AHMM, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Ms. Sharpe noted the following:

  1. No agent sold the same number of cases of two different items (carburetors, timers, spark plugs, and crankshafts), varying from 3 to 6.

  2. Each item had a different number of sales at each of the four outlets, although total number of sales was the same at each outlet.

  3. The number of carburetor cases sold (at $1,000 each) included: 3 by Dan, 4 by Mr. Wilkes, and 5 by the agent in Huntington.

  4. Al sold 4 cases of crankshafts, valued at $2,500 each.

  5. The number of cases of spark plugs sold (at $2,000 each) included: 4 by Mr. Vincent and 5 by Cal (who is not the Frankfurt agent).

  6. The number of timer cases sold (at $1,500 each) included: 3 by Bob, 4 by Mr. Tolliver, and 5 by the Georgetown agent.

  7. Mr. Upson sold more timers than carburetors. He turned in exactly $500 more than the agent in Jackson.

  8. The Frankfurt agent turned in $33,000, which was exactly $500 more than was turned in by the Georgetown agent.

  Bea Sharpe spent an hour with her pocket calculator. She reported to Mr. Armstrong, “I wish all my cases were this easy. It's plain enough. You'd better have arrested immediately, before he puts you out of business."

  Who is skimming money from his auto parts sales?

  The answer will appear in the December issue.

  Copyright (c) Robert V. Kesling

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  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by by Willie Rose

  Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.

  PCL ZWMT LE VTHT, DBF WK FCTJB'K KDYT ZCBU KC LBFTHJKDBF NVP IHWAT HDKTJ FHCE ZWYT D JKCBT ICAT BCMTARTH. NWBKTH KDYTJ KVT EZDIT CS IHWAT...

  —TMT SWJVTH

  CIPHER ANSWER: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  HOMESTEAD by REX BURNS

  After congratulating Aboriginal Liaison Constable Leonard Smith for completing his first aid refresher course, Senior Sergeant Dugald of the Broome Station asked, “By the way, are you acquainted with Phyllis Blankett of the Marna Jarndu Refuge?"

  Not as much as he would like to be. “Yes, sir."

  "Good. She's requested a police inquiry concerning one of her clients. Interview her. If there's substance to her request, go out to the Jeremy Hunter station and get the truth of the story.” He added, “But not until Friday.” The senior sergeant's tired eyes gazed through the window at the traffic in hot and muggy Hammersly Street. He spoke as much to himself as to Constable Smith. “We'll need every warm body we can muster for Thursday night."

  Thursday was dole day for Broome's Aboriginals. This year, Thursday was also New Year's Eve. The usual Aboriginal drunks in the town's parks and streets would be reinforced by drunks of all kinds using the holiday as an excuse for a bash. It was, S. S. Dugald said, a fine example of Reconciliation.

  Phyllis Blankett wasn't happy that ALC Smith would wait two days before responding to what she considered an immediate threat of bodily harm. Her voice—usually pleasant on the few times they'd spoken—grew icy. “You really believe that man's story?"

  Jeremy Hunter, his wife Cindy, and their five-year-old daughter Melissa had been treated for injuries at Broome Hospital. Hunter said they were hurt in a roll-over. His wife said nothing. The attending physician said he doubted the injuries came from an automobile accident and asked Phyllis Blankett to talk with Cindy. She did, and then requested an urgent police inquiry into possible spousal abuse by Jeremy Hunter.

  "No.” Leonard poured more coffee, dodging the angry glint in Phyllis's large, dark eyes. “But right now there's little evidence to prove it a lie, isn't there?” He thought that meeting her over lunch would make news of the delay more palatable. He was wrong.

  Anger tightened the corners of the woman's mouth, making her lips even fuller. “Cindy Hunter as much as told me that Jeremy got blotto and hit her and Melissa."

  "'As much as’ isn't a complaint, Phyllis. That's why Senior Sergeant wants me to go out and see if there's support for your suspicion.” Leonard had thought, some six months past, that the little tingle he felt on first meeting Phyllis might have been shared by her. Certainly, the occasional chats they had when duties called him to Broome seemed welcoming enough to let Leonard's imagination run a bit.

  But there was no welcome now. She jabbed her fork into the barramundi brought by the smiling waitress. “Let the Abos kill each other, is that it? You're just another bloody copper, aren't you?"

