Bony - 19 - Cake in a Hat Box Read online

  Cake in a Hat Box

  ARTHUR UPFIELD

  HINKLER BOOK

  DISTRIBUTORS PTY LTD

  Editorial Note

  Part of the appeal of Arthur Upfield’s stories lies in their authentic portrayal of many aspects of outback Australian life in the 1930s and through into the 1950s. The dialogue, especially, is a faithful evocation of how people spoke. Hence, these books reflect and depict the attitudes and ways of speech, particularly with regard to Aborigines and to women, which were then commonplace. In reprinting these books the publisher does not endorse the attitudes or opinions they express.

  An Angus & Robertson Publication

  Angus&Robertson, an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  25 Ryde Road, Pymble, Sydney, NSW 2073, Australia

  31 View Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  This edition published in 1994 for

  Hinkler Book Distributors Pty Ltd

  32-34 Graham Road

  Highett, Victoria 3190, Australia

  Copyright © Bonaparte Holdings Pty Ltd 1955

  This book is copyright.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers.

  ISBN 0 207 18441 0

  Cover illustration by Russell Jeffery

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  1 :94

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter One

  At Agar’s Lagoon

  SHOULD YOU FLY northward from Perth, fringe the Indian Ocean for fifteen hundred miles, and then turn inland for a further three hundred, you might chance to see Agar’s Lagoon. You will recognize Agar’s Lagoon if you look down on a tiny settlement completely ringed with broken bottles.

  There is no lagoon anywhere near, because the stony creek skirting the township is far too impatient to carry the flood water away from the Kimberley Ranges and empty it into the quenchless sand of the great Inland Desert. The creek is infinitely less romantic than the bottle ring, estimated to total a thousand tons and laid down by a long succession of hotel yardmen who have removed the empties in vehicles ranging from bullock-drays to T-model Fords.

  Nothing can be done about it; for, being so far from Perth, it is economically impossible to return the empties. Of neces­sity the ring must broaden outward, otherwise the hotel, the post office, the police station, a store and ten houses would ultimately lie buried beneath glass.

  To Agar’s Lagoon had come Detective-Inspector Bona­parte, his journey to his home State from Broome, where he had terminated a homicide investigation, having been inter­rupted by a faulty plane engine. In this northern corner of a continent where plane schedules are erratic, he had to check in at the ramshackle hotel at a time when the tiny settlement was comparatively dead, even the policeman being absent on a patrol.

  The hotel was comparable with the saloons of old America, being a structure of weather-board, iron and pisé, an oasis amid the thousands of square miles occupied by a hundred-odd white cattle- and sheep-men, prospectors, and the inevitable Government servants.

  Bony found himself to be the only guest, and the only man about the place to gossip with was the hotel yardman-cum-barman, a wisp of a man recorded officially as John Brown. He was a part of the building, of the hectic scenery, and all knew him as ’Un. Bony was still to learn the genesis of this name, bestowed on Brown during the First World War when he arrived from nowhere wearing a Kaiser Wilhelm moustache in full bloom. The fall of the Kaiser’s Germany found the moustache as aggressive as ever, and even when the years bleached it and the beer stained it, the name clung. The Hun, born in Birmingham, degenerated to ’Un, even the local Germans affectionately so calling him.

  He squatted this early evening on the hotel veranda beside the solitary chair occupied by Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, unaware of the guest’s profession and rank, and his reputation in every police department in the Common­wealth. Along the stony street passed a flock of goats in charge of a small white boy and an aborigine of the same age and size, and beyond the dust-dry creek the setting sun was flailing the armoured tors of Black Range.

  “How long I been here?” echoed ’Un. “I came here back in nineteen-fourteen. Same pub. Same police station. Same houses. Two years later me and Paddy the Bastard found the Queen Vic Mine, and we went through three forchunes in three years. All in this pub, too. The year after Paddy died, I sold the mine to a syndicate for a thousand quid.”

  “Real money, eh?” murmured Bony.

