

  The station-owner noted the accent and the grammar, which spoke of constant association with whites from an early age. He accepted a long blue envelope. It contained a sheet of foolscap, headed, “Police Station, Wilcannia”, and read:

  Dear Mr Thornton,

  The case of the recent murder near your house presents a problem, now no nearer solution. Murders of, or by, aboriginals generally are difficult to investigate, for as you well know the mind of the aboriginal baffles the intelligence of the white.

  The baptismal names of the bearer are Napoleon Bonaparte, but he may be persuaded to adopt a nom de plume. In any case, he is entitled to admiration for his powers of observation and deduction, as proved by many past successes in the solving of mysteries concerning aboriginals. In short, he is the finest bush detective in the Commonwealth.

  HQ have loaned his services from Queensland, and I have been instructed to ask the favour of your assistance, which is necessary. He himself suggests that you give him employment about the homestead, such as painting your two boats, which I observed required paint. Although he stands much higher in the Force than I do, he will want to dine and live with your hands.

  The letter was signed by Sergeant Knowles, and was marked “Strictly Confidential”. Thornton glanced up and regarded his visitor with interest.

  “Sit down, Mr Bonaparte,” he said, indicating the chair on the far side of his desk.

  The man smiled, revealing gleaming teeth. His blue eyes—the only other indication of the white in him—were twinkling when he said:

  “My name, Mr Thornton, is Bony, without any ‘Mister’. Everyone calls me Bony, from my chief to my wife and children in Brisbane.”

  “Then I, too, will call you Bony,” agreed the station-owner pleasantly. “How did you come by your startling name?”

  “I can assure you it was no wish of mine to insult the illustrious Emperor,” explained the stranger. He accepted a cigarette with grace, and lighting it, went on, “I was discovered at the tender age of two weeks with my dead mother under a sandalwood tree in the far north of Queensland, and I was taken to the nearest mission station. There, a little later, the necessity for a name arose; and, whilst various names occupied the mind of the respected matron, she observed me trying to eat a copy of Abbott’s Life of Napoleon Bonaparte. I have concluded since that the matron was a humorous soul.”

  “Sergeant Knowles says here that you have obtained not a little renown in the detection of crime. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you.”

  “I am glad to hear that, Mr Thornton.” Bony blew a series of perfect smoke-rings. Then, calmly giving expression to an astounding vanity, he added: “If everyone had heard of me there would be no murders. My occupation would be gone, and I would be a most unhappy man.”

  “The sergeant says you want me to give you a job here,” Thornton said.

  “Yes. I thought I might allay suspicion by painting your boats. That occupation will give me opportunity to examine the scene of the murder. I will live with the men. Is Clair still here?”

  “Yes. But I am thinking of sending him out to the back of the run. Will you want him?”

  “Not just now. Are the blacks—Pontius Pilate’s crowd—still camped up the river?”

  “They are.”

  “Good! I may want them. Treat them with all kindness, Mr Thornton, for, as I said, I may want them. Should they suddenly decide to go for a walkabout, I might ask you to give them rations to keep them.”

  “Yes, all right. Have you formed any theories regarding the murder?”

  “Plenty. However, it’s certain that the crime was the conclusion of a feud lasting many years. Did you know King Henry? Did he ever work here, as Pontius Pilate stated?”

  “Although at the time I did not remember him, I found on looking up my business diaries that he was employed here some twenty years ago for a period of ten weeks.”

  “Ah! And Clair?”

  “Clair has never worked here before.”

  For a little while they stared at each other. Then:

  “Clair’s past is a mystery,” Bony said thoughtfully. “However, I do not suspect Clair above others. D’you know if Clair can throw a boomerang?”

  “As far as I am aware, he cannot. Why?”

  Bony ignored the question.

  “Have you seen at any time any of Pontius Pilate’s crowd throwing a boomerang?” he asked.

  “No. Why these questions?”

  “If you answer my next question in the affirmative I will tell you. Sergeant Knowles informs me that there are several gum-trees about the place where King Henry was found dead. At the time of the murder, or since, you have not by any chance observed a wound on the trunk of one of them, such as would be made by being sharply struck by a sharp-edged piece of iron?”

  Instantly Mr Thornton was taken back to the day following the crime. Again he saw the two
policemen quartering the ground looking for clues, and the trunk of the giant gum bearing just such a wound as Bony described.

