“Quite possible. Bennett had been staggering on the edge of his grave for several years.”
“There are, of course, many others in Merino who knew the state of the old man’s heart?”
“Yes. He himself made sure that everyone knew it.”
“Thank you. Now, gentlemen, go back to that afternoon when you three entered Bennett’s hut and found him dead, and consider my suspicion that someone knocked on his door in the dead of night, and that, on opening it, he received such a fright that his poor weak heart failed.”
“Are you inferring that someone frightened him to death?” asked Gleeson, his eyes narrowed.
“Let us leave that for the time, Gleeson, and concentrate on the possibility that Bennett died from shock and not from the normal failure of his heart action,” Bony countered.
“Knowing nothing to change it, my opinion remains that Bennett died from angina pectoris, which was not a secondary cause,” the doctor argued. “I think I can put myself in his place that night. Sometime during the night he became ill, and he lit his bedside lamp and swallowed two of my tablets. A little later he became worse and decided to leave the place and seek assistance, of me or of his daughter. He got as far as the door.”
“If that were so,” Bony began demurringly, “would he not have slipped an overcoat over his pyjamas? The night was not warm. He did not even put his feet into the slippers which were placed neatly beside his bed when he retired.”
“His dead face looked as though he had received a bad fright,” said Gleeson.
“I accepted the look on his face as having been due to the last sharp agony,” argued the doctor. “People suffering from his complaint sometimes die very hard. Still, I am not now hostile to the idea that old Bennett received a fright which caused his diseased heart to stop. That he died from heart failure is certain.”
Gleeson flashed a look at his sergeant, his eyes still narrow and, as usual, his face maintaining its mask.
“Assuming that the main cause of Bennett’s death was fright,” he said, “was the fright given him accidentally or deliberately? I remember that the old man was at the dance social. He left early, and he was seen, later, holding Kendall’s coat during the fight with young Jason.”
“It would appear, Gleeson, that the thought is in your mind that the man who killed Kendall subsequently frightened old Bennett to his death,” remarked Bony. “You may be right. It would not surprise me if you were. If we assume that you are right, then we should not accept too readily that the swagman hanged himself.”
“It was suicide,” snapped the doctor. “Men are not murdered by being hanged.”
“Why not?” asked Gleeson pointedly.
“Why not?” echoed Scott. “How the devil do I know? Why should anyone hang the man? Why not hit him with an iron bar, or knife or shoot him?”
Gleeson was stubborn.
“Supposing he was stunned by a head blow, and then hanged to present his death as suicide,” he pressed. “If you will excuse me, you jumped to the conclusion that he hanged himself. You did not examine his head.”
“Neither has an examination been made of the stomach,” Bony added. “He may have been poisoned first.”
“Imagination,” snorted the doctor.
“Perhaps,” conceded the constable. “You would be justified in calling it imagination if it hadn’t been for the killing of Kendall. If Inspector Bonaparte is correct when he says that Kendall’s body was brought here from some place the murdered didn’t want to have investigated, and how the inspector makes that out beats me, then this hanging business may not be what it appears to be. By the way,” to Bony, “have you looked around for tracks?”
“Yes, Gleeson. There are none other than those made by the dead man.” Marshall blinked his eyes. “Those tracks indicate that the dead man came from Wattle Creek homestead direct along the foot of these Walls of China. Those you see laid over the Walls were left by me. I went up there to find out what the crows were so excited about. They had found young Jason’s dog. It picked up a poison bait.”
For the first time expression was registered on Gleeson’s face. He looked like a man whose thoughts were being proved.
“Young Jason’s brown and white dog?” echoed Marshall.
“What on earth would that dog be doing up there?” demanded the doctor.
“Possibly following his owner,” replied Gleeson.
“Or Jason’s father, or the butcher, or the parson, or Rose Marie,” said the smiling Bonaparte. “I have seen that dog following many people.”
“So have I,” said Marshall in support.
