The Bone is Pointed b-6

by Arthur W. Upfield

“Then it must have been John who found the cover.”

  “Yes, of course. There could be no one else. My, it’s going to be a nasty day. And here am I forgetting all about the tea.”

  Diana drank her tea appreciatively despite her worrying thoughts, and afterwards the two women passed along to the short passage and entered John’s room. Determination overcoming her diffidence, Diana thoroughly searched the pillows and sheets for hair and found two on a pillow, while Mary took the brushes and the comb to the kitchen and burned every hair on those articles. Satisfied now that Mr Napoleon Bonaparte was checkmated, Diana put on her hat preparatory to leaving for the township.

  “You needn’t tell John what we’ve done, dear, but you must watch his toilet things and his pillows in case that detective should come over. I don’t think he would dare to ask John directly for one of his hairs.”

  “Don’t you worry, Diana,” Mary said, her mouth still grim. “I was nice to Mr Bonaparte when he came in your brother’s plane, and I’ll be nice to him again, but he’ll get nothing out of me.”

  “I thought you would be sensible,” the girl said softly, and then hugged the older woman and kissed her with deep affection. “Tell John that the telephone jars at Pine Hut are somehow broken and want replacing. And I’ll meet him at the burnt tree on the boundary at eleven to-morrow morning. Don’t forget to tell him that, will you?”

  “I’ll not forget. Good-bye, and leave me to do the fighting at Meena.”

  Mary accompanied her guest out to the car, then stood watching it slide noiselessly away into the rising dust, the wind-hiss over the ground subduing the hum of the engine.

  Diana had covered seven of the twelve miles to Pine Hut when she saw far ahead a horseman, also riding to Pine Hut. Not until she was close behind him did he hear the engine of her car. He reined his horse off the track and looked round. It was Bony.

  He was riding to Pine Hut. He could have come from nowhere save the Meena homestead.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Seed Planting

  DIANA stared through the red, dust-laden air at the man seated on the brown mare. She knew him to be Detective-Inspector Bonaparte, but he was in the light of day so changed in physical aspect as to astonish her. The previous evening she had seen him in the dull glow of departing day, and subsequently in the white light of the office petrol lamp, when he had looked both tired and indisposed. But this morning she could the better compare his appearance with what it had been that luncheon hour on the Karwir south veranda.

  Though this man was her enemy, Diana’s feminine sympathy claimed her heart as she watched him lift his hat to her, then slide down from the horse’s back, and advance with peculiar gait, leading the mare.

  She did not get out of the car. Switching off the engine ignition, she leaned a little over the sill of the door window. Somehow she thought of a Chinese lantern wind-blown in the morning after a night of gaiety. The lantern of this man’s personality, so clearly to be seen in his eyes, in his smile, had gone out. Debonair, suave, naturally courteous, she had known him. Now he stood within a yard of her, his eyes afire with a strange light, the wind ruffling his straight black hair, his hat still held in his left hand. He seemed to be smaller in stature, and it was as though the wind were swaying his body. Then he smiled, and that was the completing line in a caricature.

  “Good morning, Miss Lacy!” he said, his well remembered voice still pleasing when she expected it to be harsh. Her own voice sounded small and distant.

  “Good morning, Inspector. You look ill this morning. Is the Barcoo sickness as bad as ever?”

  “I fear so. I have come to regard it as a competitor in a race. It and I race to the goal represented by the end of this investigation. Which will win is at present uncertain.”

  “You certainly look very ill. Don’t you think you ought to see a doctor?”

  “A doctor would say: ‘My man, because you have the Barcoo sickness, you must at once get away from the back country, and the medicine I shall prescribe will then defeat the cause of the malady.’ My own condition interests me much, for it is not unlike that of a victim to the pointing of the bone by wild aborigines. I saw a man die of being boned. He, too, was unable to retain food, and he told that nightly he had fearful dreams so that he could not properly sleep. In the end he died, after having complained of bones constantly being thrust into his liver, and his kidneys being constantly lacerated by the eagle’s claws. I am suffering pains in those organs.”

  “But surely you don’t believe that your illness is due to the blacks having pointed the bone at you?” Diana said, her brows raised in incredulity.

