Bony - 19 - Cake in a Hat Box Page 3

“And plenty of tea and sugar and water and petrol?” per­sisted the doctor.

  “And a bottle of rum to go with the tea, Doc,” supplemented ’Un.

  Sam, still wearing only his greasy shorts, wedged himself behind the wheel and the little yardman sat beside him. Bony settled himself in the back seat, and thus the journey was begun. The headlights cleft the darkness and emphasized the roughness of the alleged street, and immediately Bony was thankful for the doctor’s suggestion of pillows, for the vehicle appeared to have no springs.

  The pounding went on all night, and when day dawned Bony had ‘had’ what the maps state is The Great Northern Highway. He was, however, rewarded when the new day was about to be crowned by the sun.

  The sky was splashed with eastern purple. To the left, Black Range glowed with blossom-pink luminosity. The purple sky became as rusty iron, and the rust was burnished away to leave it polished silver. The pink of the Range deepened to the red of a robin’s breast, and when the sun appeared the luminosity vanished, and the greens and greys emerged.

  An hour later, Sam shouted:

  “There it is, gents.”

  As Sam had come to the policeman’s jeep, so did Bony and his companion in the car … abruptly when the car roared to the top of the ‘bump’. Sam stopped the car where he had halted his transport, and several crows cawed their defiance from the stark limbs of a baobab tree.

  No one spoke or moved. The jeep, pushed aside by Sam, was angled to the track, and they could see the blanket-shrouded figure behind the wheel. The blanket was grey, and the figure looked as though roughly chiselled from granite. When Bony did speak, his voice was crisp.

  “We will make camp and have breakfast. Please keep away from the jeep. We must wait for Constable Irwin. When should he be here, Sam?”

  “Barring blow-outs, he oughta be here any time now,” replied Sam. “Come on, ’Un, let’s make a fire. I got no stomach: only a backbone.”

  Sam made a fire, and the yardman dragged out the tucker-box. The billy was filled from a drum, and the doctor stood waiting for the water to boil, a tin of coffee in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other.

  Bony circled the jeep, standing forlorn like a good ship aground on a reef. This ‘bump’, like all the thousands which made up the floor of the comparative valley between the ranges, was sheathed with ironstone flakes and weathered stones. The Great Northern Highway was merely twin ribbons maintained by the wheels of motor traffic, and between the ribbons, as well as either side, grew spinifex and tussock grass.

  Presently the doctor called and Bony joined the group by the fire. Sam poured coffee into an enamel pannikin, and the doctor urged him to help himself to the brandy. ’Un was cook­ing slabs of steak on the blade of a long-handled shovel.

  “Like old times,” he said. “Often thought I was getting sick of living at the pub and parking me legs under a table, and now I know I am sick. You oughta have an off-sider, Sam. What about taking me on? I’d be a hell of a good chaperone.”

  Talking of nothing, they breakfasted with relish, and then smoked while waiting for the policeman from Wyndham. And the dead man waited in his jeep. Bony said:

  “You mentioned, Doctor, that you understood Constable Stenhouse had gone south of Agar’s Lagoon to the desert country, and we find him dead approximately ninety miles north.”

  “That’s so, Inspector,” agreed Dr Morley. “I don’t get it. Didn’t you hear that Stenhouse had gone south, ’Un?”

  “I did. Everyone at Agar’s thought Stenhouse had gone south on patrol to Leroy Downs. Jacky Musgrave said so, any­how. Stenhouse never gave much away. Secretive sort of bloke. You never knew how you was with him.”

  “Jacky Musgrave! The police tracker?”

  “Yes. Been with Stenhouse for nigh on three years,” replied ’Un, twirling the points of his upturned moustache. “Good tracker by all accounts, and pretty thick with Stenhouse. Sten­house could have got him to put it around that he was headed south when he intended heading north. Musta. He’s north now, ain’t he?”

  “How long was he stationed at Agar’s Lagoon?” asked Bony.

  “Seven years and a bit.”

  “He was a widower, I believe.”

  The cheerfulness departed from ’Un. Sam Laidlaw spoke:

  “Wife died on him three years back. Doc can tell you about her.”

