Bony - 09 - Death of a Swagman Page 22
Mr James turned towards the door, saw Sergeant Marshall, and exclaimed:
“Ah! I call on you, Sergeant Marshall, to bear witness to what this extraordinary person has been saying to me.”
“That’s all right, sir,” responded Marshall cheerfully. “I’ve been taking it all down in writing.”
“You have what? Oh!”
“By the way,” interrupted the suave Bony. “What is the title of the latest novel you are reading?”
Mr James swung about and glared at the questioner. Conversationally Bony continued:
“I hope you enjoyed the one entitled A Flirt in Florence. I have been informed that it is quite a juicy romance and was once a best seller. Haven’t read it myself, because I am always so busy on cleaner murder mysteries. Do you think the members of your congregation would admire your taste in literature? Won’t you sit down again?”
“I read the book for a purpose, for the purpose of being able to preach a sermon on the salacious muck being imported into this country,” asserted Mr James, who punctuated his vowels by vigorous thumping of the floor with his stick.
“Indeed! Oh, that explains a lot,” commented Bony, adding: “Still you will admit that very many lewd minds would not accept that explanation. Do sit down.”
Mr James sat down, and Bony went on remorselessly:
“You were riding eastward of the Walls of China on the morning of December fifth. What time did you leave town?”
“Oh, I should say it was about ten o’clock,” replied Mr James resignedly.
“You winded your horse by hard galloping and were met by Miss Leylan a little after one o’clock. Where did you obtain the piece of hessian sacking with which you wiped down the animal?”
“I picked it up. It was lying near where I dismounted.”
“Indeed!”
“I tell you that I picked it up. Anything more before I go?”
“Oh yes. Where did you ride to last night?”
“Last night?” echoed Mr James. “I wasn’t out last night. My wife can vouch for that.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“About eleven-thirty. We attended Lawton-Stanley’s meeting.”
“Do you and your wife occupy the same room?”
“This, sir, is becoming outrageous,” snorted the minister.
“But, my dear Padre,” Bony murmured soothingly. “Recall. You state that your wife can vouch for you that you were not out last night, and I am given to understand that you do not occupy the same room. My question was to verify that. As you do not occupy the same room, how can your wife vouch for the truth of your statement? How could she know whether or not you left the house after both of you had retired for the night?”
“If you think—”
“I don’t think what you think I am thinking, Padre.”
“Stop the padre-ing for goodness’ sake,” shouted Mr James.
“Certainly. Merely a habit of mine,” Bony said calmly. “Let me tell you a little of what I know. I know that your horse was taken from Mr Fanning’s yard very late last night and was brought back shortly before day broke this morning.”
The light blue eyes were a little less indignant.
“Someone else must have taken him out. I didn’t,” asserted Mr James.
“Then do you let it out? Or lend it out?”
“Let it out! Lend it out!”
“Yes. Do you hire it out to anyone? Or do you lend it to anyone?”
“No, of course not. If my horse was out of its stable last night it was taken without my permission.”
“Ah!” Bony almost whispered. Then he smiled in quite friendly fashion. “Yes, that’ll be it. Someone must have borrowed the horse. You will have to buy a chain and padlock and secure the yard gate. Why do you pose as a man having a weak heart?”
“I don’t pose. I have had a weak heart from an early age.”
“Have you sought medical advice?”
“No. I am not a wealthy man. The living here is very poor.”
Bony placed the tips of his fingers against the point of his chin.
“You know, Mr James, all men walk differently,” he said. “I have made a lifelong study of tracks left on the ground by human beings. One day I am going to write a treatise on the subject. Long study has proved to me quite clearly that in addition to men walking differently, sick men always walk differently from healthy men. A sick man always places his feet evenly on the ground, for subconsciously he hasn’t that confidence in his own strength that the healthy man has. It is possible, of course, to read character from the palms of the hands, but it is very much easier to read character from the footprints left on the ground. You have not a weak heart, Mr James. There is nothing weak about you. Try more exercise, especially before breakfast. I suggest ten minutes with the gloves with Lawton-Stanley. Good afternoon. I may ask you to call again. Meanwhile please do try to remember to whom you lent your horse last night.”