  “I have the Barcoo sickness, Miss Lacy. It is unfortunate, but I will not permit it to interfere with my work-yet. I trust you were more fortunate in your visit to Meena. There was no one at home when I called.”

  Diana plunged recklessly:

  “Why did you call?”

  She could have bitten out her tongue after putting the unwarranted question, and she was still more furious when he replied politely and without hesitation:

  “I rode over to return a mattress cover I found in the bush, knowing by the marked tag that it originally came from Meena. I expect the blacks required the feathers and took it without understanding they were committing a white man’s crime.”

  “Oh!”

  “They use feathers on their feet, you know, when they wish to escape an enemy by leaving no tracks-and to wipe out tracks that they do not wish to remain in evidence.”

  The suggestion she ignored.

  “Was it you who smashed the telephone jars in the instrument at Pine Hut?”

  “No. Why should I do that?”

  “I don’t know really. Our telephone to Opal Town was out of order, too, from eight o’clock last night to nearly eight this morning. You are such a queer man, and so many queer things have happened since you came to Karwir.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes, indeed! Little crosses made in the dust on the telephone instrument at Pine Hut was one of the queer things. I could not see any crosses there this morning when I stopped.”

  “I wiped the instrument clean after I had observed them,” Bony countered gravely. “The dust there now has accumulated since I cleaned the instrument. So you didn’t notice any more crosses this morning?”

  “I think I had better be getting along, Mr Bonaparte,” Diana said a little sharply, almost betraying herself by laughing. And then she sprang her little trap. “Did you find any of Mr Gordon’s hair at Meena?”

  Now his eyes became as large as saucers.

  “Mr Gordon’s hair! Why do you think I should be interested in Mr Gordon’s hair?”

  “Just to compare some of it with the hair you say you found clinging to a certain tree.”

  “Ah! Now why didn’t I think of that? Mr Gordon’s hair is light-brown, I am told. It is not dissimilar to that of the missing man. When I see Mr Gordon again I must ask him for one or two of his hairs and compare them under the lens of the microscope.”

  There was no catching this man in a verbal trap. There was no getting round corners to see into his mind. Ill he certainly was, but he was still master of his mind.

  “Well, good-bye!” she called to him. “You really ought to see a doctor, or you will come to believe that you’ve been boned by the blacks. Anyway, follow dad’s prescription of the sliced potatoes steeped in vinegar. Dad’s a good bush doctor, you know.”

  Bony bowed his head to indicate that he heard her above the whine of the wind, and stood watching the car glide away with its escort of following dust.

  “The Barcoo sickness is what he’s got,” she was saying aloud, a habit easily formed by one travelling alone. “The pointing bone business is all tosh. John would never get the blacks to do such a thing. I can’t think that he would, although he and his mother would go far. No, it can’t be that. Anyway, pointing the bone wouldn’t be effective against a man like the Inspector. He’s educated. He’s ever so much more h
ighly educated than I am.”

  She drove all the way to Pine Hut with the dust clouds raised by the wheels behind her. The hut came out of a red murk to meet her, silently to salute her as she passed it to reach the Karwir road to Opal Town. Here at the road junction she stopped the car, undecided whether to go on to the township or to return home. Again she spoke aloud.

  “Oh yes, that man went to Meena hoping for the opportunity of getting some of John’s hair. The opportunity was just waiting for him. In one of his pockets at this moment some of John’s hair is wrapped up in a cigarette paper or an envelope. Ye gods! That man’s as deep as the ocean. Oh! I wonder now! Yes, that might work. There can’t be any harm in trying it. An acorn planted may become a giant tree.”

  Diana reached Opal Town at exactly twelve o’clock, and there standing outside the police station was Sergeant Blake.

  “Good day, Miss Lacy!” he shouted above the wind. “Bad day to come to town.”

  “Yes, isn’t it, Mr Blake?” Diana agreed, sweetly. “I have to shop and couldn’t delay doing it. You know, dad’s quite worried.”

  “Oh-what about?”