  “Too right! Easy come, easy go. Paddy drank hisself to death right on this here veranda. It took the policeman and five men to hold him down.”

  “A powerful man, indeed.”

  ’Un applied a match to what might be tobacco in the bowl of his broken pipe. Despite the years spent in this undeveloped territory of Australia, the Brummagem accent was strong. When he chortled the sound was not unlike the frantic calls of the rooster.

  “Powerful!” he said. “Why, when I broke me leg out at the Queen Vic, he carried me here, and that’s all of nine miles. Why, when he spat at a man, that man went out like a light. Him and Silas Breen got into a argument on what won the Melbun Cup in 1900 and they fought for a week, knocking off only to eat. Hell of a good mate was Paddy. I never had no mate after him. Now, strike me pink! Here’s the Breens coming to town.”

  The lethargy of the settlement was shattered by the noise of a heavy truck bouncing over the rough track. The hens rushed for home in the pepper trees. Two dogs raced neck and neck with the vehicle until it stopped before the hotel steps. Dust was wafted along the veranda front, and when it had passed, Bony saw the rear of an enormous man descending from the truck. He turned slightly, hitching up his gaberdine trousers, and Bony could see his face. It was square and rugged and grim. The thatch of grey hair was unkempt, and the long drooping moustache as aggressive as that which adorned the wizened face of ’Un.

  He stood by the truck while another enormous man gingerly clambered down, a man not as tall but as wide and as thick as the first. His hair was barely touched by the years. It was black, as black as the square-cut beard. He nodded curtly when the other spoke to him, and led the way to the veranda to mount stiffly the three wooden steps. His face, where not concealed by the beard, was white, unnaturally so in this land north of Capricorn, and his dark eyes were feverishly brilliant.

  “Good day, ’Un!” he said to the yardman.

  “Day-ee, Jasper!” replied ’Un. “Day-ee, Silas! How’s things?”

  “Fair enough,” answered the black-bearded man. “Coming in for a snifter?”

  Jasper and Silas Breen entered the hotel. ’Un said:

  “That’s an order. You come, too. Save argument.”

  “I dislike argument,” averred
Bony, rising from the chair. “Are there any more like these Breens?”

  “Plenty,” replied ’Un proudly. “There’s Ezra Breen. He’s much younger and tougher than these two. Got a temper, has Ezra.”

  The yardman led the way to the bar. The Breens were breasting it, and Ted Ramsay, the licensee, was asking them to name their poison. He was large and flabby, and destined within six months to be held down until his brain exploded. The oil-lamp suspended from the match-boarded ceiling was already struggling with the waning daylight to penetrate far corners. Behind the counter, the wall shelves were stacked with gaudily labelled spirit bottles, and on the floor were crates of bottled beer, for barrelled beer would not carry this far from Perth.

  “None of your pig-swill, Ted,” boomed Silas Breen. “Put up your best whisky. Damme, us Breens has bought this pub two hundred times over.”

  “Four hundred times,” amended Ramsay. “You’ve bought it a hundred times since I’ve been here.”

  He placed a bottle of whisky and glasses on the counter, and was adding a jug of water when the elder Breen called in a voice which must have carried through the building:

  “What’ll you have, Mister?”

  “Beer for me, please,” replied Bony.

  “Same here,” piped ’Un. “What’s wrong with you, Jasper? You ain’t looking so good.”

  “No. Fell off me horse. Got shook up, that’s all. Luck!”

  The Breens appeared to occupy half the small bar. Beside them, Bony was a stripling and ’Un a mere straw. They were tremendous, these brothers Breen. From them radiated physi­cal power hinting at no limitations, like that of water spuming through the needle valve of a dam. The thick glasses they held in their sun-blackened, hairy hands were somehow reduced to fragile crystal in the paws of gorillas.

  Jasper Breen stood beyond his brother. He leaned more heavily against the bar counter, and the attitude was maintained. Silas stood with his weight squarely on his feet, and now and then he glanced at Jasper, concern in his eyes although his face was unruffled. Jasper’s right arm was held against his side with a leather belt.