  “Yes,” he said, and gave the details.

  “Good!” Bony announced with satisfaction. “We now know that if King Henry was not actually murdered by a boomerang one was thrown at him. How do we know? In his statement Frank Dugdale said that he heard a sound like the whirring of ducks, followed by a sharp report similar to a paling being struck by a stick. That was the flight of a boomerang and its impact against a tree. You see how sensible were the officials of New South Wales to loan from Queensland poor old Bony.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Bony on Boomerangs

  “AH!” BONY and the squatter were standing before the great gum-tree bearing the strange wound. The clean-cut fresh injury was now distorted by gummy exudations, light amber in colour and crystal clear. After a minute inspection at a distance of two yards, the half-caste placed the packing-case he had brought against the tree and, stepping on it, proceeded to remove the gum crystals with a clasp-knife.

  It was the morning following his appearance at Barrakee. Bony had been with the men at nine o’clock when they gathered outside the office to receive their orders and, taking care that he was heard, he had asked the squatter for work.

  Thornton had appeared to cogitate, and then stated that the applicant could start right away and paint the two boats.

  One of the boats had been hauled up on the riverbank, and lay there bottom-up on low trestles. A blow-lamp to remove the old paint and several triangular scrapers were in evidence.

  No one recognized Bony, or guessed his profession, but one man. The instant he saw him, Clair’s eyes narrowed; for, while the half-caste never remembered having seen the gaunt man before, Clair remembered the black trackers who had at one time left Longreach with the police to hunt down a madman. And when, from behind the pumping-engine, Clair saw the two by the gum-tree, he was sure that the newcomer was there to investigate. He wondered what Bony was doing to the bark of the tree.

  It had been urgently impressed on Thornton that the ultimate success of Bony’s activities depended on everyone on the station, including the women, being kept in ignorance of his profession. The squatter had given his word to remain silent on that point.

  At the end of ten minutes the strange detective stepped down from the case and shut his knife.

  “The examination and study of boomerangs, Mr Thornton, is of absorbing interest,” he remarked.

  “It must be,” the other agreed, inwardly agreeing also that the study of this educated and refined half-caste, a foundling picked up from the shade of a sandalwood tree in Northern Queensland, was also of absorbing interest.

  “Having always been interested in lethal weapons, my knowledge of the boomerang is unsurpassed,” Bony stated, with unconscious but superb conceit. “There are three kinds of boomerang,” he went on. “The Wongium, which returns in its flight to the thrower; the Kirras, which does not return; and the very heavy Murrawirrie. The Yarra blacks, now unhappily wiped out by you gentle white people, used only the first two—the Wongium for killing birds, and the Kirras as a war weapon.

  “The Central Australians employ the last two—the Kirras for throwing and the Murrawirrie for use as a sword. You see, therefore, that the Kirras is, or was, in general use all over Australia; but there is a sharp difference in the carving. The eastern blacks always flattened one side; the Central Australia blacks never flattened either side, but kept the weapon round.

  “Now, a Kirras made that wound. The boomerang was round, indicating that it came from Central Australia. It was thrown at a range of about thirty yards. Had it struck King Henry’s head fair and square, it would have smashed it to pulp; had it reached him from a distance of a hundred and fifty yards, it would have killed him by cutting his head open. Having a description of King Henry’s wound, I am inclined to reason that it was not the boomerang in flight that killed him.”

  “Well?” The squatter was astonished, and showed it.

  “To proceed,” Bony went on. “The weapon which made that mark I have proved came from Central Australia. From tip to tip it measured about thirty-three inches, and it probably weighed about two pounds. Without seeing the weapon, I can go farther. I can tell you the precise district in Central Australia from which it came, and the name of the tribe that made it. It is not a sharply-curved boomerang. On the outer edge, at equal distance from the centre, are two deep incisions cut diagonally; and those marks—which show in reverse on the tree there—were cut as a mark of respect to an ancient chief who, hugging two enemy warriors in the same embrace, crushed them to death.”

  For a little while Mr Thornton regarded Bony with undisguised admiration. “What else does that wound tell you?” he asked.

  “That the thrower of the boomerang was not skilled in its use,” replied Bony promptly. “A practised hand would never have missed at thirty yards, even in the dark. But enough of boomerangs for a while. Have you the list of names I asked for?”

  “Yes. Here it is.”