“It must have been following someone,” said Gleeson.
“In which case I would have seen the tracks made by the person followed,” Bony pointed out frankly. “However, I am going to suggest that you remain here while Marshall and I run up to the homestead to inquire about the dead man, and during our absence you could hunt for tracks. I may possibly have missed them. I think, Doctor, that you might examine the body in the light of what we have discussed. Do you think you could have your report ready for the inquest tomorrow morning? There would be nothing else to delay it beyond tomorrow, eh, Marshall?”
Both the doctor and the policeman agreeing that the inquest could be held in the morning, Bony beamed upon them in turn. He was almost gay when he said:
“If old Bennett did die of fright produced by the threat of murder, and if that man in the hut was first killed and then hanged, and if Kendall’s body was taken to that hut from some other place where he was murdered, we are entitled to assume that in this district there is a tiptop, first-class, dyed-in-the-wool murderer. You know, gentlemen, I am beginning to enjoy myself. The answer to the question: ‘Who dunn-it?’ is going to be most interesting. Now, Doctor, who do you think it will turn out to be?”
“Rev. Llewellyn James,” was the doctor’s prompt reply.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Bony mildly.
“Yes. The fellow would murder anything. He’s a hypocrite, a malingerer, and a fraud. Says he suffers from a weak heart, but he’s too cunning to let me examine him. Sits most of the day on his veranda reading books, and lets his wife chop the wood in the back yard. He’s as strong as a young bull, and he could hang that man with ease.”
Bony chuckled. He turned to Sergeant Marshall.
“What about you?” he pressed.
“Good job these guesses are off the record,” growled Marshall. “I think I’ll vote for Massey Leylan. He’s young and strong, and he has a violent temper.”
“My guess,” said Gleeson, accepting Bony’s invitation, “is young Jason. There is a certain amount of evidence pointing to him. Sergeant Redman picked on him too. Bad-tempered, sullen fellow. Strong despite his deformities.”
“Now we have three likely-looking coves all ready for the neck-tie ceremony, as the late William Sykes would have said,” pointed out the delighted Bony. “Henceforth I will take an especial interest in them.”
Gleeson asked Bony who was his guess, and Bony was evasive.
“I am a personage of such terrific importance that I dare not hazard even a guess off the record,” he said smilingly. “Were I to name the elder Jason, the hotel licensee, or the butcher, or even you, Gleeson, you would condemn the named person out of hand. I can accept your choice with an open mind; you would accept mine as a certainty.”
Chapter Ten
The Guest of Sam the Blackmailer
AS A MAN, Sam the Blackmailer would never be cast for a screen lover, but as a cook he was superlative ... when he liked to exert himself. He was known from one end of the Darling River to the other, and no squatter alive was game enough to offend him, for at the least offence, real or imaginary, a superlative cook would demand his cheque and make post-haste for the nearest pub.
Be it known that cooks are not as plentiful as peas in a pod; they are more rare than rich squatters who breed Melbourne Cup winners. Sam’s bread and yeast buns were a delight to eat, whilst his pastr
y simply floated down the throats of men long used to soddy damper and mutton stews thickened with pure sand.
Sam was tall and thin. His face was as white as his bread, and his unruly, straggly moustache was the colour of beer. When he sat down it seemed that he coiled himself, and when he got up he took an appreciable time to uncoil himself. He had never been known to wear other than white flannel trousers and cotton singlet, and when his great flat feet were thrust into cloth slippers he was the monarch of all he surveyed.
The men’s eating-room at Wattle Creek Station was akin to that on the majority of stations. It was a dining-room cum kitchen combined, and at half past three o’clock it was Sam’s duty to have tea and brownie ready for the hands working about the homestead.
