The Mystery of Swordfish Reef

by Arthur W. Upfield

  There was only one thing that mattered, only the one thing, that black marlin swordfish lying athwart the stern of the launch. Mentally he groped to find an adjective suitably describing it, discarded many, and finally sleeted one which is overworked—tremendous. The fish dwarfed the width of the Marlin’s stern, for its great head and heavy sword projected beyond one side and its tail reached far beyond the other. Its glorious living iridescent blues and greens had long since vanished, being replaced by a general grey.

  “What is the Australian weight record, Joe!” he asked, his voice subdued by the amazing fact that he had captured such a fish with such comparatively flimsy tackle.

  “Six ’undred and seventy-two pounds,” answered Joe. “Mr J. Porter captured him back in thirty-seven. This bloke won’t go as ’eavy, worse luck, but I’m a crab if ’e don’t scale at more than five hundred and fifty. Ain’t ’e a ruddy beaut?”

  “And how long, d’you think did I take to bring him to the gaff?”

  “Eighty-one minutes,” promptly replied Joe. “That’s a fact. I timed you. I always time an angler when a fish grabs ’is baitfish.”

  “Eighty-one minutes! Was it that long?”

  “Too right! You done extra well getting him to the gaff in that time in that sea running. Specially as ’ow ’e’s only your second fish.”

  “You are being generous, Joe. I owe a great deal to you and Jack. I’d never—”

  “Come for’ard, Joe, and make fast,” shouted Wilton. Turning about. Bony saw that the Marlin was moving in behind the Dolfin to moor at a jetty.”

  He saw, too, through the descending wind-driven deluge a group of four people standing on the jetty waiting for them, and that the jetty joined a road which wound upward across the slope of a grassy hill to a large bungalow-type of house having tall chimneys and glass-protected verandas. The four people all wore oilskin coats and oilskin hats. One of them was a woman.

  Joe, having clambered to the jetty with a mooring-line, shouted:

  “Good day, Mr Rockaway!”

  No one of the group answered his greeting. Each member of it continued to stare downward at the fish lying athwart the Marlin’s stern. Joe had to pass behind them to take from Wilton the stern mooring-line.

  “A nice fish, ain’t ’e?” he persisted.

  Bony betrayed small interest in the group. He observed that the girl nodded agreement with Joe’s remark, but continued to regard the swordfish. Then the tallest of the three men jumped down to stand with Bony in the cockpit. For yet a few further seconds he gazed at the capture, before turning towards the detective. His eyes, light-blue in colouring, were wide open and very bright. He proffered a large but soft hand, and Bony took it.

  “Heartiest congratulations, sir,” he said, in tones soft like his hands. “My name is Rockaway.”

  “Thank you, Mr Rockaway. My name is Bonaparte—Napoleon Bonaparte—and I can assure you that the Emperor himself could never have been more vain than I am this afternoon.”

  He saw the flash of interest that his remarkable name aroused in the mind of the big blue-eyed man; saw, too, that the interest was only of passing moment, quickly submerged by the greater interest in the huge fish. Rockaway looked upward at the woman, standing with the two men on the jetty, and asked, loudly:

  “What d’you think of him, Mavis? A beauty, eh?”

  “A dream out of the sea,” she cried. “May I come down there?”

  “Permit me!”

  Bony jumped to the gunwale to offer her his hand. Looking upward he encountered large deep-blue eyes set in a face with Grecian contours. The face was devoid of expression, but the eyes were pools reflecting at the moment a keen pleasure. Gallantly, Bony assisted her down to the cockpit of the Marlin.

  “Mavis, this is Mr Bonaparte. Mr Bonaparte, my daughter,” Rockaway said without removing his gaze from the fish. “A tape, Dan! Fetch a tape.”

  “What will it weigh, do you think?” asked the girl.

  “Can’t make a good guess till we measure him,” replied Rockaway. “More than five hundred pounds I’d say. What d’you think, Wilton?”

  “Five ’undred and seventy pounds,” Joe replied for his partner.

  The tape appeared. Rockaway gave one end of it to his daughter, and, with as much enthusiasm as if the catch were theirs, between them they taped the black marlin. Bony stood back a little. He was faintly amused. Joe, with the two men on the jetty, squatted on his heels.

