Bony - 01 - The Barrakee Mystery Page 3

  And, without a splash, the aboriginal dived into the river, and disappeared in the gloom, now so profound that Dugdale only guessed he swam to the station side of the river.

  The remainder of the tribe having gone back to their camp-fire, Dugdale disentangled the line and slowly wound it on the small length of board.

  The boat was then in the gentle back-current of the bend, being imperceptibly taken up-river. Some few minutes were occupied in removing the spoon-spinner from the line: a few more in pensively cutting chips of tobacco for his pipe. Then, with it satisfactorily alight, he manned the sculls and slowly pushed himself forward into the main stream, and let himself drift down to the homestead.

  He was a hundred yards from the landing-place when the first drop of rain, splashing the water near him, coincided with the sound of a thin whine abruptly culminating in a dull report similar to that made by a small boy hitting a paling with a cane.

  It was a sound the like of which Dugdale had never before heard. It made him curious, but by no means alarmed. Without hurry he approached the landing-place, got out, and moored the boat.

  It was while driving in the iron peg to fasten the boat that he was astonished to hear above him the gasp of human agony; and now, alarmed, he straightened up to listen further. There came a low thud; then silence.

  For a moment he was paralysed, but only for a moment. In the pitchy darkness he clambered up the steep bank. At the summit the deluge fell on him. Again he listened. In the distance, towards the bottom fence of the garden, a dry stick cracked with a sound like a pistol-shot.

  Immediately Dugdale stood there listening. Lightning flickered far away, but by its reflection he saw the narrow embankment on which he stood, he saw the dry billabong between it and the garden, and he saw dimly the white-clad figure of a woman before the garden gate.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Slowly he went down into the billabong, feeling his way in the utter darkness. The lightning came again, flickering and brilliant. His gaze, directed on the garden gate, saw no white-clad figure. But the gate gave him direction in the darkness.

  Still slowly he moved towards it. So dark was it that he almost ran into a gum-tree, his hands alone saving him from a nasty collision. Rounding the bole, he again took direction, and had just left when a glare of bluish light almost blinded him, and the instant following, thunder dazed him.

  But, revealed by the flash, he saw right at his feet the form of the aboriginal who a short while before had helped him to land the great fish.

  Calm suddenly settled upon the world and upon his mind as well. Producing a match-box, he struck a light and bent low. The whites of the staring eyes, fixed and glassy in the light of the match, and the terrible wound at the crown of the man’s head, left no room for doubt that the man was dead.

  Yet the appalling discovery was not so acutely registered on Frank Dugdale’s brain as was the vision of a white-clad figure dimly seen at the garden gate not thirty yards distant.

  Chapter Five

  A Wet Night

  FROM THE river to the west boundary of Barrakee Station was about eighty-three miles. The area that comprised the run was roughly oblong in shape.

  For administrative purposes it was divided into two unequal portions, the longer and western division being governed by George Watts, the overseer, who resided at the outstation at Thurlow Lake. The river end of the run was managed by the sub-overseer, Frank Dugdale.

  But while Thornton overseered Frank Dugdale, he rarely instructed George Watts, who deserved, and had, his employer’s implicit faith. Every evening at eight the squatter repaired to his office, where he telephoned in turn to each of the boundary-riders in his division, obtaining their reports and outlining the work for the succeeding day. Even on Saturdays and days preceding holidays he rang up at the same time; for these men lived alone in their huts, and in the event of no reply being received to his ring it could be assumed that some accident had happened and that the man lay injured out in the bush. In the squatter’s time it had been necessary to send out search-parties on three occasions.

  When he had finished with his riders, he habitually rang up Thurlow Lake to discuss with the overseer the conditions of the stock and kindred topics, and advise on, or sanction, any matter that might be submitted to him.