This afternoon he heard a car arrive and stop outside the station office three minutes before the time to call the men. He was about to coil himself upon a petrol case preparatory to peeling the dinner potatoes when he changed his mind and sauntered to the door, there to lean against the frame to observe the well-known figure of Sergeant Marshall being welcomed by Massey Leylan. Bony he did not recognize, but he did see that Bony was not dressed as a policeman, and when his employer and the sergeant went into the office he whistled with his fingers and then beckoned the stranger to him.
His next act was to lurch from the doorpost and amble to the short length of railway iron suspended from a tree branch. This he struck with an iron bar, giving it one terrific clout as though it were his greatest enemy, who needed only the one blow. He was seated at the end of one of the long forms flanking the dining table when Bony entered, followed by several hands.
“Good dayee, mate. Come and have a drink er tea,” he said to Bony. “Pannikins on the wall there. Tea here in the ruddy pot.”
Bony nodded his thanks, took down a shining tin pannikin, and poured himself tea.
“Sit down, mate,” invited Sam the Blackmailer. “Ain’t never seen you before. Bushman?”
“Yes. Looking for a job ... or was,” replied Bony, helping himself to brownie.
“Cripes!” exclaimed one of the hands. “Ain’t you the bloke what was run in and made to paint the police station fence?”
“My fame as a painter of police station fences has, apparently, gone out far and wide,” modestly admitted Bony, beaming upon them all.
“Ruddy shame,” snarled Sam the Blackmailer.
“Oh, the work is easy enough, the hours not long,” Bony said lightly. “And I get my meals at the sergeant’s table, and his wife’s a good cook. Plus two bob a day to spend over at the hotel half an hour before closing time. I needed a spell. I’m getting it.”
“I still say it’s a ruddy shame,” persisted the cook. “The ruddy gov’ment ought to be made to pay union wages, that’s what I says. What did they shoot you in for?”
“For several things all at the same time,” Bony replied laughing, and recounted how he had been awakened by the sergeant, and the answers he had given to his questions.
“That’s what old Marshall would do,” asserted a thick-set man, and the cook demanded to know what Marshall was doing here at Wattle Creek.
“To ring up old Jason and ask him to take a truck out to that hut at Sandy Flat for a body that was found hanging from a beam,” Bony answered carelessly. He was lounging over the table and methodically stirring the tea in his pannikin, but he registered the effect of the announcement on each of his hearers. “A swagman hanged himself in that hut last night.”
“So!” Sam the Blackmailer said softly, and his brown eyes seemed unnaturally large. There was complete silence following Sam’s exclamation, broken only by the cawing of crows and the methodical action of an engine pumping water. “Now what d’you know about that? Is he a medium-sized bloke, grey hair, getting along for half a century, and dying of consumption?”
Bony nodded.
“How did he do it?” demanded a youth who wore spurs that tinkled like cracked bells every time he moved his kangaroo-hide riding boots.
“Buckled his swag straps together ... after making a noose through the buckle of one. Got up on the table, put the noose round his neck, tied the other end to the beam, and stepped off the table. You fellers know him?”
“Can’t say as we know him,” replied Sam the Blackmailer. “He was here last night having his dinner.”
“He was over at the hut afterwards,” supplemented the youth.
“That’s right,” agreed the thickset man. “Me and Johnny was pitching to him for a coupler hours.”
“Where did he come from, did he say?” Bony asked.
“Said something about having come out of the ’ospital at the Hill,” answered the youth. “Come to think of it, he didn’t give much away about himself, did he, Harry?”
The thickset man agreed. Bony spoke, softly, indifferently. “He must have left this homestead pretty late last night. What time did you see him last?”
“He left our hut about ten. He was camped up at the woolshed,” volunteered Johnny. “Never said anythink about going on that night. Come to think of it, he passed through here some time back. Don’t you remember, Sam?”
“Can’t say as I do,” replied the cook.
“Anyway, he’s dead now,” Bony put in. “He made a very good job of himself.”
“Ruddy shame—bloke like that being on the tramp,” snarled the cook.
“Might sooner be on tramp in freedom than penned up in a hospital,” remarked an elderly man. “Hospitals are good places to be out of.”
