Bony - 19 - Cake in a Hat Box

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Gently he replaced the gem with the others, and swiftly he replaced the brown paper, closed the lid and pushed the hat box under the sofa. For those opals the film actresses would have gladly exchanged her a million dollars. Cake! Cake in a hat box!

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Fatal Error

  THE SUN LEAPT to the summit of Black Range, opened wide his golden cloak and danced a jig. None took notice of him, for Irwin and his trackers were oiling and greasing the truck, and Bony was sauntering about the homestead as though nothing disturbed his meditations. The women were busy at the kitchen preparing breakfast, and Kimberley herself had ridden out for the working hacks and had seen no sign of the Musgrave blacks.

  Irwin had contacted his superior officer at Wyndham on Alverston’s transceiver, and before leaving next morning his sergeant had reported that the Breens had handed over their cattle to three town men, who were to deliver them to the Meat Works. They should now be well along the track to their homestead.

  Irwin had gained a fairly clear picture from Larry of all that had happened throughout the journey with Bony over Black Range, and although impatient to know more about the shaft and the ambushing of Patrick O’Grady, he had re­frained from asking questions when firmly told to give the remaining hours to sleep. And he had not met Jack Wallace.

  The dogs were still free. Several were interested in the cooking smells from the kitchen. Three accompanied Bony to a near pile of Devil’s Marbles, climbing with him to the sum­mit of the topmost and evincing no trace of uneasiness of hidden enemies.

  Standing upon the low eminence, Bony could see beyond the ridge at the back of the homestead, and the succession of ridges over which he had walked the previous evening. He could see Black Range sweeping on to the north, its bars and patches of red and of smoky purple subduing the mottled green and brown valley. And to the west, white-painted posts and a white gate enclosing what was evidently the Breen cemetery.

  It was a full half-mile from the house, and Bony reached it by a circuitous route as though arriving there by chance. The enclosure within the netting and barbed wire strung to the white-painted posts was about an acre. In marked contrast with the outside land, which had been eaten bare by goats and horses, the enclosed area was almost massed with native shrubs and grasses, giving the place an appearance of neglect despite the air of an oasis.

  On reaching the white picket gate, he noted that recently several men had passed in and out, and he lifted the latch, feeling confident that yet another facet of his theoretical back­ground of crime was to be proved correct.

  He was surprised by the number of graves. There were seventeen ranged along one side, and without doubt they con­tained the bodies of aborigines, for at the head of each stood a bar of ordinary shoeing-iron bearing a number. In the centre of the cemetery stood two massive wooden crosses set in blocks of cement to defeat the termites: and each cross had been hewn from a single tree, smoothed and polished, and stood seven feet from the ground with arms at least three feet wide. Carved into the circular centre of the crosses was the name of the sleeper, and the date of death.

  They were true men and women who came out of Ireland and Scotland and England to conquer a new world with little except tireless energy and unfaltering courage. They were generous to their own and rebels against Caesar. What they won, they held, or, losing, won again. They gave to their children their all: their possessions and their spiritual attri­butes; and left an example of independence today either ignored or scorned by those desiring to lean on the State from the cradle to the grave.

  There was a third grave, on the far side of that of Nora Breen. This was a new grave, and no cross was erected at its head, and no data of the person buried. Unlike the older graves marked with pavements of white quartz, this third grave was bereft of even the raised mound of displaced earth. In fact, it appeared that evidence of the grave had been care­fully removed, and only a stranger like Bony, who sought for such a grave, would have noticed it by the absence of native shrubs and grasses.

  Who had recently been buried there? Silas, according to Kimberley, was now away shooting crocodiles at the Swamp. Ezra and Jasper were now, according to several persons, returning with the droving plant and their aboriginal riders from Wyndham.

  In thoughtful mood, Bony returned to the homestead, where he found Irwin breakfasting with Kimberley. He made his apologies to his hostess, saying he had walked farther than intended, and he was informed by Irwin that everything was ready for departure immediately after breakfast. Kimberley agreed with him that the Musgrave men were not in the vicinity of the homestead, and that the nearest they had been to it was at least one mile. Her anxiety had been further allayed by Bony, who had pointed out that the desert blacks would not travel after dark the previous evening, or set out on the next stage of their journey of vengeance till they had been thawed by the sun this same morning.

