The Battling Prophet Read online

  They had their tea on the veranda, and Bony went back to his fishing. He had been sitting on the log half an hour when there came up-river a smart motor-cruiser and, as it passed, Knocker Harris waved vigorously and yelled a “Good-dayee”. After that the shadows spread over the water, and the kookaburras gained strength enough to chortle and chuckle. Near sundown, a second car came from the bridge and stopped at the wicket gate.

  The gate slammed, and when Bony glanced back he saw a large man standing at the foot of the veranda steps talking to Mr. Luton. A minute passed, when the gate slammed again, and fifteen seconds after that noise Bony heard a heavy tread and a deep voice saying:

  “Good-dayee!”

  “Good-day!” replied Bony, glancing at the big man’s thick legs and heavy boots. “It’s been a nice day.”

  “Yair! One out of the mitt.” The man sat on the end of the log and rolled a cigarette, and Bony slyly watched the thick and capable fingers. “I’m Senior Constable Ralph Gibley. That right you’re down from the C.I.B.? Heard that you are. Could be wrong.”

  “Yes, I am staying for a few days with Mr. Luton. I am Inspector Bonaparte.”

  “Inspect ... Did you say Inspector Bonaparte?”

  “If my memory isn’t faulty, I did. Why?”

  “Ah!” The exclamation held a hint of satisfaction. “You wouldn’t be imagining things, would you, er, Inspector?”

  “Imagining what things?” mildly asked Bony.

  “Imagining that you’re an inspector in the Police Department. It happens that I know there’s no Inspector Bonaparte in the South Australian Police Department. I know for sure the name of every officer, and would take a chance on knowing the name of every man. What d’you say to that?”

  “Nothing of importance.” The rod was placed on the ground, and then Constable Gibley was swiftly caught in the net of two startlingly blue eyes which seemed to grow large and larger and give him the feeling that his mind was being prised open to admit them.

  “A caste, too,” he managed to say. “What a yarn to put over!”

  The eyes vanished, and he felt relief as though from physical pressure. Then he was looking at a police badge. Then he was gazing with mounting perturbation at a wallet open to show an identity card. He looked up and again encountered the eyes, and wished they were not there.

  “Perhaps you would like to check by sending a telegram to your Divisional Headquarters? I understand that your D.H. is at Mount Gambier. I was talking to Senior Sergeant Maskell the day before yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir. My mistake, perhaps. But ... how was I to know?”

  “Merely by asking. D’you fish?”

  “Fish! Yes, sometimes.”

  “I’m fishing for kingfish, and baiting for bream. Could I do better?”

  “Don’t think so, sir.”

  “I am, too, on a sort of vacation, so please omit the ‘sir’. Your inaccurate summing-up of me, based on my birth, no doubt, is pardonable in view of the fact that only in the Queensland Department are brains recognised and encouraged. How many cases of homicide unsolved in South Australia these last ten years?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” admitted the policeman, still jittery.

  “There are eleven murder cases still to be terminated,” went on Bony. “There are two in Queensland where I belong. I was prevented from concentrating on those.”

  The policeman obviously saw something beyond Bony, for he stood hastily, apology plain on his large and weather-beaten face. As the doctor had, so he now said:

  “See you again sometime, Inspector. I must be on my way back to town. The parson’s coming. Sort of character I can’t stand at any price. If you’ll excuse me...”

  He left abruptly, and hurried to his car, which he turned and drove towards the bridge and the highway. Approaching from the direction of Knocker Harris’s camp was a tall figure wrapped in an overcoat and wearing a shabby grey hat. He walked with ungainly gait, and he rested on one shoulder a long, stout fishing-rod, and carried slung from the other a fisherman’s creel. He watched the river he was following, and appeared to start with surprise when encountering the still seated Bony.

  “How d’you do!” he greeted, and came to stand before the fisherman who had caught nothing all day. “Any luck?”

  “None, so far.”

  “Mind me casting here for a minute or two?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” He baited his hook and prepared to cast. “I suppose that policeman told you I’m a blasted parson, eh?”

  “He did so allude to you,” smiled Bony, and the man chuckled to remind Bony of the kookaburras.

