Bony - 19 - Cake in a Hat Box

by Arthur W. Upfield

“ ’S’ll right, Dave,” shouted a man seeming four feet high and ten feet wide. “Have one with me. ’Night, Inspector. What’s your swill?”

  “Meet my frensh, Sid,” mumbled Dave.

  “Was just saying that the Breens ought to be here,” Bony said, and Sid guffawed, flicking a pound note towards ’Un and hitching up his trousers.

  “More cake’n the King,” mumbled Dave. “Cart loads o’ cake. Cattle … cattle me behind! You know wha’sh! I know where it comes from. You want t’know? I know. I’m’sh the postmaster, ain’t I? Cat …”

  Through the din and the smoke swept a shrill whistle, and standing just within the street entrance was Constable Clifford, in uniform.

  “Time, gents!” shouted ’Un. “Come on now … time’s up!”

  Clifford disappeared. The inebriates proceeded to fall out of the bar on to the pitch-black veranda and down the pitch-black steps to the unmade roadway; Dave Bundred holding tightly to Bony, who had no intention of losing him.

  “Gran’ night,” said Dave. “We on the right track home?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Bony assured him. “How do we get into your place?”

  “Through ruddy door, course. Back door … roun’ the back. No, not ’round the back. Wake missus. Lemme see.” The post­master struggled with a pocket, pressed a key into Bony’s free hand. “Front door. Unlock her. Lamp on counter.”

  On arriving at the post office, Bony unlocked the door, struck a match and found the hurricane lantern. Dave clung to the counter and Bony closed the door. He squinted at Bony, drew himself up, passed through the raised drop-flap to the much larger section of the office with its mail-sorting benches, bag racks and telegraph instruments.

  “All your’sh, Inspector,” he whispered. “Help yourself. Don’t take the clock. No good, won’t go.”

  “You’ll go, you dirty drunken beast,” said the infuriated woman standing in the house doorway. “Go on, off to bed with you.”

  “My wife, Inspector.”

  “I have met Mrs Bundred,” Bony said. “Now you toddle off to bed. Mrs Bundred will, I’m sure, let me have the mail for Alverston and the Breens.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Most Unethical

  CONSTABLE CLIFFORD lounged at the table in the police-station office, a cigarette in his mouth, an empty glass beside him, and the bottle sent over by Bony standing on a pile of papers. The tide had ebbed only an inch. Within the building it was very quiet; without, the silent night was dis­turbed by the raised voices of men. On Irwin coming in, the slightly envious Clifford asked:

  “Bony still on his feet?”

  “Too true. Took the postmaster home. Phew! That beer would make a cat sick.”

  “Better try the whisky.”

  “Thanks. What a man has to do for duty’s sake! He’s coming now.”

  They watched the doorway, saw Bony enter. He was carry­ing a postal mail-bag on his back. Permitting the bag to slip to the floor with a thud, he regarded each with twinkling eyes, sat down and poured himself a drink … of soda water.

  “Pleasant evening?” he asked Irwin, mildly.

  “Very. You have a good time?”

  “In spots. What gives?”

  “You told me to concentrate on Linton, and especially a lead connecting Bundred with Stenhouse,” he said. “A good deal of old stuff comes into the picture again. Two years ago, a bag of registered mail matter was stolen between Agar’s Lagoon and Broome. Checking showed it was put on an air­craft here, but the bag wasn’t on the plane when it arrived at Broome. Stenhouse investigated, and Linton, whose head­quarters are in Broome, flew out to take a hand. They never located that lost mail, and no article of it has subsequently turned up, so that it can’t be proved whether the bag was stolen, or what happened to it.”

  From Irwin, Bony transferred his gaze to Clifford.

  “We investigated at the Broome end,” Clifford said. “It was possible for that mail to have been stolen in transit from the post office to the aerodrome, or from the plane at several points at which it touched down between Agar’s Lagoon and Broome. As Irwin said, the check points were at both aerodromes. Sten­house was unable to discover anything at this end.”

  Irwin took up the story.

