Bony - 03 - Wings above the Diamantina

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Between twenty-four and twenty-seven, Bony thought him to be. His attitude to the detective was now less mark­edly superior, but still there was in it the almost unmasked hostility to his colour in the mind of one incapable of delv­ing beneath the surface of things, whether of a man’s skin or a problem of metaphysics.

  The meal was plain but well cooked and well served. The table decorations were costly and tasteful. The large room was furnished with those sombre but solid period pieces associated, with the reign of Queen Victoria; heavy, cumbersome furniture brought to this far-western outpost in the eighteen-seventies on bullock wagons. They were the years when furniture was furniture—furniture built to last for centuries, furniture prized as heirlooms.

  The conversation began when Mrs MacNally inquired after the patient at Coolibah. Her voice was pleasingly soft—a voice trained in “a school for the daughters of gentle­men.”

  “Now the specialist has seen her, Dr Knowles is hopeful of saving her life,” Bony lied. “The unfortunate young woman is so completely paralysed that she is unable to eat, unable even to open and close her eyes. Dr Stanisforth suggested a course of treatment which Dr Knowles is giv­ing her.”

  “I’ve never heard anything like it,” Mrs MacNally ex­claimed. “Mark my words, there is something fishy behind it all. Mrs Greyson called in the other day, and she told me that it has created quite a stir in the district.”

  “Well, the circumstances are peculiar, to say the least,” Kane reminded them. “No one knows her, where she comes from, what she was doing in the aeroplane, and how it got to Emu Lake.”

  “Wanted to steal it, I suppose,” suggested Mrs Mac­Nally placidly. “Young girls these days are always aping the men. This one learned to fly an aeroplane, and then she couldn’t resist stealing one. Joy-riding, they call it. Plain theft, I say! Up she went in it, and then something happened to the machinery and she was injured when it came to ground. It is her spine, more than likely. The spine is the most delicate part of the body. I remember Mr Kane’s father being thrown by a horse against a stock­yard post, and he was laid up helpless for nearly a month.”

  “Was the specialist able to diagnose the cause of the para­lysis?” asked John Kane, the perfect host.

  “He gave it as his opinion that the young woman had been drugged,” replied Bony.

  “Drugged!” echoed Mrs McNally. “Well, well, to be sure! The young women these days are too fast, what with cocktails and cigarettes.”

  “Mr Bonaparte said that she had been drugged, not that she drugged herself,” the squatter pointed out. “There is there a subtle distinction. You know, Mr Bonaparte, that is extraordinary. It implies that someone drugged her and put her into Captain Loveacre’s aeroplane. Dashed if I can understand why.”

  “The whole affair is most baffling,” admitted Bony. “There is no known motive, or even one on which specula­tion may be based. If the person responsible for drugging her wished to kill her, why take her up in an aeroplane con­taining a canister of your nitro-glycerine?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I fear that my investigation has not proceeded as rap­idly as I could have wished,” Bony admitted gravely. “If the person responsible for her drugging wished to kill her, as I said just now, why not knock her on the head and bury her? Why stage such a spectacular drama? The Air Ac­cidents Investigation Committee have reported that Love­acre’s monoplane was destroyed by fire and by nitro-glycer­ine. I am now sure that a quantity of your stock of the ex­plosive was placed in the machine to make it certain that it would be destroyed, and the young woman with it.”

  “Then it is a case of attempted murder?” offered Kane, astonishment plain upon his face.

  “It appears to be. If only the young woman could speak my task would be made much easier. As it is, I am work­ing completely in the dark. However, should Dr Knowles cure her—and he is hopeful of doing so—then we shall know all about her and what happened before she was found at Emu Lake.”

  “You think, then, that someone kidnapped her, put her into the machine he stole at Golden Dawn, put some of my explosive into the machine, too, flew her out to the vicinity of Emu Lake, and then jumped clear to let the machine crash?” Kane pressed.

  Bony nodded his agreement.

  “In that case, the thief must know this district pretty well?”

