Bony - 19 - Cake in a Hat Box

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Then their second victim must be on this side … like O’Grady?”

  “I believe so. And yet Jack Wallace could be concerned in some way. Over against the Range not far from Black Well there is a mine shaft. Wallace could have been connected with that shaft. What do you know about it?”

  “I know nothing,” she said, and his practised ear did not fail to note her alarm. “Prospectors are always sinking trial shafts. Gold mostly. They prospect the creeks, too, for tin and all sorts of things.”

  “Do they ever come here to buy rations?”

  “No. The storekeepers tucker them. We couldn’t. Enough bother getting our supplies over the Range as it is.”

  “You have never been there, never seen that shaft?”

  “No.”

  It was her first lie. He sensed the strain, and her relief when he sheered off the shaft with his next query.

  “That day you and Ezra met Sam Laidlaw, what cattle camp did you reach in the evening?”

  “Camp Four. The next day Jasper came with Stugger and Frypan and Stan, and told Ezra to send us home.”

  “And that was the fourth day after leaving the Nine Mile Yards?”

  “Yes. First night we camped at Claypan Creek. Next night at the Jump-up. And after that at Camp Four.”

  “I suppose you all worked on the big muster?”

  “Of course. All hands have to do that.”

  “Where were the fats cut out from the main herd you mustered?”

  “At the Nine Mile Yards. Not inside the yards, though. Out on the plain.”

  “Were all the hands at the cut-out, too?”

  “No.” Kimberley faltered. “No.”

  “Who wasn’t at the cut-out?”

  “Well, Jasper. … Why are you asking me all these ques­tions?”

  “Jasper wasn’t at the cut-out, and he wasn’t with the cattle until he joined Ezra after you left Camp Four. The boss stock­man wasn’t there, either … at the cut-out. Where were Jasper and the boss stockman when the fats were being cut out from the herd?”

  “Away mustering. We only wanted four hundred, and when we had them we started for Wyndham.”

  “You are quite sure it was Jasper who joined the cattle after Camp Four?”

  “Of course I’m sure. You must expect me to know my own brother.”

  “Yes, naturally, Miss Kimberley. You were speaking to him, I suppose?”

  “No. But I haven’t to speak to him in order to know him.”

  “Obviously. Stupid of me. By the position of the Southern Cross it must be well after nine o’clock. Irwin should be here by midnight.”

  Neither spoke again for the period during which Bony made and smoked a cigarette, and it was he who broke the silence.

  “You see, Miss Kimberley, Constable Stenhouse was found dead in his jeep on the far side of Black Range, and now we know that the body of his tracker was hidden beneath the carcass of a dead horse on this side of the Black Range. The wild men came north hunting for the men who killed Jacky Musgrave, and when they drew near this homestead the boss stockman rode away without any explanation. We wonder why, and we think he ran away because of a guilty conscience.”

  “If he killed Jacky Musgrave, who was with Constable Stenhouse, why ask me all these questions about Jasper and Ezra?”

  “Merely to find out just where your boss stockman was at the time both Stenhouse and his tracker were shot to death.”

  “Then I think you should wait to ask your questions from the boys when they get home. Silas would know about him … Pat O’Grady. So would Jasper.”

  Bony sighed as though trying to be patient. Actually, he was now keenly aware that he wasn’t dealing with an unsophisti­cated miss. Unknowledgeable in many things, this woman beside him could be an inarticulate iceberg or a flaring vol­cano, when threatened by anything affecting the Breens. That she knew nothing of the death of Jacky Musgrave, or of the death of Constable Stenhouse, he was morally certain, and almost certain that she believed Stenhouse had been murdered by Jack Wallace.

  “I’m a little worried about your brothers,” he said. “We think the desert blacks are near us to seize and kill the second man they’re after. I repeat: we think they are near. The dogs are quiet, aren’t they? Suppose the wild men are not here. Suppose they are making their way northward. Suppose they believe their second victim is one of the men returning with Jasper and Ezra. Suppose they believe that the second man they want is Jasper or Ezra.”

