Bony - 18 - Death of a Lake Page 2

  On the night of November 7th the moon was almost at full. The day had been very hot, and the night warm and still. The men played poker, using matches, until a quarter to eleven, when they went to bed. Carney stated that shortly after he and Gillen got to bed, Gillen announced his intention of going for a swim. Carney, on the verge of sleeping, declined Gillen’s in­vitation to accompany him. He stated that it wasn’t until he awoke the following morning that he discovered Gillen hadn’t returned.

  The last Carney saw of Gillen was when he put out the light on leaving the room. Gillen then was wearing only his pyjama trousers. A quick check of Gillen’s clothes proved that he could not have returned from the lake, slept, awakened early and dressed and gone out. It was after breakfast, when Martyr appeared to give his orders for the day, that Gillen was re­ported missing.

  For Sergeant Mansell a routine job. He examined Gillen’s clothes, his swag of blankets, and the contents of his suitcase, the suitcase being of good quality. There was no clue to Gillen’s people. He examined the man’s motor-bike, a power­ful machine in good condition, noted its registration and en­gine numbers, and went back to his office.

  Wallace and his overseer organized the hands. Aborigines were brought from the River, and meanwhile Lester and Carney and MacLennon scoured the country about the Lake in the extremely unlikely event that Gillen had wandered away and become lost.

  On the third day, and subsequently, all hands patrolled the shores to await the coming in of the body. The wind direction and the currents set up by the wind were carefully calculated. But the body did not come ashore, and it was ultimately as­sumed that it had been trapped by a wire fence crossing the lake which was, of course, submerged when the depression filled with water.

  Among Gillen’s effects was neither a driver’s licence nor a registration certificate for the machine he rode. It was learned that the registered owner of the motor-cycle was a timber worker in Southern Queensland. He was traced to Too­woomba, where he was living at a good hotel and spending freely. He said he sold the bike to a man named Gillen, and described Gillen. He said that his present state of affluence was due to having a half-share with Gillen in a lottery ticket which won £25,000.

  Asked how the money was divided, the timber worker told of an agreement to draw the full amount in cash from the bank into which the cheque for the prize had been paid. In an hotel room they had portioned out each share in Treasury notes. They wanted to look at a lot of money, and Gillen had left the next morning on his bike, saying he intended to tour Australia.

  And the extraordinary facet of this tale of luck and division of so large a sum in notes of low denomination was that it was true. Gillen had left Toowoomba with something like £12,500 in his possession.

  When his effects were examined first by Martyr in the pre­sence of Lester and MacLennon, there was no money.

  All the banks in the Commonwealth were asked if an account in Gillen’s name had been opened. Result negative. Gillen’s journey south into New South Wales and still farther south was traced. Here and there people remembered him. Debonair, handsome, a man seeking adventure. Plenty of money? Well, no, he didn’t give that impression. What had the timber worker said of Gillen? “Money! Ray never cared a hoot for money. Twelve thousand odd in his kip wouldn’t worry him.”

  Questions: Had he arrived at Lake Otway to accept a job when he possessed twelve thousand pounds? Again accord­ing to the timber worker, it was likely. Significantly, the tim­ber worker added: “Ray would take a job anywhere where there was a ‘good sort’ around.”

  There was a ‘good sort’ at Lake Otway. That £12,000 could not be traced. Gillen was known to be an excellent swimmer. The statements of four men tallied in that they all played poker with Gillen and always with matches. Fifteen months after Gillen was thought to be drowned, Inspector Bonaparte happened to peruse the case file.

  There were several angles which, although unusual, were by no means psychologically improbable. Firstly, the personality of the man Gillen. He had been born and educated in Tasmania. On leaving school he worked on an uncle’s farm, but the farm, apparently, was too cramped, and the boy crossed to the mainland, where he passed from job to job until, as a stockman in Northern Queensland, he had volunteered for service in Korea, where he had completed his term of ser­vice. Returning to Queensland, he joined two men in a timber contract.