  “Yes, he knows the country much better than I do. On the other hand, any person knowing the country so inti­mately would surely be known by other residents. They would know that he could fly an aeroplane. And I have been assured that the only people here able to fly an aero­plane are Dr Knowles and yourself.”

  John Kane regarded Bony with steady scrutiny. Owen Oliver was watching him with almost equal intensity.

  “That is so!” Kane admitted. “And thank goodness both the doctor and I were in Golden Dawn the night the machine was stolen, and that we both were among those who rushed out to see—or rather to hear—the machine de­parting.”

  Bony smiled.

  “I suppose it created quite a stir?”

  “It did. The sound of the engine could not possibly be mistaken for a car engine. Everyone turned out in their night attire. I collided with Knowles, and we rushed round to the back of the hotel with about fifty other people.” Kane sighed with mock relief. “And I could have been placed so awkwardly,” he pointed out. “I could have been held up on a bush track by a faulty car, or I could have been away on a tour of inspection, when to have proved an alibi would have been next to impossible.”

  “Might not the airman, like the girl, have come into the district? The girl is a complete stranger here, by all ac­counts,” interposed Owen Oliver, speaking for the first time.

  “But that does not wipe out the fact that the pilot must have known this part of the country well,” argued the squatter.

  The approaching storm, heralded by its thunder rolls, was drawing near. Although the meal had not arrived at the coffee stage, Oliver pushed back his chair and rose.

  “Please excuse me, Mrs MacNally, I must be off,” he said. “I promised Dad I would be home to-night because of a muster to-morrow. There may be a lot of rain in this storm coming up.”

  “If you must go, Mr Oliver …”

  “Yes, if you must,” added Kane regretfully. “You’ll have to ride like the dickens, though.”

  “Oh, I’ll beat it all right,” the younger man assured them.

  Concerned for his departing guest, the squatter rose, too. Oliver shook hands with Mrs MacNally, but nodded coolly to Bony. Kane went out with him. When the door closed behind them, Bony turned to Mrs MacNally.

  “How did Mr Oliver come to lose his eye?”

  “Oh! He got it poked out when he was smashed up in a motor-cycle accident—hurt the part of one finger, too,” she readily explained. “He’s fast, that young man. Such a pity, too, for his old father is a fine gentleman, and his mother is one of the real Kennedys.”

  “The artificial eye is a good match for the real one, don’t you think?”

  “I haven’t noticed it either way.” Mrs MacNally leaned back in her chair, her dark eyes calmly observing the guest. She spoke with the forthright directness of her age. “He’s a young man I do not like. He is too vain, too sarcastic, too sly. The last time he was here was on my birthday. No, I do not like him.”

  Bony smiled at the stiff old lady. “Might I ask how many birthdays you have spent at Tintanoo?”

  “Now you are becoming personal, Mr Bonaparte,” she told him archly. “You will be wanting to know my age next. Anyway, I’ll tell you. I came here in 1884 to be a companion for Mrs Kane. It was the year that my husband died and the year before Mr John was born. Mr Charles was born on 28 October 1891. Oh me! A ram­pageous scamp was Mr Charles, but a nice boy notwith­standing. You would have liked the father. He was a great gentleman, even though his temper was so uncertain. And now he has gone, and his saintly wife, and poor Mr Charles and his wife. No, I shall not see many more October twenty-eight
s.”

  “Nonsense, Mrs MacNally,” Bony assured her gallantly—even as his mind accepted the fact that Owen Oliver had been staying at Tintanoo the day prior to the night that the red monoplane was stolen. Had he taken a quantity of John Kane’s nitro-glycerine on the occasion of that visit?

  Mrs MacNally certainly had strengthened concrete sus­picions.

  From without came the roar of a motor-cycle engine. Bony was listening politely to Mrs MacNally detailing the sins of the Kanes. A pounding of thunder submerged the noise of the motor-engine, and when again he heard it, dis­tance had softened its harshness.

  The storm arrived to shake the house and rattle the roof with raindrops. Still the heavy rain held off; the expected downpour did not materialize.

