Bushranger of the Skies

by Arthur W. Upfield

“A Detective-Inspector,” Bony corrected. “May I sit down?”

  “Eh ... what!”

  “I suggest that you invite me to be seated.”

  “Oh—ah—yes, certainly. Take that chair. Put the hat and whip on the desk.”

  “Thank you.”

  A rising tide of red blood deepened the tanned complexion of the squatter. He felt he had been reproved for lack of manners, and this he did not like. A Detective-Inspector indeed! Silently, he watched Bonaparte manufacture a cigarette and light it; watched the spent match being placed in the neatly halved and beautifully carved emu egg-shell which served as an ash tray. And then the stranger’s clear blue eyes were regarding him.

  “I have been in the Queensland Police Force for twenty-two years, Mr McPherson,” Bony said, calmly. “I have ranked as inspector for twelve years. Having been asked to conduct an investigation into matters unusual in the Land of Burning Water, matters such as the murder of two stockmen, it was my intention to arrive incognito. Events which have occurred today, however, have resulted in a change of mind.”

  “Looks as though Sergeant Errey is too damned interfering,” McPherson said, harshly. “I can myself deal with the stockmen affair and other annoyances.”

  “Quite so,” Bony agreed. “Annoyances, yes. The killing of aboriginal stockmen is more serious than an annoyance. The somewhat prolonged hostility between the Wantella tribe and the wilder Illprinka blacks has become more than an annoyance to certain public bodies.”

  “Well, I wish the societies and the police would leave me and my blacks alone to deal with what are our affairs and what I have said are annoyances. My father dealt with many in his time. We are not here living in a flash city, or even within reasonable distance of any police controlled township. My station nowhere joins settled country, as you probably know. Out here a squatter has to be a law to himself. He finds yelling for a policeman is useless, when the nearest policeman is almost a hundred miles away and worked to the bone doing things which are not true police work.”

  “Still, the times are different from those of, say, twenty years ago,” argued Bonaparte.

  “The times here are no different from what they were when by father settled here eighty years ago,” flashed McPherson. “The trouble among the blacks is their affair, and they can look after it. The theft of my cattle is my affair, and I can attend to that. When the wild blacks who killed my two stockmen are caught they can be handed over to Sergeant Errey. There is no cause for a Detective-Inspector to come out here to investigate what’s plain and above-board.”

  “Still, those public bodies I mentioned are persistent,” Bony pointed out, smiling slightly. “I have here an official communication addressed to Sergeant A.V. Errey, and others whom it may concern. In the circumstances I will open it. It introduces me to Sergeant Errey and others. It gives specific instructions, and it is signed by the Chief Commissioner of Police for South Australia, who has borrowed my services.”

  The letter was accepted and read by McPherson. He appeared to take longer than was necessary, but other than anger no emotion was betrayed by him. Without comment the letter was passed back to Bonaparte.

  “You must have met Sergeant Errey on the road.”

  “Was that him driving the coupe car?”

  “Yes. He left here about twelve, taking with him a black to Shaw’s Lagoon for further questioning.”

  “Indeed! Any other passenger?”

  “Only Mit-ji, a Wantella man.”

  “Sergeant Errey had been out here several days, had he not?”

  “Yes, ten days to be accurate. He’s a keen man, and he came to go into the matter of the murdered stockmen. Drove the car to a hut forty miles out on the run and from there took to horses.”

  Bonaparte lit his third cigarette. Then:

  “Did he say if he was at all successful in his investigation?”

  “I think he had hope that way, but he was fairly closemouthed. How did you come to miss him on the road?”

  Almost unconsciously McPherson’s attitude was changing. He was beginning to recognize in Napoleon Bonaparte those qualities Bony had in a flash of time recognized in Chief Burning Water. There was growing in the squatter’s mind a conviction that the stranger was all he said he was, and all that was said of him in the undoubtedly genuine letter signed by a Chief Commissioner of Police.

  The change was evident not only in McPherson’s voice. It was revealed by changing poise. He was becoming cautious.

