Bony - 29 - The Lake Frome Monster Read online

  Newton’s face was grim as he listened to Bony’s story at his headquarters.

  “I really didn’t think there was very much in this, originally,” he said. “But now I do. I’ll get on to the police at Broken Hill for you and quite frankly I think you need some help. You know this part of the world as well as I do and a man could be knocked on the head and buried here for six months before anybody found him. I don’t want to be responsible for that happening to you.”

  Bonaparte shook his head:

  “No, I’ve got to play this alone for a while,” he said. “But I’ve got an idea that I’m going to need some help shortly. There are a lot of things about this matter that I don’t understand and I think I’ll have to get some checking done well away from here if I’m going to find the answers. This is a much bigger thing than a casual crime of a man being killed for money or by some psychopath. I now think there is much more behind all this than I thought originally, and I don’t think that all the ends are within this area. My trouble is that I can’t afford to step out of character and leave this Fence long enough to set all the inquiries in motion. What I would like you to do is ride out and see me in three days’ time, ostensibly to check the Fence, and by that time I hope I may be in a position to tell you that I am ready to have a little checking done and get you to set the wires in motion.”

  Newton nodded:

  “Well, I’ll certainly arrange to do that and if you are nowhere to be found, I suppose you’ve no objection to me putting the Monster up for auction?”

  Bony appreciated the sardonic humour. Newton was a sound fellow and possibly the only one in this desolate area on whom he could rely.

  “You might do that,” he said. “Or you could take him up to the Centre. He should be a great tourist attraction at Ayers Rock. If you could only get him up to the top there he could stand and bellow on moonlight nights and frighten hell out of the tourists. Anyway, so that you won’t be worried about me for the next day, I’m off now to see Joyce

  “One more thing,” he said to Newton, as he turned and rode away. “At this stage of the game I think you had better come and see me in daylight. I am getting rather allergic to people creeping up on me in the night.”

  Joyce was hard at work in his office when Bony was announced. He greeted Bony cordially, but with that touch of reserve that Bony had noticed at their first meeting.

  “Well,” he said, “Detective-Inspector, what can I do for you?”

  “The first thing,” Bony said, “is not to call me that while I’m here. Even the walls of Central Australian homesteads have ears, you know.”

  “Sorry,” said Joyce. “Ed, or Ted—Ed, that’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Ed it is,” said Bony. “Since I have seen you I have been the victim of an attempt at black magic, some camel stealing, and I have also been subjected to a little target practice by a marksman who, I think, intended to miss but not by very much.”

  Joyce opened his eyes wide:

  “The deuce you say,” he said. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m certainly very serious,” said Bony. “And I’d like you to take it very seriously too, if you would. By that I mean I want your co-operation for an hour, much as I hate to drag you away from these books.”

  “Anything I can do to help,” said Joyce.

  “What I want to know,” said Bony, “is this: did Maidstone talk to you very much about himself, or his career when he was here?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Joyce. “He told me the usual stuff about him doing this photography business in his spare time and how he’d always been a keen photographer.”

  “Did he say anything about what sort of apparatus he had?” said Bony.

  “Yes, he showed me his camera,” Joyce returned. “He was very proud of it. It looked a most expensive and compli­cated one to me. He had just bought himself a new battery-flash which he hoped to use in getting pictures of cattle and other animals feeding at bore-holes at night.”

  “Did he take any pictures round here?” asked Bony.

  “He took a few of the homestead,” said Joyce, “but noth­ing at night. He said he hadn’t yet tried his flash bulbs out. He had just bought himself four dozen of them but hadn’t used any.”

  “Four dozen,” said Bony. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” said Joyce. “He showed me them. He showed me how the flash worked and I asked him how many he had and he said four dozen.”

  Bony thought rapidly. The police report had shown that the inventory of Maidstone’s possessions at his camp had shown forty-six flash bulbs. He himself had found the two missing ones, but Maidstone’s camera had been empty of film and in the collection of films which the police had developed there were no pictures which had been taken at night. It indeed seemed important that Maidstone had taken pictures at night, and that the film was missing. Bony felt a surge of excitement.

  “Anything else of importance you discussed?” Bony asked.

  “I can’t say what’s important and what’s not,” said Joyce. “He told me that he hoped to get some unusual animals, but large station properties in the outback had been so much in the news that he was even prepared to settle for herds of steers drinking at these water holes at night. The Common­wealth Government had apparently been pushing develop­ment of the Northern Territory and Western Australia and Maidstone said his magazine was dead-set on running some Central Australian features. Very few people appeared to know anything about the possibility of watering stock by means of bores in areas where water could be found under­ground and the pictures were to be used to illustrate a story by an expert in this field.”

  “Why pick this area?” said Bony. “Maidstone could surely have had a much more comfortable trip in some of the bore areas of southern Queensland, say round Blackall, or even round Moree in northern New South Wales.”

  “Sorry. I can’t help,” said Joyce. “I don’t know why he picked this area, he didn’t appear to know anybody here either, except that Levvey had asked him to stay if ever he came up this way.”