  "Just another bloody copper,” he agreed mildly. “But if Cindy won't file a charge, there's not much any bloody copper can do.” He added, “And you know how tomorrow night's going to be—everyone'll be needed here in Broome."

  The fork wagged. “Think Jeremy's going to stay sober?” Her dark eyes gazed at some scene beyond the Christmas tinsel decorating a corner of the restaurant. “I told her to take Melissa to the shelter when they left hospital. But she needed a court order to take the child, and Jeremy would object to that, she said. Said she and Melissa best get back to the station."

  Leonard nodded. “Cindy stays with the roll-over story, the court has no authority to take Jeremy's child from him."

  "He'll get drunk again and kill them. You know that."

  He knew such had happened in the past. He knew such was possible in the future. “Maybe Social Services can go out sooner. Maybe the Violence Patrol."

  One of the Aboriginal community projects designed to defuse alcohol-related problems and to help victims of abuse, the Violence Patrol was active in the settlements as well as in keeping grog out of alcohol-free reserves.

  "Hunter Station's too far out for the Patrol, Leonard. You know that. And Social Services need ‘evidence’ before they act.” The woman's anger drained away. “Can't blame you for doing nothing, I suppose. Even the elders have trouble keeping up with it. More and more grog's coming onto the reserves. And even the kids are sniffing petrol and aerosol."

  Petrol fumes and aerosol cans: the sniffers’ faves—cheap to buy and easy to carry to outback camps. Leonard, happy to find a point they could agree on, nodded. “And it seems to be getting worse."

  Which only rekindled the woman's anger. “Well you're the bloody copper! Do something about it!"

  * * * *

  Friday morning and still weary from a long night wrestling rowdy drunks, Leonard followed the red sand track that twisted under tree limbs leafless this late in the Dry. Struggling to stay awake in the tepid breeze from the truck's aircon, he stopped the Tojo 4-Runner where a little-used bush track branched off. It led toward a broad expanse of gray, sun-cracked clay, the bottom of a shallow lake that, maybe this year, would fill with the pending rains of the Wet. Hunter's station, the map told him, was somewhere in empty space just below the boundary of the Beagle Bay Reserve. His GPS told him where he sat. But connecting dots in this vacant corner of the Kimberley was always a challenge.

  Yawning widely and rubbing his eyes, he studied the horizon. Scattered across a gently rolling plain, drought-seared trees and clumps of grass shimmered in midday heat and humidity. Checking the petrol and temperature gauges, he swung onto the ill-marked track. An hour should tell him if he'd guessed right.

  Finally the tire tracks lifted out of the clay bed to become mashed vegetation and sandy grooves that meandered past termite mounds rising out of the brown grass like giant fungi. Once he saw the ears of a kangaroo silhouetted in the shade of a dead-looking acacia tree. But the animal did not run. It was too hot for such effort. The track tilted downhill between shelves of red rock toward a fringe of green trees. This close to the monsoons, trees kept their leaves only because their roots could reach water, and sure enough, minutes later he saw a stubby windmill and a cluster of rusted metal roofs.

  Leonard pulled his Tojo into the yard and turned off the motor. A hammer clanged somewhere in the barn, and from its
dark doorway a cattle dog walked arthritically toward him. The dog's head was down, and its tail wagged slowly as if used to greeting strangers. The hammering stopped and a man in sweat-darkened khaki emerged from the barn. His heavy shoes crunched the hot, gravelly earth.

  "Jeremy Hunter? G'day.” Leonard got out of the truck.

  "G'day.” In the shadow beneath a tattered hat brim, bloodshot eyes studied Leonard and his uniform. One eye was still a bit swollen, and a week-old cut marked a corner of his mouth. “Who's your mum?"

  It was a familiar kinship-greeting between strangers, but the tone wasn't friendly.

  "Annie Smith, Yawuru nation. I'm Liaison Constable Leonard Smith.” He offered his hand, but Hunter ignored it. Given the aroma of stale sweat, anger, and plonk surrounding the man, Leonard was a bit relieved. “How about you? Who're your people?"

  "Beagle Bay Mangala. What d'you want here?"

