Bony - 29 - The Lake Frome Monster Read online

“That’s the way I worked ’er out, Ed.”

  “You don’t think the duffers could have anything to do with the murder, eh?”

  “I don’t reckon so,” said Needle. “All they wanted was to get the cattle as far away as possible. No flamin’ duffer in his right senses would bring the sergeant out here looking for someone who done a murder. On their way past Bore Ten they wouldn’t even see Maidstone’s body in the dark. I reckon he’d been dead a long time by then.”

  “Then we can forget about the duffing.”

  “Too right!” There was a note of relief in Needle’s voice. “That stoo’s beginning to smell good. Should be done soon.”

  With the final addition of flour to thicken it, the stew was quite a success, and after the meal they fitted the camels in their hobbles and again relaxed to gossip. When Needle mentioned Nugget and his family, Bony bluntly asked Needle his opinion of them. Needle’s opinion was not good.

  “Nugget, Ed, ain’t my billy of stoo. He’s a know-all. Talks too much to Newton and the Quinambie people. The police was right in his alley, so I was told. Hung around ’em when any respectable bloke would’ve cleared out and left ’em to their jobs. He was camped, so he says, midway along his section the time of the murder, and he got to his top end, that’s this gate, the day after the police got here. Hung round two-three days. Did a bit of trackin’, him and his lubras, but the wind blew out that job.”

  “Did you meet him here often, like we met?”

  “No, oh no! Not often. It’s months back since we hap­pened to collide sort-of. As I said I haven’t got any time for him. Throws his money about like he thinks the bosses do. Reckons he’s a bit above the blacks because he runs a job. Runs it is true. Sits on his stern and makes the lubras and kids do all the work. It’s why Newton kept him on your section. Newton didn’t do you no favour by putting him off it and you on it.”

  “How d’you get on with Newton?”

  “Good-oh! As long as you satisfies him with your work he’s pretty easy. If you falls down on it he goes to market. It’s his Fence and don’t you forget it.”

  “He gave me that impression.”

  “And another thing, Ed. If you can do the managers a favour, you know, report anything wrong or holding up their cattle, you do it, rememberin’ that you gets free meat. No harm keeping on the right side of ’em.”

  “What about the duffing incident?” countered Bony.

  “That’s different. They runs their cattle, I run my sec­tion.” Needle looked annoyed. “I’m only a labouring cove, see. What happens to their cattle wholesale like, is not our business. What I means is, let’s say, a beast gets caught in the Fence or had fallen into a bore channel. Well, do a little getting it straightened out. And if you are asked what the country’s like in some place or other—you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I think I do,” Bony admitted, without smiling.

  Chapter Six

  Bony Visits Quinambie

  WHEN HE had once again reached that point of the Fence nearest to the Quinambie homestead, Bony decided to inter­view Commander Joyce. He knew that this visit would not coincide with the monthly one permitted to purchase stores and obtain meat, and he was also aware that this visit could cause comment. Accordingly, he turned off the Fence and camped the night at Overseer Newton’s cane-grass shed.

  The next morning he put his camels down behind the blacksmith’s shop, watered them shortly after nine o’clock and then called on the cook. The cook was large and placid, with a few darkish strands of hair plastered as if glued over an otherwise bald head. His Cockney origin was at once betrayed by his accent.

  “Cor blimey! What’s wrong with you, Ed?”

  “Got the gripes bad,” Bony replied. “Not used to that bore water, I expect. Been giving me hell. Have you any chlorodyne?”

  “I have so. Wait a mo’. I’ll give you a snort.”

  “Fifteen to twenty drops is the correct dose, I think,” Bony cautiously advised.

  “That’s what it says, Ed. I always play fair.” Bony grinned.

  “Well, not always,” the cook admitted. “I got a drunk hoisted on me once. He was getting well into the horrors and was a ruddy pest. I give him half a bottle and blow me down if the bastard didn’t turn blue. Had to walk him around all night, but by hell he was sober in the morning.”

  “A pleasant experience, but a relief,” commented Bony, drinking the proper medicinal dosage. “Boss at home?”