  “He would. Mr. Gibley and I fail to get along together. I regret that his soul is helpless and hopeless. I’m the Reverend Weston, you know, of Mount Mario. Could you reciprocate? I like meeting people.”

  He made the cast.

  “I am Ins...” began Bony, when the parson hooked a whopper.

  Chapter Six

  The Ball Roller

  THEY stood with the fish dying at their feet, and when their gaze clashed, the small light-grey eyes of the Reverend Weston were impishly triumphant.

  “A nice fish,” he said. “A seven-pounder, eh?”

  “Something like that,” Bony agreed.

  “Well, well! I was hoping for luck as we have had no fish for a week. Where are you staying?”

  “With Mr. Luton.”

  “Luton, eh! Pliable ... when he consents to remain sober. I trust you are not a slave to John Barleycorn.”

  The reverend gentleman knelt to fit the fish into his creel.

  “Mr. Luton conforms to type,” Bony said. “He’s a relic from the old days when men worked hard and suffered Spartan conditioning, and broke wide open under grog after long self-imposed abstinence. At present Mr. Luton does not look like an addict.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. He is often a sot. Ah, why do men indulge like brute beasts? Why cannot they use God’s gifts with respect? I like a glass of wine occasionally, and I think I am tolerant. Moderation in all things, yes. Immoderate drinking is as bad as immoderate preaching, and I know many such sinners. Now you will say I live in a glass house. I am, however, perturbed by Luton’s outbreaks. My dear friend, the late Ben Wickham, was Luton’s crony. He died over there in the house, in delirium tremens. I fear that Luton will go the same way.”

  “Not while I am with him,” Bony assured the parson.

  “Good man!” came approvingly. “Staying long?”

  “A week or ten days, perhaps.”

  “From Adelaide?”

  “Actually from Brisbane; I knew Mr. Luton several years ago, in New South Wales. In fact, it was there I met the late Ben Wickham.”

  “Indeed.”

  Mr. Weston was openly interested, but aware of the force of silence, Bony appeared to fall into the trap.

  “I was on a case in New South Wales at the time, and since then Mr. Luton and I have occasionally corresponded. Having been seconded to the Adelaide Department, and having terminated my work, I accepted a long-standing invitation from Mr. Luton.”

  “Oh! Ah! To be sure!” The small grey eyes probed, betraying the hardness behind the high and narrow forehead. “What do you do?” was the well-timed question.

  “I’m a police officer. I was about to tell you my name when you hooked the fish. Detective-Inspector Bonaparte.”

  “Oh! I’m happy to have met you, Inspector. Well, I hope you have a restful holiday and good fishing. Patience, you know. You must call on us one afternoon before you leave. I’m sure poor Ben’s sister would be delighted to receive you. Now I must be going. Remember me to Luton, won’t you. And do warn him against over-indulgence, and remind him of his years. I’m sure you could do much in that direction. Bye-bye! I hope we meet again.”

  The Reverend Weston took up his creel, shouldered his rod, smiled at Bony and departed, and, when slowly winding in his line, Bony watched the ungainly figure grow small as it, passed under t
he trees towards the distant bridge.

  “Quite a day,” remarked Mr. Luton when Bony entered the kitchen to find him trimming lamb chops for grilling. “Any bites?”

  “Yes, a bite by a fish under water. And several bites by fish out of water.”

  “Three of ’em,” stated Mr. Luton. “A doctor. A policeman. A parson. Old Knocker Harris did his job all right, didn’t he. A whisper down these parts is as good as a radio during a race meeting.”

  “I have been instructed to warn you against overindulgence in the cursed drink. And, moreover, I have been requested to remind you of your years.”

  “Is that all?” exclaimed Mr. Luton. “Didn’t he call me a sot?”

  “I believe he did.”

  “Then why didn’t you back me up by knocking him down?”

  “Recalling how well you look, I accepted the charge as being amusing.”

  “And he caught a fish?”

  “Yes. Made his cast within a yard of my bait.”

  “Parson’s luck,” snorted the old man. “You can’t win.”

  “I shall, next time. Can I do anything?”