  “Eleven feet eleven inches in length,” Rockaway announced. Then: “Four feet ten inches in girth. Yes, according to the Catalina Formula, Joe’s guess is near right. Again, Mr Bonaparte, please accept my heartiest congratulations.”

  “And mine, too,” added the girl, turning to face the delighted Bony, who bowed in his grand manner. Only Wilton, standing behind him, saw her eyes momentarily open wide. Bony said, grandly:

  “You are exceedingly kind, and I much appreciate your warm sportsmanship. Your congratulations come as a fitting climax to an experience I never shall forget.”

  “How long did it take you to bring it to the gaff?” she asked.

  He told her. Then: “Oh, if only I could capture a fish like that when the sea was like it was then! You know, you are extremely lucky, Mr Bonaparte.”

  “And extremely wet,” interjected Rockaway. “Come! We’ll go aboard the Dolfin and drink a health to this prince of swordfish. You two men come along as well. And you, Dan and Dave. Come and drink to the biggest fish you are ever likely to see—bar the Australian record.”

  He passed first up to the jetty, where he assisted the girl from Bony, who again stood on the gunwale. He led the way along the jetty to the Dolfin, and down into the saloon. Outwardly the Dolfin was a gentleman’s cruiser; inwardly it complied with the demands of a millionaire. The saloon was furnished in mahogany with red plush seating. With a slight flourish of his hands, Rockaway drew open the doors of a massive cabinet to disclose enough liquor to stock a club bar.

  “Whisky, Mr Bonaparte? A cocktail? Beer or stout?”

  “Whisky, please. I am, as you observed, extremely wet.”

  “That can be remedied in a minute,” Rockaway promised, himself attending to his daughter, their guests and their two launchmen. “You will be here all night for certain, although the glass is rising. To our deep regret we are unable to offer you the hospitality of our house as it is in chaos, being renovated throughout. However, you are very welcome to stay aboard the Dolfin whilst you’re imprisoned in Wapengo Inlet. We will show you the pantry and Dan will demonstrate the working of the electric range to Wilton, here. Cigar?”

  “No, thanks. A cigarette, perhaps. My papers have been ruined.”

  “Tell us something about your fight with that fish, Mr Bonaparte, please,” urged the girl, who now was seated on the edge of the dining-table, a cocktail in one hand, a cigarette in the other, her hat removed to uncover a crown of auburn glory. Twenty-four, no more, was Bony’s swift estimate. It was peculiar how her face was never allied with her eyes in the expression of emotion. It was as though her face was enamelled, frozen by cosmetics, the application of which was not evident. Her gaze never left him whilst he related the battle, the four launchmen no less interested than she and her father.

  Charming people, he judged them. They evinced no stain of snobbery, no hostility to his colour, no curiosity, as yet, about him. The man was large and jovial, and at this time Bony did not recall his flabby hand-grasp. The girl’s beauty intrigued him, for never had he beheld beauty just like it. Once she closed her eyes the better to visualize what he was word-painting, and he thought then of feminine beauty painted on canvas. Her enthusiasm for swordfishing astounded him. He could understand it in her father.

  When he had finished everyone spoke at the same time, and for a moment or two the small audience broke up into smaller groups to discuss this point and that. Presently, Rockaway said:

  “Well, time flies. I’ll hunt you up some dry clothes, Mr Bonaparte. Dan, you fix Wilton
and Peace with toggery and show them for’ard to the men’s quarters. Afterwards, fix the shore cable to the launch so that the radiators can be turned on and the range used without regard for the batteries. Come along, Bonaparte. The mister stage is passed. I’m plain Rock to my friends.”

  “And I, Rock, am plain Bony to mine.”

  Bony was introduced to one of four cabins where he was shown bedding stacked in a locker above the bunk. Rockaway brought to him grey flannels and underwear and canvas shoes. He was the perfect host, providing even shaving gear and a dressing-gown.

  “You’ll find the shower for’ard of the engine-room,” he said. “Consider everything aboard the Dolfin your own. I am really concerned that I am unable to offer you my house. Or that I am unable to remain here longer and see further to your comfort. My daughter and I are governed by a dictator who wears skirts and a look like a frying-pan. When the dinner gong is struck, we have to be on hand to answer it, or there’s a scolding.”