  “Over in the office. You take some chlorodyne out with you. I’m never without it. Have a drink of tea?”

  “I’ll see the boss first, Harry. That stuff’s easing me stomach already. Giving it a bit of warmth. See you later.”

  Commander Joyce probably never knew he was referred to by his wartime rank. Verging on seventy, he was sparse of frame but still upright and nimble on his feet. He sat that morning behind a desk stacked with papers and account books. It quickly became clear that he was without a book-keeper, although it was normal for a station of Quinambie’s size to have one. Looking up, he saw Bony in the doorway.

  “Hullo! What do you want?”

  His voice was mellow, his gaze direct. Bony met the deep-set dark eyes and advanced.

  “I am, pro tem, a Fence worker. I have here a letter from the Divisional Police Superintendent at Broken Hill which will in part explain my presence. I am also in need of chlorodyne.”

  Commander Joyce opened the foolscap envelope, began to read, hesitated and invited Bony to be seated. Having read the request to assist Detective-Inspector Bonaparte in any way possible, he pursed his lips, took up his pipe and lit it. He looked at Bony quizzically.

  “The name is Ed Bonnay.”

  “Very well. What can I do for you?”

  “Give me some information, if you will,” Bony said and lit a cigarette. “Is there the possibility of being overheard? May I close the door?”

  “Better. Someone could come along with my morning tea. I am not sorry to get away from these cursed returns for a while. All these stock schedules make me tired. You are on the Maidstone affair, I assume?”

  “Yes,” answered Bony, returning from closing the door. “It’s the kind of case they saddle me with when normal police investigation gets bogged down. Usually something in the wide-open spaces.”

  “Well,” said Joyce dryly, “these are certainly wide enough for you. However, it must be interesting work. Are you actually an Inspector?”

  “Yes, I rose to that rank, but not without some hindrance and difficulties. I have kept the rank because I have been fortunate enough never to fail on an assignment of this kind. I hope this isn’t the one that must come along soon. Since working on the Fence I’ve talked to the man Nugget, Needle Kent, and of course Newton. You will know the type of men they are and will agree with me that they have to be handled with kid gloves. Bluff and bully­ing will merely erect a brick wall of silence. That’s why I am working under an alias and must continue to do so for some time to come. I hope you will respect the alias.”

  “Surely. Anything I can do, call on me—er, Ed.” Joyce smiled a trifle grimly.

  “Thank you. Since you have been managing Quinambie have you ever been worried by loss of stock?”

  “To be quite frank, Ed, I don’t know. My predecessor had that kind of trouble. It used to be very bad early this century. This really isn’t my line of country, you know. But I’ve had the feeling lately that all isn’t well. That is one reason I’m ploughing through these stock returns.”

  “I’ve been informed that early in the morning of June the Tenth a large number of cattle were driven down the Fence on the west side and were heard by Needle Kent. He estimates the time at two o’clock when they passed his camp.”

  “The devil! Is Needle sure?”

  “Speaks with conviction. Says the night was very dark and his camp fire was out. He couldn’t see anything, but he did hear the cattle and, later, hobble chains clanking from a horse’s neck.”

  “Never said a
nything to me about it. Nor do I think he did when he was questioned by the police.”

  “He has an aversion to becoming mixed up with it,” Bony explained. “While I think it improbable that it touches my investigation, I have mentioned this business in my report to the Superintendent and doubtless he will have some extensive inquiries made farther south as to whether cattle are being disposed of. For that reason I would rather you did not mention it to Levvey or to anyone else. Agreed?”

  Joyce nodded, his eyes gleaming as though he wished that he were Drake and the rustlers were on his quarter deck.

  “June Tenth?” he said.

  “Very early on that day. It was on the Eighth that Maid­stone left you to go to Lake Frome Station. Your overseer found his body on the Twelfth, remember? Did he notice significant cattle tracks crossing the path beyond the gate?”

  “Didn’t mention it if he did.”

  “He had two blackfellows with him, I understand.”

  “True enough,” agreed Joyce. “He drove a utility. They rode in the back. They pop out to open and close the gates, of course.”