  He was in high fettle because George Watts had reported steady rain when communicated with on the evening Dugdale caught the forty-one-pound cod. And, since no rain had fallen for nine months, a good rain at this time meant green feed for the coming lambs, as well as an abundance of surface water, which would prevent heavy ewes having to travel miles to the wells to drink and back again to feed.

  Whilst he still talked to the overseer, the rain reached the river, pouring in a continuous roar on the office roof of corrugated iron. From the telephone he turned to the task of writing several personal letters. He was so engaged when the door opened, and the dripping sub-overseer almost bounded in.

  “Good rain, Dug, eh?” Mr Thornton said cheerfully.

  He could not distinctly see Dugdale’s face until the latter entered the circle of light cast by the electric bulb over the desk. When he did observe the unusual expression on his subordinate’s face, he added: “What’s gone wrong?”

  Dugdale recounted the landing of the fish, with the help of the strange black fellow, his return to the mooring-place, what he heard or fancied he heard, and his discovery of the dead man.

  “Are you sure the man’s dead?” pressed Thornton.

  “Quite.”

  “We’ll go and examine him. Better get an overcoat.”

  “Not for me. I can’t get wetter than I am.”

  “Well, I am not going to get wet for all the dead abos in the Commonwealth,” announced Thornton. “Wait till I get a waterproof and a torch.”

  He was back in a minute, and together, with the brilliant circle of the torch lighting them, they made their way past the tennis-court and down into the billabong to where the corpse lay.

  A first glance settled the question of death.

  “The rain coming just now will make things difficult for the police, Dug,” remarked Mr Thornton gravely. “Already most of the tracks have been washed out. But from those that are left it is evident that there was a struggle. Even those tracks will be gone by morning.”

  “It is a terrible thing,” Dugdale said, and thankfulness filled his heart that the rain had come.

  “It is. But we can do nothing for him. Go along to the men’s quarters and ask some of them to come and carry the body to the carpenter’s shop. Lay it on one of the benches and cover it. Think you can feel your way in this damned darkness?”

  “Yes, I believe so. But stay a minute with your light on till I get to the pumping-engine, will you?”

  “All right.”

  Guided by the ray from the squatter’s torch, Dugdale at last reached the engine, where the going became easy, since he was then on a beaten path. He shouted that he was all right; and Thornton, satisfied that his sub was beyond danger of slipping down the now dangerously greasy bank of the river, made his way back to his office.

  There he telephoned to the police at Wilcannia.

  “Good evening, Sergeant,” he said, when the senior officer answered his call. “Great rain we’re having.”

  “What! Raining up your way?” ejaculated the gruff-voiced sergeant. “Quite fine here, Mr Thornton.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. I was hoping it was a general rain. Must be only a local storm. In any case, we have had a murder.”

  “Excuse me! A what?”

  “A m-u-r-d-e-r,” Thornton spelled slowly.

  “Oh, is that all?”

  “Isn’t it enough for you? I’m not joking.”

  “You’re not? When did it happen? How did it happen?” came the rapid and now seriously-asked questions.

  The squatter answered them in sequence, and reported that he had ordered the body to be removed to the carpenter’s shop.

  “I don’
t think there’s anything more for me to do, is there?” he inquired.

  “No, I think not,” agreed the policeman, adding: “I’ll ring up later to find out if it is still raining your way. If it is, I’ll be obliged to ride a horse. I’ve got so used to a motor that I don’t fancy sixty miles on horseback. Damn the rain!”

  “Now, now!” Mr Thornton reproved. “Remember that I’m a Justice of the Peace.”

  “Sorry, Mr Thornton,” the sergeant chuckled. “But why the devil couldn’t the black get himself murdered some night that was fine?”

  “I couldn’t say. Ask him when you get here tomorrow.” And, chuckling, the station-owner rang off—to ring up George Watts and transmit an item of news to news-hungry people.

  Later, Frank Dugdale entered. “We shifted the body,” he reported.