  After leaving the Tasmanian farm, there had never been lack of money in Gillen’s life. The sudden acquisition of a large sum of money did not cause Gillen to rush to the fleshpots, as it had done to his partner in the lottery ticket. That lucky ticket provided Gillen with additional means to freedom, and many a man wants just that.

  Therefore, that Ray Gillen had stuffed about £12,000 into his kip and set off on a motor cycle to see Australia was in keeping with the psychology of many young men in Bony’s experience. Again, in accordance with the known personality of the missing man, Bony was confident that Gillen had asked for a job at Lake Otway after and not before he had met the ‘good sort’. It had been the girl and not the job which decided Gillen to seek work at Lake Otway.

  There arose the inevitable doubt when a strong swimmer takes a swim shortly before midnight and is drowned, and has among his possessions a large sum of easily spendable cash. A telegram to the senior officer of police at Menindee produced a result which could be looked at from several points. The Sergeant replied that none of the people employed at Lake Otway left after Gillen was drowned. Then no one of those employed with Gillen could have stolen his money, for surely had one done so he wouldn’t stay on, but leave to enjoy the spending of it. But the fact that not one person had left was also decidedly odd, for all of them save the overseer could be typed as members of the great floating population who seldom stay in one place for more than a year.

  And so, fifteen months after Gillen was assumed drowned, Inspector Bonaparte climbed into the cabin of a three-ton truck in the guise of a horse-breaker, Sergeant Mansell and Mr Wallace, the owner-manager of Porchester Station, being the only persons aware of his identity.

  The horse-breaker was smoothly dressed in brown twill shirt and trousers, well worn elastic-sided riding boots, and an old broad-brimmed felt. And on the load was his neatly rolled swag of blankets and normal equipment. The truck driver wore a patched pair of greasy grey trousers, a blue denim shirt, whiskers seven days old and no boots. He was twice Bony’s weight and one inch shorter. The Boss had re­ferred to him as Red Draffin.

  Once clear of the homestead paddocks and the obstructing gates, Bony rolled a cigarette and settled for the long run. The sun this day of late January was hot and the air was clear. Bony was home, and the simple people like Red Draffin are at home here, too. Red trailed a shower of sparks from his pipe by knocking it against the outside of the door, and said:

  “So you’re from Queensland, eh? From old Uradangie. Long time back when I was up there. Usta be five pubs in my time. They still doing business?”

  “Four are. The Unicorn was burned down.”

  “That so! Hell! Remember the Unicorn. She was kept by ole Ted Rogers. Ruddy doer he was. So was his ole woman. They took turns in minding the bar … week and week about. Neither could last longer than a week at a time. End of the week’s spell in the bar, and both of ’em was a cot case. I did hear that Ted Rogers died in the horrors.”

  “So did Mrs Rogers. She was in the horrors when the pub went up.”

  “Was that so!” Red Draffin spat with vigour and almost automatically drove the loaded vehicle along the track twist­ing about low sand dunes, across salt and blue-bush flats, over water-gutters, and across dry creeks. “Well, Ma Rogers could always drink as good as Ted, and he was extra. I seen him open a bottle of rum and drain the lot without winkin’. Hell! Men was men in them days. What brought you down south?”

  “Change of country,” Bony replied. “I get around.”

  “I usta,” admitted Red Draffin. “Never stayed on one fly-speck more’n a month.”r />
  “You have settled down?”

  “Yair. You blows out in the end, y’know. You find that the sandhill beyond the next one’s just the same, and that Orstralia is just a pancake dotted with pubs wot are all alike. Course, times have changed a lot. The coming generation is too sap-gutted with fruit juices and milk in their tea, and nowadays if a man has a go of the horrors he ain’t liked. Once on a time if a man didn’t have the horrors he wasn’t reckoned a man’s shadder.”

  “Had a bender lately?” Bony politely inquired.

  “No, not for a long time now. I’m gettin’ on, and after a bender I suffers something terrible from indigestion. Got to take a bit of care of meself.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Don’t rightly know. Last census time, the Boss estimated me at sixty years. What d’you reckon about carb soda?”