  “I will come back to Errey in a moment,” Bony said, quickly, and added with notable deliberateness: “Who out here owns an aeroplane?”

  “Who——”

  McPherson paused to stare at the stranger to the Land of Burning Water; then his gaze passed to beyond the window.

  “An aeroplane! Why, I know of no one who owns an aeroplane. Why?”

  Bony’s agile mind sought for truth, and found it. This man did not know who owned an aeroplane, but the question created the belief that some particular person could own an aeroplane.

  “I have become interested in an aeroplane; fast, a monoplane, painted a uniform silver-grey, and flown by an expert. It came from the west; it returned to the west. What stations are in that direction?”

  “None for four hundred and fifty miles. Beyond my western boundary the country is unfenced, virgin. It’s all poorish country, able to carry stock only after a winter like we’ve had this year. It’s inhabited only by those Illprinka blacks, and they have caused the trouble here in recent years.”

  “Well it’s most curious,” Bony said, lighting yet another cigarette and dropping the burned match into the emu-shell tray. “You know, of course, those cabbage-trees growing beside the road on those hills yonder?”

  McPherson nodded.

  “I was camped in their shade at noon today eating my lunch, and this is what happened.”

  Slowly, precisely, Bonaparte related the extraordinary incidents culminating in his meeting with Chief Burning Water. He spoke like an expert police witness although he had never entered a witness-stand since he had risen to the rank of inspector. But while he was speaking he watched the reactions of the man listening to him. These neither pleased nor disappointed; they were the normal reactions of any decent man to a story so terrible.

  “So you see,” Bony concluded, “while you have a right to regard the theft of your cattle as an annoyance, and, considering the circumstances of your isolation here, can even be permitted to regard the murder of two of your aboriginal stockmen as a matter for your personal attention, this murder of Sergeant Errey falls into a much more serious category, one which rightfully requires the services of a Detective-Inspector. Who do you think, might be flying that machine?”

  Bony fancied that McPherson’s lips were less coloured with blood, a little grey; but the grey eyes were steady and hard and the voice was brittle.

  “I don’t know who might own such an aeroplane, and if I thought of any who might own an aeroplane I would not name him. It would not be just.”

  Bony bowed his head, and he said:

  “I deserve that reproof, Mr McPherson. To resume. Two points regarding the murderous attack on Sergeant Errey are obvious. First: the pilot knew that Errey was leaving today for Shaw’s Lagoon. Second: he was sufficiently well practised in dropping bombs to hit two targets in succession—the trees beneath which I was camped, and Errey’s car which was moving. There are, too, excellent grounds for a supposition.”

  Here Bony swiftly related the arrival of the Illprinka men and their subsequent attack on him and Burning Water.

  “It looks as though those Illprinka men were purposely camped not far from the gully into which the burning car rolled; that they were detailed, as it were, to be in readiness to remove anything which escaped destruction. The leader betrayed as much when he insisted that I gave him Errey’s attaché case. If this is all true, then the pilot is in league with the Illprinka tribe. Do you know of any white man living away out in that open country?”<
br />
  “No, I do not,” instantly came the reply, and Bony was satisfied. “Those blacks are getting beyond endurance. Did my people capture any of them?”

  “One, I think. I clubbed him with my pistol. Another, the leader, was killed, if memory serves me. He was an evil fellow, anyway, and he tried hard to kill me.”

  A gong at the rear of the house was struck, evidently announcing dinner. McPherson rose to his feet as though he had been impatiently waiting to hear it. He stood staring down at the still-seated Bonaparte who again observed that occasionally the squatter could not mask his thinking. His problem was how to place as a guest a half-caste detective-inspector—accept him into his house, or have him conducted to the men’s quarters. Quite clearly Bony saw it: saw, too, the decision when it was made.

  McPherson on his feet was less physically imposing. His legs were short and bowed by much riding. He said briskly:

  “You had better come and be introduced to my niece who has run the place since my mother died. Where did you leave your swag?”

  “Out at the back of the office.”

  “It’ll be all right there. I’ll have it taken to your room later on. Any luggage at Shaw’s Lagoon?”

