The Devil's Steps Page 7

  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.

  He was aware that the walls of the hut were light-proof, and that the blind was much larger than the window and completely masked it. The only possible vent through which a person on the outside could see would be through the door key-hole. The thin slit between the bottom of the door and the bed-log was too low for a man to get his eyes to its level.

  Bony felt he had two responsibilities. One of them was Bisker, and the other was the contents of the twin fountain pens in the leather holder now pinned into a waistcoat pocket. The sooner that material was in Colonel Blythe’s hands, the better.

  Picking up Bisker’s old felt hat, Bony rose to his feet and, silently crossing to the door, hung the hat over the handle and thus blocked the key-hole. As there was little reason why they should freeze, he then went over to the fireplace beside which was a stack of foot-length logs, and there, still facing the door, he bent down and picked up several logs which he threw blindly onto the red embers.

  Continuing to watch the door, Bony left the fireplace for the table, from which he took the whisky bottle and the cup. Then he stepped over Bisker’s body, crouching on its far side to enable him to face the closed door whilst he attempted to revive the man. He got Bisker to swallow a little of the liquor but it had no effect upon him, excepting to cause him to breathe a little stertorously. That encouraged Bony to think that Bisker would shortly recover consciousness and be able to relate what had happened during those twenty minutes he had been absent.

  By Bony’s wrist watch the time was five minutes after nine o’clock.

  At ten o’clock, Bisker was still unconscious, and his condition was worrying Bony, who was beginning to think of going to the house to telephone the doctor. He had not done so before, hoping that Bisker’s head injury would produce unconsciousness merely for a short time, and thus prevent additional complications to a case already well provided with them. Then again, he felt that if Bisker had regained consciousness to relate what had happened, he could have planned ahead. Now, to call the local doctor would also mean reporting to the police, and although he himself would say nothing to them about the fountain pens, they might well learn of them from Bisker when he recovered. There were such matters as State rights and Departmental regulations under which Superintendent Bolt would claim those fountain pens and their contents.

  It was eight minutes past ten when Bony first heard the approaching “drunk.”

  He was not far from the hut, perhaps at the end of the narrow path with the open space fronting the garages. A low mumbling merged into a burst of profanity. Bony heard a hiccough, then a man’s voice complaining:

  “Why don’t you open the ruddy door, Bisker? Here’s me a-wandering around in the flaming darkness, hanging onter a bottle, and there’s you lying in bed snoring yer ruddy head orf. Curse it! If I sings out loud the Jade woman will hear. Like she did larst time.” A period of silence ended with a hoarse appeal: “Bisker, open the flamin’ door so’s I can see where I am.”

  Bony remained seated on the floor beside Bisker.

  From beyond the door he could hear the “drunk” talking quietly to himself, the thought of Miss Jade apparently still uppermost in his mind. Presently, when he made another appeal, Bony knew he was much nearer the door.

  “A bloke oughter be shot. Trying to take a drink to a pal, and he won’t open the door to give a bit of light. Hey, Bisker! If you don’t open the door I’ll roar the place down and bring Miss Jade along.”

  There followed more mumbled growling interspersed with oaths, and then a body lurched against the wall of the hut beside the door. The sound of this body sliding to the ground down the wall was illuminating to the listening Bony.

  “Well, I’m here,” solemnly announced the gentleman without. “This ruddy tree’s as good as any other, I s’pose. Silly fool, Bisker! Where’s me bottle? Coo ... I thought I ’ad lorst me little darlin’. Wonder ’ow far that ’ut is from ’ere.”

  A little later, the “drunk” clawed his way to his feet, and Bony heard him say:

  “Flamin’ ’ut must be the other side this tree. I’ll go round ’er and then I might see the ’ut.”

  Against the corrugated sheets forming the walls, Bony could hear the man’s hands and occasionally his feet when they kicked against the iron. He passed round one corner, passed the window and so passed round the next corner, the while complaining:

  “Mighty big tree. Biggest tree I ever see. Biggest tree in Gippsland. Biggest tree in Australia.” On coming again to the door he said: “Biggest tree in the world.” Silence.... Then: “Where the flamin’ ’ell am I? Could ’ave swore I was on Bisker’s track.” Then he began to sing: “‘I’m the cock of Glasgee Town...’”