  Bony glanced down the names written on foolscap, the occupation of each person being also given.

  “Are all these people still about the homestead?” he asked.

  “All but Blair and McIntosh, who are out on the run cleaning out a dam, and my son, now at Thurlow Lake.”

  The half-caste’s expression was inscrutable; his blue eyes veiled. From a pocket in his dungarees he produced a silver pencil-holder and, kneeling beside the packing-case, used it as a desk. He added another name to the list, saying:

  “John Thornton.”

  “Surely I am not suspect?” inquired the station-owner dryly.

  Bony looked up. “I am looking for a sting-ray,” he said. “I examine all the fish that come into my net to make sure if the sting-ray is there. There is a Mrs Thornton, is there not?”

  The squatter laughed heartily.

  “There is,” he admitted.

  Down went Mrs Thornton’s name, and then yet another was added.

  “And a Miss Kate Flinders, I believe,” Bony murmured. Once more on his feet, he said: “I have here the name of every person at Barrakee homestead the night King Henry was murdered. I also have a list of the blacks up along the river. Our friend, the sergeant, definitely ascertained that there was not a single traveller on either side of the river for a distance of twelve miles up and twelve miles down on that precise night. Therefore, one of the names on my list is the name of King Henry’s murderer.

  “The case is one of exceptional simplicity,” Bony went on, with astounding assurance. “I have to find the killer among only twenty-four people. My confreres in the city have to find a wrongdoer among hundreds of thousands, which is why they often fail and I never do.

  “Adopting my original and exclusive methods of detection, I shall proceed to take a name and prove the innocence of the owner by inductive reasoning. With this process of elimination there will in the end remain one name—the name of King Henry’s murderer.”

  “You make me nervous, my friend,” Thornton said. “I shall have no peace of mind till you tell me you have erased my name.”

  “Then I will tell you when I do.”

  “Thank you! Here is my wife, curious to know why we are conspiring here.”

  Mrs Thornton and her niece were walking across the billabong. Bony regarded them with keen eyes. To him they were fish in his net, and either might be the sting-ray. When near, the Little Lady looked at him kindly; Kate with interest. The squatter smiled, and said:

  “I am having the boats painted, dear. Not, I am afraid, before it was needed.”

  “You are right, John. They need it very much. Kate and I were walking in the garden, and your long conversation has made us curious.”

  “My dear, you should not be curious,” admonished her husband. Turning to the half-caste, he said: “This is a new hand, with the exceptional name of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  “Napoleon Bonaparte!” Mrs T
hornton echoed.

  “Madam, it is my regret that I am not the illustrious Corsican,” Bony said gallantly. “It is my regret that his name has been taken in vain by those who gave it me. Alas! no man can be responsible for his parents: I certainly was, however, responsible for my name, though I was but six months of age.”

  Bony described his christening, following the mutilation of Abbott’s famous history.

  “I hope you have read that history,” the Little Lady said, looking at the dark face, the blue eyes, and the sharp features of the new hand.

  “If I had read the Bible through as often as I have read that history, Madam, I should today be a Doctor of Theology.”

  Two tiny vertical lines appeared between Mrs Thornton’s eyes. Before her stood a gentleman in dungarees, an Australian half-caste with the manner and accent of a university man. Bony was something entirely new to her.

  “In that case,” she said, “you will always experience poignant sympathy with the Eagle of France chained to the Dreadful Rock.”

  “Madam,” he said in return, “it was an unspeakable tragedy. My ancestors on my mother’s side knew not Christ, but they were better Christians than the Emperor’s jailers.” For a moment the squatter’s wife and the half-caste gazed steadily at each other. Then Bony bowed with instinctive grace, waited for the ladies, escorted by the squatter, to move away, and finally sat down on the upturned boat and lit a cigarette.

  For several minutes he remained in deep thought, smoking pensively. Suddenly he produced a small diary and, opening it at the page marked with that date, he wrote: “Mrs Thornton, capable of strong emotion.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mrs Thornton’s Ambition

  A WEEK PASSED with accustomed quietude at Barrakee. The river had almost ceased to run, and the long shallow stretches between the holes at every sharp bend were dry, with the exception of a meandering runnel. The days were brilliant and deliriously cool after the fierce heat of summer; and the nights, clear and invigorating, were lightened by the winking lamps of Heaven, so bright and big as seemingly to be affixed to the topmost branches of the gums.