The sack, in addition to the shovel and the lamp, was quite a load to manoeuvre through the passage, and as the licensee progressed, Bony went backwards before him, never once moving a betraying stone until, arriving at the space where Shannon had placed the swags, he slewed into it and laid himself flat. Simpson passed him on his way to the chamber, and instantly Bony rose and stole after him, gambling on the man’s nervous tension preventing him from seeing the necessarily rough efforts to clean the sandy floor.
It was a sure thing that the man would not spend time on anything save the main objective, and with all haste governed by natural caution, Bony reached the short passage to the chamber, edged his face round a corner of granite, and became one with the rock.
The lamp was set on a low ledge, and the shovel was lying on the place where Bony had sat with his back against his swag. Against the creviced roof and the broken walls a monstrous shadow writhed like something on a gridiron over a Dante’s hell. From the sack Simpson was withdrawing a roll of light canvas, and this he spread upon the ground between the grave and the entrance. Also from the sack he drew a waterproof sheet, which he arranged on the canvas, and a quantity of heavy twine rolled round a short length of board.
Bony had never before seen a man’s face so tortured. Simpson stood with his back to the site of Bony’s fire, his eyes wide and brilliant as they surveyed the preparations. He was not quite satisfied with the waterproof sheet upon the canvas, and his eyes moved rapidly to find something with which to overcome a difficulty. Then, when he lifted a heavy stone and dropped it upon one corner of the square of canvas and sheet, and another stone on the second corner nearer the scene of the intended operation, Bony knew the difficulty and the necessity to overcome it.
One who appreciates music and can play it as Simpson could is the antithesis of the exhumator. His breathing was laboured, and as though he realised that this could not go on and had foreseen it, he managed to take from a pocket a flask of spirits, draw the cork with his teeth, and swallow the entire contents as one might swallow water.
Then the work began.
Without conscious volition Bony’s feet turned away from the horror. His body became as iron to the magnet of the pure night without, so that with his hands he was obliged, without being conscious of it, to grasp projections of the rocky corner that he might continue to watch. A thousand demons came to tug him away. The electrical impulses which had been playing up and down his neck became needles of ice lodged into the base of his skull. Instincts became sentient beings that warred about him and for him. The fear of the dead was like an octopus wrapping its tentacles about his brain, compressing it into a pin-head of matter in the centre of a vast and otherwise empty skull. And somewhere beyond the void a million voices sped to him along the aisles of Time, screaming to him to run.
The mission baby who grew up to the boy who played and adventured with the aborigines, who went away to high school in the city, who spent every vacation with the aborigines to study the great Book of the Bush, who passed into the university and out again with a brilliant record, who went bush for three years to perfect himself for his intended profession, had become a man who commanded the ice to melt and the demons to flee and the voices to be hushed, commanded and was not obeyed.
Into the heat and the cold, the turmoil and the terror, came the voice of Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, saying stiltedly:
“I employ my talents with nothing short of major crimes. I have never failed to finalise a case. A murder has been committed and there, before my eyes, this murder and this murderer are the effects of a cause. To arrest this murderer now is unlikely to establish the cause, the motive for the crime, the pattern into which it fits—must fit. Why Simpson murdered O’Brien is of less import than why Simpson is now digging up his victim. Murder often begets murder, and this is the one begotten.”
“Run!” screamed the million voices. “Don’t look! Turn your head! Run, or you’ll see the picture you’ll never forget.”
“Must stay! Watch! Wait!” commanded Inspector Bonaparte. “Be still! You are a man. Simpson is a man no longer. Look at him!”
Simpson had dug out the sand and had removed the stones. Like a monstrous insect, he was dragging his victim towards the spread sheets. Backwards he went, crouched, his two arms stretched taut, as though he must keep the horror he dragged as far from him as possible. He had dragged it to within a yard of the nearer edge of the sheets when it parted about the middle, and all movement abruptly ceased, save the movement of the living man’s eyes alternately directing their gaze from that part of the thing still clutched in his hands and that part which had been left behind.
Simpson backed on to the spread sheets and dragged the thing over their edges, the heavy stones he had placed keeping those edges to the ground. Then he returned for the remainder and dragged that upon the sheet, slowly, as though knowing that haste would part it also.
What happened now was akin to the screened film abruptly rushed into abnormal speed. Simpson flung himself down and whipped one edge of the waterproof sheet over the dreadful remains, rolled and rolled, flung inward the sides, and rolled again. He leaped to the far side, his breathing hissing like escaping steam, his body doubled upon itself so that his arms and legs were in proportion, like those of a spider. Snatching up the hem of the under sheet, he proceeded to roll the bundle in it, tucking in the ends. He leaped upon the twine, snatched it from the ground where he had so carefully placed it, and bound and bound it about the bundle.
The knots were tied, and he straightened up, his chest heaving, his lungs fighting for air, his mind struggling to maintain sanity, to return from the pit of obscenity. Once he looked at his hands, and his stomach sharply deflated, like that of a dog vomiting. Then, springing upon the spade, he worked like a man beneath the flailing whips of the Gestapo.
