Bony - 09 - Death of a Swagman Page 21

  “Did she really say that?” young Jason asked quickly.

  “She did. One of your own little rhymes?”

  “No. But she learnt it off me.”

  Bony nodded. The wistful expression was yielded again to the hard stare. The cigarette, now alight, was rolled from one corner of the crooked mouth to the other. It was obvious to Bony that the brain behind the high and broad forehead was exceedingly active.

  “What does Dr Scott think about her?”

  “It depends,” replied Bony.

  “Depends!” echoed young Jason. “What d’you mean?”

  “It depends on you whether I answer your question or not. I am willing to play ball if you are.”

  “Oh! So that’s it, is it?”

  “That’s how it is,” agreed Bony, adding quietly: “You’ve always liked little Rose Marie, haven’t you? As a matter of fact, although I am a detective, I also love little Rose Marie, so that if you and I do not agree on anything of value, we agree on that. I have reasons to think that you did not abduct the child and attempt to kill her, and also I have reasons to think that you may be able to assist me in locating who did.”

  “That talk’s all very fine,” young Jason sneered. “We get that in the newspapers almost any day. ‘Unknown man who wit­nessed the accident is asked to call at the detective office as it is thought he may be able to assist in identifying the body.’ I had quite enough of it when that Sergeant Redman was here. Why, he said right out that I had a motive for killing Kendall.”

  “I know that … And had I been here, it is likely that he would have said the same about me.” Bony paused, then: “Now I am going to tell you something. It is one of my reasons why I don’t think you attempted to kill Rose Marie. You once had a brown and white dog. You were fond of that dog. More than once I have seen you whistle it to you and pat it. It was obvious that that dog loved you. And I know that you didn’t poison it. A man doesn’t poison his own dog … not with strychnine. If he wishes to destroy it he shoots it.”

  Whilst he spoke Bony watched the anger grow big in the dark eyes.

  “So the dog was poisoned, was he? How do you know that?”

  “I found him … on the Walls of China.”

  “On the Walls of China?” echoed young Jason. “Why, he wouldn’t have gone all the way out there. He never left town. He was never a hunter. That dog never hunted anything, not even a town cat.”

  “Yet I found him dead on the Walls of China,” Bony asserted. “I backtracked him and saw where he had had the fits from the place where he had picked up the bait. And the strange thing about it is that the station people all state quite definitely that no poison baits had been dropped anywhere on the Walls of China.”

  The middle-aged half-caste and the unfortunate white man stared at each other.

  “I don’t get it,” said young Jason.

  “Do you ever ride a horse?”

  “No … Why?”

  “Do you ever go for long walks in the surrounding bush?”

  “What the hell would I want to go and do that for?”

  “Because it has occurred to me that the dog might have been following someone … when it picked up the bait.”

  Young Jason nodded his head very slowly.

  “Yes … that … might … have been … how it hap­pened. He was following someone.”

  “Who do you think he would follow?”

  “Who? How the devil do I know that? He might have fol­lowed—he might have followed anyone.”

  The pause did not go unnoticed by Bony. Then the young man asked a shrewd question:

  “If you backtracked the dog to where he picked up the bait you would know if he was following anyone because if he had been you would have seen the bloke’s tracks too.”

  “No, I saw no boot marks anywhere in the vicinity,” Bony said truthfully.

  “Then why suggest that the dog was following somebody?”

  “I don’t know. I merely put the idea forward because it seems so strange for a town dog to be so far away, and then to be poisoned deliberately.”

  “When did you find the dog?” asked young Jason, and the manner in which he was now cross-examining Bony secretly amused the detective.

  “About the time you missed him,” Bony replied. “Tell me why you are so interested in windmills?”

  “Windmills!” young Jason almost shouted. Then in a softer voice he went on: “I’m not interested in windmills, only when I’ve got to do repairs to the mill up at the town dam. And I’ve been mucking about with that mill, which was wore out years ago, so much that I’m sick and tired of even thinking about it. Who said I was interested in windmills?”

