Sinister Stones b-19 Page 10

  “The horse!” echoed Irwin and chuckled. “Not the horse that was once Jacky Musgrave?”

  “If an old man, blind and decrepit, tells you that Jacky Musgrave was turned into a horse, you could laugh at him and prove yourself a fool. Only fools laugh at what their puny brains cannot accept, Irwin, and even wise men are too apt to sneer at things they cannot see and touch and measure and weigh.

  “How was it that an old and blind aborigine creeping about the blacks’ camp down at Leroy Downs, a hundred and fifty miles away, was able to tell Bob Lang that Jacky Musgrave had been turned into a horse? You may answer that, having been informed by smoke signals that something of grave import had occurred, that old and blind semi-savage

  … semi-savage, mind you… learned by telepathy that Jacky Musgrave had been turned into a horse. I would accept your answer with neither hilarity nor contempt. Look! Look at Jacky Musgrave turned into a horse.”

  Swiftly Bony stopped and lifted the foreleg of the dead horse, and beneath the skeleton frame covered with hidelay the body of an aboriginal dressed in army greatcoat and heavy military boots.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ThePossibles

  THEMETEORSwere making the inanimate stars look silly when Bony and Constable Irwin were seated in the truck, smoking and talking.

  “We have now the bodies of two men to occupy our attention,” Bony was saying. “We know that when alive both men were in the jeep, and that when murdered the jeep wasn’t where we examined it. One body is found on the east side of this Black Range, and the other on the west side, and you estimate the shorter distance between the bodies is approximately four miles.

  “Although we didn’t examine the body of Jacky Musgrave, we saw enough to assume that he was also killed by a bullet fired from a high-powered rifle. We looked for ground clues about the jeep and along the road, and failed to discover one. Before I found the dead horse, and when you and I went to it, I saw no human tracks, I’ve seen none about the well. Therefore, there is a lack of ground clues about both bodies.”

  “What of the truck that came here recently from the cattle yards?” askedIrwin.

  “That truck… it could have been a car… came here prior to the deaths ofStenhouse and his tracker. It stopped at the well and subsequently was driven round it to follow its own tracks back to the yard. It seems certain that one of theBreens came here to inspect the well, or the mill, but that was before the cattle began the trip to Wyndham.

  “I’m sure that Jacky Musgrave wasn’t shot anywhere in the vicinity of that dead horse. He was brought there from the scene of the double murder, just asStenhouse and the jeep were brought from that same place.”

  “That was a neat idea, pushing the body into a dead animal,” Irwin said. “Anyone passing would take no notice of the stink, believing it came from the horse.”

  “I agree… a neat idea. It might have fooled even me had not Bob Lang’s father-by-initiation presented the idea. I wish I knew the extent of the knowledge of these murders in possession of those Musgrave aborigines.”

  “Well, they know Jacky was shoved into the carcass of that horse.”

  “Yes, they know that,” agreed Bony. “Someone witnessed that act, but as we can be sure the murder was not committed near the carcass, we may assume that the witness did not actually see the murder committed. He could have watched a man bring the body here. He could have been so far away as not to be able to identify the man.”

  Bony tossed his cigarette end through the lowered window and reached for his tobacco tin and papers.

  “I think we can be confident that he who witnessed Jacky Musgrave being put into the horse, or found him, was one of those Western blacks. He, with others, could have been over this side on walkabout. He would know what tribe Jacky belonged to, and would know Jacky was a police tracker by his boots and clothes. And so he made his way back to his own people to report the matter, and they sent up those smokes which they knew would be relayed to Pluto’s Mob, as thoseMusgraves are called.”

  “So what?”Irwin said, tersely, when Bony fell silent.

  “Although we don’t know the extent of the knowledge imparted to Pluto’s Mob, we do know the result of the news of this murder,” Bony further conceded. “If they know who murdered Jacky, they will hunt him out and even the score, and I shall be annoyed. If they don’t know, then they will have to start their investigation with the body of Jacky, as we had to start with the body ofStenhouse.”