Having filled in the vacant grave, he smoothed the surface. The spade he pushed into an opening between the wall rocks. The bag he pushed inward after the spade. The lamp he picked up and looped the handle from the elbow of his left arm. He stooped and picked up the bundle.
Bony retreated, not unlike a sleep-walker, his conscious mind seemingly disenthroned. His body conducted his brain along the passage, took it into the space where were the swags, laid itself down. Then nausea triumphed, and the bonds were broken and the ice needles melted.
He saw Simpson pass with the lamp and his burden, fought with nausea, smothered his face in the towel he had used to smooth away the tracks. Shannon’s heavy pack was beside him and he moved so that it was beneath his stomach, and an aid to prevent the retching and the noise of it, till Simpson was clear of the little mountain of rocks.
Presently he felt better. The pack remained a comfort and he lay still whilst the turmoil subsided. A waft of cool air fanned his wet face and neck. The dead had departed, gone on the back of the living, and with it passed fear of the dead. The dawn wind was blowing through the passage, coming down through all the crevices, sweeping away the smell of the dead.
Lurching to his feet, Bony leaned against a rock wall and was forced to wait whilst strength mounted within him. To him was the tribute that as he made his way to the entrance not once did a stone betray his passing.
Shannon was watching from the entrance. He said nothing, and Bony leaned against a rock and was glad to do so. Simpson’s fire was leaping high. The horse and dray were still close by. There was nothing of Simpson. The bundle was not in view, nor was the lamp. In the air was the stink of burning cloth.
“Gone to the creek,” Shannon said softly. “He put what he brought out into the dray. Then he stripped and tossed his clothes and shoes into the fire. Then he picked up the soap and the can of hot water and went over to the creek. Quite a character.”
Bony made no comment and Shannon asked:
“Did he dig it up?”
“Yes,” Bony managed to say, and found relief in the power to speak.
“Must be going to plant it some place else
,” surmised the American. “I’d like to know what happened to make him take on the job. The old guy was comfortable enough where he was. No one would have found him.”
“You did,” Bony pointed out, and added: “I would have done so.”
They observed Simpson coming from the creek into the radius of the firelight. His powerful body glistened with water. They watched him towelling himself. They watched him dress in clothes and shoes contained in another sack and, having dressed, from the sack draw a bottle from which he drank, and a tin of cigarettes, one of which he lit, standing with his back to the blaze whilst he smoked.
“We gonna tail him?” whispered Shannon.
“No need to. We can track the dray.”
Simpson was gazing towards them, and for the moment Bony thought he had detected their presence. Then he saw that Simpson was regarding the crest of the range against the sky, seeing the serrated line of black velvet against the heavenly opal of the dawn.
He smoked another cigarette and drank long from the bottle, and by now the youthful day was struggling with the ancient night. Simpson flexed his arms and opened his shoulders, as though from the growing day he took strength and poise into himself. He tossed bottle and towel and basin into the sack, and the sack he carried to the dray.
He led the horse away. Bony and the American continued to stand at the entrance of the desecrated pyramid, listening to the diminishing sound of creaking wheels. A bellbird offered its tinkling chimes to the glory of the day.
“I’m going in for the swags,” Bony said. “You make a fire down the creek, away from that fire.”
“Do we brew some coffee and eat?” Shannon asked.
“You may eat, certainly,” Bony replied. “Strong tea is what I need, as a drowning man needs air.”
“Two drops and a half of bourbon is what we both need, Bony, old pal. There’s a bottle of brandy in my pack. Did you see Simpson doing his digging?”
“I did. Brandy, did you say? Did you say you had brandy in your pack?”
“A full and unopened bottle.”
“I wonder, Shannon, that I can wait. Yes, I watched Simpson. It wasn’t nice. I’ve been very sick.”
Shannon nodded. He said:
“Be easy, pal. I’ll fetch the packs. You’re as tough as hell.”
Chapter Nineteen
Simpson’s Superior
“YOU going to nail Simpson for killing the old guy?” Shannon asked, when he was eating damper bread and a tin of pork and beans and Bony was sipping his third pannikin of tea, laced with brandy.
“No. I must know Simpson’s motive for moving the body. It must be a tremendously powerful one and so remarkable that I am unable even to theorise about it. However, Simpson is continuing to make a pattern, and he must be permitted to go on making the pattern until the motive appears in it.”
“Show me the pattern, and eat a slice of this damn fine bread to sort of soak up the brandy you’re tearing into you.”
“The suggestion is sound. Thank you. The pattern, yes. It begins that morning the two girls left the hotel. Simpson made sure that Ferris was with him when the girls left and that subsequently he was observed repairing the garage. He made sure it was on record that he stood by Price’s car and talked with him just when he was leaving. He probably murdered O’Brien when his mother and sister were absent on holiday and his old father was incapable of keeping him under observation. He was absent when his city henchmen arrived and insulted the lady artist. He was absent when his henchmen attempted to assault me. We don’t, of course, know what his plan was with reference to yourself, but I believe it would have conformed to the general plan of providing himself with an alibi.”
“You think he was intending to have me done in?” Shannon asked.
“Don’t you?”
“I reckon—by his pals at Baden Park.”