  Dr Morley remained taciturn. He was still wearing his overcoat and, squatting on his heels, was apparently entranced by the blue spirals of smoke rising from the camp fire. Again the transport driver spoke:

  “Wife got knocked about a bit. She was only two hands high, and couldn’t take it. If she’d been my sister, Stenhouse would have been sitting dead in his jeep years ago. Fair’s fair, I reckon. A good belting don’t do any woman any harm, but no woman is expected to take punches from a bloke like Sten­house.”

  Sam picked a live coal from the fire and balanced it on his pipe. Dr Morley helped himself to brandy and added a dash of coffee. ’Un concentrated his gaze on the crow cawing defiance from a wait-a-bit tree. Bony rose and wandered away.

  The three men covertly watched this stranger: noting the way he placed his feet, the manner in which he held his head. Observation with them was a habit from which came inductive reasoning.

  “Colour in him, for sure,” murmured Sam.

  “Quarter, I’d say,” supplemented the yardman. “Decent sorta bloke, though.”

  There was a pause in their critical appraisal, terminated by the old doctor.

  “He’s all there. Entitled to his police rank, for he’s learned more than to read and write. The shape of his head and the power of his eyes have brought him a long way. If either of you men have anything to keep under cover, watch your step. You made a bad break, Sam, when you said what you’d have done if Mrs Stenhouse had been your sister.”

  “Oh! How so?”

  “Mrs Stenhouse had a brother, and you remember what happened that day she was buried.”

  Chapter Four

  Bony Takes Charge

  BONY’S FIRST IMPRESSION of Senior Constable Irwin was not favourable. It was, however, to be of short dura­tion.

  Irwin drove a sturdy utility and, in accordance with prac­tice, his trackers rode on the load behind the cabin. Emerging from the driving seat, he advanced to meet Detective-Inspector Bonaparte, walking stiffly, less from cramp than in recognition of their respective rank.

  He was large and loose-limbed, and his feet were turned slightly inward through years in the saddle. Perhaps thirty-five years old, his hair was red, his eyes were blue, and his mouth was wide. Over the mahogany-tinted face was a smile which seemed to be a fixture, and before saying a word he laughed as though the discordant crows were joking about the dead man in the jeep.

  Following the mutual introduction, Irwin said:

  “We were able to radio-contact headquarters last night, and the Chief suggested that, as you happened to be on the spot, you might like to take charge of this job. Sends his compli­ments, sir, and says he’ll fly a man to Agar’s to take over Sten­house’s district.”

  Bony noticed the absence of humour in the light-blue eyes, and it was then that the first impression vanished.

  “Very well, Irwin,” he said. “I’ll be glad to assist if I might have your co-operation. This case may be a simple one, or it may not. I hope, the latter. Have you breakfasted?”

  “Yes. Stopped at daybreak for a feed.”

  “Then, when you and the trackers have had a spot of coffee, we’ll get to work. We have done nothing as yet. Laidlaw covered the body when he passed here yesterday.” They walked to the men about the fire, the two trackers standing by the utility.

  The others greeted Irwin easily, yet betrayed knowledge that this large man’s jovial front was but a mask. He picked up a used pannikin, filled it with coffee, adding a little of the doctor’s brandy.

  “Had breakfast, thanks. Hey, Charlie! Larry! Bring over your pannikins.”

  They came, two ebony-
skinned, dark-eyed young men wearing military greatcoats over their ordinary clothes, broad-brimmed military felt hats and heavy military boots. They were intensely proud of this uniform which gained for them great respect from all aborigines. Irwin told them to return to the truck. Bony asked the transport driver to detail everything he did on discovering the dead policeman, and, having heard Sam’s story, they pushed the jeep back to its original position by the stones on which the blood had dripped.

  “Did you at any time enter the jeep?” Bony asked Sam.

  “No, Inspector. I moved the dunnage about at the back to find what was missing, but I did that from the ground.”

  “You are sure that when pushing the jeep off the track you did not touch the steering-wheel?”

  “Yes, I am. The front wheels slewed enough without that.”

  “And the brakes were not applied?”

  “No, they were free enough.”

  “All right! We’ll get the body out for Dr Morley’s pre­liminary examination.” Sam removed the blanket, and the doctor and the two policemen studied the position of the dead man and noted the ravages committed by the birds to the face and neck.