  “You are, indeed, a friend in need, Rock.”

  “You and I have leaped to stand on common ground, Bony. So now, au revoir. I’ll hope to see you first thing tomorrow. The sea will be down by the morning.”

  Quite a wonderful man, thought Bony whilst removing his sodden clothes. He heard Rockaway’s voice up on the jetty. Later he heard the heavy steps of the man, Dan, pass along the gangway, and the thrump of his boots on the wooden jetty. When he sought the shower-room he could hear Wilton and Joe talking farther forward.

  Twenty minutes later he was reclining on red plush and sipping a whisky-soda. His body felt delightfully warm and his muscles relaxed with exquisite pleasure. The Rockaways’ kindness was, indeed, immense. They had treated him as an equal when unaware of his profession and reputation. He thought of them, brought them to the screen of his mind for further examination despite the fact that his mind wanted not the Rockaways but the swordfish displayed for its entertainment. That these Rockaways were English was proven by their accent. That the man was rich was evidenced by this magnificent launch and the big house situated on the hillside.

  Wilton came in.

  “Hullo! What have you there?”

  Wilton’s face was set. He placed on the shining mahogany table a Winchester repeating rifle. It was certainly not the one with which Joe had shot the shark. Joe came to stand just behind his partner, and Wilton said, leaning forward to the reclining Bony:

  “Found this in a locker in the men’s quarters. It’s Bill Spinks’s rifle. The one he had on the Do-me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Lead At Last

  RECLINING ON the red plush of the saloon settee, Bony’s eyes were points of ice and the placidity of his slight body was unusual. From the rifle he gazed upward into Wilton’s blazing brown eyes, to realize that in this young man were depths not previously suspected. The detective spoke softly with a metallic note in his voice. The placidity left him. He sat up. His nostrils quivered as the primitive man’s nostrils quiver at the prospect of a hunt.

  “Joe, go outside and see if anyone is in sight.”

  Joe’s generous mouth was set in a leer. His eyes were small and agate hard. He left the saloon as silently as a cat. Bony said:

  “How do you know, Jack, that this rifle belongs to Spinks?”

  “Because the rear sight of this gun has been broken and repaired. Because I repaired the rear sight of Bill’s Winchester repeater, .32. And because I recognize my own work on this repairing job,” Wilton replied, to add with steady conviction:

  “This is Bill’s rifle.”

  “Put it back exactly as you found it,” instructed Bony.

  “But it’s—”

  “Please,” urged Bony.

  Wilton took up the weapon and departed. Left alone, Bony smiled. The movement of his nostrils became more pronounced. The smile faded, vanished. Joe came in.

  “There’s nobody around,” he reported. “Rain’s liftin’. Clouds gettin’ higher and the wind easin’ a bit. Fine day tomorrer. What d’you think about that gun?”

  “It interests me, and I will continue to think of it,” Bony conceded. “Meanwhile, Joe, get going on setting out a meal. We three will eat here. What’s in the pantry?”

  “Everythink in tins. Bread in the box. Fresh bread and fresh-looking butter.”

  “Then we’ll feed royally. You fellows may drink beer if you wish, but I would like a pot of tea, strong tea. Tell Jack about the tea, will you?”

  Fifteen minutes later they sat at the mahogany table, and to Bony’s pleasure his launchmen preferred tea. Joe exhibited a slight nervousness in these surroundings, and remembered in time not to cool tea in the fragile blue saucer. He and Wilton were quiet, speaking rarely, obviously waiting upon their angler. Presently Bony said:

  “I think, Jack, that we agreed the other afternoon that the Dolfin could have come in from the east to Swordfish Reef, and unseen by any other craft, have met the Do-me.”

  “That’s so. And the Gladious could have done it, too, remember. Then there was that small steamer painted warship grey and reported east of Swordfish Reef by the Orcades.”

  “Yes, of course, that small steamer passed by the Orcades, so closely that the passengers were interested in it, as liner passengers are ever interested in anything. How long would it take, say, three men to paint the Dolfin all over with grey paint?”

