Bony and the Black Virgin Page 6

  Long cogitated: “Faintly hostile, I think. Seems that when an aborigine becomes a police tracker he is regarded suspiciously, as the policeman is regarded by many white workers.”

  “Your aborigines, however, did endeavour to locate Brandt’s bike and swag?”

  “I’m confident that they did.”

  “Forgive me for taking the opportunity to pump you,” Bony said, and Long, glancing swiftly at him, noted the smile directed to him. “I’m a born gossip, but I can keep my mouth closed. Tell me about the Downers, their history.”

  “Even if I were so minded, I couldn’t disparage them, Inspector. Good types, both of ’em. Old John was granted his land away back in the ’thirties. Took his young wife and small baby out to Lake Jane, and they lived in a tent until he built his house. The lake was full at the time, and the seasons were good. After the war, when wool prices rocketed, they came good. Able to send the boy down to college. He did well, and was on the verge of going on to the University when Mrs Downer died. Fell sick with a poisoned hand, and tetanus took her. Tragic. Need not have been.”

  “It halted the son’s career?”

  “It did. Ambition was to become a doctor. He insisted on returning home to companion his father, who is growing old. Like the old man, a battler, but hasn’t the old man’s solidity of character. Hasn’t the experience, of course. Old John gave him his head, and the sheep perished nonetheless. The younger generation seems to want to wear Seven League Boots. It’s the same with Robin Pointer.”

  “Thinking of clearing out?”

  “Not at all,” defended Midnight Long. “What I mean is that they have tremendous confidence in themselves, but none at all in the country. These days the young ’uns want everything handed to ’em. Must have security, and all that. Certainly they don’t have the compulsion to adventure like us of the last generation. Even demand what we have earned, before we’re dead.”

  “Like everyone else, the Downers are just putting in time and waiting for rain? And their lake is full of water?”

  “Feet and feet deep. Came down from Northern Queensland. And, all about, the country is like this. Even the kangaroos are so poor they aren’t worth shooting for meat. I did think that under the circumstances Eric Downer might have tried to get work in a city. I suggested that his father might live with the Pointers until the drought broke. But it wasn’t accepted. Like us all, they are merely squatting, and waiting.”

  “Then I may expect co-operation?”

  “Oh, you’ll have that for sure. But not after the rain comes. Better not induce the abos to make rain until it’s convenient to you.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. Nuggety Jack is the head man?”

  “He’s the local chief. A long way to assimilation, you know. Canny dingo trapper and fox hunter. Does very well. Owns a car, and when he’s unable to buy petrol he harnesses a couple of horses to it and they pull him around. Quite a sight. Now he has no horses, he just sleeps and waits for the rain. We’re all like a lot of sick fowls.”

  “Any schooling?”

  “Nuggety Jack? No. Has a couple of daughters, and his wife can read and write. Elder daughter is unique in many ways. Did well at school down in Mindee. Speaks nicely, too. Excellent housemaid and most intelligent. We had her at the homestead for some time, but she wasn’t happy there. Then Lottee worked at the L’Albert house, but didn’t remain there long. Quite a parcel when she’s properly dressed. So damned hard to get maids these days. You’ve met our daughter, I think, Mrs Stubbs of Wonleroy.”

  “Wonleroy! Oh yes. I was there some time ago. She and her husband were quite charming to me,” responded Bonaparte. “The case that took me there proved to be stubborn. The hardest cases to crack are those in which the aborigines are my adversaries. They have unlimited patience. So have I. It was so with the Wonleroy case. I remember that Mrs Stubbs had two delightful little children. They are growing fast, I suppose.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Artist and the Rain-maker

  AFTER DINNER that evening they sat on the insect-protected veranda at L’Albert.

  The manager had returned to his homestead, promising every facility Fort Deakin commanded, and now Jim Pointer was looking forward with keen anticipation to assisting the visitor, and so banish boredom brought about by reduced normal activity. His wife and Robin were naturally delighted by the ‘intrusion’, and found that Mrs Long’s telephoned opinions of Inspector Bonaparte were not exaggerated.