  “If you like. Fetch some back logs for the fire tonight. There’s plenty on the wood-heap. Leave ’em on the edge of the veranda till we want ’em. How d’you like your chops?”

  “Lightly grilled.”

  Mr. Luton was about to serve dinner when Knocker Harris appeared at the back door and was invited to sit at table. Instead of the old dungarees, he was wearing a go-to-town reach-me-down suit badly in need of pressing. His brown eyes were twinkling, and he chewed energetically that he might swallow quickly the tobacco he had cupped into his mouth on arrival.

  “Had a good day?” enquired Mr. Luton.

  “Not so bad, like,” replied Knocker Harris. “Did a bit of business. Said a few words here and there.”

  “Who did you see in town?”

  “Oh, this one and that.”

  Mr. Luton chuckled, placed a plate of chops and mashed potatoes before his guests, and himself sat at the head of the table, stiff and proper as any proud patriarch. On his either side squatted a dog, and on the hearth sat the purring cat.

  “Any luck?” asked Knocker Harris, gripping a chop bone in a knuckly hand to enjoy the last of the meat.

  “A good bite,” replied Bony. “Got away. I was half asleep and missed the strike.”

  “You gets that way sometimes, waiting. J’u have any callers?”

  “Three.”

  “Ah!”

  “The quack, the parson, and the policeman,” interjected Mr. Luton.

  “Is that so!” Knocker Harris was immensely pleased. “Well, I expected something, like. Soon’s as I got to town, I seen the quack’s car outside his surgery, and I says ‘How d’you do’ to the chemist standing in his doorway. Then I had a chinwag with a couple of old ’uns on the seat outside the pub, and I sorta mentions we has a famous visitor out our way who knew Ben and seems to want to know a bit more, like. Then I went across the street and bought some pills off the chemist. I lets it drop to him about the visitor out here. Then in comes the quack to get something, and I leaves him being told about the visitor by the chemist. Seemed very interested by the noos.

  “When I got back to the seat outside the pub, the old ’uns have gone in for their snifter, so I sits on the seat pretending to count me change, like. It happened that the newspaper bloke came out of the bar and, seeing me, he sits down and starts a yabber. ‘How’s the fish biting?’ ‘How’s the country lookin’?’ So I told him we had a famous visitor what knew poor Ben and seemed like grieving ’cos he’d died so quick, like.”

  “Did you mention my name?” Bony asked, and Knocker Harris looked hurt.

  “’Course not. You told me not to. I said what you told me. Said that our visitor was a detective. The paper bloke wanted to know your name, and I told him I just missed hearing John tell it. Anyway, he went off back to his paper to write it out, and I went for a dram of rum and had a word with the barman, like. He told me that Jukes would be leaving in his launch for his up-river house-boat, so I hunted a bit for Jukes and he said he’d be leavin’ about three and I could take a ride with him.

  “After that I mucked about talkin’ to people. Trade’s pretty bad and they ain’t got much to do, like. Then I ambled down to the jetty and boarded Jukes’s launch to wait for him to turn up. The policeman turned up ’fore he did, and he wanted to know about our visitor, what his name was and all that, like.”

  Knocker Harris returned his interest to the grilled chops, and Mr. Luton waited before saying:

  “What d’you mean ... all that?”

  “Oh! Wanted to know why we had our visitor. He wanted to know what he’d come for, like. Wanted to know if he was a relation of yours. You know, all them kind of questions, and I’m dumber than usual. What time did he get out?”

  “About four.”

  “Didn’t waste much time, did he.”

  They ate in silence until Mr. Luton served baked apples with custard sauce. Then Knocker Harris said:

  “The policeman would come in his car from the bridge. So would the quack. Which way did the parson come?”

  “Down-river, following the path,” replied Bony.

  “Ah!”

  Another period of silence before Mr. Luton asked:

  “Something on your mind?”

  “Yair,” admitted Knocker Harris. “Been wonderin’ who’d been poking around me camp, that’s all. That ruddy nosey parson musta. Like his cheek. If I was to go mucking around up at the big house, they’d yell for the police, but they don’t mind rooting through my camp when me back’s turned, like. A quid for the rich and a kick in the stern for the poor. That’s it all over. Wait till the local politician comes asking for me vote. I’ll tell him....”