  “Fell off his horse,” muttered ’Un. “More likely the horse fell on him.”

  “Doc in town?” asked Silas of the licensee.

  “Yes, but he’s inky-poo. Be out to it till morning. You hurt much, Jasper?”

  “No. Bit of a strain and a bruise or two. Nuthin’ broke.”

  “Doc Morley ud better be sober be mornin’,” Silas threat­ened with unnecessary vocal strength. “I’ve a mind to pound him sober right now. You feelin’ all right, Jasper, me lad?”

  “I’ll do,” boasted his black-bearded brother. “Come on, Ted. Fill ’em up.”

  Bony put a pound note on the counter, intending to call for drinks, and ’Un whisked it away and surreptitiously gave it back, whispering:

  “I oughter told you. No one ain’t allowed to shout when the Breens come to town. The pub’s theirs till they leave.”

  “Fill ’em up, Ted,” roared Silas. “What’s the matter with you? Tend to business. Gents is perishing.”

  A man entered the bar. His nose was long and red, and his nondescript hair draggled in wisps across the partially bald head. His shirt and trousers were not those of a bushman.

  “Seen you come in, Silas,” he said, and coughed. “Day, Jasper! I put your mail and parcels under the seat of your truck. Sign for the registers, please.”

  Silas squinted at the receipt book, and with slow delibera­tion wrote his signature, the postmaster at his side looking like the skeleton at the feast.

  “What’s yours these days, Dave?” asked Jasper, and the postmaster called for rum.

  “What’s up with you, Jasper?” And again Jasper explained.

  “Good luck!” Dave saluted his drink and sighed when the glass hit the counter. “Pity Doctor Morley’s on the tank. How’s Ezra and Kimberley?”

  “Pretty good. On the hoof with cattle for Wyndham. Got away a week late.”

  “Good beasts?”

  “Fairish. Usual four hundred. Policeman in town?”

  “No. Down south on patrol.” Dave chuckled, and Ramsay said:

  “Just as well. Too much haze when everyone’s in town at the same time.”

  Silas scowled. Ted Ramsay hastily turned to his bottles. The long grey moustache sweeping away from the mouth of this elder Breen seemed to quiver. He hitched his trousers although his great waist was belted. To the belt was attached small pouches containing matches, tobacco plug, clasp-knife, and an empty revolver holster, for it is unlawful to bring small arms into the settlements of the North-West.

  “Bleedin’ corkers, ain’t they?” murmured ’Un admiringly. “Me old mate, Paddy the Bastard, was as big as Silas Breen. Fight! That time Paddy and Silas fought for a week, they started in this bar on a Toosdee night, went all round town and ended up again in the bar on the following Mondee morning. And me and Ezra Breen caperin’ after them with tucker and whisky to keep ’em going.”

  “Where was the policeman?” asked the curious Bony, his bright blue eyes filled with laughter.

  “The john! Feller be the name of Gartside. What could he do, d’you reckon, with two Irishmen like Silas? Just let ’em alone and go on with his job. Only time he got a bit anxious was when Silas and Paddy was looking like fighting all the way through the police station from the front to the back. Me and Ezra had a hell of a job to steer ’em clear!”

  “Who won?”

  “Neither. Silas began to laugh on the Mondee morning, and that finished Paddy. You oughta have seen ’em then. Butcher’s shops they was.”

  Two men entered, and ’Un broke off to greet them. They shouted to the Breens and Jasper roared at the licensee. There was a pile of treasury notes between the brothers. Voices became louder, and Ramsay placed bottles of beer on the counter instead of refilling glasses. The emaciated postmaster gripped a bottle of rum in his left hand and seldom put down the glass held in his right, and whenever Bony took a sip from his glass ’Un hospitably filled it. More men joined the company, and Bony eased on the beer.