  Mrs Pointer, short, buxom, and inclined to giggling at jokes secret to herself, was ever ready to accept opinions expressed by others, but her daughter maintained reservations, especially regarding men. As Mrs Pointer was wont to say, Robin had a mind of her own, and her education, which developed her artistic gifts, had certainly given an edge to it.

  She had been led to expect the unusual, and found in Inspector Bonaparte more than she had expected. The many policemen who had come to L’Albert were of the strong and silent type, with the possible exception of Constable Sefton, who was young enough, and new enough in the Department, to give back a little of what she liked to deal out. She enjoyed verbal duelling, but often found her rapier opposed to a broadsword.

  “After all this time, and the drought blowing away and burying everything in dust and sand, do you really hope to find clues to our mystery?” she asked, her dark eyes-bright in the white light of the power lamp.

  “Not all clues are found buried in sand, Miss Pointer,” he replied with a disarming smile. “Often a clue is buried in the human mind. However, clues of themselves aren’t all-important. A blunt instrument is a useless thing until allied with a mental clue which is the motive for using the blunt instrument.” Bonaparte paused before adding: “And what is buried can be disinterred, you know.”

  “Sounds gruesome,” observed Robin Pointer. “Mr Long says that you’ve never failed yet to wind up a case. Is that true, Inspector?”

  “Strong or weak, the human mind cannot shut out extraneous influences, many of which are inherited from our prehistoric ancestors. Fear of the unknown—the dark. Fear of nakedness—the light. For illustration, supposing I took up that pressure lamp and held it close to your eyes and read all your little secrets, would you not fear the light?”

  “Don’t do it, Inspector,” implored Mrs Pointer. “Robin would certainly not like that, and I wouldn’t like it either. As for Jim???”

  “In criminal practice, of course, the investigator must rely on less spectacular methods,” Bonaparte went on. “The degree of his success is related to the degree of his patience. My patience is inexhaustible. I am able to exclude from my mind the inherent sense of Time. Time is the Great Dictator ruling the human race.... It is the impatience of superiors, forever demanding results from inferiors, which distracts the police from pursuing a law-breaker, and thus gives him a favourable chance of escaping justice. My superiors often demand results from me, but the effect is nil, because I close my mind to their orders. I have actually been sacked several times for contemptuous disobedience, but I am always reinstated, because I have never yet failed.”

  “Now, Inspector, you are not being vain, are you?” thrust Robin, and the thrust was turned aside by laughter.

  “Perhaps I am, Miss Pointer. I have a suggestion. Could we not dispense with surnames and titles? Everyone who is my friend calls me Bony. Even my Chief Commissioner calls me Bony. As do my wife and sons. If we were ‘Robin’ and ‘Bony’, we might contend a little harder, don’t you think?”

  Mrs Pointer opened her mouth to speak, and her husband smiled broadly.

  “I rather like that suggestion, Bony,” Robin said, eyes alight with mischief. “In fact, I think I shall like you being here. You have a mind I can challenge.”

  “Thank you, Robin, and Jim.” Bony regarded Mrs Pointer, and she giggled.

  “You may call me Eve,” she said. “I’m not much of an Eve nowadays, but I used to be, didn’t I, Jim?”

  “Obviously. The woman tempted me.” And Rob
in cut in with:

  “If I call you Bony and am accepted as one of your friends, you will have to put up with questions I wouldn’t dare ask Inspector Bonaparte.”

  “I might have placed myself in the position of the hunted, Robin. Is it true you are an artist?”

  “Oh yes,” replied Mrs Pointer. “Robin did that...”

  “Now that we’re on level ground, Bony, I’ll ask my questions first.”

  “Very well. The next one, then.”

  “I think I’ll save them,” Robin decided. “You know, ask a question when you least expect one, because that’s what you’ll probably do.”

  “It is one of my weaknesses,” Bony said gravely, and raised laughter, and approval from Robin.

  In this manner passed the first evening Bony spent at L’Albert, and before going off to bed it was arranged that the following morning the overseer take him out to Blazer’s Dam to look over ‘The Scene of the Second Crime’.

