Death of a Swagman Page 8

  The answer was in favour of the poisoning having been done by the man who wore sacking on his feet. Was that man the owner of the dog? That was possible but not probable, for Bony had himself seen the same dog following Mr Jason, Constable Gleeson, two stockmen, and Fanning, the butcher.

  When Bony continued with his work it was to backtrack not only the man’s faint impressions but also to backtrack the perfectly plain tracks of the dog. He was led to the eastern side of the Walls, their leeward side, and here the flank of the sand range abruptly fell more sheerly than the slope of a house roof down to hard white claypans.

  Beyond the claypans, many covering unbrokenly an acre or more, lay a strip of wire-grass country varying in width from half to a full mile away to the edge of thick mulga scrub.

  Bony pursed his lips. Had he been a profane man, he would have sworn, for it was useless to attempt to track across that dense growth of wire grass growing to a height of eighteen inches, grass so springy that beneath the tread of a rhinoceros it would rise again within the hour.

  The man and dog had obviously come up from those claypans and, most probably, from across that wire grass, which would bend but never break and then stand up again within the hour. They could have traversed either the claypans footing the Walls or the wire-grass country for miles from the south or from the north, and now to continue backtracking them would be time ill spent. Where man and animal had climbed up the steep face of the sand cliff, huge dislodgments had scarred the perfectly symmetrical face.

  Having established from which point the man had travelled to the hut at Sandy Flat, it remained for him to ascertain in which direction the man had left. Even that was less important than other work to be done. And after all, with all his minute care to avoid discovery, the man had failed to frustrate Napoleon Bonaparte, failed in his attempt to lead justice to believe that the unfortunate man within the hut had committed suicide, if, indeed, he had been hanged.

  Bony walked southward slowly, rolling the inevitable cigarette now that the tenseness of the chase was relaxed. The great cores of sandstone were not found on this side of the Walls. He stood looking downward upon a huge claypan containing water two inches deep, and down he went in a flurry of sand to reach its edge and follow it round to see if the dog had taken a drink there. The tracks of sheep were left on the softer edge of the pan against the water, and there, too, were the tracks made by two dingoes and many birds and several horses. There were no tracks of the dog having a toenail missing from its forepaw.

  Once again up on the Walls, he continued walking southward, and then, approximately a mile south of the tracks made by man and dog across the roof, he found the tracks of the man returning from the westward side, alone.

  Looking upward at a crow winging softly towards those now far-distant blots on paper, he said:

  “Some people hate you and your kind. I don’t hate you. How often have you black devils led me to a clue of great importance? Well, you to your carcass, and me to my little brain teaser. A man takes extraordinary pains to leave no trace of his walkabout over these beautiful Walls of China at a time when a man is hanging from a crossbeam of a lonely stockman’s hut. Interesting ... most. As Charles would have said, it’s a monty that that poor devil was hanged and did not hang himself. But if I had not discerned those faint straight lines where there are only curved lines, it is probable that the death would have been recorded as suicide.”

  He began the walk to the north-west which would take him directly above Sandy Flat well.

  It was as deserted as when he had left it. There was no sign of the returning police sergeant’s car on the track he could see running from the left-angle turn up to the township. He sat down on a ledge at the base of a sandstone pillar and rolled another cigarette. And two minutes later he vented another long-drawn “Ah!”

  Riding towards him at an easy canter was a woman on a grey horse. She was coming from the south, and so clear was the air he could see the tracks made by her horse on the slope of a whaleback more than half a mile away. She and her horse disappeared in a declivity, to reappear three minutes later much nearer to him. She was, apparently, riding towards the homestead of Wattle Creek.

  “Good morning!” he said, adding hastily: “Or is it good afternoon?” He sighted his own shadow, and then noted the position of the sun. “Why, it is twenty minutes past two.”

  “Why it is twenty minutes past two o’clock!” she exclaimed. “Oh! Good afternoon! You made a remarkably good guess.”