  The home of the Mangala language was some three hundred kilometers south. But language groups from all over the Kimberley—remnants that had occupied various territories now claimed by whites—had been uprooted to the Beagle Bay Reserve. “Came by to see how your wife and daughter are doing."

  "They be fine."

  "Good news, that.” Between the homestead and barn, rusty chicken wire surrounded a roost on tall poles with snake baffles. In its shade, a dozen chooks spread their wings in the cooler sand and panted. “You had a bingle, I hear. Tell me about it."

  "Going too bloody fast, turned too sharp in the sand.” Hunter shrugged. “Me own bloody fault.” He added, “No other car hurt—none around."

  Leonard nodded and glanced around. All the buildings showed their age, but patches of newer gray paint revealed attempts to cover those boards in worst condition. A well-oiled windmill, locked at present, loomed over a rust-streaked water tank. Halfway between the homestead and barn, a two-door dunny tilted. No electric poles led to the station. A wisp of wood smoke rose from the dry stone chimney of the kitchen. “Is this freehold or lease?"

  Pastoral leases were usually assigned to Aboriginal corporations for grazing stock. But since indigenous peoples could now own land—or, as many said, buy some of their land back—a few Aboriginals had left the reserves for freeholds. Some simply wanted a place of their own, others wanted to live closer to town for the education and jobs that weren't available on the reserves. But not many could afford to buy even a rundown station like this.

  "Freehold. I'm paying on it—rent-to-own, like."

  "Good on you. Nice place,” he lied. “Run much stock?"

  "Not much—some cattle. Enough to make the payments."

  A few decades ago it would have been sheep. Now only cows could survive on overgrazed pasture like this, and few of those. “Cindy around?"

  "Why?"

  "Auto accident, serious injury—your wife broke her collarbone and wrist. Was treated for facial cuts and bruises. Your daughter was treated for scrapes and brain swelling. Three days in hospital.” Leonard wagged his head. “Serious injury calls for a police inquiry. And when the medico heard I was coming out, he asked me to check on them."

  Hunter frowned but said nothing.

  "So I'm here to check on them. And to make a report on the accident."

  Hunter turned abruptly. “Let's get out of the sun, then."

  He followed the man onto the groaning boards of the veranda. Even in the shade of its tin roof, the air was thick and hot. Hunter called through the clear plastic strips of the fly curtain dangling across the doorway. “Cindy! Oy, Cindy—copper's here to check up on you!"

  A sound of movement from the rear of the homestead answered Hunter's call. Then Cindy Hunter stepped through the strips, wiping her long fingers on a drying rag. Adhesives marked her face. The ruptured veins in one eye still looked red, and a cast covered her left wrist. Leonard said who he was and what he wanted.

  The woman glanced at her husband before she answered softly, “It was an accident. Ute rolled over."

  "How's Melissa?"

  "She's okay. She's asleep right now. Doctor said she would sleep a lot. You want to see her?"

  "Take a peek, yeah."

  He followed the thin woman through the living room to an open door. On a pallet a few inches above the floor of the small bedroom, the child slept under a worn sheet. Her black hair splayed out on a pillow whose darned slip also showed a lot of washing. Long, deep breaths sounded in the girl's half open mouth.

  Leonard quietly led Cindy back to the front porch. “She complain of any headaches? Vision problems?"

  Cindy shook her head. “No."

  "Any vomiting? Bleeding from her eyes, ears, or mouth?” He had not thought his first aid refresher course would apply so soon.

  "No."

  "And you? Any infection? Fever?"

  "No."

  "Anything you need to go back to hospital for?"

  Jeremy spoke up. “They need anything, I can take them."

  Leonard studied Cindy's face, but it remained taut and impassive. He hadn't expected her to tell him much: Her husband was listening. He was a man, and worse, he was a copper. But the swelling in the woman's face seemed to be gone, and the medico would not have let Melissa out of hospital if the pressure on her brain remained. “How long have you and Jeremy lived here?"

  Another uneasy glance at her husband. “Four years, maybe."

  He thanked the woman. She disappeared back into the house. Leonard said, “Let's take a look at your auto."

  "What for?"

  "Need to assess damage for my report."

  "Wasn't much damage. We rolled upright again."

  "Back up on the wheels?"

  "Yeah. Like being in a bloody washing machine."