  “Good!” The squatter nodded to a vacant chair. “It would be as well,” he said, “as you are—or will be—the most important witness, for me to take down in writing the incidents which led to your discovery. Tell it slowly, and try to miss nothing, Dug.”

  Frank Dugdale retold his story of the significant sounds he had heard when in the boat and when mooring it. When he had finished, Thornton leaned back in his chair, selected a cigarette, and pushed the box across the desk.

  “It seems,” he said thoughtfully, “that the killing was just at the time you were mooring the boat.”

  “Yes. It’s my belief that the sickening thud I heard was the striking of the blow.”

  “You saw nothing?”

  The two were looking straight at each other. Dugdale said, without hesitation:

  “I saw nothing, nor did I see anyone.”

  “It is surprising that the murderer could have got away in the time. What space of time do you think it was between the sound of that blow and the moment you saw the corpse in the lightning?”

  Dugdale pondered for a moment or two. He felt elated at having told one of the few lies in his life. His gaze, however, was centred on the brass inkstand.

  “Difficult to estimate,” he said slowly. “It might have been only a minute, or it might have been three minutes. Certainly not more than three.”

  “Humph!” The older man added something to the written details. “The police-sergeant wanted to know why the black couldn’t get himself murdered on a fine night. I would like to know, too, why that black selected my station, and close to my homestead, to get himself murdered. It will cause a lot of inconvenience. It’s one of my unlucky days. Even the rain is stopping.”

  Chapter Six

  The Inquiry

  “Now, Mr Thornton, after that very excellent lunch we will examine the men.” The khaki-breeched, blue-tunicked sergeant of the New South Wales Mounted Police paused with the squatter outside the office. Near by, in waiting, was a group of seven men, while on the barracks veranda stood Dugdale, Ralph, and a jackeroo named Edwin Black.

  The sergeant was conducted to the office, where the two men seated themselves on the far side of the wide desk. The uniformed man filled his pipe, and, seeing that he did not intend to open his examination at once, Thornton took a cigarette, saying meanwhile:

  “Thought you’d want to examine the scene of the murder first.”

  “I might have done, had the rain not fallen last night and wiped out tracks,” the dapper, grey-moustached official rejoined. “As it is, we will start to get the story ship-shape, beginning with you.”

  “With me!”

  “With you.”

  “What do I know about it?”

  The sergeant smiled. “Don’t know yet. I’ll soon find out. What time did Dugdale tell you of his discovery?”

  “At nineteen minutes to nine,” was the unhesitating answer.

  “You are sure of the time?”

  “Positive.”

  “What sort of condition was Dugdale in?”

  “He was drenched to the skin and, I think, a little upset.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. But was he out of breath? Were his clothes disarranged, torn?”

  “No, to both questions.”

  “Very good. Now, how many men do you employ here?”

  “There are seven at present working about the homestead or riding the near paddocks.”

  “Is this the list of their names?”

  “Yes. Added to it are the inmates of the barracks and the name of my son.”

  “Then I think we will first see Dugdale.”

  “Call Dug, Mortimore, please,” the squatter said to his bookkeeper.

  When the sub-overseer appeared the sergeant appraised him with a fixed stare, motioning with his hand to a vacant chair.

  “I am told that you found the body of an aboriginal last night between the garden and the river,” he said in his most official manner. “You made the discovery on your return from a fishing expedition. Tell me just what happened from the moment you entered the boat to go fishing. Take your time, and miss nothing.”

  When Dugdale paused at the end of his narrative, he was asked:

  “Do you know the native?”

  “No, I have never seen him before,” Dugdale replied quietly.

  “You say that as you were nearing the bank on your return you heard a peculiar whining sound that ended in a sharp report. Why a peculiar sound?”

  “Because never before had I heard such a sound, unless it reminded me of the whirr of ducks flying close overhead.”