  Kimberley was silent for minutes before saying grimly:

  “If you’re not trying to frighten me, then we must warn them. Pat O’Grady might have intended to do that when the wild blacks got him.”

  “He might have left with that intention.” Bony’s voice be­came faintly stern. “For whom would the boss stockman leave the safety of this homestead to warn of danger from the desert blacks?”

  “I don’t know. Stugger, it might be. Or Frypan,” she re­plied, faintly.

  “Or Jasper! No! No, it couldn’t be Jasper. What are you saying? Jasper wouldn’t have killed Jacky Musgrave. Pat O’Grady wouldn’t have ridden north to warn Jasper. Or Ezra. Only to tell them that the wild blacks were after Stugger or Frypan or Stan, or Old Bugle who’s doing the horse-tailing.”

  “Have you any idea where they will be camped tonight? They’ll be on the way home now, won’t they?”

  “Yes. They should be camped at Salt Creek, thirty miles north of Camp Four. That’s if the Meat Works took the cattle in without delay.”

  “You couldn’t contact a homestead by transceiver to send them a warning?”

  “No. And the damned bloody truck is useless with a broken axle.”

  Bony heard her abrupt movement, and a streaking meteor was bright enough to reveal her standing form. He remained seated, and soothingly he said:

  “Don’t worry. Irwin and I will go north early tomorrow. I wonder why Stenhouse was interested in that shaft near Black Well.”

  The other chair creaked, and he knew Kimberley had sat down again. He could hear her breathing, irregular and re­strained. Presently she said, unevenly:

  “How d’you know Constable Stenhouse was interested in that shaft you tell of?”

  “Because that is where he and Jacky Musgrave were shot.”

  “But he was shot on the far side of the Range … on the Wyndham track.”

  “He was shot at the shaft near Black Well. His body was carried over the Range by a party of four aborigines led by a white man.”

  “A white man! Jack Wallace!”

  In the dark of the veranda, Bony managed to roll a cigarette, or what served for one. Patiently he waited before striking a match, his confidence in the silent dogs supreme.

  “You know, Miss Kimberley, the machinery of justice is a terrible thing,” he said, smoothly. “I am part of the machine, like Irwin, as Stenhouse was. Someone commits a crime, and the machine of justice is set in motion. I’ve been a detective for many years, and I am still appalled by the almost frightening irresistible impetus of the machine once started. In this case, Constable Stenhouse was killed, and his tracker with him, and the machine is put in motion and nothing will stop it until the killers are brought to the bar of justice, or death intervenes. Shooting me won’t stop the machine.”

  He leaned forward and took the revolver from her. And in the darkness he heard her crying quietly. His voice was gentle:

  “I know how it is … how one does jump to defend those one loves.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Cake in the Hat Box

  FOLLOWING A PROLONGED INTERVAL, Kimberley Breen said, hopefully:

  “I don’t think those wild blacks are mooning about. The dogs are too quiet.”

  “It would be unlike them to attack in the dark, even if they did intend to storm the homestead,” Bony said in agreement. “Dawn is their customary zero hour. Irwin should be here in an hour or so.”

  “Where was he camped?”

  “On the Wyndham road
where Stenhouse was found. He would have to drive south and take the track over the Range from Agar’s, would he not?”

  “No. The shorter way would be up round McDonald’s Stand. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I would, indeed,” Bony replied. “Provided it won’t be too much trouble.”

  “It’ll be no bother. There’s a pressure stove in the living-room. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  She rose, and he stood with her. She felt the touch of metal against her hand, and he said:

  “You may need it, although I think not.”

  Saying nothing, she accepted the weapon and entered the house. Bony stood lazily leaning against a veranda post, and a dog came to muzzle the cuff of his trousers and whine a greet­ing. He felt no satisfaction with progress made in this investi­gation, no elation at approaching its climax, for the thought was clear that this girl whose background was so unusual was going to be badly hurt by events with which she had had no connexion.