  “What did you say?” said Bony.

  “I said Levvey had asked him to stay. He said he had met Levvey in Sydney, New South Wales, shortly after Levvey had got the job as manager on Lake Frome. Levvey had a cottage down at Collaroy or somewhere near that area—Maidstone was on vacation and they’d met at a party.”

  Bony suddenly switched the conversation. “What sort of a station is Lake Frome?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s a pretty good place,” said Joyce, “except that the owners never come here. It’s owned by one of these land companies with a lot of shareholders in England, and the place is always run by managers. Still, it’s always done quite well.”

  “Did you know Levvey before he came here?” Bony said.

  “No, I didn’t know him at all,” said Joyce. “The fellow came along one day and introduced himself. Didn’t quite expect to see that type of a fellow, but he seemed a good bushman and a good stockman. Couldn’t quite imagine what he and Maidstone had had in common at Collaroy. Maidstone seemed an intellectual sort of bloke, interested in photography and all that, and from what I saw of Levvey he hardly appeared to be Maidstone’s cup of tea. Still, Maid­stone certainly liked the outback life, always got out some­where for his vacations, and probably Levvey appealed to him as coming from that area. Well, it’s time for a drink. Anything else you want from me?”

  “No, thanks,” said Bony, and proceeded to talk to Joyce about what he thought of the prospects of developing that area.

  “Can’t do anything without water,” said Joyce. “This bore water isn’t enough. We need enough to be able to irrigate. If we only had the rainfall we could grow anything here. If you’ve got enough water and are prepared to put in the fertilizer any sort of soil will grow grass.”

  Bonaparte agreed with this theory, and as they sipped their drinks Bony sensed Joyce’s very real interest in his adopted country and came to the conclusion that Joyce, as
well as Newton, was a man on whom he could rely in a tight spot. While he talked, Bony thought over the informa­tion he had got from Joyce. As had happened to him so many times before, the most vital parts of a conversation had never been given to him on his first interview with someone who could possibly help. The really significant things, he reflected, were passed over because they seemed unimportant. It was only the sensational and the dramatic that were ever recounted to him, sometimes with a good deal of embroidery. He reflected how often it paid to talk to a witness again and get out from him all the little bits that he had not thought it worth while mentioning. For the first time since he had come to the Lake Frome area, he began to feel that this would not be the one case from which he had had to retire defeated.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Time to Wait

  BONY’S BACK ached until he was not sure whether it was easier to remain doubled up or to endeavour to straighten it. Whenever he did so, every muscle protested that this was the hardest, most back-breaking section of any marsupial-proof Fence in the whole of Australia. For three days he had fought the debris blown by the wind and watched it blown away over into New South Wales. For three days the wind had set out to make a mockery of his toil. As fast as he pitched one load over, so another one arrived. Even at night the wind whistled and howled through his camp and the camels grunted and stirred uneasily beneath the sting of the sand. The Monster, whose temper was never the best, in particular became restive under the bombardment and at times emitted a bellow of sheer rage at the tormenting of the elements at which he could not strike back. Bony, having lived most of his life in the bush, made himself as comfortable as possible. He was careful to pitch his camp on the lee side of the highest hill he could find and to have his fire on the farthest side so that the smoke blew away from him. Even so, sand was in everything. Sand in the damper, sand in the sugar he put in his tea, sand in his hair—everything tasted of sand. Bony gritted his teeth and wrapped his blankets more securely round him. He began to wonder how many years of his pension he would have given to be sitting in any of the restaurants in Broken Hill looking down at half a roast chicken and a pint of beer. He could have had them at any time during the twenty-four hours in Broken Hill, he thought wryly to himself.

  The next day was calmer and by lunch-time some of the stiffness and soreness had been worked out of Bony’s back. He had still only gone some three hundred yards from the camp when there was a hail from some distance away and he saw Newton approaching him on his horse.

  “Still on it?” said Newton.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” gritted Bony. “As far as I am con­cerned you can take this damned Fence and if any dingo or wild dog is courageous enough to live in this God-forsaken area, then in my book he deserves to get among the sheep in New South Wales.”

  “That’s not the right attitude for a pillar of the law,” said Newton.

  “Maybe not,” said Bony. “But its the right attitude for a man whose back aches the way mine does. Haven’t your superiors ever heard of something like a mechanical rake?”

  “Can’t do that,” said Newton. “Think of all the men it would put out of work. You wouldn’t want to see automa­tion in the outback, would you?”

  “Well,” said Bony, “I’ve got something for you to do this time, anyway. Come and have a cup of tea and I’ll tell you about it.

  “Now,” said Bony, when they were both resting with their backs against a convenient cabbage tree near the camp. “I want you to get this letter to the Superintendent at Broken Hill and I want you to give it into his hands personally. I want no one to know that I am making any inquiries whatsoever outside and if anyone does, I’ve got an idea that you’ll be needing another caretaker for this section of the Fence. Can you find enough work to justify you going into Broken Hill? Could you find some excuse to wait in there for a few days until the replies begin to come through? I trust no one here except you and I can’t do any more without the information for which I have asked.”

