Bony - 20 - The Battling Prophet Read online

  “He did not say one word. Jackson said he spoke twice to him, and there was no reply. I did not see him after he returned. The next morning he seemed nothing unusual.”

  “It would appear, Doctor, that Mr. Wickham did not visit the bank manager to play cards or to enjoy a social evening. Both the time and the period of time are against it. Was Jackson able to describe the men who emerged with Mr. Wickham?”

  “It is for that I asked Jackson, Inspectore. He said he had noted the two who had called at the office, and the two with Mr. Wickham at the bank were not the same. He heard them say good-night to Mr. Wickham, and they were not aliens.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Wickham kept his secrets as well as securities at the bank.”

  “No,” replied Dr. Linke, a huge hand waving triumph­antly. “I asked Mrs. Parsloe and she informed me she had gone to the Commonwealth Bank and the other two banks to enquire what they held for Mr. Wickham. They held nothing at all. And the lawyer had nothing, not even the will.”

  “Does Mrs. Parsloe know that her brother paid that visit to the bank manager?”

  “I did not tell her. Jackson did not tell her. We did not because Mr. Wickham had instructed Jackson not to say.”

  “Did you happen to record the number of the car which brought the two men to the office?”

  “No. But Jackson did so. It was X 10007. A Humber.”

  “I must become acquainted with Mr. Jackson. Did Mr. Wickham ever say, even hint, that he might present his life’s work to a Government … any Government?’;

  “I cannot be precise,” replied Linke. “I believe that Mr. Wickham tried much time ago to assist the Australian Government.”

  “I might be able to answer that one,” Jessica said from the kitchen doorway. “Five years ago Mr. Wickham did approach Canberra. The outcome was that he was rebuffed on the ground that his methods were unorthodox in the view of meteorological experts. He told me that he would not again approach the Commonwealth Government. He spoke bitterly, and had every cause to do so.”

  Mr. Luton nudged the girl, and she turned to take from him a tray on which were plates and a larger plate of meat sandwiches. He followed her, carrying another tray bearing tea cups and tea.

  “Ben got no change from the Commonwealth Govern­ment,” he said, his eyes small and hard. “He never said why, but I know why. If the Gov’ment had accepted Ben’s methods of long-range forecastin’ all the duds in the Meteoro­logical Departments would be out of work, and they’d all turn agin’ the Gov’ment at the next election.”

  “It’s true, and that’s Australia all over,” was the support he received from Jessica Lawrence. “You can’t do anything, get anywhere, in this country unless you belong to a trade union. It doesn’t matter how clever you are, unless the powers that be say ‘Bless you, my brain child.’ Mr. Wickham was an outsider, so he couldn’t possibly know anything about weather science. There are fully qualified doctors working as labourers because they qualified in Europe and won’t be accepted by the local medical union. Carl has been a qualified meteorologist for fifteen years, and they’d put him to work ploughing or milking cows.”

  Doctor Linke held up a hand, saying:

  “Please, my Jessica. You ought not to speak so of the Government, of the leaders of this Australia.”

  “I will, Carl. I can and I will,” the girl flashed at him.

  “Same here,” shouted Mr. Luton, pouring the tea on the tray instead of into a cup. “To hell with the Gov’ment, the loafing, lazy, money-grabbing bas . …”

  “Now, now!” interposed Bony, laughingly, “you must not unduly shock Dr. Linke, who hasn’t been long enough in the country to appreciate that one of our remaining freedoms is to gibe at the antics of our multiple rulers.”

  Mr. Luton chuckled; Jessica squeezed her sweetheart’s arm, and Bony led the way to less contentious subjects. He felt that he was knowing Ben Wickham much more than hitherto and that Wickham must have been a great man to have inspired loyalty in such contrasting people.

  As the girl and Linke were leaving, she squeezed the hand of Mr. Luton, and thanked him warmly for his hospitality, and he looked down upon her from his great height and chuckled.

  “Fine young woman,” he said when again seated with Bony. “I like that German more than I did. Some of ’em must have had a rough time.”