Bony rose to his feet and escorted the minister to the outer door. Sergeant Marshall heard him say in stuttering anger:
“I shall make a very strong written protest to the chief commissioner. Your attitude is absolutely astonishing.”
Then Marshall heard Bony’s suave counter:
“Do, Mr James. Allow me to assure you that my commissioner really and truly likes to receive protests about me. It provides him with the golden chance of saying just what he thinks about me. Good afternoon.”
On re-entering the office, Bony was met by a Sergeant Marshall gone off his head. The sergeant’s huge arms were wrapped about his slight body and Bony was danced around whilst the sergeant’s gruff voice repeated and repeated:
“You beaut! You little beaut!”
Chapter Twenty-four
The Sting-Ray
ON REACHING MERINO shortly after four o’clock, the two constables sent by district headquarters were given a late lunch by Mrs Marshall, who had relinquished her nursing duties to the trained Mrs Sutherland. At five o’clock they reported to Sergeant Marshall, who was alone in the station office.
“The wife fix you up all right?” he inquired in his official manner. On being assured that “the wife” had certainly done that, he sent one of them to relieve Gleeson at Dr Scott’s home. When Gleeson returned he asked:
“Seen anything of the inspector?”
“Yes, Sergeant. He’s been with the doctor for an hour. Then he went over to the parsonage, and after he left there he came up the street and went into Fanning’s shop.”
“Hum! Seems to be busy. You go out and ask the wife for a cup of tea. May want you to stay on duty. Hear how Florence was when you left?”
“Still unconscious.”
Marshall sighed, and Gleeson turned about in his stiff military manner and departed. The second constable from headquarters was seated at Gleeson’s desk reading a newspaper, and to him the sergeant said:
“At any time now Inspector Bonaparte will come in. I’m telling you because to look at him you wouldn’t think he was an inspector. I didn’t when I first saw him. He’s middle-aged and of medium build—a half-caste but not the kind we see knocking about the bush. You’ll know that when he looks at you.”
“All right, Sergeant.”
Marshall returned to the work of compiling a report. The constable returned to his newspaper. Through the open window came the familiar sounds of this bush township towards evening, the sounds of lethargic human activity beneath the piping of birds and the drowsy humming of nearer blowflies. The wind had gone down and was coming coolly from the south. In his secret heart Marshall was wishing for the old-time conditions of normal life when there were no worries additional to maintaining local order and being scrupulously careful with reports. How could he concentrate on this one?
Gleeson came back and sat bolt upright in the chair opposite him. He sat as though he were having his photograph taken. The sergeant glanced up at him, then back at his writing. But somehow writing was impossible. He l
iked Gleeson. Men cannot work together in harness for years without getting to know each other. A bit of a crank on efficiency and abiding by rules and regulations, but a sound man at heart. A good one, too, to have with one in a brawl.
A footstep sounded on the front porch. Marshall wanted to say “Thank heaven” or something like that. Gleeson stood up and crossed to the other constable, who also stood up to attention when Bony came in.
“Ah! Here we are, Sergeant,” he said briskly, adding: “Hope you haven’t been thinking I got bushed or actually had eloped with Mrs Sutherland. Thank you.”
“Have been wondering where you had got to, sir,” Marshall told him without smiling.
“I’ve been doing a little visiting, Sergeant. Interviewed the parson and paid my respects to his wife. Had a chat with Mr Fanning and went into a huddle with Dr Scott. And now, I think, we are all set.”
“Meaning, sir?” asked Marshall, his eyes abruptly big.