  “Then the game will be afoot.”

  “Yes, we shall have rivals. We are interested particularly in who murderedStenhouse. They will be interested only in who killed Jacky Musgrave.”

  The picture of uncivilized aborigines engaged in a homicide investigation was new to Constable Irwin, but he was not slow to recognize the seriousness of rivalry from this quite unexpected quarter; for his knowledge of the aborigines, especially those not in contact with white folk, was wide enough to include their rigid enforcement of black law.

  As did Bony, he did not relish the thought of natives getting ahead in a hunt for the murderer, and for the first time on this tour with Inspector Bonaparte, he became impatient of progress.

  “We’ll have to pull up our socks,” he said, and chuckled, and the placid Bony countered with:

  “We can’t do anything in the dark. We had to rely on your two trackers, and they are not wholly reliable in view of Jacky Musgrave’s murder. Our investigation is not of a murder committed in a city area of a paltry square mile or so. We haven’t been called to a house where the walls are bespattered with blood and brains, and the blood-drained corpse lies upon the hearth-rug, the murder weapon near by.”

  Irwin gazed moodily beyond the windscreen, watched a meteor blaze across the sky andappear to skim over the top of Black Range, and reluctantly agreed that the circumstances were not akin to the picture painted by Bony.

  “We’ll scout in the morning, Irwin, and try to find how Jacky Musgrave turned into a horse. We must be as patient as Jacky’s tribe, and must exercise our minds as they will. If they come here to look around for Jacky, we must hope they won’t make the gross mistake of hunting us for murderers.”

  “Why us?”

  “Our boot tracks are well in evidence.”

  “But,” swiftly objected Irwin, “they will know by the age of our tracks that we didn’t commit the murder.”

  It was Bony’s turn to chuckle.

  “Good for you,” he said. “In that little bout, you won. Now I’m for the blankets.”

  Bony was up and had the billy on the fire when Irwin awoke at daybreak, and these twobushmen said not a word until they had sipped a pint of hot tea and smoked their first cigarette. Hard in the lee of this Black Range, the daylight was slow to come, and it would be three hours before the sun shone on Black Well. It was shining on the windmill when they returned from investigating the country all about the dead horse. Neither had crossed any human tracks. As the murderer must have used the magic carpet to transport the jeep to the place where it was found, so must the magic carpet have been used to transport the body of Jacky Musgrave.

  Irwin was disappointed by the absence of results from their walking and searching for evidence to show, at least, from which direction the dead man had been brought to the carcass, and said their search would extend for weeks. He was also puzzled by the expression in Bony’s eyes and about his mouth.

  “Who are the best trackers in this country?” Bony asked him, and without hesitation he voted for the aborigines.

  “Precisely. And no white man can beat the aborigines in obliterating tracks. One: Jacky Musgrave was pushed into the skeleton of a horse by a white man accompanied by blacks who wiped out his tracks. Two: By blacks alone who left no trace of their activity. We haveproceeded a step. We know that a white man set the murder stage withStenhouse’s jeep, and we know that he was assisted by aborigines… black fellows he knew he could trust with his life. We know now why we have been thwarted so much.”

 
Irwin began to wash the utensils and pack them into the tucker-box. Looking up he said:

  “We don’t seem able to get our hooks into this case.”

  “We have begun to do so.”

  “We have? Damned if I can see it. I can’t see whyStenhouse made those false entries in his diary, and I can’t even guess at the motive for murdering him…excepting hatred by theWallaces for what he did to his wife. What were you doing with that bush at the horse carcass?”

  “Brushing out our tracks. I don’t want Jacky’s relations to know we discovered the body.”

  “You’re sure, then, they will come here?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “And you are going to leave the corpse in that horse?”

  “Yes… despite your very natural official objection to sidestepping a properly conducted post-mortem and a formal inquest. The one post-mortem and the one inquest on the body ofStenhouse will be sufficient. Now we’ll get along. Back to the yards and another call on Kimberley Breen.”

