Bony - 10 - The Devil’s Steps Read online

  “Well—wot about——” Bisker began and fell into a strained silence beneath the intense stare of those ice-cold blue eyes in the brown face. He experienced a distinct sense of relief when the blue eyes moved their gaze from him to the making of a cigarette, and the ensuing silence, in which the soft noises of the fire came as though from another world, seemed to Bisker to be interminable. Then, without looking up, Bony spoke:

  “Go and draw down the blind. When you’ve done that, I am going outside to see if anyone is lurking about. You will then come here and sit down again, and you will not touch the whisky. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bonaparte, but—what’s it all mean?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute or two. Now—the blind.”

  Bisker felt rebellious, but he obeyed, and when he had pulled down the blind on the only window, Bony laid the newly made cigarette across the top of the glass bottle-stopper in fine balance. Then he slipped to the door he had not closed when he entered, opened it wide enough to permit his body to pass outside, and closed it.

  The night was dark in spite of the stars. He moved swiftly round the first corner of the hut, then reversed and passed the door to gain the opposite corner. In this way he passed round the entire structure till he came again to the door and was satisfied that no one was playing hide and seek with him. Normal eyes would have failed to see the trunks of the gum trees bordering the driveway, the faint greyish tint of the garages seen from the door of the hut, and the bank of shrubs beyond the window-wall, with tall trees beyond it. Normal ears would not have registered the faint whispering of leaves stirred by an air current, nor have distinguished the foot-falls of a cat crossing a swathe of dead leaves. There were a host of shadows impenetrable even to Bony’s half-aboriginal eyes, gulfs and tunnels of black void which might conceal a hundred enemies, but he decided he could be reasonably sure that no one up to that moment had drawn near enough to the window and door to see what Bisker had taken from the shrub tub.

  On opening the door of the hut, he found the rotund little man still seated on his case. But he was facing the door, his eyes wide and round and his grey moustache standing straight out from his face. Closing the door, Bony crossed to the table, seated himself on the second case, took the cigarette from the bottle top and lit it.

  “You may get a cup or a glass, Bisker, and take a drink. Drinking from the bottle disturbs my appreciation of the niceties.”

  Bisker blinked, rose and brought to the table a cracked cup. Bony passed him the bottle and watched the cup being half filled. The cup was raised to Bisker’s mouth and over it he regarded his visitor. Then he drank moderately and wiped his moustache with his coat-sleeve. He was invited to light his pipe.

  “Where did you find those fountain pens?” Bony asked, and warned Bisker to speak softly.

  “In the shrub tub to the left of the porch,” Bisker replied. “I was getting me bottle of whisky when me ’and felt the tops of the pens, sorta. Of course, I didn’t know what they was. The bottle of whisky I——”

  “Better not tell me when or how you got the bottle,” Bony cut in. “You say that you first felt the tops of the pens. Were they in their case just pushed down into the earth?”

  “That was how it was, I think,” Bisker agreed.

  “How near to your bottle were they buried?”

  “Only about two inches away. You see, when I planted the bottle I feared losing some of the grog if I laid her down longwise, so I dug a hole with me ’ands just round enough to take the bottle and just deep enough to take it to allow for a coupler inches of earth over the stopper.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Only a few minutes before you came round the corner of the ’ouse and found me sitting on the tub this morning.”

  “Humph! Let me think.”

  Bisker drew hard at his pipe and watched the now-immo­bile face of his visitor. He wanted to ask questions but was restrained by a feeling of inferiority.

  “Between the time I left you sitting on the tub this morn­ing and the time when the police arrived, did you leave the tub?”

  “No,” answered Bisker. “I kept on sitting there.”

  “There was a period of a little less than an hour between the departure of the Inspector and the arrival of the reporters, where were you during that time?”

  “On the wood-stack most of it.”

  “Could you see the tub from the wood-stack?”

  Bisker shook his head.