  Before they left on this excursion Bony studied a large map of Fort Deakin when it was twice its present area, and memorized place names and distances. Imprinted on his mind was a picture of this part of an immense region so necessary to see.

  It was a calm day and hot, and all the orange sandhills danced a jig and beckoned from beyond the mirages. At their feet were laid shimmering lagoons of ‘water’. The mulga trees were almost black, the patches of herbal rubbish were warship-grey, and only the occasional sandalwood and cabbage trees appeared to be really alive.

  The windmill at Number Ten Bore was idle, and smoke from the communal camp fire rose lazily from the large mound of ash. Among a grove of native pine trees were several whirlies of bark and odd sheets of corrugated iron and hessian bags, inhabited by aborigines who appeared and stood in small groups to watch the approaching utility.

  “They keep the place in order,” explained Pointer. “Don’t bother us overmuch, and they’re happier here than at the homestead.”

  “The Department, through you, supplies them with basic rations?”

  “Yes. They earn a little, too. Or did till recently. Nuggety Jack is a good dingo trapper. Like most of us now, they’re doing nothing but wait for the drought to break.

  There was no litter about the camp or the Bore, and when the overseer stopped a short distance from the pines there was no movement until he and Bony alighted, when two men and several small children advanced to meet them, followed by another who was not going to miss the conference.

  One man was short and wide and powerful, and the nickname ‘Nuggety Jack’ suited him. The other was tall and lean, and the manner in which his hair was bunched high by a rag about his forehead indicated the Medicine Man. The third man who hurried after them was very old, but still nimble. Pointer said:

  “Good day-ee, Jack! Day, Dusty! Day-ee, Fred!”

  “Day-ee, Mister Pointer!” they chorused, and Nuggety Jack then became the spokesman. “Keepin’ dry, eh. No sign of any breakin’ of the drought. Terrible bad, it looks like.”

  “You’re right, Jack. You trapping any dogs lately?”

  “No,” answered the head man, a small child clinging tightly to each massive leg.

  The words were directed to the overseer, but the black eyes were concentrated on the stranger. To him Nuggety Jack now spoke.

  “You police-feller come up from Mindee, eh?”

  Bony glanced up from rolling a cigarette, nodded, completed the task, took time to strike a match, and slowly inhaled before replying. Then, when the blue eyes were stabbing at each in turn, he said:

  “I am top policeman.” Bony was wearing khaki drill trousers and shirt with black tie, his smart wide-brimmed felt hat had a pointed crown, and he knew that these people had never previously seen a policeman so dressed. He had hoped to impress them, and did so. “Are you head man here?”

  “Yes,” admitted Nuggety Jack, now avoiding the blue eyes.

  “The Medicine Man ... are you the Medicine Man?” he asked the lean man addressed as Dusty.

  “No Medicine Man any more,” replied Dusty. “We’re all the same like white-feller.”

  “Liar,” Bony calmly told him. “You have the hole in your tongue.” Some of the women were now standing behind the men, who numbered eight. The men chuckled, including Dusty. “You fellers live in L’Albert country all your lives?”

  “Too right,” answered Nuggety Jack. “Us L’Albert abos, eh, Mister Pointer?”

  Pointer nodded. He was not unaware that Nuggety Jack and his people were decidedly impressed by Inspector Bonaparte.

  “I come from Queensland,” Bony told them. “’Way up in Queensland where I was born, the head men and the medicine men are good-o. They don’t lie down and wait for rain to come. You dig up your rainstones and make rain, pretty quick. You make rain, and Mister Long he tell Mister Pointer to give you a five-pound box of tobacco and a full case of jam. That right, Mr Pointer?”

  “That’s right, Inspector Bonaparte.”

  The bunch of women drew closer behind the men. Their presence and behaviour disclosed the distance they had come towards assimilation with the white race. Far back along the road was the point where they would not have showed themselves, or dared to be present when men were discussing so serious a subject as rain-making.

  Nuggety Jack dug bare toes into the sandy ground and glanced covertly at the Medicine Man, and tall Dusty looked up at the cloudless sky, sniffed loudly and glanced at his head man. Imperceptibly he nodded.