  “I think their interest has shifted from here,” he said. “Other­wise they would have revealed their presence, and their in­tentions, before now. Perhaps you would like to accompany us?”

  “D’you think the wild men might try to stop the boys after they leave Wyndham?” asked Kimberley.

  “I understand that they handed the cattle over to drovers from Wyndham, and are already well on the way home,” Bony said, reassuringly.

  Kimberley revealed her astonishment.

  “But that couldn’t be. They would have let me know from a homestead yesterday at four or this morning when I was on the air at six. How did you know … they didn’t take the cattle to the Meat Works?”

  “Constable Irwin was talking to his sergeant yesterday morning … on Mr Alverston’s transceiver.”

  The girl’s grey eyes were suddenly small. Her voice was angry.

  “Yes, I’ll go with you. You’re keeping something back. So’s Silas and Ezra and Jasper. You all know things I don’t know, and I’ll go with you and find out for myself. I … I’ve known something was wrong. I’ve remembered that Ezra wouldn’t look at me when he told me I was to come home with Blinker and the others. He looked. … Why the hell don’t you tell me now? Why don’t you say what you think, what you’re going to do?”

  The grey eyes were flashing. Bony went on eating, and she transferred her furious gaze to Irwin, who became uncomfort­able and helplessly regarded Bony. Bony put down his knife and fork and, leaning back in his chair, found and held Kim­berley’s gaze.

  “What I think, Miss Kimberley, must remain my business,” he said, firmly. “What I know is little in addition to your own knowledge, and it would be unwise of me to express what I fear when there is no concrete foundation for it. I suggest that you accompany us to meet your brothers, who could greatly assist us in the investigation into the death of Con­stable Stenhouse. When we all meet, we can discuss many points, and you can tell me of matters concerning which you have been a trifle reticent.”

  The anger subsided as rapidly as it had risen. Kimberley sat down. She was now coldly on the defensive. For the first time, she was afraid of this slim dark man with the penetrating blue eyes.

  “The Breens’ business is their own,” she said. “You’ve no right to go prying into it.”

  “I certainly haven’t the right … excepting where it might touch on the murder of Constable Stenhouse,” Bony returned. “I have no intention of browbeating you, or of demanding information which you don’t wish to impart. You have been most kind to Constable Irwin and me, and we do not forget that you are our hostess. When we meet your brothers under the open sky, we’ll be able to talk without restraint. Every­thing will be made plain and we shall, I sincerely hope, remain good friends. Now I think we should go.”

  With an impatient sideways toss of her head to clear stray hair from her eyes, Kimberley turned and walked with clink­ing spurs to an old sea-chest looking as though it required two men to lift it. Producing a bunch of keys she unlocked the chest and then crossed to the sofa, taking from under it the two hat boxes and locki
ng them in the chest. Neither man spoke. Bony fancied he witnessed a tiny gleam of triumph in the grey eyes.

  Irwin’s trackers were waiting by the truck, and the party was delayed five minutes while Kimberley gave orders to her domestic staff and the native stockmen. Irwin explained to Larry and Charlie that the Musgrave blacks might be on the road ahead, and instead of sitting on the loading they re­arranged it to permit the blacks to stand and watch above the cabin roof.

  The dogs followed for half a mile, and after they dropped back there was silence save for the whine of the engine and the constant changing of gears. Kimberley sat between the two policemen.

  They came to the tall-flat of sugar grass, and the eagles and the crows showed where lay the speared horse. The grass could have hidden a battalion, but was empty. The body of the horse, and the grass either side, gave evidence that other than birds had feasted on the carcass.

  “Over the next ridge, you reckon?” Irwin said, and Bony agreed that the next ridge was where the hunted boss stock­man and hunting wild men had vanished. And on immediately topping the ridge, other birds revealed the body of Patrick O’Grady.

  The back of the blue shirt was blood-stained. The head was smashed. He lay face down in grass several yards off the track.

  Bony and Irwin left the truck, the former shouting to his trackers to maintain a sharp look-out, and they covered the body with a tarpaulin and weighted the corners with heavy stones.

  After passing the Nine Mile Yards ample proof was given of Constable Irwin’s bushmanship, for the track was entirely wiped out by the hooves of cattle. The previous night he must have driven by the stars and instinct. They passed eventually the terminal bluff of Black Range, named McDonald’s Stand, and there saw the tracks of Wallace’s utility heading for the road to Agar’s Lagoon.