  Bony knew that the overseer would be an excellent judge of cattle and their ways, and that behind this duffing busi­ness there was the accepted submission that cattle will some­times move grazing ground at night. A bushman on seeing the tracks of stock crossing a road or following the Fence would think they were travelling freely unless he happened to see the tracks of following horses.

  “Tell me something about Maidstone?” asked Bony at this juncture. “How did he appeal to you?”

  “Oh, a nice kind of chap,” was Joyce’s verdict. “Showed us some of his finished pictures and overhauled his gear. Intel­ligent, too. Quite a good talker. Bit of a shock finding him dead.”

  “Can you recall when you first mentioned him to the people at Lake Frome?”

  “It would be the evening before he left. I spoke to Levvey on the transceiver and I told him about Maidstone and his intention to arrive there the next day.”

  “Levvey is friendly with the aborigines, I’m told.”

  “He is, but he seems an intelligent fellow. His woman makes a good wife, by all accounts. Not that I can approve. Still, Levvey is the type of white man with no background other than horses and cattle, no culture.”

  “You have a radio routine, I suppose?”

  “Yes, we both used to go on to the air at nine of an evening. Just gossip, you know. When I was away my wife used to take over. Lake Frome is our nearest neighbour. The last manager and his wife were more our cup of tea. Even had the odd game of bridge. Since Levvey arrived, the radio is mainly used for messages and any matters of joint interest relating to weather or stock.”

  “Please pardon me for troubling you further,” Bony said, rolling another of his atrocious cigarettes which were pointed at both ends, “but would you mind if I talked to your overseer?”

  “Not at all,” said Joyce. “I think you’ll find him at the machinery shed. He is getting the tractor overhauled.”

  Bony introduced himself to the overseer only as Ed Bonnay and drew him out of earshot of the mechanic work­ing on the tractor.

  “Your boss said I could talk to you about finding Maid­stone. I have a personal interest in the case, and your boss knows why. He also knows that I want you to forget I’ve been asking questions. That good enough for you?”

  The overseer looked at him and suddenly grinned. “OK Ed,” he said. “If it’s OK with the boss, I haven’t seen you today. Just what do you want to know?”

  “Cast your mind back to that day you found Maidstone. With your two aborigines you arrived at the gate, passed through it, and being familiar with the track to Lake Frome, continued until you saw the motor-bike against the tree. What happened then?”

  “What happened! Why, I looked towards the bore and saw the crows worrying something and one of the blacks said it looked like a man. It was, too. Maidstone was lying face-downward, and his billy-can was lying within a few feet of the body. When we reached it we saw the camel pads and then we had all this nonsense about the Frome Monster. One said the Frome Monster had stamped the visitor to death, the other, the older, said not. So we turned him over and discovered the blood staining the sand.

  “After that I told the abos to circle for tracks, and I sent back to the utility for the tarpaulin, which we placed over the body. The abos tracked as far as the bore lake and the bore itself. And then, I drove like hell back to Quinambie to report.”

  “Did your aborigines seem uneasy?” Bony pressed.

  “Only on account of the Monster. Seems they didn’t like being in the open on the west side of the Fence. Same with the Frome blacks. As Levvey told me, they don’t mind scouting around on horseback, but they hate to work on foot.”

  “They did not find any significant tracks?”

  “Not that day. The next day it blew hard and ruined any chance of finding anything.”

  “That was the day the police arrived?”

  “That’s so. A sergeant and two constables in plain clothes. One of the constables took the body down to the Hill, and I fixed the others with a tent and camping gear. They made Maidstone’s camp their headquarters. It’s the most devil­ishly funny business I’ve ever come in contact with.”

  “Well, I’m obliged to you,” Bony said getting to his feet. They had been squatting in the shade of a giant coolibah beside the shed. Returning to the homestead, Bony again sought out Joyce.

  “Well,” he said, “I found the overseer, thanks. You might impress on him not to mention my curiosity.