  “According to Linton, Dave Bundred had on several occa­sions prior to the disappearance of that mail-bag been repri­manded for slight neglect of duty, due to Bundred being drunk and his wife having to deal with the mail. Linton insists that the lapses from compliance with regulations were not serious, but could have been taken advantage of by a clever thief to steal the bag of registered mail. He could find no dereliction of duty in connection with the actual loss of the bag.”

  “You state that Stenhouse worked with Linton on that in­vestigation,” Bony said. “Did you see his report to Inspector Walters, Clifford?”

  “The report stated that Bundred was questioned, and that he gave all possible assistance. It also stated the length of time Bundred had been here, that his background was sound, that his character was good. A good character was also given to the man who contracts to carry mail and passengers between the airport and Agar’s Lagoon.”

  “H’m! Anything more, Irwin?”

  “Well, Linton says he’s convinced, in view of Bundred’s long service, that he’s honest enough, and that only of late years has he grown careless. If it wasn’t that Agar’s post office would be difficult to re-staff, he would have recommended the transfer of Bundred to a southern office where he’d have less responsibility.”

  “I think a transfer is warranted,” observed Bony. “I wonder if it would be possible to obtain quickly a list of the lost items?”

  “I asked Linton that, and he said he could supply a copy of the list from his files at Broome.”

  “Good! When is Linton returning? Did he say?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Get a copy of that list … posted in a plain envelope.”

  Irwin said, “You have any luck?”

  “As the children say, I’m getting warm. I’ve never failed to finalize an investigation, and I shall not fail to prove who killed Constable Stenhouse and Jacky Musgrave. And why? I shall succeed because I have no respect for rules and regulations, and, when engaged on a murder hunt, I have no scruples and no ethics.”

  “You’re telling me,” growled Irwin.

  “I am reminding you,” Bony said, blandly. “Tired yet of gallivanting over the scenery with me, Irwin?”

  “No, I’m liking it.”

  “Then we’ll be off again in the morning as soon as you are ready. We’ll need plenty of spare supplies, for we have to go on walkabout like Pluto’s Mob. Where are you sleeping, Clifford?”

  “Here at the station. In the room Stenhouse occupied.”

  “Then you can take charge of this bag of mail and return it to the postmaster tomorrow. Tell him I had to alter my plans and will not be able to deliver it. You should see that my receipt for the registered stuff is cancelled.”

  Bony up-ended the bag and emptied the contents on the table. He proceeded to sort it, watched by the now silent men, going through the letters and making two piles of them, then dealing with the packages and parcels. He replaced everything in the bag with the exception of one parcel addressed to Ezra Breen.

  “I was happy to learn this evening that many of the younger folk in this great North-West are seeking to elevate their minds by the study of serious literature. In my youth we wasted vital time reading novels and comics.” Bony smiled, and Clifford really did look like the child waiting for the rabbit to emerge from a hat. “Ezra Breen, for one, expends the midnight oil gathering knowledge from medical and anthro­pological text-books, that he might improve the quality of the beef they send to Wyndham.”

  “What are you doing?” sharply demanded Irwin.

  “Just having a peep into Ezra’s latest acquisition.”

  “But you can’t do that, Bony. You can’t open other people’s mailed parcels. It’s registered, too
.”

  Busy with string knots, Bony looked up from his task.

  “But I’m not doing any harm, Irwin,” he said, disarmingly. “Just want to take a look. Books have always been a weak­ness with me … especially good books. I like the scent of new books, and the feel of fine-quality paper. Just a little peep, and then I’ll remake the parcel and no one will ever know.”

  “It’s against regulations,” Irwin objected. “If you must examine the contents of that parcel, then the addressee should be present, or we should obtain permission from the PMG.”

  “Useless … both proposals. The addressee would rightfully decline to have his parcel opened by others in his presence, or by himself in the presence of others.”

  The string was untied, and, deliberately provocative, Bony studiously examined the gummed address label bearing the printed information that the parcel had been dispatched by V. Solly, Bookseller, Peppermint Grove, WA. Despite his pro­test, Irwin’s expression was of intense expectancy. Carefully unfolding the brown wrapping paper, Bony disclosed a new book having dark blue covers and in gilt lettering the title.