  “What he told us was significant,” Bony said. “There is one point, however, which isn’t as sharp as others. One day Mrs. Parsloe opens the private safe and does not find the secret notebook, and the next day the Investigation man arrives to put Linke through the mill. The period is too short between the time Mrs. Parsloe reported Linke and the time the Commonwealth I.S. man arrived. I must find out if he has an office at Cowdry, or was staying at Cowdry. And why.”

  “Think he could have burgled the office for Ben’s books and things?” asked Mr. Luton. He smiled. “It would be funny if he did, ’cos I’ve an idea.”

  “Many ideas are productive of great results, Mr. Luton.”

  “Can you pick locks?”

  “I am a professional,” replied Bony gravely.

  “That don’t tell me much, but I’ll pass it. Down below there’s a chest what Ben kept things in. After we decided on that last bender, he went down there with some papers in a leather case. Might be we could take a look.”

  This time Bony smiled broadly. “I saw a piece of wire just outside the kitchen door. As you suggest, we will look at once.”

  He brought the wire when Mr. Luton was locking the front door. Then he made sure that the window blind was drawn that there was no possibility of anyone looking into the living-room-kitchen from without. He pushed the table to one side, and carefully rolled the linoleum so that it would not crack or crease.

  “A long time ago, the Parsloe woman came and found me and Ben on a bender,” he said. “We’d got a supply of whisky from the pub in Cowdry, and she heard about it. So we dug the hole, as I told you, and carried the mullock down the garden so’s no one would know. Ben had a friend up in Adelaide, and the friend has a son who has a car and an out­size caravan. So every year when the fishing is good, the friend and his son come down with a load of grog to keep us stocked up.”

  Mr. Luton set a match to the wick of an oil-lamp. He lifted a trap-door to disclose a flight of wood steps flanked by a hand­rail. He went ahead carrying the lamp, and a moment later Bony stood in the cellar and began to chuckle.

  “What d’you think of her?” asked Mr. Luton, having set the lamp on a bar of polished red-wood. Behind the bar the shelves were packed with bottles of spirits. In front of the bar were two cuspidors and two wood box seats. There were veritable stacks of cased spirits along one side of the cellar, which was as large as the living-room and the sitting-room combined.

  “Are all those cases full?” Bony asked.

  “Well, me and Ben never had no use for empty cases.”

  Bony sat on the pile of two which served as a seat at the bar. He noticed that none of the shelved bottles had been opened, and the proud Mr. Luton guessed the thought and said:

  “We used to spend a lot of time down here, before Knocker called pretty late one night and we had to rush up top and straighten things quick enough to stop him getting suspicious. After that we didn’t use the place as a pub, just kept her as a store. Just as well, too, because the steps got awkward as time went on, and then there was always the lamp.”

  “Harris doesn’t know about this cellar?”

  “That’s right, Inspector. No one knows. Only me and you.”

  “And Ben’s friend and the friend’s son?”

  “They don’t know, either. When they brought the supplies we got ’em to stack it all in the sitting-room, and out in the shed. Brought it down here ourselves.”

  “And how long has this been going on?”

  Mr. Luton chortled, and was frank enough.

  “Eleven year back I was sort of retired on a small place I had on the Darling, and Ben came there and wanted me to co
me and live near him. Said he owned a nice little cottage where I’d be comfortable and he could come and have a drink without being blackguarded by his relations. So I sold out up north and came here. Now he’s dead I think I’ll go back up north. They always say that once you’ve been on the Darling River you’re bound to go back to die on her. Ah, now! Ben’s box.”

  Mr. Luton pulled down a stack of whisky to disclose a long cedarwood chest having a heavy brass lock and two heavy brass clasps, and, under the minute, Bony had the lid raised. There were several hard-board, loose-leaf files, a large envelope un­sealed, and a green-covered notebook.

  Chapter Nine

  Just A Country Town

  TEN o’clock the next morning found Bony and Mr. Luton on the high road to Cowdry. It was Friday, market-day, and both intended to shop. The sun was masked by scudding cloud racing eastward, and the air was cold with the acrid, scentless tang of drought. But a good day for walking.