  “No one actually told me that you are so interested, but you made Rose Marie promise, with her fingers crossed, to say nothing on the subject, about which she had evidently learned something.”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No. Didn’t I say she had promised not to, with her fingers crossed?”

  Over the ugly face spread a grin.

  “I can explain that easily enough,” young Jason said. “One day when I had to go up to repair the town mill I took Rose Marie with me. Most of the trouble with that mill is making new parts to fit because new parts for it can’t be bought. The part I took there that day when Rose Marie went with me wouldn’t fit properly and I sort of lost me temper and swore pretty crook, forgetting that the kid was close handy. Then, another time when I was forging a part in the garage, some­thing went wrong and I let me tongue loose, and looked up and saw the kid in the doorway, and she said: ‘Why do you always say those nasty words about making windmill parts?’ And I told her I wouldn’t never again if she promised not to talk about windmills and me, and she promised and I promised with our fingers crossed.”

  “This subject of windmills did not concern a third party?”

  “No, of course not. What has all this to do with Rose Marie being knocked about?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” confessed Bony. “I was hoping that you might be able to help me. Do you know of anyone in Merino who is a little cranky on windmills, say cranky on inventing improvements?”

  “No. I’m the only cranky bloke on windmills hereabout. I hate ’em. If I had my way I’d blow ’em all up. They’re always giving trouble. A motor engine is something what’s got feel­ings and what a man can do something to to make ’em run smooth and well. But windmills!”

  Bony permitted himself to smile saying:

  “There is something in what you say about motors and windmills. A perfectly running motor engine sings a song of its own, doesn’t it? I suppose you can tell merely by listening to a running engine whether it has developed a fault or not?”

  “I can. I can tell long before the fault will bring a break­down,” replied the young man, pride in his voice, and even the evidence of affection for which he was probably being starved. “In fact I’ve stood outside big city garages and guessed correctly the make of a car from its running engine. Each of ’em has a different voice.”

  The momentary enthusiasm for motor engines subsided, and there returned to the dark eyes and the pathetic face the customary surliness. Bony was not unsatisfied with this inter­view, but yet he was not fully satisfied with it. There still remained the fence erected between them by this young man who now made that fence even more impassable.

  “Windmills and motor engines!” he scoffed. “What’s it all to do with Rose Marie? That’s what I want to know. You’ve got me here and have been pumping me with your fool ques­tions, and presently you’ll be telling me that I took her away and bashed her.” His voice rose when, now on his feet, he stood glaring at Bony. “You think you know a lot, don’t you? You think you’re pretty clever, eh? You don’t know that I’ve had to be clever all me life, but I have. Everyone laughs or sneers at poor young Jason, but the kids don’t. They will, of course, when they grow up, but while they’re kids they don’t; in a sort of way they belong to me. And if I find out who bashed
little Rose Marie—well, it is going to be just too bad.”

  “You can leave him to the law,” Bony said.

  “Leave him to the law!” snarled young Jason. “Leave him to the law! What then? For the law to give him six months, or find he’s not quite right in his head, or to say that the poor feller isn’t a bad sort of bloke and can’t help himself. Murder and rape ain’t considered much in this country … when it’s kids what are murdered. But if a bloke accidentally kills a bank manager when he’s robbing a bank, ah, that’s a different thing, and they swing him for sure.”

  The rage subsided so quickly that Bony had the thought that the young man was acting. Had not the father been an actor? And that listening to running motor engines! Might not the man on the tank stand have been listening to the whirring of the mill fan wheel, a sound to be heard under the “clang … clang … clang” of the working pump rod? What, indeed, had Rose Marie, probably accidentally, learned about wind­mills in connexion with this young Jason?

  “Well, we don’t appear to be getting anywhere,” Bony said, rising to his feet. “I am sorry that you will not co-operate. Good day!”