  “Leave it to me,” said Newton. “A few days in Broken Hill wouldn’t do me any harm at all.”

  “Right,” said Bony. “In the meantime, I’ll go on being a fairy godmother to this accursed Fence of yours, but please make it back as soon as you can.”

  The next few days passed very slowly. Bony schooled himself to wait with as much patience as he possessed. One day he rode in for more supplies but was careful not to discuss anything relating to the matter with anyone whom he met. He was, however, vociferously indignant over people shooting at random and protested most indignantly that he could easily have been killed. He also said that he thought that some fellow, who ought never to have had a rifle in his hands, shot Maidstone while hunting for some­thing else, and had then been too scared to tell the police about the accident. He was particularly careful on his way back to call on Nugget to tell him that he had had the same sort of experience as Nugget had had himself. He was also careful to tell Nugget that he thought he might take Levvey up on his offer of a job, that he was getting sick and tired of the Fence and that at any tick of the clock he might be down to see Levvey and if Nugget saw him would he let him know.

  Nugget looked up sharply from the saddle he was polish­ing when Bony said this. All effusiveness was wiped from his face and he looked straight at Bony for the first time that morning.

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” he said slowly. “I’d go and see Levvey, he’s a good bloke. He’d look after you.”

  Just as he was about to leave Nugget, Needle Kent turned up. Bony greeted him cheerily.

  “Well, Needle,” he said, “cattle duffers been keeping you awake again?”

  “No,” said Needle viciously. “And I wouldn’t report them if they did. Not to any flaming copper. By the way, I hear you’re one.”

  “Who on earth told you that?” said Bony.

  “Ah, it’s all round the camp at Quinambie,” said Needle. “Why don’t you come clean? What’s the idea of coming among folks like us pretending you’re a workman. No one’s going to help the flaming cops round here, particu­larly if they come dressed up in some fancy dress and do some workman out of a job.”

  “You’ve got me all wrong, mate,” said Bony. “Whoever’s been filling your head with all that rot wants their head read.”

  “Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t,” said Needle Kent darkly. “But if you’re what I hear you are, I’d hot-foot it back to wherever you came from and put in for immediate leave of absence. The police aren’t too popular around this part of the world.”

  “Thanks for your advice,” said Bony. “If it concerned me I’d be grateful for it.”

  Bony turned suddenly to Nugget and found that in­dividual watching him very intently with a curious smile on his face.

  “By the way, Nugget,” said Bony, “what did you do with that Winchester rifle you had?”

  “Sold it,” said Nugget. “You don’t think I could afford to have two rifles, do you?”

  “Ah, don’t suppose you could,” said Bony. “I’ve got a Winchester myself back home. I don’t suppose you’ve got any of the cartridges left you’d like to sell me?”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Nugget shortly. “And it’s time I got on strengthening some sections of that Fence. I can’t stay gossiping all day, even if you can.”

  With that he turned on his heel and said: “Come on, Needle, I’ll talk to you while we are at the Fence.”

  Needle growled a “goodbye” to Bony and catching up Nugget walked on with him.

  “Well, Bony,” said that individual to himself, “I don’t think you’d win any popularity contest round here. The sooner you get this job finished and get out of this place, the better.”

  It was just as well that Bony did not know what the next few days were to bring.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bony Ponders and Needle Acts

  ROLLED IN his blankets by his camp fire that night Bony found it hard to get to sleep. He was well aware of the antipathy with which so
me sections of a community regard the police and that there are many Needle Kents to whom any authority is an enemy to be outwitted and derided when possible. This did not worry him at all. What did worry him was the human capacity to stand round and watch a policeman trying to make an arrest without feeling in duty bound to come to his assistance. He knew of several cases of policemen being beaten up while trying to arrest a lawbreaker for the benefit of the community while the community itself, or at least a section of it, deliberately stood by and watched.

  Bony lay and gazed up at the stars while he pondered on this perverse attitude of sympathy for the underdog. The police represent to some extent the power of the State; the lawbreaker in some strange way becomes identified with the members of the public and so a crime is none of a person’s business unless it begins to affect him directly. Bony well understood the young untried policeman arrest­ing and charging as having used “insulting words” anyone who referred to him as a “mug copper”. He also appreciated why some younger members of the Force could become somewhat cynical about their job and the public generally. Human nature, however, interested Bony far too much for him to be a cynic. Analysing his situation he decided that most Australians were innately too fair-minded to carry this instinctive antagonism towards the copper too far, even in this remote part of the outback. He sighed and closed his eyes. All a man could do was the job he had immediately in front of him.

  This philosophical thought brought him to his imme­diate superior in Broken Hill. By now the Superintendent would have been relieved, through Newton’s arrival, from the apoplexy which he invariably suffered during the long silences and absence of reports to which Bony’s individual method of working subjected him. Bony could imagine the Superintendent inquiring of the heavens as to how he could satisfy his own superiors on the progress of a case when his Number One dropped out of sight as completely as the murderer he was supposedly pursuing. So it was with a smile of amusement on his lips that Bony at last dropped off.