  “All right, Boss,” assented Nuggety, speaking to Pointer. “We make rain, you giv-it box of tobacco and case of jam, eh?”

  “That’ll be it, Nuggety Jack. You get busy, now, and make it rain proper. Hi, there, Lottee! Come here, please.”

  Through the line of men stepped a young woman carrying a baby. For an aborigine she was tall, and, too, for an aborigine, she was pleasing to behold. Bony thought her to be eighteen, perhaps twenty, and as yet she showed no evidence of that post-maturity which comes so early to the women of her race. Her voice was low, without accent, clear.

  “Yes, Mr Pointer?”

  She was the only woman wearing shoes. The plain red dress fitted her well. Over the head of the naked child clinging about her neck, she looked from Pointer to Bony, her large, dark, amber-flecked eyes reflecting a serenity of mind which made her stand out from the others, who were intensely curious and excited.

  “Yesterday when Mr Long came out, he said that Mrs Long was wanting to know when you’d go to the river and housemaid again,” Pointer said. “Seems that Marna is going to marry that feller down in Mindee, and then Mrs Long won’t have a maid. Same wages as last time, new dresses and all that. Better than here in drought time, don’t you think?”

  “Dad and Dusty just said they’ll make rain,” she countered, and now a slight smile on her face was emphatic in her eyes. She didn’t believe that her father would succeed, but he was unable to see disbelief in that slow smile. “Anyway, I don’t want to go to the river. Mum’s poorly, for one thing, and besides, well, I don’t want to go.”

  “All right, Lottee. I’ll tell Mr Long on the telephone this evening. Mrs Long will be disappointed, I know. If you alter your mind, just say so, won’t you?”

  She nodded, and the infant clung the tighter about her neck. She looked at Bony and their eyes clashed. She asked without trace of bashfulness:

  “Is an inspector higher than a sergeant?”

  “Yes, he is. And some sergeants are higher than other sergeants. Why?”

  “Oh, I just wanted to know.” The smile came again to her eyes, and abruptly she turned and went back to the group of women. Her father, Nuggety Jack, now came forward, broadly smiling, and laughingly declared that they’d make rain soon, and make it rain so hard and so long that the boss would ‘giv-it’ another box of tobacco and another case of jam to make them stop it. Meanwhile, did Mister Pointer have ‘a chew’ about him?

  Expecting the request, for the aborigines would cadge a chew of tobacco or a cigarette if the
y had a tobacco factory beyond the next sand dune, Pointer had brought a few cakes of tobacco, and now handed them round. The gift concluded the visit, and both Bony and Pointer left, amused by the happy grin on the large round face of Nuggety Jack.

  Fifteen miles farther out they came to Blazer’s Dam, a vast man-made surface hole at the lower end of a wide and shallow catchment area. The high ramparts of mullock no longer contained water, and under present conditions Bony thought the place utterly dreary. When eating lunch in the short shadow of the hut, he sought information.

  “Are you satisfied that the aborigines honestly tried to locate Brandt’s swag and bike?”

  “Of course,” Pointer replied, with no hint of doubt.

  “Was he interested in lubras?”

  “Don’t think so. Why?”

  “I may ask a thousand questions, Jim, and the answer to one could give a lead. Was Brandt ever stationed here pumping water?”

  “He was here for four months before the dam dried out.”

  “Whereabouts did you find the body?”

  “Away over at the foot of that sandhill, the one with the flat rooftop. We went over every inch of those sandhills, probing with iron bars pointed like spears to find anything buried.”

  Chapter Eleven

  So Many Pictures!

  “WE CALL this Brandt’s Wall,” Pointer said when they stood at the edge of a sandhill, some forty-five feet high, and having a sheer face so perfect that only the wind could have fashioned it. Had either made one step forward, his weight would have started a small avalanche, taking him down with it to the cement-hard, clay-pan floor of the depression.

  “I am reminded of a relay race, or carrying the Olympic Torch,” Bony said. “Paul Dickson broke from custody in Hungerford, just beyond the Queensland border. He made his way across country when natural waters were non-existent, and all the dams were dry, leaving only the bores at which he would obtain water. He was a good bushman, and, so far as was known, he had never travelled this way before.