Bony smiled, and Marshall was never to forget his face in that moment. In the dark blue eyes lurked that expression he had seen when, on the threshold of his daughter’s room, he was told to go and dress. In the smile he saw the triumph of the aboriginal about to throw his spear at the kangaroo he has been stalking for hours.
“Constable Gleeson!” he said sharply.
“Sir!” replied Gleeson, and strode to the desk.
“I want you to go along and ask the elder Jason to step in here for a moment.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Er—you will see to it that he arrives.”
“Very well, sir.”
Gleeson turned about.
“Oh! Gleeson!”
“Yes sir!” Gleeson turned back and faced the man sitting in the place so familiarly occupied by Marshall.
“It might be as well to take a gun,” Bony advised, and the air was sucked between Marshall’s teeth with a soft hiss.
“Very well, sir.”
Bony, the sergeant, and the constable watched Gleeson stride over to the big safe, in the lock of which was the key. They watched him swing open the door and take from the interior a heavy revolver in its leather holster attached to a black leather belt. They watched Gleeson buckle the belt round his hard, slim waist, saw him take up his hat, and watched him leave the room. They heard the sharp but light step of this mounted constable in the passage without, and then on the porch. After that, in the comparative silence, they listened. Then Bony spoke softly.
“I think we can leave that little duty safely to Constable Gleeson,” he said. “However, you, Constable, go to the front gate to be on hand if Gleeson whistles for assistance, or if there is any shooting.”
Marshall came nearer the seated Bony.
“Is Jason the man?”
“Jason is the man,” replied Bony. “Providence did drop several important clues into my waiting hand, but today I have really exerted myself. When we have lodged Jason in safe custody we are going to open a bottle of beer—perhaps two bottles.”
“When did—”
“No more just now. I’ll talk it all over with your tame justice and deputy coroner when he arrives. Give me ten days in the jug, would he?” And Bony flashed his normal, sunny smile. That passed away before another mood, and he said: “The law is a terrible thing, Marshall. Think now! We have just given an order to a constable to gather into the law’s grip one little human being. From now onward police and legal officers will be preparing to fight to uphold the law of the country, and others will be preparing to defend the man from the law’s grip. And so the fight will go on and on over one human being who has been caught in the cogs of a machine. You and I are merely the teeth in one of the cogs of a machine which is greater than all the generations of man who have constructed it. And the man caught in the machine is no longer a man: he is merely a piece of living clay, to be fought over and disposed of as other men will.”
“Are you going to charge him now?” inquired Marshall.
“Yes. Ah … here they come. Keep an eye on him. He might start something.”
A short procession entered the office. It was led by the constable from divisional headquarters. After him came Mr Jason, followed by Gleeson.
“Good evening, Mr Jason. Come and sit down,” Bony said pleasantly, and the tall, lean, and not undistinguished man advanced and sat down in the chair opposite Bony.
Jason had discarded his working overalls and was wearing an old brown lounge suit. Bony was reminded of when this man sat on the seat of justice rather than when he leaned against a bar counter and exhaled tobacco smoke for long duration. Mr Jason turned in his chair to look at Gleeson, the constable at the door, at Marshall, who sat at the end of the table desk and thus was able to guard the window. In his full and rich voice he asked:
“What is the meaning of all this?”
The long thin nose was the only feature that held colour. Against the white cheeks and chin the full moustache lay like a black mark. The dark eyes were big beneath the raised brows.
“I may be wrong, Mr Jason, but I think it was a gentleman named Sam Weller who used to say: ‘Cut the cackle and get to the hosses,’ ” Bony replied. “Sound advice. I am going to charge you with the wilful murder of George Kendall on the night of October eleventh.”
“You astonish me,” said Mr Jason calmly. “I presume that you have good and sufficient reasons for such action. I would like to hear them.”
“Yes, Jason, I will outline them to you, although it is not my practice so to do,” Bony assented. “You are a man of above average intelligence, and also one with me in appreciation of the dramatic. Gleeson, will you please search Mr Jason.”