  “H’m!” murmured Bony. “Useful knowledge on spraying heifers. Lawton’s Gynaecology, Volume one, Tenth Edition. Brand-new, too. I like the colour of the covers.”

  Slowly he raised the cover and gently lifted the first few pages. There was disclosed a ragged hole gouged into the centre, and in the hole was a wad of bank-notes. Irwin’s breath hissed between his teeth, and Clifford exclaimed:

  “What the hell!”

  Bony proceeded to count the money with irritating delibera­tion, and with exasperating silence. Then, with continued de­liberation, he replaced the notes, closed the book, and read and re-read the title, as though the damned title would supply the answers to questions seething in the minds of those two policemen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sleuths on the Wing

  SINCE LEAVING Agar’s Lagoon, Bony had been strangely silent, and now he stood surveying Black Range, hands in pockets and shoulders relaxed. Irwin was grilling chops on the blade of the shovel, content with his role, and lazily speculative concerning Bony’s next move.

  Calling his two trackers from the little fire they had made for themselves, he served them with slabs of bread and under­done chops, and sent them back. Then he announced that lunch was ready, and Bony came to sit beside the canvas-cum-tablecloth, still thoughtful. Not until they had eaten did he speak of this new mission.

  “I want you to pay a call on Alverston,” he said. “We can exclude him from this case, and therefore use him as we can­not use the Wallaces, the Breens and the Bundreds. When do you think you could reach Alverston’s homestead?”

  “About four o’clock.”

  “Then ask Alverston to contact your sergeant on his trans­ceiver and get him to ascertain where Jasper and Ezra Breen are now. They should be approaching Wyndham by this time, if not already there. I want to know if those two Breens are still with the cattle, or if only one is, or if Silas has joined the team. Remembering that the air is free, do you think you could obtain that information without other people knowing it?”

  Irwin chuckled.

  “Sergeant Booker was an Intelligence bloke during the war, being a cypher expert, and we’ve been trying to evolve a language cypher instead of one with letters or figures. You know, a sort of jive. Booker got the idea from his school days when the kids added to words, or inserted into the middle of them a sound like ‘arp’. Harpave arpa charpop?”

  “And that, translated?”

  “ ‘Have a chop?’ I could have contacted the sergeant from Agar’s.”

  “Only transceiver there is that at the post office. Too close to home. Well, then, you raise Booker and obtain that infor­mation. Stay the night at Alverston’s homestead and return here tomorrow. By the way, you may learn something useful from Alverston—behaviour of his blacks, suspected cattle-duffing, something which might link the Wallaces to Sten­house, or to the Breens.”

  “All right! What about you?”

  “I am going to poke about the country.”

  “You’ll need to look both ways at once. Better take one of the trackers with you.”

  “Which is the more reliable?”

  Irwin named Charlie, explaining that this was Charlie’s country, and that Larry came from the coast. Bony objected to Charlie on the ground that he would have too many tribal relations working for both the Breens and the Wallaces, and decided he would talk to Larry.

  “You see, Irwin, the bits and pieces we’ve collected, added to the geographical points at which the bodies were found, strongly indicate the Wallaces and the Breens, either separately or in collusion. We must find where these murders took place, and I think the scene of the double murder is near where Stenhouse was found or near where we found Jacky Mus­grave. Have you any theory to account for those four hundred and fifteen pounds being posted to Ezra Breen inside a book?”

  “It might be that the Breens got on to payable gold and are secretly exporting it,” replied Irwin. “Silas mightn’t have gone off on a croc shoot at what Kimberley called the Swamp. He might have gone farther west to a coastal inlet to meet Chinese or Indonesian smugglers. Looks like that’s what Stenhouse was on to.”