  “I intend to interview the manager of the Commonwealth Bank,” Bony said when they were nearing the town, at a pace that Mr. Luton thought too slow. “Do you happen to know the staff at the bank?”

  “I know ’em by sight, but not all of ’em by name,” replied the ageless man. “Manager’s name is McGillycuddy. There’s two clerks. One is Craig and I think the other’s called McKenzie. The cashier’s name is Kirkdale, and a young brat of an office boy who don’t do much but read comics. Then there’s a couple of young flips.”

  “Why is it that our national banking institution is over­loaded with Scotchmen, and the Customs Department is snowed under with Irishmen?” asked Bony, and his walking companion chuckled and replied, evading the question.

  “Now, now, no sectarianism.”

  “I was merely being conversational,” Bony observed with slight asperity, and again Mr. Luton chuckled.

  “I’m careful because underneath Cowdry there’s a lot of it, the sort of sectarianism which don’t always apply to religion. Out a bit from town there’s a settlement of small market-gardeners what is crammed with Italians. There’s some in Cowdry who hates them, and some they hate, with reason. So the Scotties run the banks, the Irish run the Gov’ment Depart­ments, the Italians run the market gardens, and the Australians chew tobacco and lean up against veranda posts. If only all these ruddy lunatics would forget their grandfathers, the country would be worth livin’ in.”

  “I agree, Mr. Luton. How is Cowdry off for Com­munists?”

  “There’s a local branch, so says Knocker Harris, who thinks he’s a comrade. The chemist is the worshipful master. Then there’s the Masons, the Buffaloes, and the Rechabites. Knocker has belonged to all of ’em except the Masons, who wouldn’t have him.”

  “Quite a town,” Bony said as they rounded a bend and came in sight of it.

  “Nine pubs, racecourse, two bowling clubs, golf club, tennis clubs, and a two-up school back from the wharf a bit on Sundays.”

  “Think I could hire a motor-boat for the week?”

  “Out of season, but you might. I know a man who has one with a trusty engine.”

  “Would be better than walking back. By the way, that seat outside a hotel mentioned by Harris. From it would you be able to keep the Commonwealth Bank under observation?”

  “Easy.”

  “Where is the Post Office?”

  “Opposite the bank.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Luton. I want you to sit on that seat, watch me enter the bank, watch the bank till I come out and until I join you again, which might not be for half an hour, and make a note of any member of the bank staff who might leave the bank, and where he goes. Clear?”

  Mr. Luton nodded happily. They came to Main Street, fairly wide and lined with the usual shop and office buildings. Bony estimated the town population at something like two thousand. It had the conventional stone soldier blowing his bugle, the horse-troughs where no horses ever again would drink, and the usual posts supporting the usual shop verandas, with the usual people leaning against them even though it was only a quarter to eleven in the morning.

  The Commonwealth Bank was of sandstone that needed washing or painting, and having parked Mr. Luton on the hotel seat, Bony entered. He was confronted by a long counter supporting much brass grille work, and to an unengaged cashier presented his card and asked to see the manager.

  “I’ll see if the manager is free,” the cashier said, the burr very faint. He nodded to a point behind Bony. “Take a seat over there, please.”

  Bony turned to observe the seat, a hard bench against the wall. It seemed almost that the cashier suspected a hold-up, that he hated anyone to pause too close to his cage. Bony turned back to the cashier, his eyes now glacial.

  “Inform the manager that I’m a busy man, without delay.”

  The civil servant opened his mouth, shut it as though it ought to be shut, and departed. Bony leaned elegantly against the counter and rolled a cigarette, watched by the cashier in the next cage, who betrayed anger that this customer didn’t swiftly obey the order to withdraw to the bench and wait till he was called. When the cashier returned, Bony’s brows rose to a supercilious question mark.

  “The manager will see you. That door.”

  The cashier pointed to a stained door off the main hall, and Bony sauntered to it, opened it without knocking. The man seated beyond a large table desk didn’t look up from his writing until Bony sank into the chair placed for the bank’s clients.