  “Two suitcases. I left them at the police-station. I see you have a telephone, but I saw no line along the road. Are you in touch with Shaw’s Lagoon?”

  “Yes, the wire is laid more direct. Want to ring now?”

  “Please, I must communicate with the police-station.”

  Chapter Four

  The McPherson’s Justice

  McPHERSON conducted Bony from the office to the south veranda of the big bungalow-style house, and through what evidently was the main door into the hall. This hall amazed Bonaparte. Never in any station homesteads had he seen a hall so richly furnished—not even in those mansions, designated homesteads, he had visited on the sheep farms near Sydney and Melbourne. Tapestries illustrating Scottish battles hung from the walls. A grandfather clock lorded it in a corner. Broadswords and claymores rested on the arms of a teak rack. Jacobean settees and chairs and small tables flanked the gleaming parquet floor of darkened mulga.

  From a passage at the end of the hall appeared a girl whose coiled hair was as black as his own, whose eyes were as blue as his own, whose skin was the texture of the white roses decorating the lawn outside. She was of medium height, under thirty years old, and wore a plain black dress the severe cut of which appeared to enhance her striking charm of face and figure. A further surprise was given by McPherson:

  “Flora, allow me to present to you Detective-Inspector Bonaparte. Inspector, my niece, Miss McPherson.”

  Bony bowed in grand manner. The somewhat stilted form of introduction was made quite naturally, and his mind remarked it.

  “I ask your pardon for my somewhat war-worn appearance, Miss McPherson,” he said, gravely, but with a distinct twinkle in his eyes. “I left Shaw’s Lagoon as a stockman seeking employment. Circumstances, and the kindness of your uncle, have transformed me to a senior police officer. I possess a braided uniform, a pair of beautiful gloves, a walking stick, and a peaked hat; but alas, my wife has never permitted the regalia to leave the tissue paper in which it was received from the tailors and outfitters.”

  He was not sure, but he suspected a responding twinkle in her eyes. She did not smile when she said:

  “I am happy to meet you, Inspector Bonaparte. I saw you arrive with Burning Water. Your coming has caused much excitement.”

  “I was almost overwhelmed by the welcome extended to me,” Bony stated, the twinkle still evident to her.

  Now she smiled, saying:

  “The blacks are like children—in many things.”

  “The Inspector will be staying for a few days, dear,” McPherson cut in. “His luggage is being brought in by Price who is leaving at once. Should be here by half-past eight. I suggest that dinner be delayed.”

  “As you wish, uncle. I will see that Ella prepares the room next the bathroom for Mr Bonaparte. Oh, and perhaps, Mr Bonaparte you would like a cup of tea?”

  “It would be a really valuable gift—after a shower.”

  “Of course, and a drink before the shower would be another,” she said, laughing at him. “Uncle, attend to our guest and be your charmingest. We have so few guests, Mr Bonaparte, that we cannot afford to neglect them.”

  Bony bowed again, less grandly, and McPherson led the way to the dining-room, and yet again Bony was astonished and betrayed it only with a narrowing of the eyelids.

  He followed his host to a massive Jacobean sideboard which must have weighed a ton. Only with effort did he prevent his interest becoming vulgar. The long table was set for two, tall hard-wax candles set in silver sconces were ready to shed soft light on silver and cut glass. Full-length portraits in oils of men dressed in tartan and kilt were suspended from the walls, iron-faced men with prominent jaws and small blue or grey eyes, men with faces reddened, not by the sun of Central Australia, but by the keen winds of the Scottish Highlands.

  Bony surveyed them above the rim of his glass.

  “Your ancestors?” he inquired.

  McPherson nodded, saying:

  “Everything here was brought from Scotland by my father and mother. That is he above the fireplace. I had it done by a man in Melbourne from one of those old daguerreotype pictures. They were all a tough crowd, the McPhersons. Just fancy a man, with his wife, coming right out here when the advance of settlement was only just this side of the Diamantina. They brought all their possessions on three bullock wagons. You know anything about furniture?”