  Bony smiled broadly. The smile lay deep in his blue eyes and lingered about his mouth, revealing his perfect teeth. Then, before the smile had quite departed, he said boastfully:

  “I never guess ... when I am serious. Have you ridden far today?”

  The impertinence of his question went unnoticed. She sat still, looking down at him, whilst telling him that she had ridden out from the homestead that morning to make sure that a mob of horses were getting water. Although he had boasted that he never essayed a guess, he guessed that this girl’s age was in the vicinity of twenty-eight or-nine. She was slight of figure, and she sat her horse as though long accustomed. Khaki jodhpurs and silk blouse, the absence of a hat revealing light blown hair drawn to a bun at the back of her head, showed modern Australian womanhood at its best. She was not actually good looking, but Bony had long reached an age when beauty of personality was more appreciated than skin beauty.

  She appeared oblivious to his degree as stockman, as well as to the fact of his birth. That she should overlook these matters, he prided himself, was due to his own charm. He knew that he could be charming when he wished ... She said, puzzlement leaping into her eyes:

  “But what are you doing here? On foot and no swag! Have you lost your horse?”

  “No. I got the day off, and so decided that I would tour these extraordinary sand walls.”

  “They are certainly well worth a visit. Who are you working for?”

  “His Majesty’s representative, the governor.”

  “The governor!”

  “You see, I insulted the police force over there in Merino, and the police force hauled me before Justice Jason, who ordered me to be held in durance vile for ten long days ... and nights, by the way. Thereupon the police force suggested—suggested, mind you, not ordered—that were I to paint the police station fences a sickly yellow colour I would be given three meals a day by Mrs Marshall and two shillings a day for beer at knock-off time. Today, however, to celebrate the halfway period of my penal sentence, I asked for the day off, threatening that if I were not granted the holiday I would immediately go on strike. If the coal miners can go on strike over stupid and trivial things, why can’t I?”

  The girl tossed back her head and laughed, and he noted how her nose wrinkled at its bridge and how her eyes seemed to dance in the light.

  “The threat of leaving the police station only half painted was sufficient even for Sergeant Marshall,” he went on. “You would appreciate that could you see the new yellow paint over the old blue tints.”

  “I have heard something about you,” she told him, abruptly serious. “Mr James, the minister, spoke to my brother about you. Asked my brother if he could find you a job after your release.”

  “You are, then, Miss Leylan?”

  “Yes. What is your name?”

  “I am known as Robert Burns.” Bony raised a hand and mimicked the parson at Merino. Then he adopted a Scotch accent and denied his descent from the poet. “For some reason unexplained,” he went on, “all my friends call me Bony. I prefer it that way. It saves a lot of arguments.”

  “You speak very well—Bony. Good school?”

  “My father gave me a sound education,” Bony replied gravely. “Do you think your brother will give me a sound job?”

  “Probably. I didn’t actually hear what he said to Mr James. I left them together. Mr James didn’t mention the matter when I saw him this morning.”

  “You saw him this morning?”

  “Oh
yes. We met by chance away out east from the Walls of China a little before I found our horses. The silly man had blown his horse. It was in a lather of sweat and he was rubbing it down with a piece of hessian sacking. If I’m any judge, he would have to walk his horse back to town.”

  “Your brother is a great friend of his, I understand,” Bony suggested.

  “Not exactly. My brother says that the minister makes his toes itch to be up and doing. We like his wife. You will find her a splendid woman. Well, I must be going. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Miss Leylan. By the way, do your men lay poison baits on these Walls of China?”

  “No. Why?”

  “There is a dog dead over there, and I thought it might have picked up a bait.”

  “Indeed!” She turned and gazed in the direction indicated by him. “I’ll ride over and have a look at it.”

  “I have seen it before. It’s a town dog.”

  She heeled her mount round, waved a hand to him, and rode away.