  “Stenhouse believed in making himself comfortable. Good idea having the seat back built like that,” remarked Sam.

  “Yah,” agreed ’Un. “Old Williams, the blacksmith at Agar’s done that for him when he built the canopy.”

  “Ready, Doctor?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  They removed the body and left it with the doctor, who nominated the yardman as his assistant. Sam was asked to boil water, and Bony said to Irwin:

  “Although, according to Sam, the tracker’s swag is missing, and there’s no rifle, indicating that the tracker shot Stenhouse and cleared out, I am not satisfied that Jacky Musgrave killed his boss.”

  “Nor me,” agreed Irwin. “Seems that Jacky Musgrave was extra loyal to Stenhouse, from what I know, and that Sten­house treated him pretty well. What’s the alternative?”

  “As yet, I’m not sure. Does the back of the driving seat tell you anything?”

  “Yes. The bullet passed through it after passing through the body.”

  “Let’s move the dunnage. I see a tin immediately behind that bullet-hole in the seat back.”

  Spare tyres and camp equipment were taken out, and Irwin removed the four-gallon tin of oil. Most of the oil had leaked from the hole made in only one side, and it was obvious that the tin had been full when punctured. They poured the re­mainder of the oil into another tin, and found the bullet, which had been cushioned by the thick oil. The nose was slightly broadened by the impact.

  “H’m! Lead bullet. ·44. Should give us the weapon from which it was fired,” murmured Bony.

  They searched the vehicle and found no rifle. In an attaché-case on the driving-seat was a ·32 automatic and cartridges, documents, and the dead man’s official diary. A suitcase con­tained spare underwear, shoes, shaving tackle and a brush and comb.

  “No rifle,” said Irwin.

  “Mightn’t have brought one.”

  “Unlikely, sir. The tucker-box …”

  Irwin pounced on the small wooden case, rummaged among the contents and laughed.

  “No cooked tucker,” he said. “Tracker must have shot him, and cleared out with his swag and the constable’s rifle and what cooked tucker there was. It adds up.”

  Bony was standing back from the front offside wheel.

  “If the tracker shot him, he must be familiar with rifles or revolvers,” he said. “He could have shot Stenhouse from this point, but there was little margin to miss the windscreen. Ah, Doctor. What’s the verdict?”

  “Shot through the heart, I think,” replied Morley. “Soft-nosed, steel-jacketed bullet from a high-velocity rifle. The bullet passed out through the back, making an exit wound about two inches in diameter. The range, I’d guess, was about twenty-five yards.”

  Bony beamed, and the doctor’s eyes swiftly clouded.

  “Most interesting,” Bony said, and held out his hand on which rested the bullet taken from the oil tin. “This was not the bullet which killed him?”

  “No, definitely not.”

  “Been dead … how long?”

  “The day before yesterday at shortest, and at longest the day before that.”

  “Placing death either on the 15th or the 16th, eh?” Bony paused to light a cigarette. “We haven’t found a soft-nosed, steel-jacketed bullet. Look at the seat back, please. The bullet which passed through it was not, you think, the bullet which passed through the body?”

  Dr Morley leaned into the vehicle to examine the seat back, and on turning to Bony he shook his head.

  “When the bullet emerged from the dead man’s back, it was a shapeless metal mass, such a bullet expanding after impact. I’d say that the bullet which passed through the seat back is the one you have in your hand.”

  “Fired through the seat back before the body was placed there behind the steering-wheel, eh?” Irwin surmised.

  “Could you tell us, after our return to Agar’s Lagoon, if that blood on the seat and on the ground is human or animal?” asked Bony.

  “Yes, I could do that. Shall I take a specimen?”

  “If you please. This case is beginning to provide interest. Might I have your cooperation by keeping your findings from the public?”

  The doctor’s assent was gruffly spoken, and to smooth the umbrage Bony urbanely related how he was once incon­venienced by a doctor innocently mentioning a vital fact to an interested party outside police circles. To Irwin he said:

  “Call Laidlaw.”

  The almost naked transport driver ambled from the fire, where he had been washing his hands after bundling the corpse in blankets and ground-sheet.