  “For the horrors?”

  “No, me indigestion.”

  “I’ve been told that carb soda is good for anything.”

  “ ’Bout right, too. Read in the paper that a bloke in Russia lived to be a hundred and forty ’cos he washed everyday in carb soda. Might take that on meself. Carb soda’s cheap enough.”

  Bony thought the suggestion an excellent idea, but asked:

  “How long have you been working on Porchester?”

  “Me? Nine years and a bit. I’ve kinda settled on Porchester. Wallace is a good boss, and, as I said a mile or two back, the pubs in Menindee is just the same as they usta be up at Uradangie. Whisky’s got more water in it and they charges six times more, that’s all.”

  “You’d know this run, then?”

  Red Draffin spat at the passing wind, flexed his shoulders.

  “I know every water-hole, every sandhill, every blade of grass on Porchester. Every ruddy sheep knows me be name, and this year there’s over sixty thousand of ’em. Never took much to horses, though. You like horses … musta.”

  “Yes, I like horses. What’s the overseer like at Lake Otway?”

  “Mister Martyr? Good enough,” replied Draffin. “Knows his work. Done no one a bad turn that I ever heard about. Keeps his place and expects us to keep ours. You married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too. Lasted eleven days and a bit. Found out me wife was married to a butcher in Cobar. She cleared out with a shearer, and me and the butcher’s been good cobbers ever since. Women! You go careful with the women at Lake Otway.”

  “There are women?”

  “Two. Mother does the cookin’ and the daughter does the housemaiding.” Draffin chuckled. “Ruddy termites, both of ’em.”

  “How so?”

  They eats into a man’s dough from the inside out. And there’s blokes wot likes it. Wouldn’t leave the place. Reckons they got a good chance with the daughter or the mother. They sends away to Sydney or Adelaide for presents for ’em. You’ll be a wake-up in no time.”

  They passed a deserted hut built of pine logs, used only at the shearing season. An hour later they sighted a windmill and two huts partially surrounded by a high canegrass wall.

  “Sandy Well,” Draffin said. “Get a bit of lunch here.”

  “Half-way house?”

  “That’s right. Twenty-six mile to the homestead and twenty-six on to the Lake. Feller called George Barby cooks here when he ain’t fur-trapping. Good bloke, George Barby, though he is a pommy.”

  Three dogs came racing to meet the truck and escort it to the door in the canegrass wall. From the view of the sur­rounding sandhills Bony deduced that the wall was essential when the storms raged.

  Through the door there emerged a slightly-built man, dark of hair and pale of skin. He was wearing white duck trousers and a white cotton vest. After him came an enormously fat pet sheep, and after the sheep came two outsized black and white cats. Finally there appeared a tame galah, red of breast and grey of back. The parrot waddled forward ab­surdly, flapped its wings and raised its rose-tinted comb while shrieking its welcome.

  The pet sheep chased Red Draffin round the truck, and George Barby said to Bony: “Come on in and have a cuppa tea.”

  Chapter Three

  The Thinker

  FOR A MAN of sixty, Red Draffin could move. So, too, could the pet sheep. The bootless, whiskered man ap­peared from behind the truck and raced for the door in the wall, the large wether hard astern and bouncing the sand with legs like props. Shouting with laughter, the truck driver kept the hard, butting head at bay with one hand and with the other he thrust a plug of black tobacco between his teeth, bit off a chunk and presented it to the sheep. The sheep almost spoke his thanks and retired placidly chewing.

  Throughout this exhibition, the pale-faced cook never smiled; in fact, Bony fancied he detected disapproval of Red Draffin’s undignified behaviour. He led the way through the door in the wall. After him went Bony, and after Bony came Red Draffin. Following on came the two enormous cats, and after the cats waddled the galah. The dogs only remained with­out. The sheep arrived later.

  Inside the wall of canegrass were two huts, and the cook led the procession to that which served as the kitchen-dining-room.

  “Boss said you were coming out,” he remarked, waving to the table set for three. “Did you bring me stores and mail and things?”