  “He’s worried about Mr Bonaparte. He says that if Mr Bonaparte really has got the Barcoo sickness he should leave at once and see a doctor. He feels that he is in some way responsible for anyone working on his run, you see. Although Mr Bonaparte is not actually working for dad, he is on Karwir. It would be terrible if Mr Bonaparte became so weak and ill that he died in his lonely camp, wouldn’t it?”

  “He won’t do that, I think, Miss Lacy. I go out and meet him every evening. He’s very keen to finalize his case, and from the way it’s going he mightn’t be long in doing that.”

  “Well, let’s hope he does it soon and then seeks medical aid. I met him this morning. He looks really ill. He told me that his illness was not unlike the effects of being boned by the blacks. Surely he doesn’t thing the Kalchut blacks have boned him?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past some of them,” Blake countered, cautiously. “Are you going to run in and see the wife? She’d be happy to make a pot of tea.”

  “I know she would, and I will go in and ask her. I’m as thirsty as a cattle dog after a day’s work. Now you stay out here and keep your eyes open for escaping criminals. You wouldn’t be interested in our gossip.”

  Blake smiled and opened the door for her, and then glanced at her flying feet as she ran into the police station. He stared down the dust-painted street and frowned. It would be awkward if Bonaparte did die out there on Karwir. There might be hell to pay over it.

  In the living room the large Mrs Blake was fussing about her visitor.

  “You go into the bedroom, Miss Lacy, and wash the dust off your face and hands. You know the way. I’ll make the tea. My, what a day!”

  Diana hurried with her toilet, indeed grateful to Mrs Blake, but frantically hoping that Sergeant Blake would not come in and ruin the chance for a little gossip.

  “How’s your father?” asked Mrs Blake when Diana joined her. “He’s a wonderful man for his age and all. Pity the country hasn’t more like him.”

  “Oh, he’s quite well, thank you. Of course, he refuses to give up or even to think he’s getting old. He’s a little worried about Mr Bonaparte, though.”

  “Yes, the Sergeant said Mr Bonaparte was poorly,” Mrs Blake remarked. “What a wonderful man he is to be sure. So polished, so unassuming.”

  “They think a great deal of him down in Brisbane, don’t they?” suggested Diana, still frantically hoping that thistete-a-tete would not be interrupted.

  “The Sergeant says that they think the sun shines out of his boots,” replied Mrs Blake. “How is your tea?”

  “Lovely. I was so thirsty. It’s a beast of a day. Yes, that’s what dad says about Mr Bonaparte. That’s why he’s so worried, in a way. You see, if anything happened to Mr Bonaparte, if he became so ill and weak that he died out there in the bush, dad would feel himself partly to blame. They’d say, down in Brisbane, that he ought to have done something to make Mr Bonaparte give up.”

  “Hm! They might do that, Miss Lacy. Still, Mr Bonaparte is not that ill, surely?”

  “I met him this morning on the road. Stopped to talk to him for five minutes. He looks positively awful. He cannot keep any food down, he says. Well, you know, he can’t go on like that, can he?”

  “No, that’s so,” agreed Mrs Blake, her brows drawn close in a frown.

  “I think that Sergeant Blake ought to urge him to go away and receive medical attention. It’s none of my business, I know, but if anything happened to Mr Bonaparte they might blame Mr Blake for allowing him to go on when he’s so ill. I don’t know what to do. Neither does dad. Well, I must be going. I must hurry through my shopping and get home before the dust gets much worse. Thank you for the tea. It’s really kind of you. When are you going to make that husband of yours bring you to Karwir in the new car? You make him.”

  Mrs Blake smiled. “He’s always too busy-so he says,” she answered, a little grimly.

  She followed the girl out to the car, and Diana was thankful that the Sergeant was nowhere in sight. Having again urged Mrs Blake to make her husband take her out to Karwir, Diana set off on her shopping excursion, which, surprisingly, was very quickly completed.

  When she left the town the bush on the Common was lashed by the dust-laden wind and the undersides of the blue-bushes were brilliant purple. Into the teeth of the hot wind she sent the machine, now less pestered by the dust that rose in a long slant behind it.