  Bony got up from the floor and crossed to the door which he opened and flung back—to look down the ugly snout of a squat black japanned revolver, and above the weapon at the black mask over a man’s face.

  “Reach high—quick!”

  The order was spoken low and menacingly.

  Bony raised his arms, and at the same time the heat of anger rose up his neck into his head.

  “Back! Back you go!”

  Bony backed and as he did so the masked man entered the hut, closing the door behind him with his free hand. He was of medium height and weight. The hand gripping the pistol stock was white; obviously its owner was one who spurned labouring work. The lounge suit of navy blue was well cared for, the trousers expertly pressed, as were the sleeves of the coat.

  “Back a bit more mister,” came the order, and Bony backed until he came against the table. “A little to your left. That’s it. Now sit down on the box. Keep your hands up—I might get nervous.” Bony obeyed. The intruder himself began to back away, away towards the body of Bisker and the hurricane lamp. His eyes could be seen beyond the holes in what was a dark blue kerchief, their gleam reflecting the light of the fire. They appeared never to blink. They kept their fixed stare upon Bony even as their owner bent his knees and picked up the lamp and placed it on the table.

  “Now then—where’s your gun?” he demanded. “Don’t back and fill. I’d much prefer to shoot and then take what I want. Where’s your gun?”

  “In my coat pocket,” replied Bony, his voice toneless.

  “Stand up.”

  Bony obeyed, and the business end of the weapon was pressed into the pit of his stomach.

  “If you’ve got any imagination, you’ll feel right now what a bullet in the stomach is like. What pocket is your gun in?”

  “Right.”

  The eyes behind the mask bored into Bony’s blazing blue ones. The pressure of the gun against his stomach remained dreadfully steady. He felt the hand enter his coat pocket, felt the small automatic being withdrawn. He was furiously angry, not with the masked man but with himself, angry at having been so stupid as to fall into such a simple trap.

  “Now we’ll have the pens in the little leather holder. Where have you got them?”

  “Spit the rubber out of your mouth and talk plain,” suggested Bony.

  “Smart, eh? Come on. Talk about fountain pens.”

  Bony hesitated, then decided it was useless to prevaricate.

  “They are in the top-left waistcoat pocket.”

  “Good! You just keep your hands up and don’t worry about me. I like helping myself.”

  Bony abruptly found difficulty in maintaining his gaze direct to the masked eyes, and it was greatly to his credit that he maintained the stony expression on his own face, for beyond the masked man he could see Bisker, and Bisker was standing up on his own two feet. Hallucination, surely! If only he, Bony, dared look away from the masked face to make sure that it was Bisker behind the fellow, Bisker standing up, and gently swaying to the r
ight, where lay the axe. A hand unbuttoned Bony’s coat, felt behind the cloth for the pens, found them, and began to endeavour to unfasten the pins fastening the leather holder to the cloth.

  Bony could not now see Bisker out of the corner of an eye, and he began to wonder whether what he had seen had been a vision conjured by wishful thinking. The hand at his waistcoat pocket was becoming impatient with the pins, and thus the pins became more obstinate. The hand then felt under Bony’s right armpit—then flashed across to the left.

  “Undo those pins and hand the pens to me,” came the order.

  “Do it yourself,” snarled Bony.

  “I’ll give you one chance more. Only one. What about it?”

  The voice was brittle, hard and merciless. Bony lowered his arms, slowly, for the weapon was aimed at his stomach with a steadiness which was appalling. He was obliged to tilt his face forward to see what he was doing, and then, glancing upward, he again saw Bisker, this time to the right of the masked man. And Bisker had taken up the axe.

  “Come on! What are you mucking about for?” demanded the masked man.