  “Ah! That’s something.” For a moment the interrogator gazed pensively out of the window. Then:

  “After the sound, when you were ashore and mooring the boat, you heard someone gasp for breath. Was that gasping sound caused by a man being out of breath from struggling?”

  “I think not,” the sub replied slowly. “It was like that of a man who had dived deep into water and, having been down some time, filled his lungs with air on reaching the surface.”

  “And you saw no one?”

  “It was dark.”

  “I know that. But did the lightning reveal anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Sure?” suddenly barked the sergeant, for his penetrating eyes observed a slight flush about Dugdale’s cheekbones.

  “Quite sure.”

  “Very well. That will do for the present. Send Mr Ralph Thornton in, please.”

  When Ralph entered the office the sergeant was writing on a slip of paper. Pushing it across to the squatter, he nodded affably to Ralph to be seated. On the slip of paper which Thornton read was the sentence:

  “The lightning revealed someone to Dugdale.”

  “How did you put in the evening last night, Mr Ralph?” the young man was asked in a much kinder spirit.

  “I played cribbage with Black in the barracks after dinner.”

  “What time did you start playing? Any idea?”

  “A little after eight, I think. We played till ten o’clock.”

  “That lets you out. Ask Mr Black to step in for a moment, please.”

  Edwin Black corroborated Ralph’s statement, and in turn sent in Johnston, the carpenter. Johnston was not asked to be seated.

  “Where were you, Johnston, between the hours of seven and nine o’clock last night?” asked the sergeant, resuming his official poise.

  “In the men’s hut.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Reading a blood about a bloke wot arsenicked his three wives.”

  “Oh! You mean you were reading a novel?”

  “Something like that,” Johnston, tall, angular, and red-haired replied. “In my young days we called ’em ‘blood and thunders’. I remember—”

  “Precisely. Who was in the hut with you at the time you were reading this blood?”

  “Bob Smiles, Bert Simmonds, and Jack O’Grady.”

  “That’s four of you. Where were the others—Clair, McIntosh, and Fred Blair?”

  “How the devil do I know?”

  “Now, now! Were those three absent between half past eight and nine o’clock?”

  “Look here, S
ergeant! I’ll answer any question about me,” murmured the carpenter, with studied calmness.

  “All right, Johnston,” came the unruffled dismissal. “Send in Bob Smiles.”

  Smiles, Simmonds, and O’Grady briefly corroborated Johnston’s replies, and at last William Clair came in. He wore a six-day growth of whiskers.

  “I don’t know you, Clair. Where do you come from?” was the first question put to the gaunt man.

  “Can’t say as I come from anywhere,” Clair replied in a hoarse voice.

  “Got a sore throat?”

  “I have,” Clair said calmly. “I wish you had it instead of me.”

  “I don’t. Where is your home address?”

  “I haven’t no address. I’ve been carrying my swag most of my life. The last place I worked on was Humpy-Humpy Station, out of Winton, Queensland, in nineteen-twenty.”

  “Right. Now how did you spend last evening?”

  “I was away down the river most of the time setting half a dozen dog-traps,” Clair replied.

  “Must have got wet.”

  “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have got this blasted cold.”

  “You’re unlucky. When did you start out on your trap-setting?”

  “About sundown.”

  “And you got home?”

  “Just after they had lugged the corpse up here to the carpenter’s shop.”

  “All right, Clair. Send in McIntosh.”

  To the sergeant’s questions, McIntosh, a youth of eighteen, admitted that he was “courting” the housemaid, and that they had sheltered in the shearing-shed during the rain.

  Blair, the last man, then entered.

  He was a little wiry man, under five foot six inches, a man more than fifty years old, but with the spring and suppleness of a youth. A blistered complexion accentuated the greyness of his hair and the goatee beard that jutted forth from his chin.

  He was employed as bullock-driver. To the people of Wilcannia he was known as the fierce little man whom it required the combined energies of the entire police force to put into the lock-up. This occurred every time Blair visited Wilcannia, which was every quarter.