  “Detective-Inspector Bonaparte? What can we do for you?”

  The voice was low and hard and also, like the cashier’s, just touched with a burr.

  “Are you Mr. McGillycuddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am hoping for co-operation, Mr. McGillycuddy. Did the late Mr. Ben Wickham have an account here?”

  “Mr. Wickham … Mr. Ben Wickham … an account here? No, Inspector.”

  “Did he lodge securities with this bank?”

  “No, Inspector. What’s on your mind?”

  “The bank, therefore, did not have any official interest in the late Mr. Wickham’s affairs?”

  “That is so.”

  Bony produced his pocket-book bearing his identification card.

  “I am not an officer of the South Australian Department, as you will see, Mr. McGillycuddy. You need feel no obligation to answer my questions or give the information I desire. I have recently completed an assignment with the South Australian Police Department, and doubtless could obtain a further seconding from my Department if necessary.”

  “Of course, Inspector.” The manager was now suavely affable. “The precise nature of your official position at the moment need not concern us.”

  “I thank you,” drawled Bony, and produced his tobacco pouch and papers. The manufacture of the terrible cigarette fascinated Mr. McGillycuddy, and when burning tobacco threads fell to his blue carpet, he restrained a shudder.

  “I am prosecuting a line of enquiry into the activities of the late Mr. Wickham,” Bony went on, “and I have learned that on the night of July 13th he paid a visit to this bank, following a conversation on the telephone you had with him early in the evening. I would be vitally assisted did you inform me of the reason for that visit.”

  “Mr. Wickham did not come here, Inspector! He was never one of our clients, as I admitted a moment ago.”

  “Oh! A social visit, perhaps.”

  “No. I did not know Mr. Wickham well enough for him to visit me in private hours.”

  “Well, well! I find it disturbing to have doubt cast on the veracity of my informants.”

  Their eyes clashed. The manager’s gaze didn’t waver, nor did the expression of polite interest wane.

  “Obviously, Inspector, you have been misinformed. Mr. Wickham did not call on me at any time.”

  “Too bad.” Bony pretended to be vexed and seemed in no hurry to depart. “After Mr. Wickham died, were you ever asked if he had lodged securities with you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, his sister called one
morning say­ing they were unable to locate some important documents and asking if we had them. I told her we held nothing belonging to her late brother. Is it … are you interested in those missing documents?”

  “Partly, Mr. McGillycuddy, partly. Mr. Wickham appears to have been lax in matters not immediately connected with his work. Well, I won’t keep you longer. Thank you.”

  “Anything, Inspector, that we can do to assist you.” The manager came from behind his desk and accompanied his visitor to the door. They shook hands, and Bony stepped into the main hall and heard the door close behind him.

  Crossing to the bench he sat with several clients, and with some deliberation withdrew a notebook from his breast pocket and proceeded to pencil notes in a shorthand he could not decipher, nor could his close neighbours on the bench. There were then no clients actually being attended to by the cashiers. The cashier who had taken his card to the manager left his cage and passed in the direction of the manager’s office. Covertly watched by the second cashier, Bony continued with his meaningless notes. A number was called and a client rose from the bench and walked to the grille of the second cashier, who pushed money and a bank-book under the grille to her.

  The first cashier was absent a full three minutes, and he had been back in his cage a minute when Bony casually returned the notebook to his breast pocket, rose and sauntered out.

  At the kerb lounged First Constable Gibley. Gibley was in plain clothes, and was apparently astonished to see Napoleon Bonaparte make his exit from the Commonwealth Bank.

  “Hullo! Mornin’, Inspector! How did you get along with the Reverend yesterday afternoon?”

  “He annoyed me,” the smiling Bony told the policeman. “Cast his line within a yard of mine and instantly hooked a sizeable bream. And I’d been there for hours.”

  Gibley’s chuckle was more a rumble deep in his hard stomach.

  “You can’t beat the Church,” he said. “In for the day?”

  “Yes, a few things I want. A road map of the locality. Where is the bookshop?”