  “Did you see anyone walking about in that direction?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Tell me this. Do you think that you buried the bottle close to the pens, or that the pens were buried close to the bottle, after you had planted it?”

  On this call to his intelligence, Bisker visibly brightened.

  “I could have planted the bottle within two or three inches of the pens and not know they was there,” he said. “You see, Mr. Bonaparte, I took a good guess at the size of the ’ole I’d want to put the bottle in, and when I put ’er in she just naturally slipped down into a good fit.”

  Steadily regarding Bisker, Bony told him to remain silent for a minute or two. He turned about on his box, to sit with his back to the table edge, and Bisker took up the cup and sipped at its contents.

  Bony was decided that the pens in their leather case had been pushed down into the earth in the tub sometime before breakfast that morning, and most probably before daylight. That those pens had been in the possession of General Lode, alias Mr. Grumman, he was morally sure. He felt certain, too, that on the roll of film were photographs in microscopic reduction of the formulas and plans which Colonel Blythe was so anxious to obtain.

  Now some person or persons had removed Grumman’s personal effects from his room with, apparently, the obvious purpose of examining them at leisure to find the material which Blythe wanted and which came out of Germany before the end of the European war. It could not, therefore, have been that person, or those persons, who had pushed the pens in their case down into the earth of the tub.

  Had that person, or those persons, been forestalled by another who had relieved Grumman of the pens before Grumman died and his luggage was removed from his room? Or had Grumman become suspicious that an attempt was to be made to secure the precious films and himself disposed of the pens by pushing them into the place where, by coincid­ence, Bisker decided to bury the bottle of whisky?

  The previous evening, in the lounge after dinner, Grum­man had announced his intention of going for a walk. He had left the lounge by the door leading to the reception hall and the porch, beyond which stood the shrubs in their tubs. Had Grumman then buried his fountain pens?

  If he had done so, then he must have been anxious about their safety, and must have suspected that an attempt would be made to steal them from him. Or it might have been that Grumman was anticipating arrest. And yet … When he returned and accepted the drink offered by the guest, and then returned the hospitality, he had not appeared anxious or worried. He was quite calm, and he betrayed no nervous­ness, even to the watching Bonaparte.

  Assuming that it was not Grumman who had buried the pens, then the party who did so must have stolen them from him, buried them, and was waiting to secure them at a favour­able opportunity. It was most unlikely that he had had any­thing to do with the theft of Grumman’s luggage. And it might well be quite likely that he had watched the tub from time to time, and had seen Bisker hovering about, and even sitting on its edge. In which case he would be certain that Bisker had taken them, and in order to get them back into his possession might be prepared to go to any lengths, even to murder. For human life would count for nothing in the scales against the importance and value of those secret for­mula and plans.

  Had the man, Marcus, been after them? Had Grumman been expecting Marcus the night he died? Had he, Grumman, feared Marcus to the extent of, himself, burying the pens where Bisker discovered them? If he had, would he have done so at the time he went for his walk, wh
en the porch light was as dangerous to him as it was to Bisker when he wanted to dig up his bottle?

  The longer he surveyed these questions, the more he favoured the thesis that the person who had buried the pens in the tub was independent of the person or persons who had carried Grumman’s body down to the ditch and had stolen his luggage.

  Why had he buried the pens in the tub? They were easily hidable. If Grumman had not buried them, and it appeared most unlikely, then the other person had done so because he feared they might be found on his person or among his belongings. That would argue that he knew of Grumman’s death, and, further, that he was a guest or member of the staff and not someone who had come to the house specifically to steal those pens. And still further, it would argue that the thief was aware when he buried the pens that his effects and his person might be searched before he could leave the premises without suspicion.

  The value of the contents of the pens was incalculable, assuming that it was the material indicated by Colonel Blythe. To obtain it from Grumman desperate methods had been employed, to the extent of murdering Grumman. If it was thought that Bisker held possession of the buried pens, his life would not be worth tenpence.