“But not, I think, by the owners of Baden Park. In fact, I cannot believe that he telephoned for those men who came over that night—until and unless I have much stronger evidence. Now answer me this: Was anyone present when Simpson told you you would have to leave?”
“Yes, the old man.”
“Then he told you that you could stay that night and go in the morning. After that he withdrew to play the organ, having no design upon you, as he had not given himself time to plan an alibi and arrange for you to be dealt with à la the detective. He did speak with Baden Park and learned that three of the men were coming over for the evening. They arrived when you were about to leave. He couldn’t stop you. With some tale or other that you had gone off with the petty cash, or had insulted Ferris, or something else, he induced them to give chase, to find out which road you had taken from the junction. And on his return he telephoned a pal in Dunkeld to report on what you did, just to be sure you had or had not left the district.
“He was informed that you purchased provisions and a quart-pot and that you came this way on leaving Dunkeld. He recalled that you had done quite a lot of bush walking and that he had seen your tracks in the vicinity where he had buried O’Brien.
“I’ve no doubt that he did have a plan to do you in, as you say, and he acted a little too hastily in telling you to leave, in the first place, and in the second you declined to accept his invitation to remain until the next day. Those two causes produce a fault in the plan showing that Simpson, in all previous instances, had a perfect alibi.”
“H’m!” Shannon grunted, lighting a cigarette. “You reckon he done like Pa usta advise me and the kid brother never to do; get drunk or chase the girls in the old home town, that being bad for respectability?”
“That, I think, circumscribes the idea,” Bony said, smiling for the first time that morning. “Old Simpson mentioned to me that there are hard doers, or dangerous men, in this country. Some of them might well be among the stockmen at Baden Park, but it isn’t logical to include with them Mr. Carl Benson, the owner of the very valuable Baden Park Station and all its golden fleeces. Our interest must lie in and about the hotel, and in Simpson and his associates, or those of them desperate enough to commit murder.”
“Then why that mighty fine fence around Baden Park?” asked the American.
“The fence is a legitimate insurance against the theft of valuable animals and the depredations of wild dogs. The electrically-controlled gate is quite a good idea, because people will leave gates open, no matter how the pastoralist might plead or command with a notice affixed to his gates. Are you sure that, having found the body of O’Brien, you obliterated all the signs?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Simpson, remember, was born and reared in this country. He is a bushman, and it is therefore certain that he saw your tracks, plainly indicating that you had often been in this locality, and possibly was so informed of your entry into that mound of rocks. When he discharged you and then wanted you to remain until the next morning, either a plan concerning you went wrong or he’s far from sure that you discovered anything of significance. In this particular instance he acted out of character, and that is a point which will require attention.
“We do know that Simpson has removed an illegally-buried body. We can assume that Simpson murdered O’Brien. We are entitled to assume that the murder of O’Brien is a natural corollary of the murder of Detective Price and/or the murder of those two young women. But assumption is as far as we can go. Price could have been killed by a criminal whom he recognised. The girls could remain undiscovered for years, if ever found.”
“Getting yourself all tied up, aren’t you?” Shannon cut in, the corners of his mouth hinting at grim humour.
“No,” Bony replied. “I am merely proceeding with caution to avoid the possibility of taking a wrong track and thus wasting time. You are inclined to think that that party of men from Baden Park were sent for by Simpson. We must remember that previously Simpson sent to Melbourne for his thugs to persuade a lady artist and myself to leave the hotel.”
“But this time his plug-uglies are in the hands of the cop
s,” countered Shannon.
“Doubtless he could have arranged for others. Anyway, we are not progressing, and there is Simpson to follow and establish what he has done with the body. When your girl set out on the trip through these mountains she was wearing a hair-clip set with red brilliants. Did you know that?”
“Yes. I gave her the ornament.”
“I found a red brilliant within a few minutes of finding the piece of stone with the gold in it.”
Shannon’s blue eyes opened wide for a moment and then contracted.
“Is that so?” he said very slowly.
“I found it where a car had been turned on the area of quartz. It could have been waiting for those girls. During a struggle the trinket could have fallen from the girl’s head and been trampled upon. The trinket could have been picked up and the brilliant from it not noticed.”
“Have you got the brilliant with you?”
“No. It’s in safe hands. I think, Shannon, it would be wise for you to continue searching for traces of those two girls, and I will continue my investigation into the motives and actions of Simpson. If you will do that and promise not to take the law into your own hands, we will progress much better. We will leave our swags here, concealing them with scrub, and we could meet here again late this evening to make camp and compare notes.”
“Okey doke. Let’s act.”
Eventually, the swags were hidden among a nest of rocks at the foot of the range, and when returning to the creek to pick up the tracks of the dray, Bony pointed out the tracks left by the American.
“Pretty hard for an ordinary guy to trail a man through this country,” countered Shannon, and not for the first time revealing a stubborn streak.
“Good Australian bushmen are not ordinary guys, Shannon. Australian aborigines are super-extraordinary guys. However, we are fortunate that there are no aborigines in this district—so far as I know. Well, now, I’m going after that dray. We’ll act independently. Meet you tonight.”
The Mountains Have a Secret Page 14