  “Get ’em off the load later, George,” replied Draffin. “Meet Bony. He’s goin’ out to the Lake breakin’.”

  George and Bony nodded the introduction, and Draffin went on:

  “Bony’s come down from Uradangie. You never been up there, George?”

  Barby asked to be told why he should have been up at Uradangie and Bony looked about the hut. It was surprisingly clean and tidy. The cooking was done with camp ovens and billies on the large open hearth. There were crevices between the pine log walls and several holes in the corrugated iron roof. But the place was cool this hot day, and what it was like when the wind blew the sand off the summits of the sur­rounding dunes he could imagine.

  Barby served roast mutton, potatoes and tomato sauce. The bread was well baked and the tea was hot. He sat on the form at the table opposite his visitors, and the conversation at first excluded Bony. Slightly under fifty, he had been so long in Australia that his Lancashire accent had almost vanished. His face was long, his chin pointed. His eyes were dark and, in the soft light, brilliant. And like the great majority of bush dwellers he was intelligent and well read.

  To Bony’s amusement the galah suddenly appeared above table-level. Using beak and claws, the bird climbed the cook’s cotton vest to gain his shoulder, and once there distended its rosy comb and emitted a screech of defiance at the guests. Barby went on talking as might a mother pass off the mis­behaviour of her child, but the effort was ruined when the bird said softly and confidentially in his ear:

  “Bloody ole fool.”

  “Lake’s getting low, they say,” Barby remarked, offering no sign of annoyance, or of being conscious of the ‘brat’. The bird proceeded to preen his feathers, and Draffin said:

  “Down to three feet. Bit under, accordin’ to the Boss this morning. She’ll go out like a light when she does throw a seven.”

  Barby politely wiped his mouth with a pot rag, and the bird lovingly scraped its beak against his ear.

  “Ought to be good money in rabbits,” he said. “And now that Royalty’s taken to fox furs the skins ought to be high come May and June.”

  “Yair. But rabbit skins are low now, though. Only three quid a hundred.”

  “Quantity would make the dough,” Barby pointed out. There’s quantity enough round that Lake, and when she dies there’ll be more rabbits than could be handled by a thousand trappers. I’m thinking of giving it a go. What d’you reckon?”

  “Could think about it,” answered Draffin. “You said anything to the Boss?”

  “This morning. Boss said he’d try for another cook. You size up the possible take out at the Lake, and we’ll decide when you come back.” To Bony he said: “You going to work con­tract?”

 
“Yes. On a dozen horses to start with.”

  The galah screeched, and the noise would have upset a stoic. Barby puffed into its near eye and the bird screeched again, and at once, insulted, proceeded to descend from the shoulder as it had climbed. It fell off the stool to the ground and nipped a cat that spat and fled. Quite unconcerned, Barby said:

  “Nice place, Lake Otway. Good tucker. Good quarters. You ought to do well. Tell the women you’re married and got fif­teen kids, and you’re hard put to it to buy fag tobacco.”

  “I tipped him off,” said Red Draffin.

  “I am married, and I have three children,” Bony told them. “I can easily add another twelve. Termites, Red said they are.”

  Barby regarded Bony with prolonged scrutiny.

  “As I told you, Lake Otway’s a nice place. Best policy is to know nothing, and see everything, and give nothing away. Some of the fellers out there been there too long. You know how it is.”

  “I have known a similar set-up,” agreed Bony. “I’m all for the move on.”

  “And we’d better get going, too,” said Draffin, rising.

  All went out to the truck … dogs, cats, sheep and galah. Draffin climbed the load to take off stores and a bag of mail and papers. The sheep nudged at Bony’s hip, persisted, and the cook said:

  “He wants a pinch of tobacco.”

  Bony produced the ‘pinch’ and the sheep daintily accepted it and chewed with evident delight. The galah waddled to his feet and ducked its head and turned over on its back. For the first time Barby smiled. He clicked his tongue and the sheep went to him. He picked up the cats and placed them on the sheep, and the bird he put with the cats, and as the truck rolled away, Bony waved and was always to remember that picture.