  Now what of Bisker? Had he stolen the pens and buried them in the tub? Had he buried them for the purpose of not being found in possession of them after the theft was dis­covered? Had he stolen them as fountain pens and not for the remarkable contents in the place of ink? Bony swung himself round to face Bisker.

  “Why did you steal those pens, Bisker?” he demanded, staring into Bisker’s washed-out eyes.

  He saw Bisker’s brows rise high, saw the look of indigna­tion flash into his eyes, and knew before the denial was spoken in anger that Bisker had not stolen the pens.

  “All right! I believe you,” he assured the handy-man.

  How much could he take Bisker into his confidence for Bisker’s own sake? A man addicted to drink is ever unsafe but Bisker might be wide open to fatal attack if thought to possess those pens. Bony considered further. Bisker was a bushman. He had a certain strength of character, even if alcohol was his downfall. Bony thought he knew his man fairly well, and eventually he decided to take chances with him. He said:

  “I am going to tell you a thing or two, for your own good health, Bisker. I have reason to believe that the man Grumman was murdered for those pens. You saw what was inside one of them. Those series of small black dots are indus­trial secrets worth untold money. You were messing about that tub, and the man who buried the pens there might have seen you, and when he goes to get the pens he might connect their disappearance with you. Then he might go-get after you. Do you follow me?”

  Bisker nodded, and Bony experienced satisfaction when observing no fear in Bisker’s face.

  “I am going back to my room to bring a couple of blankets,” Bony continued. “I’ll camp here with you, and tomorrow you and I will go down to Melbourne, and I’ll arrange for you to be escorted as far north as Windee Station, where the boss there will give you a job at my request. And you will stay there until you are wanted for the inquests.

  “Crummy Mr. Bonaparte!’ exclaimed Bisker. “That’ll do me.”

  “Very well then. Not a word to anyone, you understand! I won’t be more than a few minutes obtaining a blanket or two. Is there a key to that door?”

  Bisker shook his head, and said:

  “There’s an old axe in that corner. She’s light and ’andy.”

  “Very well. And keep off that bottle.”

  Bony walked to the door, opened it and passed outside, closing the door behind him. In the darkness, he waited for his eyes to become accustomed to it. Then with the silent tread of a cat, he circled the hut, walked along the narrow path to the open space fronting the garages, and entered the house by the main door. In the reception hall he encountered Miss Jade.

  “You did it very nicely, Mr. Bonaparte,” she said, smilingly.

  “Just what, Miss Jade?”

  “Avoiding those reporters,” she replied. “They gave me an awful time of it, and kept flashing their camera lights to take my picture. And the questions they asked! They photo­graphed the house and had me standing on the veranda steps. I am to be in all the papers tomorrow. Oh, the publicity, Mr. Bonaparte!”

  Bony smiled delightedly.

  “You will have your house full of guests by tomorrow night,” he predicted, and then added in his suave manner: “I am sure, Miss Jade, that the proprietress of Wideview Chalet will not detract one iota from the picture of the house itself.”

  Miss Jade was well pleased. She wanted to talk about the coming limelight to be shed upon herself and her house, and it was only with firmness allied with extreme tact that Bony disengaged himself and passed on to his room.

  He found that his window had been lowered to three inches and that the blinds were drawn. From his trunk he procured a small-calibre pistol and rapidly checked its loading. He carried the weapon in the right-hand side pocket of his lounge coat. From the bed he took three blankets and rolled them into a bundle he tied with the cord taken from his dressing gown. He occupied himself for three minutes with the pens, then he snapped off the light, and slowly and quietly raised the window. He left the building by that way.

  He had to skirt the wood-stack to avoid the pool of light shed by a bulb outside the scullery door, and from the wood-stack he passed to the back of the line of garages and so came to the narrow path leading to Bisker’s hut. Like a shadow he “drifted” along the path. The hut came to him out of the void, and he stopped when he noted that the chink of light under the door he had seen when he glanced back on leaving it now was not to be seen.