“I remember—” began Johnny, and then cut off.
Sam the Blackmailer glared at him.
“Well, what d’you ruddy well remember?”
“About that swagman. He never come through here like I thought. I seen ’im over at Ned’s Swamp that time me and Jack Lock went over there to fetch them horses. Yes, that’s where I seen ’im before.”
“Ned’s Swamp is a run on the other side of the Walls, isn’t it?” inquired Bony, who knew it quite well.
“Yes. Me and Lock went over to the homestead—sixteen miles across. That’s where I seen that swagman. I remember, too, when that was. It was three days before George Kendall was murdered. Funny!”
“What’s ruddy funny?” growled the cook.
“George Kendall was murdered six or seven weeks ago and that swaggy told us he’d been in hospital for the last three months. Didn’t he, Harry?”
“He did so.”
“Must have been wanderin’ in his ruddy mind,” asserted Sam. “Must ’ave ’ad a lot on ’is mind last night when he was here, to go and ’ang ’imself like that.”
“He didn’t seem to have anythink on his mind when he was talking to us, did he, Harry?”
“No,” replied the thickset man. “He did not. He was cheerful enough. Talked about going down to Melbun for Christmas. Got a sister down there. Didn’t—”
“Cripes, now!” almost shouted the youthful Johnny.
“Don’t let it ruddy well ’urt cher,” urged the unsmiling cook. “And look at the time. The ruddy boss will be sacking the lot of you if you don’t do a get back to work.”
Johnny’s eyes were big, expanded by the idea in his brain, and he had either to get it out or explode. He said, when on his way to the door and back to his work:
“I wonder if that swagman killed old Kendall, and then had to go back to the scene of ’is crime? Then he got overcome by remorse and did ’imself in.”
The thickset man chuckled.
“You might be right, Johnny me lad, but don’t go gabbing about it to the police,” he advised, winking at Sam. “Besides, blokes these days don’t hang themselves through remorse. You been reading too many of them murder mysteries. You stick to the sporting news in future.”
“Kendall!” exclaimed Bony with raised brows. “Was Kendall killed in that hut?”
“Too ruddy right he was,” asserted the cook. “He was bashed about, somethink awful. His blood was all over the place, wasn’t it, George?”
&
nbsp; The elderly man nodded and stroked his grey moustache with the stem of his pipe.
“All over the floor, anyway,” he corrected. “It was the boss and me who found him. We was going farther out, away across the Walls that day, and we called in at Sandy Flat with rations for Kendall.”
“The police never got anyone for the crime, did they?” asked Bony.
“No, they didn’t, and they ain’t likely to now. A d. came out from Sydney, but he didn’t do no good—leastways it never came out,” cut in Sam the Blackmailer. “There was a bit of a blue at the social and dance the night before, and Kendall was mixed up in it. It seems that Kendall pushed Rose Marie, the sergeant’s daughter, and young Jason took a holt of ’im and marched him outside. They had a fight afterwards. You seen ’im?”
“Young Jason? Yes. He doesn’t say much.” The remaining men left for their work, and Bony asked: “What kind of a man was Kendall to work with?”
Sam gazed straight into Bony’s blue eyes, paused before saying:
“There are some blokes what was borned to be husband of a nagging wife. There is other blokes what was borned to have sixteen kids. And there are some blokes which are borned to be murdered. Kendall was borned to be murdered. The surprising thing is that he was murdered so late in life.”
“You don’t say,” Bony observed.
“I do say. By rights Kendall ought to have been murdered when ’e was much younger ... say about two days old,” proclaimed the cook. “Kendall was just natcherly a nasty bit of work. He never could say a good word for anyone. Australia ’as the best Labour gov’ment what ever lived, and Kendall didn’t even have a good word for it, let alone local man, woman or child. We ’ere was all very glad when the boss sent ’im out to Sandy Flat.”
Death of a Swagman Page 9