  Later in the evening Bony sought permission to use the telephone. He raised Coolibah from the office. Kane heard all that he said to Mr Nettlefold, and what he did hear puz­zled him. Bony asked that a spare tube be sent the next day to Faraway Bore for him to pick up.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Conference

  THE HUMIDITY was uncomfortably high on 24 November, when Bony drove the utility into Golden Dawn from the direction of Windy Creek Station. It was a little before noon and the heavy clouds appeared undecided whether to coalesce and flood the world or to disperse for the day. The truck had barely halted outside the police-station when Ser­geant Cox hurried out to greet the detective.

  “They’ve found out who the girl is!” he exclaimed, his iron-grey eyes alight and his iron-grey moustache bristling more than was usual.

  “That, my dear Cox, is very excellent—if excellent can be made superlative by the addition of very,” Bony said gaily. “Now, into your office and let us gossip.”

  As soon as Bony was seated beside the sergeant’s writing-table, his brown fingers became busy with tobacco and paper. Looking at them, the sergeant’s brows drew together into a frown of disapproval.

  “One moment!” pleaded Bony. “I have not smoked for at least half an hour. Before you begin, there are a few questions I wish to put. In your check-up of John Kane’s action on the night of 28 October, what did he say he did at the time the plane was stolen?”

  “That the sound of the aeroplane engine awoke him; that he then ran out of the hotel and joined others who ran to the place where the machine was moored; that he then stood with the little crowd of us until he returned to bed.”

  “Is that so? And what did Dr Knowles have to say about himself?”

  “Dr Knowles stated that when he heard the aeroplane engine he ran out though the back of his own house to his hangar, thinking that someone was getting away with his machine. When he found that it was Captain Loveacre’s monoplane which was being taken, he went back to his house and dressed. Then he came out to join the small crowd. He spoke to me.”

  “Very well.” The cigarette now lit, the detective faced Cox squarely. “Now, please proceed.”

  Cox cleared his throat. Then:

  “The licensee of the Masonic Hotel, Broken Hill, New South Wales, reported to the police there that the picture of the girl published in the Barrier Miner was recognized by his wife as that of a young woman who stayed at the hotel on the night of 20 October. She arrived by the Ade­laide express, which reached the Silver City at eight-thirty that morning. During the afternoon she was visited by a young man. The following morning she paid her bill, and walked out carrying her suitcase. That was about ten o’clock. She gave her name as Muriel Markham.”

  Bony’s eyes were gleaming. Since he offered no com­ment, the sergeant went on.

  “A report has come through from C.I.B., Adelaide. A woman known as Muriel Markham lived with her mother at 29 Smith Street, Mitcham, up to 19 October. On 2 Oct­ober her mother died, being buried on 3 October. On 19 October, all the furniture was removed to a city auction room. Character of both mother and daughter good. They were in comfortable circumstance, but did not entertain or mix with their neighbours.

  “A later report from the same source says that a solicitor named Ormond had charge of the mother’s estate. Every­thing was left to the daughter. The mother’s income was derived from a pension, but from what financial institution or person, he does not know.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes!” Bony murmured. Then sharply he said: “Everything is coming out very well, if slowly. Be­fore going on make a note. Ask C.I.B., Adelaide, to estab­lish proof of birth of this Muriel Markham.”

  “Right! Anything else?”

  “No. Proceed.”

  “Owen Oliver passed through St Albans on the track to Birdsville on 12 October. He was driving John Kane’s Dodge. Kyle, the constable stationed at St Albans, is a methodical fellow. From habit, so he tells me, he notes down the numbers of all strange cars as well as those of cars owned by people not in his locality.”

  “Did he see this Dodge car on its return?”

  “No. But then it could have passed through St Albans in the middle of the night. A policeman must sleep some­times.”

  “Surely,” Bony agreed. “Now let us get all this straight. A Mrs and Miss Markham live at 29 Smith Street, Mit­cham. On 2 October, Mrs Markham dies, leaving the whole of her estate to her daughter. She is buried the next day. On 12 October, Owen Oliver is seen driving John Kane’s Dodge car southward from St Albans. On 19 October, Miss Markham has her mother’s furniture moved to an auction room, and in the evening of that day she boards the Broken Hill train. She arrives at the Masonic Hotel, Broken Hill, on 20 October, and that day is visited by a young man. The next day she leaves the hotel on foot and carrying her suitcase. And she is next seen in a red mono­plane on Emu Lake on 29 October.