  Young Jason stooped, snatched up his cap, and stood up. He reached the door, where he turned to regard Bony with that former flash of wistfulness in his eyes.

  “Tell us how the kid’s getting on, Inspector,” he urged. “They won’t tell me nothing up at the doctor’s place.”

  “You don’t deserve any consideration,” Bony said. “But I’ll tell you what I do know about Rose Marie. The scalp at the back of the head was badly lacerated, and she was unconscious when found. As I told you, she regained partial consciousness when in the car, but she has again been unconscious since then. Dr Scott thinks she will recover, but she will require careful nursing. You wouldn’t like to tell me, I suppose, who your dog was in the habit of following?”

  “No, ’cos I don’t know. That hound would follow anybody. Anything else?”

  “Not for the moment.”

  Young Jason lurched out through the doorway to the pas­sage. Bony heard him open the front door, heard the door slammed. He was writing notes when Marshall returned from relieving Gleeson.

  “Well?” Bony asked him, brows raised.

  “Florence? Oh, there’s no change yet. She’s still unconscious. Scott was back when I left.”

  “I’ve had young Jason in here. Unbalanced fellow, and most unhelpful. He was interested in hearing about his dog being poisoned. That was about all. Like to be present when we overhaul the Rev. James?”

  “Very much,” replied Marshall grimly.

  Bony lifted the telephone and asked to be connected with the parsonage. Then he heard the soft voice of Mrs James.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs James,” he said in his best manner. “I am Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte. We have met, you know. My name then was Robert Burns … with apologies to all Scotchmen.”

  “Yes, Inspector. My husband was telling me at lunch how my Mr Burns was actually a detective officer,” she cried. “You must forgive me, but I came to call you my Mr Burns after you so kindly cut the wood. I hope you will come and see me soon so that I can thank you properly. I have only just come back from making a call on Dr Scott about poor little Rose Marie.”

  “Yes, it is all very dreadful, Mrs James, and we can only hope, for the child is in excellent hands: Er—what I rang up for was to speak to your husband. I shall certainly accept your invitation to call on you. Thank you very much. Is Mr James at home?”

  “He is, but is taking his afternoon rest. Poor man, he feels that he really must relax for a couple of hours after lunch.”

  “Hum! I regret having to disturb him, but time, and all that, you know. Would you ask him to come to the phone?”

  “All right … if you insist. It is important, I suppose?”

  Bony laughed, and during the chuckling told her that he was an important person, and that he never did anything un­importantly. He was kept waiting fully three minutes before he heard the nasal whine.

  “The Rev. Mr James. You called for me?”

  “Ah, yes! Good afternoon, Padre,” purred Bony. “I am wondering if you would find it convenient to come along to the station office. I think that you may be able to give me a little assistance in this matter on which I am engaged.”

  Mr James did not sound in good temper.

  “Well, I suppose I could if it is really essential. But I am seldom fit for anything after lunch, you know. My heart disciplines me. Would not this evening do?”

  “I regret that this evening I shall be busy elsewhere. I will not keep you long.”

  “But couldn’t you call on me here?” argued Mr James. “I am not fully dressed.”

  “I have only just promised your wife to make a social call in the immediate future,” Bony said with ice in his voice. “Although I do regret disturbing you, I must urge you to call on me here as quickly as possible. I could, of course, get Sergeant Marshall to drive in his car to fetch you.”

  “Oh no! Oh no! That’s not necessary,” Mr James said hastily. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you, Padre. I shall be waiting.”

  Bony sighed as he replaced the instrument. He gazed over the desk to Marshall, and the sergeant exploded.

  “Bit hoity-toity, eh?”

  “Just a little,” admitted Bony, and then passed the top of his tongue from one side of his upper lip to the other. “If you are going to stay, we’ll want another chair. When the reverend gentleman arrives let him see you seated at Gleeson’s table.”