  Joe’s valuable cup was nearly broken when it was set down violently on its saucer. The idea was not nearly as new to Wilton, who answered Bony’s question.

  “They could do it, I should think, in about three hours, just slapping on the paint.”

  “They could that,” agreed Joe. “It was a dead calm day, too. There wouldn’t have been no bother about painting the outside of the hull down to the water line. There were no waves to wash against a craft that could wash off paint just put on.”

  “The craft seen by the people on the Orcades was a steamer. It had a funnel,” argued the detective.

  “A coupler lengths of stove piping would do for a funnel,” Joe decided.

  “And the mast, being hinged to the deck, and in two pieces could have been shortened by a shorter top section,” added Wilton. “Do you think—”

  Bony stopped him with a wave of a hand and a slight smile.

  “We must be cautious. We mustn’t manufacture facts to fit a theory. The man called Dan—what is he?”

  “Dan Malone? He’s the skipper of the Dolfin. He’s a bluenose fisherman. The other feller is Dave Marshall, come all the way from Cockney-land. Neither of ’em is any chop. They both worked for Rockaway when he first came to Bermee. Came here with Rockaway, in fact.”

  “Hum. They both look—er—tough. Do they mix at all with the Bermagui people?”

  “Very little. I’ve seen ’em in the hotel at odd times,” Joe replied.

  “Indeed! Try to remember this: Did you happen to be in the hotel the night before that day the Do-me disappeared?”

  “Yes, I was there ’aving a drink or two with Eddy Burns,” Joe admitted.

  “Were either or both these Dolfin men at the hotel that evening?”

  Joe frowned, scowled, grunted. Then:

  “No. But I remember seein’ the Rockaway truck outside the garage. Parkins was doing somethink to it, I think. It was when I was goin’ up the street to the pub—about nine o’clock.”

  “Without doubt we are progressing,” drawled Bony, selecting a cigarette from one of Mr Rockaway’s expensive boxes. “How is it that you remember all this so clearly?”

  “’Cos I settled me slate bill at the hotel with a fiver Jack, here, give me the day afore the Do-me disappeared. Remember that fiver, Jack?”

  “Yes. I got it from the bank when I went there to get housekeeping money for my mother.”

  “Then, Joe, do you remember if Mr Ericson was about the hotel that evening?”

  “He was all there. ’Im and some others were havin’ a bit of a party in the back parlour.”

  “How do you know t
hat?” pressed Bony. “Did you go into the back parlour and see Ericson?”

  “No need to see him to know ’e was in there. I could ’ear ’is voice. The bar shutters were up, you understand.”

  “Oh! You are being very patient with me, Joe, and I thank you. Just one more question. Do you remember hearing Ericson, when in the back parlour, say anything about going the next day to Swordfish Reef after sharks?”

  Again Joe scowled and grunted and hesitated.

  “No-o ... I can’t say as ’ow I do.”

  Bony offered no assistance in clearing away the wreckage of the meal. With Rockaway’s cigarettes on the table beside him he lay stretched along the settee, his eyes closed for periods, and those thin nostrils of his slowly expanding and relaxing. In the launch kitchenette, Joe observed to Wilton:

  “That rifle’s got ’im thinkin’. When you showed him that gun, I was forgettin’ he was a d_____ He’s come to be like a bit of granite. Did you see ’is eyes when ’e was askin’ all them questions?”

  “Yes. And he looked like he does when he’s fighting a swordie, Joe. It makes me feel kind of glad I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Me, too. I’ll bet this Rockaway bloke ’ad somethink to do with the Do-me. Hope we’re in at the final, Jack, old lad. Me and Dan’s got a score to settle. He’ll be in it as well. They’re all crooks.”

  “We’re only thinking so now,” Wilton countered.

  “I’ve thought it all along,” Joe stoutly maintained. “I never took to that blue-nose Nova Scotia-man. Me—when the times comes, I’m gonna tear ’is guts right out. ‘Peace,’ ’e says to me one day on the jetty. ‘Peace,’ ’e says, ‘I’ll have you to know that I’m Captain Malone to you.’ ’Im, a captain! Stiffen the crows! Why, Whiskers ’Arris on the A.S.1 never wants ’is men to call ’im Captain ’Arris. Skipper’s good enough for ’im.”