  He turned from watching her to see the dust of a car coming down the slope from Merino, and to murmur:

  “Well! Well! So this very morning Mr James was wiping down his blown horse with a piece of hessian sacking. And Mr Leylan is not a great friend of Mr James, after all. Well! Well! Our official interest in Mr James goes on and on and on.”

  Chapter Nine

  Dr Scott Examines the Body

  DR MALCOLM SCOTT was short, tubby, and sixty, white of hair, and had a fresh complexion which defied the sun. Why he came to practise in Merino no one knew and he never bothered to explain. He arrived, had a comfortable house built between the bank and one of the stores, and quietly settled down to enjoy life in his own manner and alleviate the superficial sufferings of a people notoriously healthy.

  It could be assumed that Merino would have assimilated Dr Scott. To use the vernacular: “What a hope!” Dr Scott assimilated Merino, for he became its first citizen in all activities excepting those connected with the law. He got to know everyone and everything about everyone, or nearly so. And he had the knack of keeping everyone in his place so that he could be familiar to all while none dared be familiar to him.

  He was out of town when Marshall reached Merino, necessitating a wait for an hour, by the end of which Mounted Constable Gleeson’s iron control was beginning to crack. On arrival at Sandy Flat, they discovered Bony sitting on the doorstep of the hut.

  “I hope you brought back the hamper and tea billy,” he said pleasantly, when they had left the car and stood before him. “I am beginning to be hungry.”

  “Stomach! Stomach! Stomach! It’s always stomach,” snorted the doctor. “Can’t you forget your stomach and enjoy good health? And what a place to have a stomach, too! Now Where’s this body?”

  Bony rose to his feet, and said gravely:

  “It awaits you.”

  The three men grouped themselves behind Dr Scott.

  “Coo!” he exclaimed softly. “What’s your opinion, Marshall?”

  “Haven’t decided.” replied the cautious sergeant. “We’d better go in. Have a look, Gleeson, at the way the straps were joined and then tied to the crossbeam. Note the general layout. I’ll open that trap window.”

  Bony did not again enter the hut. He heard Marshall tell his constable to photograph the corpse and the use made of the dead man’s swag straps, and then he walked to the car and took out the hamper and billy can.

  “Ever seen him before, Gleeson?” Marshall asked.

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “How old would he be, Doctor?”

  “About fifty.”

  “Colour of eyes?”

  “Hazel. Grey hair ... was dark brown.”

  “Any distinguishing marks—without stripping him?”

  “Yes. First joint of little finger of right hand missing.”

  “Thanks. We’ll leave the contents of the swag till later, Gleeson. There seems to be nothing else. No fire lit for weeks. He didn’t even have a meal here. Couldn’t have been here long before he died. Shall we take him down, Doctor?”

  “Yes. Get my bag from the car, please, Gleeson. Afterwards we’ll want some hot water—and soap—plenty of it. I see half a bar over on that shelf.”

  Ten minutes later they heard a distant voice shout:

  “Lunchoh!”

  Marshall, who was standing just inside the door, turned about to see Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, the noted crime investigator, standing beside a fire he had made over by the tank stand. In the shadow was the unpacked hamper and a steaming billy. Beside the fire were two petrol buckets of heated water.

  “Ready for a drink of tea, Doctor?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Drink anything ... now,” snapped Scott. “Ugh! Filthy business! Let’s get outside.”

  They were thankful for the hot but fresh air without, and the sergeant wedged shut the door. It seemed to them that they had left a noisome dungeon.

  “Gentlemen! Lunch is served,” Bony said in welcome, and, strangely enough, they were glad to hear the tone of gaiety in his voice. “There is the dish I brought from the hut. Hot water aplenty. I forgot that soap, Marshall. Sorry. Towels are minus.”

  Dr Scott glared.

  “Seen you somewhere,” he said impolitely. “Why, hang it, I remember. You’re the fellow who was painting the police station fence. The colour makes me sick.”