  “Use your eyes and see,” Bony suggested, and hoped greatly that Bisker would do nothing whilst that gun was pressed into his stomach. He freed the holder from the cloth, and drew it out of the pocket and held it forward. It was snatched from him, and the masked man stepped two paces back, two paces nearer the waiting Bisker.

  Bony’s arms were beginning to tire, but the weapon in the steady hand of the masked man was still aimed directly at the centre of his stomach. Beyond the masked man, he could see Bisker, and Bisker was holding the axe above and behind his own head. Bony could just see its blade. It was rust-stained and remarkably blunt.

  It was then that from outside there came a loud and long cry. It sounded not unlike a circular saw jamming in the cut and rapidly being stopped. The masked face confronting Bony tilted upward in an attitude of startled listening. Then upon the roof a heavy object fell with a resounding crash. There followed a slow slithering of some object down the iron roof, and finally a dull thud just beyond the door.

  “What’s that?” demanded the masked man, and in his voice Bony detected alarm.

  “Friend of mine,” replied Bony, aware that two opossums had fought on a tree branch immediately above the hut, and that the vanquished had been forced to fall to the roof.

  The man’s next action placed Bisker at a disadvantage. Knowing that if he struck with the axe the weapon might be fired with fatal results to Bony, Bisker waited in the belief that what had happened to himself was about to happen to Bony. Bony would be ordered to turn about and then the masked man would reverse his weapon and bring the butt down hard on his head. It was Bisker’s intention to wait until the moment that the weapon was raised in reverse to deal the blow.

  The cry of the opossum and the crash on the roof unnerved the masked man, whose desire now was to escape. Still covering Bony, he half turned and began backing towards the door, when he saw Bisker standing like a very bad imitation of the Javelin Thrower.

  “Bit too late,” he cried loudly. “Either of you move, and I’ll drill him first and the other last.”

  “Mind the step as you go out,” Bony said softly, and so astonished Bisker that the axe above his head wobbled and came to rest on a shoulder.

  The masked man had now reached the door against which he stood with his back to it whilst his free hand searched for the handle. Gradually Bony’s knees bent, bringing his body in readiness to spring forward, and slowly Bisker’s axe moved up from his shoulder and then outward as he prepared to throw the “javelin.” The man’s hand found the door handle, and he stepped aside to permit the door to be pulled inward. His revolver still did not waver off a line midway between Bisker and the detective.

  It was not unlike a slow-motion picture which in a flash was increased to normal speed. The masked man wrenched open the door. For a second he continued to menace Bony and Bisker with his weapon, and then he stepped backward out through the doorway, to emit a yell as he stepped on the body of the opossum which, rolling under his foot, precipitated him on his back on the path.

  Bisker’s axe was the first to arrive at the doorway. The head got through the opening all right, but the haft caught the left-hand post and the implement fell to the floor. The next to arrive was Bony, and he passed through the doorway without touching the floorboards. The third was Bisker, but he moved over the floor and was slow by comparison. Having emerged from his dwelling, he heard noises indicative of a struggle going on somewhere in the dark, and his primitive mind directed him to return for the lamp and the axe. The lamp in his left hand and the axe in his right, he rushed out once again—to meet Bony staggering towards him and holding a hand to his cheek.

  “He got away, unfortunately, Bisker,” Bony said, pantingly. “Caught me on the cheek-bone with his gun. Better get inside again and see to the damage. How are you feeling?”

  “There ‘as been times when I’ve felt better,” replied Bisker. “And I’d be feelin’ worse than I do if that bloke ’ad drunk the whisky.” Having put the lamp down on the table, he turned to Bony to see blood trickling downward between the fingers of the hand held against his cheek. When Bony removed his hand, he said: “Hum! Bit of a scratch. Better let me pour a drop or two of kero on it.”

  He brought a beer bottle of kerosene and administered to Bony’s superficial wound by drenching a handkerchief with the oil and squeezing the liquid upon the open cut, then giving the handkerchief to Bony to press against the cut to stop the bleeding. Into the palm of his left hand he poured more kerosene and slapped it against the lacerated portion of his own scalp. It was done so casually that Bony could not help laughing.