  "Got to see that!"

  "It's in the barn."

  The dimness of the large building smelled of animal urine, dust, old straw. A Ford F-150, two or three years old, showed rusty scrapes of much use in its tray. But the only dents were low on the right front fender behind the ‘roo bar that guarded the grill.

  "Nice truck. Time payments?"

  "What else?"

  Leonard stepped up on the running board and scanned the top of the cab. “Not a scratch up here!"

  "Like I said, it was soft sand. Went over once and popped up again. I hung on to the steering wheel, but Cindy and ‘Lissa got bounced."

  "Hell of a Christmas present. Seat belts in use?"

  Hunter's thumb touched the fresh scar at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, of course. It's the law, eh?"

  "Sure is.” He jotted down the vehicle's license plate number, glanced behind the sunshield for insurance documents. There were none. “You'll want proof of insurance when you drive off your property."

  "Yeah. Don't do that much."

  He did not ask how Cindy and Melissa were taken to hospital or where the nearest servo was for gasoline. “All right—injuries suffered in a roll-over. We'll leave it at that."

  In the recesses of the barn, an ancient workbench held a few hand tools. A vise and hammer showed that Hunter had been banging crooked nails straight for reuse. A rusty wheelbarrow nosed into a corner. Larger implements—shovel, posthole digger, pickax—were propped against a wall where large nails held a few coils of rope, links of rusty chain, two or three loops of what looked like rubber tubing. A scarred ladder nailed between posts led up to the hayloft where a rope and set of pullies were tied off. One of the animal stalls was empty. The other held a pile of miscellaneous bottles and a small stack of white ten-liter buckets with their lids pressed shut.

  Leonard ran his hand over one of the buckets, feeling a light film of dust on its curved side. “What are these for?"

  "Don't know. Here when we moved in. Like the bottles. Might find a use for them someday."

  Leonard nodded again. When you lived beyond Whoop Whoop, you never threw anything away, even bent nails. As soon as you did, you needed it.

  * * * *

  In the rearview mirror, Jeremy Hunter stood like a dark statue,
watching Leonard's vehicle bounce away. He had expected an invitation to supper and the offer of a place to throw his swag. Not only was hospitality the rule at every station in the outback, but it was part of Aboriginal law. He could still hear his Aunt Daisy's voice, “The last thing you have, you must give,” and, “In the outback, accidents happen, so you don't neglect your neighbor.” But instead of offering even grudging hospitality, Hunter had warned that coming rains could turn the clay flat into a lake and give Leonard a two-hundred-kilometer drive around it. “Best you be going before that happens."

  A bend in the track pinched the figure out of his rearview mirror. Another kilometer carried the sound of Leonard's vehicle away from the homestead. Then he turned off the track behind a clump of leafless acacia and parked. A haze had begun to soften the late afternoon sun, and in the humidity he felt sweat run down his ribs. He rummaged in the Engel cooler, powered by the Tojo's battery, for a bite of banger and cheese. Then, urged by the questions he had been framing, he opened the windows a bit so sun-heated air would not blow out the locked cab's glass and walked back toward the Hunter homestead.

  * * * *

  He was not worried about the cattle dog. Despite this seemingly empty land, it seemed used to strangers. But he did move slowly enough to study what was ahead, and it took an hour to loop almost completely around the thin smoke from the chimney before he spotted a touch of husbandry out of place in the bush: a line of clipped limbs and an occasional freshly cut stump. Crouched and still, he studied the work. It ran from the front veranda, not fifty meters away, to some point farther out. Paralleling the alley of cuttings, he picked his way in slow steps until he saw, at ankle height, an almost invisible trip wire strung from one shrub to another. Here and there along the wire dangled rusted tin cans. On the other side of the wire, fresh earth had been thrown up in a berm half a meter high to surround a patch of cleared land.

  Inside the berm, a sheet of white plastic covered about six square meters of leveled earth. Half a dozen twenty-five-liter plastic containers were spaced across the sheet, their round lids pressed shut and sealed with tape. Three lids bore a painted number 1, and the remainder a 2. Dimly visible through the translucent sides of the sealed containers, smaller white buckets, the same kind as those in the barn, reached almost to the covers. Slow drops sweat down the insides of the outer containers.