  “Next to nothing. Jacobean, isn’t it?”

  “So they told me. I don’t know anything about furniture, except what I’ve seen in the homesteads on the way to the railway. We still use the iron kettles and pans and things the old people brought with them. Tough. Humph! I often wish I was a quarter as tough. Well, I’ll show you to your room and the bathroom, and leave you, as I’ve work to do before dinner. There’s what we call the library if you’re interested in books.”

  The bedroom was in keeping with the hall and the dining-room. Towels lay over a brass handrail. The narrow bed was monastic. There was no floor covering. There was one strikingly discordant note—a gaudy dressing-gown and a pair of blue leather slippers waiting on a chair and the floor. The squatter noticed these articles, and grunted.

  “That gown and the slippers were left here by a visitor,” he explained, irritably. “Don’t think I’d select such colours for myself. I’ll leave you. You know where to find things, and the maid will bring tea—if she hasn’t discarded her clothes and gone back to her tribe. And don’t worry about your clothes at dinner. I’ve never dressed for dinner since my mother passed on.”

  “I have a reasonably respectable coat in my swag which will conceal my working shirt,” Bony said, adding: “Above table I will appear, well, not naked. I am going to thank you now for the hospitality you have extended to me, and express the wish that I shall have your assistance in my work.”

  “I will do what I can.” McPherson was facing the window and Bony observed the smallness of his eyes. “Why did you tell Price just now that Errey had met with an accident?”

  “Because the town exchange is not in an official Post Office, and the manner in which poor Errey met his death cannot be made public for the present. I had another reason. I never tolerate interference with an investigation I have begun, and you can imagine the result of the destruction of Errey and his car did it become public. There would be a half-squadron of Air Force machines sent to find that mysterious plane, and then you and I and the blacks would have to go and find the Air Force pilots forced down in that open country.”

  “You intend to keep it dark, even from Price?”

  “I intend to keep the matter dark from the outside public until I can say: “Sergeant Errey was murdered in such and such a manner and this is the man who killed him and his aboriginal passenger.”

  “You first have to arrest th
e killer.”

  Bony’s eyes widened, and the squatter winced as though the light in the blue eyes gazing at him was a weapon. Bony’s voice was metallic when he boasted:

  “I shall not fail to bring Errey’s murderer to justice.”

  “You will if the Wantella justice reaches him first. The crime was committed on Wantella land, and the Wantella blacks thought highly of Sergeant Errey.”

  Left to himself, Bony passed to the window from which a sectional view of the dam wall could be seen. He was not interested in the view, however. His brain demanded opportunity to think, to adjust thought to the unusual. For the first time in his career Bonaparte was thrown off his balance.

  He surveyed the incidents of this day, the people he had met. Only the girl appeared normal. Burning Water was slightly abnormal. More so was this Donald McPherson. They would have to be pinned for close examination, like butterflies pinned as to a board and examined through a glass by a naturalist. There would be time later for that—after his body was refreshed.

  Turning away from the window, he picked up the dressing-gown. The trace of bewilderment in his eyes gave place to an expression of pleasure, for one carefully restrained inhibition had been admiration for colours in clothes. Ah! Those beautiful ties and socks he had put away in favour of more conservative colours!

  The shafts of the setting sun slanting through the open French windows rested on the gown, illuminated its glories. In such a room and in such a house, it was a sheer monstrosity. Its basic colour was a bright yellow and on the base were laid bars of purple and squares of Cambridge blue. What kind of guest had he been who selected such a combination of colours even in a dressing-gown? And the slippers! They were of soft doeskin leather. They had long pointed Eastern toes. Their colour was sky-blue.

  Slippers and gown he carried to the bathroom: when he returned he was wearing both and carrying his clothes.

  His swag had been placed on a chair, and on a small table were tea and cakes. He now felt refreshed both physically and mentally, and, with a sigh of contentment, he sat in a chair beside the table he placed in front of the long dressing-mirror. And in that mirror, which, too, was slightly out of place, he surveyed himself, admired himself in Joseph’s coat, and ate and drank.