  “You said, I think, you met no one on your trip from Wynd­ham to Agar’s Lagoon?”

  “No one at all,” averred Sam. “I seen only the Breens drovin’ their cattle to the Meat Works. I passed ’em about twenty miles north of McDonald’s Stand.”

  “How far off the track?”

  “Less’n half a mile. Kimberley and Ezra Breen was in charge … with four abos.”

  “Thanks, Sam. When would they have passed here?”

  “Wouldn’t pass here. Their station’s on the far side of this Black Range. They’d hit the Wyndham track north of Mc­Donald’s Stand at the end of the Range, and that’s fifteen miles away.”

  “What kind of outfit did they have?”

  “Pack-horses and spare hacks.”

  “Well, that appears to dispose of the Breens. Call ’Un, please.” To the yardman Bony said: “Give me your attention, ’Un. You know everyone who passes through Agar’s. Who was the last to arrive there from this track?”

  “Sam, of course,” was the instant response. “Afore Sam, there was a party of Gov’ment photographers. They went on to Darwin.”

  “When did they arrive at Agar’s Lagoon?”

  “Last Toosdee. Left again on Wednesdee.”

  “So that they passed this point some time on Tuesday the 15th. Keep that in mind, please. At what time did they arrive at Agar’s Lagoon?”

  “ ’Bout six.”

  “Good! Now tell me who was the last to leave Agar’s Lagoon to take this track, and when.”

  ’Un took time to answer that one. “ ’S’far as I know, it was Mr Alverston and two blacks with him. They left Agar’s about seven in the morning in a utility. It was on Toosdee morning. The Gov’ment men said they met him at McDonald’s Stand around noon. They boiled the billy and had a bite of scan afore they parted.”

  “And as far as you know, no one was on this track after Tuesday, exceptin’ Sam?”

  “That’s right, Inspector.”

  “Very well.” Bony noted the sun time. “Fix those two trackers with a meal. I want to put them to work.”

  The yardman having departed, Bony questioned Sam.

  “Tell me about Alverston,” he requested, and the transport driver said tha
t Alverston was a station manager, and that after leaving the photographers he would drive a further forty miles towards Wyndham before taking the turn-off to his station, which lay to the north-east.

  “Did you see any smoke signals on your own journey south?”

  “Yes,” replied Sam. “There was smokes far away to the west of Black Range.”

  “How many?”

  “Five in a row. I remember there was three continuous columns and two broken up. Couldn’t read ’em, of course.”

  “That was Tuesday morning … not Monday?”

  “Tuesday morning, it was. I noticed them smokes before I met the Breens.”

  “All right, Sam.”

  The trackers had received their meal and had taken it back to Irwin’s utility, and when Bony approached them they stood expectant, their faces indicative of pleasure as though to re­ceive a great honour. Both appeared absurdly incongruous in their greatcoats and heavy boots. They crouched with Bony as with a stick he sketched on the ground the smoke signals described by Sam. He sought confirmation of his own reading of them.

  “These feller smokes,” he said, blandly. “What they bin tell you, eh?”

  One kicked at a stone and turned as though to admire a view. The other laughed as though to hide embarrassment, and he said:

  “P’haps smoke fellers bin tellum policeman him bin shot.”

  Bony smiled his triumph, and they laughed in unison. Neither had been near the dead Stenhouse. Neither had over­heard that Stenhouse had been shot.

  Those far-away aborigines living in the very heart of the Kimberley Mountains knew how Constable Stenhouse had died.

  Chapter Five

  Dead Man’s Diary

  THE POLICE STATION at Agar’s Lagoon had seldom been as busy as on the morning of August 19th. The township was subdued; the pub deserted. The town goats were in­different, and of them there were a thousand and one.

  Inspector Walters, the Senior Police officer in charge of the vast district of the northern third of Western Australia, had arrived from his headquarters at Broome, bringing with him a doctor, and a constable to replace Stenhouse. Walters was wiry and tough, of average height, greying fast, dark of eye and with a back like a drill sergeant’s. He sat stiffly upright at the table in the main office, and in clipped words told Irwin and Constable Clifford to sit down. Bony turned from studying a large-scale map of the Kimberleys and took a chair opposite the Senior Officer.