  These Breens reminded him of the termites who in their mysterious way live in darkness and to themselves, building a castle strong to withstand all enemy attack, and ever ready to die in defence of the community. An attack on one Breen meant an attack on the family, and the failure of a Breen was the failure of the family. And now Kimberley was hastening to defend the breach made in the House of Breen, and she did not know the extent of the damage and danger.

  Standing there with the dog lying against a foot, Bony worked to correlate facts with dates and distances between points, having to keep in mind the speed of surface trans­portation in this chaotic land.

  The interview with old medicine-man Bingil would have been exasperating to anyone unaccustomed to aborigines and unfamiliar with mentality which to the white man is seemingly unreachable. The wisp of information Bony did extract from Bingil was a creditable performance, and it would be naive to expect to gain more.

  His mind came round again to Jack Wallace, and again he teased the facts into position relative to the important geo­graphical points of this case. The trite phrase “East is east and west is west” bore down heavily when recalling that the Wal­laces lived east of Black Range and the Breens westward of it: and, when assessing what, if anything, Jack Wallace had to do with the killing of Stenhouse and his tracker, he had to recognize the acumen of those untamed savages from the far desert.

  Their study of the site of the double killing, of the placing of a body under a dead horse, and their singular method of establishing the identity of the murderer, led them to believe that their quarry was on the Breens’ side of Black Range.

  There could be but two reasons prompting Jack Wallace to leave after learning what had happened to O’Grady. One, he was afraid he might be caught in a siege of the homestead and, two, that he determined to warn the Breens of a threat to them conjointly with himself. The journey north with Irwin in the morning would decide this point.

  “I’ve made the tea. Will you come in?”

  The clear and steady voice brought Bony from the mists of speculation, and he followed Kimberley Breen into the living-room, where she bade him be seated at the great table.

  “This table wasn’t made in a factory,” he said. “I’ve never seen a table like it.”

  “My father built it when he and my mother had built the house. He could do anything … my father.”

  “In those far-off days people had to be self-reliant to estab­lish themselves in mountains like these. Are your parents buried here?”

  “Yes. My father made the coffins for himself and mother out of the same timber he got for this table and other things. I wanted the boys to have headstones properly printed with their names, and Silas said he would order them, but never did. He made new crosses for them when Father O’Rory com­plained about it.” Kimberley smiled faintly. “I could never manage Silas like I could Jasper and Ezra.”

  Bony left the table and stood before the picture of Mrs Breen, and Kimberley remained silent while he, with delibera­tion, faced the portrait. Without turning to her, he said:

  “Who crayoned the pendant?”

  “I did.”

  “Very well done, too.” He faced her. “Exactly like the real one you wore that day Irwin and I called. Did that come from the shaft near Black Well?”

  The grey eyes did not waver, but he detected the shutters lowered behind them, and noted the momentary stillness of her hands.

  “Of course not. I bought it. I get a share of the cattle money, you know. I sent down to Perth for it. I love opals.”

  “Of all precious stones, I like them best, Miss Breen. Have you any others like that black one you were wearing?”

  “Any others? No, why? Why should you think I have other opals?”

  Bony smiled disarmingly, and reminded her she had said she loved opals, not that particular opal she had worn with the ballerina dress, and the swift revelation of uneasiness passed.

  “When I was courting my wife to be,” he said, “I gave her an opal brooch. Opals were not as expensive as they are now. It’s a green opal, and she still has it. Could never afford to buy her another, what with high living costs and income tax.”

  Kimberley smiled her relief, her unsophistication apparent.

  “It’s a wicked shame how the Government tax and tax us for everything,” she said, the smile gone, swift bitterness in her voice. “Look at all the war taxes still on after years of peace, and people groaning under the weight of ’em. Taxes on clothes. Taxes on trucks. Taxes on petrol … on everything.”

  “Taxes certainly make survival difficult,” Bony agreed.