“Stand up! Hands above your head!” snapped Gleeson. Mr Jason obeyed. The constable by the door came swiftly forward to stand behind Mr Jason. With the artistry of a conjuror Gleeson produced a wallet from an inside pocket, pipe and tobacco and knife from a side pocket, and an automatic pistol which seemed to come from a hip pocket. The weapon was deftly passed to the constable behind Mr Jason, and the other articles were placed on the table before Bony. Jason was then ordered to sit down.
“The pistol is not registered,” he said. “A technical fault.”
“To one having your knowledge of the law, Jason, you will agree that it is not inconsequential … now,” Bony told him. He pushed across the desk the tobacco, pipe, and clasp knife, and added his own box of matches. Gleeson frowned heavily. Bony continued: “You might like to smoke, as my recital of facts will occupy a little time.”
“I thank you.”
A silence fell within the office as Jason carved chips from the tobacco plug. When he had cut sufficient from it he laid down the knife and, whilst he was shredding the chips in the palms of his hands, Gleeson’s hard hand slid by him, and picked up the knife. That action made Jason smile coldly. He filled his pipe, made sure that the little nicotine-catching cup at the bottom of the bowl was secure, and laid a lighted match against the tobacco.
As he was known to do in the hotel, so now did he draw and draw vigorously, inhale and inhale, until it seemed impossible that he could breathe. Twice Bony had observed him doing that locally famous act, and on each of those occasions Jason had been very angry. Jason was angry now, but he did not show it. The pipe held in his right hand, his hands came to rest upon the desk. He regarded Bony with his face void of expression.
“Well now, to make a beginning,” Bony said. “You were born and educated at Bathurst, and there you served your apprenticeship to your father, who was an undertaker and wheelwright. Your only brother eventually set up in business as a chemist in Sydney.
“You became well known, first in Bathurst and subsequently in Sydney, as an actor, and the reason why you did not take up acting as a profession was because of your father’s dislike of the stage. When he died the theatre was almost submerged by the moving pictures, and you, having inherited his business, carried on the business until you failed. Your wife then being dead, you came with your son to set up in busine
ss here in Merino.
“Here in Merino, cut off from all association with the stage and with people having literary tastes, you began to brood upon the ill fortune which had overtaken you. When you were insulted in the hotel by Kendall about your passion for acting, I discarded that as motive for killing him. It was, however, contributory to the motive, which has been the most baffling feature in this case.”
The tobacco smoke which Jason had inhaled was now beginning to trickle through his pursed lips. His face was still devoid of expression, and his hands resting upon the desk were perfectly immobile.
“The motive should be interesting, if not original,” he said. “Please proceed.”
He passed the matches to Bony when that lover of the drama took a cigarette from the little pile he had made whilst waiting for Gleeson to return with his prisoner. Bony lit a cigarette and noted the thin stream of smoke continuing to issue from Mr Jason’s lips. Then he went on:
“You see, Jason, there is a case on record similar to your own, and this previous case is noted in a volume on medical jurisprudence in Dr Scott’s library. In 1943 in England an inquisition was held on a young man who had a strong propensity for watching windmills—you know, the old-fashioned windmills having large latticework sails for arms. He wished to be tied to one of the arms and so go round and round and round. He would actually sit for days watching a windmill.
“You became a windmill watcher through first staring at the cooling fan of motor engines in your garage. It became an obsession with you, and your son discovered it and did what he could to wean you from a practice which would have ugly results to yourself. I myself once heard him shout at you to get away from the engine I saw you watching.
“Within a radius of three miles of Merino, there are three modern windmills. They are: the one at the town dam, the one at the homestead of Mrs Sutherland, and the third at Sandy Flat. You could not watch any one of those mills during daylight hours, firstly because your son would stop you, and secondly because you knew that others would be bound to observe you. But you could watch a mill in action on a moonlit night.