  Irwin’s light-blue eyes were almost colourless in the dark tan of hisface, the smile mechanical as he lifted the tucker-box into the truck, swung the tins of water up and was ready.

  “If we could read the truth in the biographies of great and successful men, Irwin,” Bony said, when they were on the move, “we would find one common denominator. Every great figure in history, from Genghis Khan to the Emperor Napoleon and down to the captains of modern industry, habitually used everyone with whom they came in contact. Friend and foe, intellectual and clod, the trusting and the suspicious… they used them all. We are not great. We are of those who are used, so let us now and then, in order to maintain our families, use up other people. We will begin with Jacky Musgrave’s relations.”

  Irwin fell into introspective mood and tried to determine when Bony had used him. He was confident he had not been entirely used up by this man whose mind he could not follow, and decided that should he be used up he wouldn’t have any violent objection to the experience. This case seemed almost open and shut when he left Wyndham, and he was still easy about it when he had arrived at the dead policeman in the jeep. After that the cogs had slipped, and this damned half-caste had taken him through an ever-deepening fog. The fog was worse after Bony said:

  “Don’t be downcast. I am decidedly elated.”

  Irwin drove almost a mile before moodily protesting against the fog, and Bony relented.

  “Our investigation has revealed that the man who killedStenhouse was white. The man who murdered Jacky Musgrave was that same white man. Lack of clues indicate that the aborigines were associated with these two murders. In view of the respective positions of the two bodies, the white murderer, having loyal black associates, can be included in threepossibles: Jack Wallace on the far side of this range; one of theBreens on this side; andAlverston who lives north of McDonald’s Stand. We will accept the threeBreens as one… leaving out the girl… so that we do have threepossibles… three men who could have loyal assistance from their stockmen. Have we not progressed?”

  “We certainly have,” Irwin agreed, and because he was a little sore with himself, he laughed. “I think we could reduce the threepossibles by one. Alverston hasn’t been managing his place long enough to receive that amount of co-operation from his blacks.”

  “Conceded, but keep in mind thatAlverston, with two aborigines, was travelling home from Agar’s Lagoon and met the party of photographers near McDonald’s Stand on that day when, in medical opinion, Stenhouse was killed. He could have metStenhouse, killed both him and his tracker, driven the bodies in the jeep into the scrub, gone on and so met the party from Wyndham. And that night he could have returned with his blacks to arrange the body ofStenhouse in the jeep as we found it. What type of man isAlverston?”

  “Decent feller,” replied Irwin.“Came from the Territory three years ago. Was managing stations over there for his company. Well read, I should say. Kind of bloke I’d expect to make a better job of rigging a murder scene.”

  “I agree. I metAlverston at Agar’s pub. We’ll delete his name, and leave twopossibles… Wallace and theBreens.”

  “IfStenhouse was murdered up this way,” argued Irwin, “we know his jeep was driven over old man Lang’s donkey track, but we don’t know who was driving. Old Lang or one of his sons could have made the prints ofStenhouse’s boots in that temporary camp.”

  “That could be so, but the idea is cancelled by the fact that theLangs told us about that track and gave us willing assistance to prove thatStenhouse’s jeep had been driven over it. No, Stenhouse wasn’t killed down south of Agar’s. He was killed within an easy day’s travel of where he was found. We’ll concentrate on thepossibles… Jack Wallace and one or more of theBreens.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Not at Home

  ONARRIVINGat the Breen homestead Bony crossed to the veranda, which was being swept by a middle-aged lubra. She was large and shapeless, and she should have given him a wide smile, instead of a cool “Good day!” while going on with her sweeping.

  “Miss Breen in the house?”Bony asked.

  “No fear. Miss Kimberley, she went off after breakfast.”

  “H’m! When will she be home?”

  “Come back! Oh, late. Perhaps sundown. You know Mike’s Hollow?”

  “No,” replied Bony. “How far away is it?”

  “Oh, long way.”The lubra continued to sweep, and after that one examination of him she had not again looked at him. “Good way. Twenty mile… I don’t know. Long ride, anyhow.”