  He stepped off the path and slowly felt with his feet over a vegetable patch to the wall of shrubs beyond the hut. In this way he reached the wall of the hut containing the window. He stood there for a full minute, his ear pressed against the glass. Not the slightest sound came to him from within the hut.

  He passed silently round the first corner, waited there for a minute, then passed round the second corner and pressed himself against the wall beside the closed door. Still he heard no sound from within. Slowly, he moved to a position on one side of the door handle, then, with a quick movement, he turned it and flung the door inward. It crashed back against the wall.

  “Bisker!” he called.

  Bisker did not answer, and again Bony called his name.

  The silence within the hut continued. Bony waited for a full minute before he proceeded to edge his face round the door-post. First he could just make out the bed, and presently the red embers of the fire on the open hearth. On the far side, in front of the window, stood the table, the side of which nearest the fire was faintly illumined by the dull red glow. The automatic now held to his front, Bony slid farther still round the door-post until he was able to see the inside of the wall. There was no one there, and he was sure no one could stand behind the door which he had crashed back against the wall.

  Nothing moved in the gloom of the interior, and having delayed action for another two minutes, he thrust the blanket roll before him like a shield, and stepped inside. Still nothing moved, but there remained the possibility that someone was under the bed or under the table.

  The glow of the fire embers was reflected in the lamp-glass and the bottle of whisky.

  “You about, Bisker!” he called again, but softly.

  No reply reached him. He put his blanket shield down upon the table and crossed to the door, which he closed. Then he passed back again to the table and lit the lamp. On the floor beside the bed lay Bisker. He was on his back, one arm lying parallel with his head, as though the hand was trying to reach the short-hafted axe.

  Chapter Seven

  An Insecure Hold

  TWENTY MINUTES! He had not been absent from the hut longer than twenty minutes, and in that short period something had happened to Bisker which looked remarkably like violence. Setting the lamp on the floor, Bony fell to his knees and looked the more closely at Bisker�
��s face. His mouth was slightly open and he was breathing quietly. His coat was unbuttoned and beside him was a corkscrew and a savings-bank deposit book. The pockets of his trousers were inside out, and the evidence appeared clear that all the pockets of his clothes had been rifled. When Bony gripped a shoulder with his hand and gently shook him, Bisker made no response.

  It was then that Bony saw the blood at the back of his head, a patch as large as a five-shilling piece. It was a wound which could not possibly have resulted from accident.

  The rifled pockets indicated that the person who had inflicted the wound had searched for the pens. Beyond Bisker, the blankets of his bed had been pulled away and lay in a heap on the floor. The mattress was turned and tossed as though the searcher had looked under it. Crouched there on the floor, Bony gazed about the hut. On the table stood the bottle with about the same amount of whisky in it that there had been when he left to fetch his blankets. On the shelf above the fireplace an alarm clock stood edgewise to front. Bony remembered that he himself had put the clock there when he brought the box to sit on at the table, but he had not placed it like that. There had been several cheap books at one end of the shelf, and now these lay on the cement slab in front of the hearth. The place had been ransacked. Even the con­tents of an old and battered suitcase lay strewn on the floor.

  One unfamiliar with Bony’s facial reaction to taut nerves might have thought he was smiling. The mouth was wide and the lips parted so that his white teeth were distinctly revealed. There was, however, no smile in the eyes, which now and then glistened when the lamp-light met them at a certain angle. Absent now were the deliberate movements of hands and feet. The nostrils were faintly moving like those of a fox scenting.

  Bony reached across the unconscious Bisker and drew the blankets under the man’s head and shoulders and about his feet and legs. Bisker had not put on his boots, which were under the table. And then seated on the floor beside Bisker, Bony produced tobacco and papers and proceeded to roll a cigarette.