  Mr James did not arrive till fifteen minutes had passed. Bony did not get up to greet him. He smiled and waved to the chair opposite him, and Mr James sat himself down without a word.

  “Well, now, Padre,” Bony began, “as you must be aware, I have been investigating several crimes that have taken place in this district, the latest being the abduction and attempted murder of Rose Marie. You have been in Merino for several years, and without doubt you know everyone, their habits and failings, and the rest. You being one of the leaders, if not the actual leader, of this small community, I was wondering if you could offer a suggestion or two which might prove of assistance to us. You own a horse, I understand.”

  “I do,” answered Mr James.

  “You keep it in the stables belonging to Mr Fanning, do you not?”

  “That is so.”

  The light blue eyes were hardening.

  “When did you ride it last?”

  “The day before yesterday. I rode over to visit Mrs Sutherland.”

  “You have a car. Why did you not drive over?”

  “For two reasons. The track is rough in places, and I wanted a little gentle exercise. I find that riding a horse at a walk is beneficial to my health.”

  “Ah, yes, to be sure,” murmured Bony. “Quite so! Quite so! Have you had the horse long?”

  “A couple of years. I purchased it—”

  “No matter, Padre. Rather a pity you are unable to enjoy a good old gallop now and then.” Bony smiled reminiscently, and Sergeant Marshall, who was sitting behind the minister and thus could observe Bony’s face, began to feel disappoint­ment. The kid gloves were on, but within them was a horse­shoe or two.

  “Nothing like a good hard gallop,” Bony went on. “Most especially on a frosty morning. How many times, on average, do you ride in a week?”

  “Oh, I should think about three times. I ride mostly to visit my parishioners. The district is very large, as doubtless you know.”

  “Of course! Of course! You were out riding on December fifth. Where did you ride to that day—last Thursday?”

  “Last Thursday? Er—let me think.”

  “It was that day the man was found hanged at Sandy Flat, you remember?”

  Sergeant Marshall was now feeling a little better. The Rev. Mr James leaned well back in his chair and took firm hold with both hands of the handle of his walking stick. The nasal whine was a little more emphatic when he
said slowly:

  “You know, Inspector, I think I am beginning to dislike the trend of your questioning. What on earth can my horse riding have to do with these dreadful murders? I am a minister of the Church.”

  “Of that I haven’t the slightest doubt, Padre,” Bony assured him. “But just visualize my difficulties. We investigating officers have to put into position many pieces of a puzzle. It is quite often that persons who haven’t the remotest connexion with the crime being investigated sometimes are able to show the officer where a particular piece of the puzzle belongs.”

  Mr James relaxed. Bony lit another cigarette. What he had remembered was the rebuke he had received when he had thought to smoke on the parsonage veranda. With seeming inadvertence, the smoke of this cigarette travelled to and about Mr James’s head.

  “You were out riding on December fifth, that day the body of the hanged man was found,” he proceeded. “Did you hap­pen to come across anything unusual that day?”

  “No. I cannot say that I did.”

  “You remember now where you rode that day?”

  “Er—yes. I remember now. It was over the Walls of China and beyond them.”

  The pale blue eyes failed to hide the gleam of annoyance at having slipped into this little trap. Calmly, even conver­sationally, Bony went on:

  “You tell me that you ride a horse only at walking pace because of your weak heart, Padre,” he said. “What caused you to ride your horse so furiously on the morning of Decem­ber fifth that you winded it? I shall be obliged if you will kindly inform me of the reason for endangering your weak heart.”

  The Rev. James stood up. The large and flaccid face began to work with barely controlled anger.

  “I shall not oblige you,” he almost shouted. “I find your questions impertinent and your attitude insulting. I resent your probings into my private affairs.”

  “Now, now!” murmured Bony. “Don’t let us cross swords. I am sure you will forgive me when I recall to your mind that my work is to locate a criminal. I am equally sure that, as a minister, you would be only too ready to assist me. Pray sit down.”

  “I shall not. I am going to leave at once.”