  “All right! You tell Miss Kimberley we called and were sorry she wasn’t home. Good day!”

  “Good day, Mister!”

  Bony returned to the truck.

  “Make a dash for the blacks’ camp, Irwin. Catch them before they can sneak away.”

  “Kim Breen not home?”

  “I’m not sure. The lubra said she wasn’t. We’ll try to nail one of the stockmen who can speak reasonable English.”

  About a dozen men were standing among the creek trees sheltering the iron and bag humpies. There were no women in view, and no children. The men were clothed in all degrees of dress. Some wore shirt and trousers and riding boots; others wore only a shirt and yet others were wearing only trousers. Irwin and Bony approached them, Irwin chuckling and greeting them easily.

  “Good day-ee, you fellers! You all have a spell, eh?”

  Two attempted a smile and edged behind the others. One well-built young man, who, in addition to shirt and trousers and felt hat, wore goose-necked spurs to his boots and a neckerchief of bright blue drapeda la cinema, was obviously ill at ease. He tried to turn in order to hide the heavy revolver in its holster attached to his flashily-adorned belt.

  Again Irwin chuckled, and his light-blue eyes were hard. He moved to keep this young fellow full front, and for a long moment gazed at the revolver. Then stepping swiftly forward he glared into the uneasy black eyes, while his left hand abstracted the weapon.

  “Who bin told you wear-um revolver feller like white stockman?” Irwin shouted, and then laughed again. Three men moved away, and Irwin ordered them back. They were watching his eyes and didn’t laugh. Then they watched his hands break open the weapon and remove the cartridges. “Now then, you feller, what’s your name?”

  “Patrick O’Grady,”came the reply, and Bony found difficulty in suppressing a smile.

  “Go on, Patrick O’Grady. Whatd’you mean by wearing a gun to your belt? Come on… give, Mr Patrick O’Grady.”

  “Found it at the cattle yards,”came the reply spoken in excellent English. “Ezra must have left it behind when they started with the cattle.”

  “What cattle?” barkedIrwin.

  “Fat cattle for the Meat Works.”

  “What yards?”

  Patrick O’Grady was becoming jittery. He tried to avoid the light-blue eyes. He shuffled and the spurs tinkled.

  “The Nine Mile Yards,” he said.

  “That the yards at the turn-off t
o Black Well?”

  The stockman nodded. Then, as though hoping his status might assist him, he said:

  “I’m boss stockman round here.”

  Bony stepped in, “How long you been working for theBreens?”

  “Been here all along. Born here.”

  “Were you working on the final muster?”

  Patrick O’Grady brightened. He was getting away from the revolver.

  “That’s right. Me and the men were holding the main mob near the yards. Ezra and some of the other boys, and Jasper and Silas, were bringing in the last of the strays.”

  “What day was that?” pressed Bony, and Patrick readily answered saying it was the preceding Monday week. “Who went with the cattle?”

  “Ezra and Kimberley and four of the boys. Jasper and Silas andme went with them to the first camp on. Next morning we left to come home, me and Jasper and Silas.”

  “What have you been doing since you came home?”

  “Spelling.”

  “Where is Jasper now?”

  “With the cattle,” Patrick replied. “He left to relieve Kimberley, who wasn’t to go farther than Number Four Camp.”

  “And Silas? He with the cattle too?” pressed Bony, and the answer came back without hesitation:

  “No. Silas went out to the Swamp shooting crocodiles.”

  “Oh. Crocodiles been catching cattle, eh?”

  The boss stockman grinned. Now on still safer ground he was easy.

  “Too right!”

  “How many black fellows did he take with him?”

  The black eyes flickered, but the reply came fast enough.

  “Three. Old Ned and two young fellers.”

  “Well, Constable Irwin, we must get on. By the way, Patrick, where is Miss Kimberley today?”

  Again the flicker of the eyes, and this time the laugh which conceals so much. Patrick did not know where Kimberley was, but he was quick enough to take the line of least trouble.