  Then Silas Breen was yelling for a chair and demanding to know what the hell the place was coming to with no chair for a gent to sit on. ’Un was dispatched for the veranda chair, and great was the struggle to pass it from the door through the crush to where Jasper stood. Silas placed the chair for his brother, and on Jasper’s face was anguish as he relaxed into it. That a Breen should be so weak!

  Silas handed him his glass, and he raised it high and shouted the usual “Good luck, gents!” The company shouted response. Bony edged nearer to him, and Ted Ramsay sat back on a crate of beer and went to sleep. Someone started to sing, and at once the company roared a ditty detailing the adventures of a lass having long brown hair. And then there arose a yell for ’Un.

  ’Un clambered to the counter-top, slid round on its liquor-drenched surface and proceeded to serve. Thenceforth, his work was to slip bottles from straw sheaths and set them up, and now and then remove the notes, pushed forward by Silas. He gave no change.

  When ordinary men would have fallen senseless, those crowding this small bar were only now warming up to the evening’s debauch. The air was padded with tobacco smoke and Bony’s ears began to ache from the incessant roar.

  In the middle of a verse, Silas looked down at Jasper, bent swiftly over him, brushed the black beard with the back of his hand. With pantherish agility, he straightened and swung round to the company, and for a second his small blue eyes glittered and his mouth was fashioned in a ferocious snarl. Instantly, the expression vanished and he was calling for more whisky, and cursing ’Un for being so slow.

  A man lurched between Bony and the Breens, and when next Bony was able to see them, Silas was again bending over Jasper and doing something with what appeared to be a length of dark-green whipcord. No one watched Silas, save Bony, and he watched ‘from the corner of an eye’. The postmaster implored him to take a dash from his rum bottle with his beer. His eyes were
standing out like those of a crab. A hairy man of cubic proportions endeavoured to mount the bar counter and was hauled back by another hairy man.

  “Come on, Jasper! Your shout!” roared Silas, now with his back to the counter. “Come on, Jasper, ole cock. Never let the Breens down. Gonna shout?”

  Jasper Breen was sitting with his head tilted slightly for­ward. The head nodded in uniformity with the action of Silas Breen’s right leg.

  “Good ole Jasper,” shouted Silas. “Jasper’s call, gents.”

  “Good ole Jasper,” echoed the crowd.

  Twice more Jasper Breen ‘shouted’ at the instigation of his brother, and then Silas was saying they were going home and roaring for passage way. Picking up the chair with his brother still in it, he strode to the door, crashing down men unable to flatten themselves against the rear wall or the bar counter. Bony, who was pressed against the wall, saw Jasper’s face and saw also the end of the green cord tied to Jasper’s beard and which disappeared into the neck of the man’s shirt.

  Jasper Breen’s head lolled. He was decidedly out to it.

  Silas, carrying his brother outside, followed by the com­pany, put down the chair beside the truck, then lifted Jasper into the driving cabin and arranged him to lean back in the far corner. He turned the truck on the narrow track, shouting to the uproarious crowd, and with the hooter blaring drove out of town.

  Chapter Two

  The Road Block

  SAM LAIDLAW had been driving transports over the Kim­berley tracks for five years, and what he could do with fencing wire to effect running repairs to the huge vehicles he commanded would sound unbelievably fantastic to modern garage mechanics. Sam’s job was a fantastic one: the tracks were fantastically tortuous, the ranges were fantastic in shape and colouring, and throughout the night the sky was fan­tastically streaked with shooting stars.

  Sam left the seaport of Wyndham on August 16th, his six-wheeler loaded with ten tons of stores for stations south of Agar’s Lagoon. For ten miles the track was almost level as it crossed the flats south of Wyndham, a ship sailing on a sea of grass as yellow and as tall as ripe wheat. Thereafter it pro­ceeded up an ever-narrowing valley between flat-topped ranges sparsely covered with stunted scrub and armoured with red and grey granite. The ranges merged into a maze with walls a thousand feet high, and the surface of the track was of loose stone and slate, level at no place for more than ten feet.