  “The mother dies on 2 October, and on 12 October Owen Oliver leaves for Broken Hill. Ten days. Note, please. Ascertain if a letter could be sent from Mitcham to Golden Dawn, and a reply received, all within ten days. If not, then how many days it would take. When making inquir­ies at the post office—but no … What are you relations with the postmaster?”

  “Friendly.”

  “When does he leave for lunch?”

  “At one o’clock.”

  Since he could not see the sun, Bony asked the time. It was five minutes to twelve.

  “Perhaps your son could deliver a note for the postmaster at his private residence,” he suggested.

  “Yes, he could on his way back to school.”

  “Then write a note asking him to be kind enough to drop in before returning to the office.”

  While the sergeant was writing, Bony rose to cross to the wall map, now back in its place, and with the point of his little finger connected the townships of Birdsville, In­namincka, Tibooburra and Tarrowangee with St Albans and Broken Hill. When Cox laid down the pen he asked him:

  “If you were going to Broken Hill, would you not go via Eromanga and Thargomindah, Wanaaring and Wilcannia?”

  “That track might be better, but the mileage would be higher,” Cox pointed out. “I’ll take this out to the wife to give to the boy. Will you stay and lunch with us?”

  “On one condition,” temporized Bony. “If your wife goes to no more trouble than setting an extra place.”

  “I’ll mention the condition,” conceded Cox, and tramped along to the kitchen.

  Returning to his chair, Bony made yet another cigarette. Through the open, gauze-protected window drifted the low, menacing mutter of distant thunder. From much nearer came the hum of a motor car.

  Cox returned to ease his bulk into his chair, and Bony asked:

  “What kind of a man is this Owen Oliver?”

  On the red face of the police sergeant spread an expres­sion of disapproval.

  “I never had any serious trouble with him,” Cox replied. “I am glad of that on account of his people, who are thoroughly decent. Old pioneer family, you know. Young Oliver always has had more money that is good for him. He drinks a good deal, and he gambles. The girl, Mannock, he got into trouble, is not the girl Saunders. She lives in Bris­bane. I never liked
young Oliver, and there are few who do. Only son, and spoiled, with too much pocket-money from the beginning.”

  “You stress the point that he has always been used to having plenty of money,” Bony cut in. “And yet, I under­stand, after the trouble with that Mannock girl, the father tightened his purse-strings. In fact, he has allowed his son only three pounds a week.”

  “Who told you that?” demanded Cox.

  “The father himself. But I have met Mr Owen Oliver, and I agree with your estimate of him.”

  “Three pounds a week! I’ll bet young Oliver spends more than three pounds a week over at the pub.”

  “Could he fly an aeroplane, do you think?”

  “Never heard that he learned to fly,” confessed Cox. “He once put in two years in a station agent’s office down in Adelaide. He might have learned to fly then, but if he had we should have heard about it. Why did you ask that?”

  “Because after a long search occupying many days I dis­covered the wheel tracks of Loveacre’s monoplane near an uninhabited hut on Windy Creek Station. The sand cloud had not blotted out the tracks. The time is accounted for—that ninety minutes it took the machine to reach the road junction from the Golden Dawn Hotel. The thief flew to that lonely hut on Windy Creek Station to pick up his pas­senger. Anyway, it appears so, although I found no evi­dence of her in the hut itself.”

  Silence fell. With tight lips, Sergeant Cox was staring at Bony, whom he had really suspected of joy-riding round the country instead of attending to his business. A youth­ful step sounded on the front veranda, and a figure flashed by the office door on its way to the kitchen. To them came a voice:

  “Hullo, Mum! What’s for lunch?”

  The sergeant’s wife replied too softly for her words to reach them.

  “That, I assume, is James junior?”

  “That is,” agreed Cox. “What’s for breakfast? What’s for lunch? What’s for dinner? They are his greetings.”