  “I see a grave defect in your theory,” Bony argued. “The smugglers would pay cash on delivery for gold taken out by Silas. Why make payment through a bookseller? I’ll put another question. Why gouge a hole in a perfectly good book in which to send Ezra a packet of treasury notes? The sender could have posted the money in a stout registered envelope. He could have placed the notes individually between the pages of the book if an ordinary envelope could not be used. There seems little doubt that the Breens are sending to that book­seller something of value to the jeweller partner. It could be gold melted to slugs, and sent down in books once a fortnight, and payment remitted monthly in a similar receptacle.”

  “If gold, why do that?” Irwin objected. “Gold sent to a jeweller wouldn’t bring more than the storekeeper at Agar’s would pay for it. Least, I don’t think so.”

  “Doubtless you’re right. Let’s tackle the trackers.”

  They crossed to the aborigines and Irwin spoke to them, saying he would like Charlie to go with him and Larry with Bony, and that Bony was his very good friend and brother by initiation as a police-feller. There was no hint of a command, and first one and then the other assented. It was evident that both knew the Musgrave blacks were now in this country, for they were decidedly uneasy. Bony talked to Larry, telling him how valuable he was to the police and that together they would be safe enough, and he emphasized the fact that Pluto’s Mob were interested only in the fate of Jacky Musgrave.

  On Irwin’s departing, leaving tucker sufficient for two days and a blanket apiece, Bony invited Larry to conference. To Larry this was foreign country, and he was now cut off from the white man with whom he had been closely associated for years, and from his own racial companion, and it was essential that he be brought to complete confidence in Bony and him­self.

  They squatted on a sandy patch, and Bony drew a map showing the Wyndham track skirting Black Range, the place where Stenhouse was found, and the position of the Wallace homestead. Then he led Larry to show the area of country covered by Charlie and himself in their search for clues. With patience and the expenditure of time, the tracker was pre­sented with several pictures, any one of which could cover the actual scene of the murders. Bony stressed the certainty that the crimes had been committed by a white man assisted by aboriginal stockmen.

  Previously, Larry had been sent out to find suspicious tracks, or those of the jeep, and now understanding that all such clues had been obliterated, his mind would seek evidence of the work of obliteration.

  Bony chose to search the country between the road and Black Range, and, if not successful, to extend the search across Black Range to Black Well.

  The hours passed and miles were covered, and when the sun was westering, and they we
re deep in the shadow of Black Range, Larry signalled a halt and stood like a colonial soldier at a coronation ceremony. Beside him Bony listened. There was no wind. The scrub trees drowsed in the warm air of lovely evening. All that could be heard was a crow cawing.

  Two men had been killed and blood had been shed, and where blood is shed there gather the birds. As a dog will bark joyfully, angrily, mournfully, expectantly, so do the crows betray a mood to those able to hear, and the crow they now heard was angry. The note of anger was not defiant. The bird was not confronted by an enemy or robbed of a morsel by another crow. It was angered by something not under­stood.

  Only men such as these two would have detected the distant bird’s mood, and, deciding to investigate, they followed the Range southward to a small forest of trees growing in a dell. At their approach several crows flew from the trees, now cawing with unmistakable anger occasioned by the intrusion.

  Larry again listened intently, and his gaze was everywhere. There seemed to be nothing unusual about this bush scene duplicated by a million like it. Larry’s wide nostrils were quivering, and Bony waited, recognizing his own inferiority to this semi-wild aborigine.

  “Jeep feller him bin here,” Larry said, as though his big flat nose registered the fumes of petrol. “That crow feller him bin kickup hell that jeep feller no leave-um tucker.”

  “Have a look-see,” Bony ordered.

  They found a low mound covered with stones and leaves, and on a stick being thrust into it and the earth levered up­ward, it was discovered that the mound was of fire ashes. The ashes had been carefully covered, but the crows knew about it, for the prints of their feet proved that. They also knew of something beneath leaves which had ‘drifted’ into spaces between stones, and Bony proceeded to dig with his hands, Larry assisting him.

  They dug down a little more than a foot and lifted from the shallow grave the carcass of a black goat whose throat had been cut. The animal had been dead about a week. It had not been killed for meat, for the only injury to the carcass, other than the severed throat, was the removal of a strip of hide along its back.