  “I’d better be on my way back to the Fence. I came in for chlorodyne as the excuse, and I’d like you to sell me a bottle which, after all, I may need. And here are some letters I’d like mailed. One of them, as I mentioned, is for the Superintendent. He’ll do what he can about the duffers—if there were any.”

  “Good. I’ll do that.” Commander Joyce hesitated. “Sorry about the alias otherwise the wife and I would be happy to ask you to stay with us.”

  “Nice of you, but I have some buckbush to remove from Overseer Newton’s Fence.”

  The chlorodyne was procured from the store and Bony sauntered to the kitchen detached from the house. The cook met him with the questioning grin.

  “How did you find the old bloke?” He wished to know.

  “Quite chatty,” answered Bony. “How was the water at Bore Nine and things like that. I bought the chlorodyne. Have another dose when back in camp. You mentioned a cup of tea?”

  “I did. I made it just now. Take a pew while I pour her out. Bit of brownie in the cake tin. You liking your job?”

  “All right, so far. I’m told it’s rough when it blows.”

  “So they say, Ed. Never seen the Fence. Never want to. You heard the Monster yet?”

  “No. I doubt if there is such a thing.”

  “Well, both Nugget and Needle Kent heard it more’n once. The blacks are scared of it. Old King Moses told his people to keep well wide of the Fence, and not to go wan­dering around at night.”

  “He the abo boss?”

  “Yes. And really bosses too.”

  “And is he the Medicine Man?”

  “No. Charlie the Nut’s the Medicine Man. They say he points the bones and things. Not that I believe he can do any harm with ’em. Lot of mumbo-jumbo in my opinion. Cor blimey, if they could blast a man with a bone, things would be crook!”

  “Where are they camped?”

  “Got their permanent camp out at Bore Six. Boss won’t have ’em in here ’cept Hawker’s Nights. Have another cuppa.”

  “Thanks, I will. My stomach feels better already. Will you be able to spare me a bit of meat?”

  “Plenty. You better take a loaf of yeast bread. Better than damper. Wonder any man’s stomach stands up to much damper.”

  “Decent of you. How many hands have you to cook for?”

  “Three whites and a couple of blacks. Then there’s the boss and his wife, a book-keeper whe
n there is one, and visitors. Not a bad job; me wife looks after the main house.”

  “One thing, the wages mount up. Go outside often?”

  “Every year for six weeks.”

  Two men came in, greeted the cook cheerfully, nodded to Bony, helped themselves to the teapot and the brownie cake. They were introduced to Bony as the carpenter and the mechanic, the latter being a slight man in khaki over­alls. He wanted to know if Bony had heard anything about Lake Eyre being chosen for an attempt on the land speed record, and Bony said that he had heard rumours in the Hill, but nothing was definite as far as he knew.

  “How’s me old pal, Needle, coming along?” asked the carpenter. “Seen him yet?”

  “Yes, we were camped together at Bore Ten several days ago,” Bony replied. “As his nickname implies, he is a bit thin.”

  “If he was any thinner he’d be blown away in a storm,” said the cook. “Biggest liar in the back country. Thinks ’em up when he’s workin’. Nothing else to do.”

  “Like that Monster yarn of his,” agreed the carpenter, and to this the mechanic took exception, saying there was some­thing in it.

  “Told me the Monster was roaring around him in the middle of the night,” the carpenter volunteered. “Told me another time five horsemen rode past him and not a one said a single word. He’s getting like Looney Pete. Time he came off the Fence and took a job in town. How long’s he been on it?”

  The overseer said it was six years, with a break to town every year, and agreed that Needle Kent would soon go “wonky” if he didn’t look out.

  Bony left soon after this discussion, glad of the fresh meat and the loaf of bread given by the cook. He wondered often if Needle’s story about the duffers was not a pack of lies.

  Chapter Seven

  A King and His Offsider

  A FEW days after his interviews with Commander Joyce and his overseer, Bony had his first experience with the buck-bush. The whitish sky predicted the wind hours before it rose. It first came from the north-west and then veered to the west with ever-increasing force. Bony had been feeling pleased with his section, the ground at the foot of the Fence being clear of weed and debris from the top end to the bottom.