  “It causes Rose Marie to feel sick too,” supplemented Bony. In fifteen minutes he was saying to his guests:

  “Tea in this china cup for you, Doctor. And this other china cup for you, Sergeant. Gleeson and I will drink from these tin pannikins I brought from the hut. It’s all right, Gleeson. They are station property, and I have scoured them well with hot water and sand. What a beautiful day!”

  In after years, whenever the doctor recalled this scene, invariably he remembered the manner in which Bony appeared to evolve from a nebulous figure painting a fence, through the clearer stage of seeing him seated on the doorstep of a hut in which was suspended the body of a man, to this moment when smilingly he proffered to him a cup of tea. Subsequently he always felt like a man who mistook his host for the butler.

  He said to Sergeant Marshall: “You could arrange for the inquest to be held tomorrow. Seems all straightforward.”

  “It will depend upon my superior,” Marshall countered.

  “Your superior?”

  “Permit me to intrude—again,” murmured Bony. “I am going to take you into my confidence, Doctor, because I need your co-operation. I am a detective inspector of the Queensland C.I.B. on loan to this state to look into the circumstances of the death of George Kendall. My name is Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  “What’s that?” exclaimed Scott.

  “That is actually my name. Sandwich?

  “I have made myself au fait with your history, Doctor, and I am entitled by it to be confident that you will maintain what is at present a police secret,” Bony said. “For twenty-eight years you practised in Sydney, where you were widely and favourably known. You came to Merino ten years ago for domestic reasons. Your chief interest in life is the study of biochemistry. Finally: you are known most favourably to the police force at Merino.”

  Dr Scott gazed at Bony with wide eyes. Then he barked:

  “It’s like your impertinence, inquiring into my career as though I were a criminal.” His face was flushed. “My reasons for coming to Merino are my own. My hobbies are my own. My financial affairs are my own. I’ll have you know——”

  “I had to be assured that I could ask you for assistance on the side of justice,” Bony cut in. “You will shortly appreciate the reason for caution, and the irritation caused in you by my cautiousness will probably be balanced by matters of great interest to you as a scientific man.”

  “That’s all right, then. I’m all for law and order, myself.”

  “Good! Another sandwich. What about you, Sergeant? Gleeson?”

  For a little while they ate in silence. Then Bony
spoke.

  “It would seem that in this district there is a quite ruthless killer, a man far removed from the exasperated husband who slays his nagging wife, and far removed, too, from the unthinking thug who waylays and bashes on dark nights. I would not have consented to undertake this investigation were I not assured that the killer of Kendall was a man having intelligence, and, further, that in spite of appearance Kendall was not killed over in that hut.”

  “But I came here that day and saw the body lying on the floor in its own blood,” expostulated Dr Scott, and Gleeson appeared to freeze.

  “Yes, yes! I know you did, as well as others. I know for a fact that Kendall was not killed inside that hut. His body was taken to it and put on the floor and blood, probably sheep’s blood, was poured on the floor to indicate that the man had been killed there. Where he was killed I don’t yet know, and I have yet to establish why. The point of greatest interest is why the killing was staged in the hut, why such efforts were made to divert police attention from the place where the murder was done. Would it be possible, Doctor, for you to identify the blood on the floor from the dried residue?”

  “I am uncertain,” replied Dr Scott. “I will certainly try.”

  “Thank you. If you succeed it would set all your doubts at rest. Now let us pass to the case of Edward Bennett. Tell us what you know about him, professionally.”

  Dr Scott handed round his case, filled with expensive cigarettes. Then:

  “Old Bennett was my very first patient after my arrival in Merino. The condition of his heart was not robust and I warned him to go easy. But his type never goes easy, and I knew that my job was to keep him going as long as possible. Only a week before he did die I told him to cut his hotel bill by half.”

  “He was found in his pyjamas on the floor just inside his front door,” Bony continued. “He died sometime during the night, according to your estimate, as I know quite well that only an estimate can be given of the length of time a human body has been dead. Would it be possible, do you think, that old Bennett could have died through shock, let us say, when he opened his front door?”