  “An acorn becomes a giant tree in favourable circumstances,” she said aloud. “The little acorns I planted in the minds of Sergeant Blake and his wife might well grow to big trees. He’ll urge Bonaparte to give up the investigation and retire. She’ll urge her husband to write to headquarters about his illness, if he won’t give up. And headquarters will do something about it, for sure. And then John will be safe.”

  She saw nothing of the brown mare and her rider on the drive back to Karwir, where she found it impossible to take her lunch with her brother on the south veranda. The dust compelled them to eat in the morning-room, and after lunch Young Lacy returned to his work in the office. Diana retired to her room, partly undressed and donned a dressing-gown before settling to write letters.

  It was a little before four o’clock when she heard the car returning from outback. Two minutes later Young Lacy burst unceremoniously into her room. Calamity was written plainly on his boyish face.

  “Bill the Better is home. The dad has come a cropper. Bill says he’s broken a leg. Went down the well and slipped.”

  “Broken a leg! Where is he?”

  “Out at Blackfellow’s. Wouldn’t let Bill and Fred put him on the car. Sent in for the truck. We’re going out for him. We’ll want a mattress or two.”

  “And Dr Linden,” added Diana, white-faced but calmly courageous. “You call him and tell him to come out at once. I’ll see to the things we’ll want. I’m going with you.”

  “All right. Rush. We can’t lose time.”

  Diana ran into the passage and shouted for Mabel the maid. She was flinging on her clothes when the girl appeared.

  “Tell the cook to make tea in the thermos flasks. We’ll want a bottle of milk. Get the bottle of brandy from the chiffonier. Bill the Better can take the mattresses from the beds in the two single rooms.”

  “All right, Miss Lacy. Is Mr Lacy badly hurt?”

  “Yes, very, but don’t stand there talking.”

  When Diana went out to the truck it was loaded and her brother was waiting at the wheel. She climbed into the seat next to him, Bill the Better beside her. He was red with dust, but his watery blue eyes were at the moment strangely clear and hard.

  “The boss would go down theflamin ’ well,” he shouted to beat the roar of the engine and the wind lashing the passing trees. “I went down and told ’imand Fred what was wrong and where it was wrong. Fred tried to stop ’imgoin’ down, but ’e would go down. Why does ’
e think ’e’sabloomin ’ three-year-old? ’E slipped off the ladder and ended up on the pump platform. Busted a leg down there, ’e did. I went down after ’im, and lashed ’imto the windlass rope and held ’imwhile old Fred pulled us up.”

  “Where is the leg broken, do you know?” Diana asked, wondering why her brother didn’t drive the truck all out as she would have done.

  “Dunno properly. In the thigh it looks like. The boss ’e yells at me and says: ‘You tell ’emback at the homestead not to send for noflamin ’ quack till I say so.’ We lays ’imout on the ground, careful like, and Fred got ’is straw mattress for ’imto set ’is head on. Then ’e says: ‘Wot in ’ell areyergapin ’ at me like that for? Getgoin ’ in the car and don’t drive fast or you’ll bust the big ends and the station can’t afford a new set with the dry times on us.’ ”

  A few minutes later, he said:

  “Me and old Fred done our best, but ’e would go down theflamin ’ well. You know how ’tis. Thereain’t no ’oldin’ the boss when ’e’sset on doinganythink.”

  Diana laid a hand on his grimy forearm, saying:

  “Don’t you worry, Bill. We know you did your best. Everything will be all right.”

  They found Old Lacy lying on the ground near the well coping, his head resting on a straw mattress, a billy of jet-black tea and two pannikins beside him. Fred rose from squatting on his other side. He was a wild-whiskered nugget of a man.

  Diana ran to her father and knelt at his side. She stared down at him with tear-filled eyes.

  “Oh dad, is the poor leg broken, d’you think?”

  “ ’Fraidso, my gal, but don’t you fret. It was me own fault. Bill was doing all right, but I went down to check up on him, old fool that I am. You brought the mattresses? Good! Set ’emout on the floor of the truck. Fred’s taken the door off the hut to roll me on and to lift me up on to the truck.”

  Diana offered him brandy but he refused it. They lifted him on to the door, and he instructed them how to raise him carefully and then to slide him off the door on to the mattresses.