  “How do you know that the parson visited your camp?” interrupted Bony.

  “Me dog told me when I got home. There isn’t much to that dog, but he can talk. To me, anyhow. First off, he told me someone had been mooching around the joint.”

  Immediately the meal was over, Knocker Harris remembered he had to re-set his belled fish-line, and Mr. Luton told Bony it was a mere excuse to get out of the washing up. The two men completed this chore, and then the night had come and a roaring fire was lit in the lounge and they settled to gossip.

  The conversation was adroitly kept away from Wickham’s meteorological work, and centred upon the people who lived in his house. Yet it did seem that Mr. Luton’s knowledge of them was scanty, and his opinions coincident with those of his old friend. And Wickham’s opinion of those he housed appeared to be governed by the degree in which they interfered with his work.

  “Who ran the estate?” asked Bony.

  “Feller by name of Sinclair. He still manages it. Employs four men. Him and his wife lives at the back of the station, and the men live in a hut. Ben always said Sinclair made the place pay. Couldn’t do aught else, what with the price rise of wool and fat lambs.”

  “Have you any idea of what Mount Mario might be worth today?”

  “Near enough,” answered Bony’s host. “Last year Ben was offered one-fifty thousand pounds, walk-out walk-in basis.”

  “Did he own much beside the property—investments, other property?”

  “That I couldn’t say,” slowly replied Mr. Luton. “He did tell me he had some securities in that chest down below.”

  “Down below? The cellar you mentioned?”

  “Yes. You want to look?”

  “Certainly.”

  “All right. We’ll go down. Know anything about locks?”

  “One can do much with a piece of fencing wire. I remember seeing some by your back fence. I’ll obtain...”

  They looked sharply at each other. Outside, the dogs broke into warning barking. The man who knew them said:

  “Someone coming. Another caller, could be.”

  Chapter Seven

  Rays of Light

  THE garden gate snapped shut. Mr. Lut
on’s eyes puckered expectantly. When footsteps sounded from the veranda, he began to smile, and he shouted:

  “Come in and be damned.”

  The door was flung open to admit a young woman wearing a light raincoat and a kerchief tied round her hair. A man followed her. His belted coat emphasised physical strength and lent distinction to his carriage. He bowed stiffly.

  “Why, Sunset!” exclaimed Mr. Luton, advancing to meet his visitors.

  “I do hope I’m not damned, Mr. Luton,” teasingly said the girl, and Bony liked her low, rich voice.

  “Didn’t know it was you. Didn’t recognise your step on the veranda.”

  “You did recognise mine, I presume,” stated the man, wryly smiling at Mr. Luton and attempting to include Bony. The dark eyes succeeded where the smile failed, accepting Bony’s face, feature by feature, his hands, his feet.

  “You ... You are Inspectore Bonaparte, yes?”

  “That’s right,” interjected Mr. Luton, saying to Bony: “Meet Doctor Linke. And this is Miss Jessica Lawrence.”

  ‘Sunset’ Mr. Luton had called her. Her hair, her skin, her eyes, were of the sunset, and when she smiled Bony was unaccountably reminded of apples lying on meadow grass. Not to be out-pointed, he bowed, and a Frenchman would have envied him.

  “We came down to gossip, Inspector,” she said. “You don’t mind?”

  “To talk with you would be a privilege, Miss Lawrence,” Bony gallantly replied. Then his hand was being crushed in a clamp, and he was faintly annoyed at not being quick enough to counter the clamp.

  “I, indeed, am happy to meet you,” said Dr. Linke, and because he smiled infectiously was forgiven the hand-grip. “As my Jessica said, we came to gossip, to speak of many things including the kings and ... and what you say?”

  “Cabbages,” laughed the girl.

  She removed the kerchief. Her hair was then a delight to behold. The man assisted her with her coat and Mr. Luton took it from him and indicated chairs. Bony noted that the cat had fled. Linke found a pipe and tobacco, and was unable to mask his interest in Bony and yet conceal the basis of his curiosity.