  “They do and all, and poor people just struggling along while the Government votes itself more and more wages. Will you have another cup of tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Help yourself to cake.”

  “You cattle people do have the chance to keep something back for yourselves,” he murmured, cutting the cake. “The taxes are deducted from my salary before it’s paid to me.”

  “There’s not much chance. We depend on the cheque from the Meat Works, and that has to go to the bank at Derby. Is your wife a lady?”

  The question tended to throw Bony off balance.

  “Not a grand lady,” he replied, seriously. “Marie likes to read the best books, and she plays the piano very well. We have three sons. Charles, the eldest, attends the University. He’s hoping to become a medico-missionary. I’m sure my wife would join me in giving you a warm welcome to our home should you ever come to Brisbane.”

  Her pleasure was childlike in its swift expression.

  “Would she? Oh, I would like to go to Brisbane and see her and talk about things. Would she take me to the shops?”

  “Would she! Why, if you gave her any encouragement, she would spend all day long at the shops.”

  Kimberley rolled a cigarette and beat him to it with a match. She was very serious when she asked:

  “Would your wife … does she … would she take me to have my hair done properly?”

  “She would be very happy to do so. Then there are the theatres and the cinemas. Have you ever been to a cinema?”

  Kimberley shook her head. She was seeing visions.

  “The actresses … in the magazines,” she said, almost whispering. “Their wonderful clothes … their hair. Jasper used to cut mine … with clippers … like a man. Ezra didn’t like it when I grew up, and they made me wear it long, and I hated having to roll it up. Then Ezra showed me a magazine picture and said that’s how my hair ought to be cut, and I let him have a go at it. He made a terrible botch at first. After­wards he did all right. But I’d love a perm.”

  “I don’t believe a perm would improve it. It’s very won­derful as it is,” Bony assured her, and she flushed.

  “It would so. Would your wife let me stay with her for a little while? I wouldn’t like to be all by myself in a city.”

  “Of course she would. She would be most happy. You see, we have no daughter. I shall ask her to write a
nd invite you.”

  A smile broke the slightly strained expression, and abruptly she left the table and crossed to a dresser on which was a pile of magazines. She was there for a minute or more, hunting for a particular copy. She returned with it, and, opening it beside him, pointed with a broken-nailed finger to a picture of a famous actress. He nodded gravely when she said she would have her hair done in the same way.

  “Does she have a lot of cake?” Kimberley asked.

  “Yes. Probably a great deal of … er … cake. I know very little about ladies’ hairdressing, but I think that the really expert stylist studies the subject’s face and head shape and colouring, and advises the most suitable hair-do. Anyway …”

  It sounded as though twenty thousand dogs waited for a signal. The silent world without was shattered to fragments by their frenzied barking. Bony jumped to his feet, and their gaze met as they waited tensely to discern the meaning of the alarm. But there was no menace in the uproar which dwindled as the dogs raced in a pack to the back of the house.

  “Constable Irwin coming,” Bony decided, and they listened. They heard the sound of the approaching utility above the growing volume of excited voices of the aborigines. Kimberley shouted that it was only the policeman coming, and she ran from the room to reassure them. Bony waited till he could hear her shouting from the side veranda, and then quickly knelt before the sofa and dragged out one of the hat boxes.

  The key was in the lock. He lifted the box. It was heavy. He raised the lid. It appeared to be empty. Cake crumbs lay on the brown paper resting at four-fifths down from the top. He lifted out the paper. The light from the suspended lamp fell directly into that hat box.

  Bony was looking into a faintly dark cloud in which lived the colours of the setting sun after a day of dust, and the soft sheen of green seen by pearl divers. Opals … black opals … uncut and unpolished. He lifted out one. It was roughly circular and as large as the palm on which it rested. Imper­fect, it could be cut to three magnificent black opals. His hand trembled and a blood-red sun danced at its right edge and green and blue fire ran like streams to the base of his fingers.