  “Best thing on earth,” Bisker said almost cheerfully. “Next best thing to kero is whisky, but what a waste that would ’ave been. What about a taste?”

  Bony was liking Bisker more and more perhaps because under nervous strain Bisker was becoming more akin to his natural self. He expressed the thought that the suggestion might be accepted, and a few moments later, when he discovered that the bleeding had stopped, he sat at the table with Bisker and made a cigarette despite the smell of kerosene on his hands.

  “What do we do next?” Bisker asked, as though the recent ten minutes were a normal period of life.

  “Tell me what happened to you,” replied Bony.

  “Me? Why, I was stirring up the fire when the door was opened. I thought it was you come ’ome, and I says when me back is to the door: ‘You was pretty nippy,’ meaning you hadn’t taken long to get your blankets. Then I hears a strange voice saying: ‘You just stand up straight and turn round.’ So I stands up and I turns round to look down the barrel of a revolver. Then I looks up above the gun and sees the bloke with the mask over ‘is face.

  “’E says: ‘Up with ’em!’ Well there’s nothin’ else I can do—like singing a song or doing a bit of a dance. Then ’e says: ‘Wot did you dig outer the shrub tub?’ and I tells ’im I dug up me bottle of rat death. Then he asks me wot else I dug up, and I tells ’im I don’t dig up nothing else. ’E calls me a liar—me, mind you—and I can’t seem to do nothing about it. ’E said: ‘You dug up a couple of fountain pens in a leather holder when you dug up your bottle. You ’and the pens over to me—quick.’ I says: ‘I’m telling you I ain’t got ’em.’ ’E says: ‘Then Bonaparte’s got ’em. You turn round.’

  “So I turns round. Then a comet hit me fair in the eyes. When I wakes up, I finds meself lying comfortable. I ‘as a bit of a ’eadache, and I ’ears the bloke talking to you about the pens. Then I turns me ’ead and sees ’im standing with ‘is back to me and you standing with your ‘ands up. So I gets me axe, and I waits me chance because I can’t do nothing while he’s got that gun pointed at you. It might have gorn off.”

  “It certainly might,” Bony agreed with feeling, and then related how he had been fooled. “You didn’t recognize the fellow by his voice?”

  Bisker shook his head whilst he s
wirled whisky about his teeth.

  “Did you notice his hands?”

  “Not particularly. I was too interested in ‘is gun.”

  “Think back. Have you seen anyone wearing a hat like that fellow was wearing?”

  Bisker pondered, his grey eyes screwed to the size of peas. Then he said: “No, I can’t remember anyone special wearing a hat like that. Plenty of blokes wear black felt hats these days with the front of the brim turned well down. ’E’s no bushman, that bloke, or he wouldn’t ’ave been frightened when them ’possums ’ad a fight and one fell on the roof. That upset ’im sorta.”

  Bony smiled.

  “He was certainly upset when he trod on it outside the door. Tell me, how can I get to Melbourne tonight?”

  “Ring up the bus bloke for a hire car. Get a train at Manton.”

  “Hum! How else—other than ringing for a hire car?”

  “Walk, Manton’s nine miles. You might pull up a car overtaking you.”

  “Could you tramp nine miles, d’you think?”

  “I could. But why?”

  “It might be better for you to pack and come with me,” Bony replied. “Then you could leave tomorrow for Windee Station. The owner would take you on. I could send him a telegram about you.”

  “Mind me askin’ wot you’re gonna do?”

  “No. I am going to Melbourne tonight, and probably will return tomorrow to finish my holiday.”

  Bisker was staring at Bony, and his gaze shifted to the whisky bottle, remained on that for five seconds, and finally returned to Bony.

  “When I was standin’ with me axe at the ready,” he said softly, as though thinking someone was listening at the keyhole, “I sort of remembered about you. I ’eard about you three years back when I was west of Cunnamulla. You coming back ’ere tomorrow tells me you ain’t finished with the lad wot bashed me and stole them pens of’n you. Now wot about you taking me on as your offsider? Blokes don’t bash me about and get away with it.”