  “Ezra always said Jack had no guts,” Kimberley averred. “Until you came yesterday afternoon, Inspector Bonaparte, he didn’t believe the place was in danger. Then when you told us about the desert blacks and Pat O’Grady, he got the wind up and cleared for home and his mother.”

  “There could have been two spurs jabbing him, Miss Breen. Fear and a guilty conscience.”

  “We’ll soon know. I’ll find out.”

  “Is there the possibility that we may pass your brothers without seeing them?”

  “No. They’ll keep close to the Wyndham road.”

  About two o’clock, they came to a creek marked with white gums, and Kimberley said that was Camp Four. Here they stopped to eat the lunch provided by the homestead cook. Following lunch, and two hours’ driving, they sighted the string of horses, black on the green-grey summit of a ‘bump’, and thereafter lost them, saw them, lost them again, till finally Irwin stopped the truck where the animals, loose and pack-horses, were travelling wide of the track. At their rear were six mounted men. One rode to meet them, and one having a black beard stayed on the far wing.

  Irwin slid from his seat. Bony alighted and was followed by Kimberley Breen. The man cantering towards them was a part of the animal he rode. His face and forearms were the colour of the range at noontide, and when he pulled his horse to a stand, his eyes were the colour of Scotch granite and as hard. He swung to the ground.

  “Good day-ee! ’Day, Kim! Anything wrong?” asked Ezra.

  “Plenty. This is Inspector Bonaparte. The wild blacks have speared Pat.”

  Kimberley stood with her hands pressed to her hips. Her eyes were as hard and her mouth as grim as the mouth and eyes of the young man facing them. Irwin vented his peculiar chuckle, and it passed unnoticed. No one saw the broad grin slowly spread over his face, or how his legs were slightly bent and all of him poised on his toes. The riders and horses were passing by, parallel with the track and a quarter-mile from it. Bony said deliberately:

  “We came to warn you that the wild blacks are probably lying in wait to spear your brother Jasper. They are obsessed by the idea that he and your boss stockman were responsible for the death of Jacky Musgrave.”

  Ezra Breen slowly transferred his scowling gaze from his sister.

  “Us Breens can look after ourselves,” he said, without heat. “If the wild blacks speared Pat O’Grady, it’s up to you police­men to go after them. That’s what you’re paid for.”

  The grey eyes and the blue held their gaze without a waver The soiled red kerchief about Ezra’s neck enhanced the mahogany-tinted, handsome face, and the short leather gaiters seemed to make his legs much longer than they were. The mild tone of Bony’s voice caused Kimberley to flash a glance at him, but Irwin’s gaze did not move from Ezra Breen’s right hand.

  “First things first, Mr Breen. Because the murder of Con­stable Stenhouse and his tracker come before the killing of your boss stockman, we have first to clear up those murders. I am confident you could assist us, you and Mr Silas Breen.”

  “All right, if I can I will. Silas isn’t here. He’s out at the Swamp, s’far as I know.”

  “Isn’t that Mr Silas Breen with the horses?”

  “No. Jasper.”

  “I couldn’t possibly be mistaken.”

  Ezra stepped nearer. Irwin again chuckled. Kimberley stared across the intervening horses at the white man riding on the far side.

  “You’re not saying I’m a liar, are you?” drawled Ezra, and his hand moved downward to the butt of the holstered re­volver. Spurs clinked, and abruptly Ezra’s face was hidden by Kimberley’s gold hair. Her voice was shrill with fury.

  “Ezra Breen, don’t you dare touch that gun. Inspector Bona­parte spoke true. You’re a liar, Ezra. That’s Silas over there. Up to tricks, both of you. Smarties, that’s what you are, you and Silas.”

  Ezra swept her aside as though she were a straw. He took a step forward, and she struck him with her open hand. The blow might have been a fly alighting on his face for all the effect it produced. He had no need to advance further, for he was confronted by Irwin, whose face was expanded by a smile.

  “Pipe down, Ezra,” Irwin said softly, standing on the balls of his feet and his hands flaccid against his thighs. They were a good match: the one gingery and the other blond.

  “I said it was Jasper,” Ezra rasped, his lips barely moving.

  Irwin chuckled, and his mouth was the only part of him that moved.

  “I’ll get him,” cried Kimberley, and it seemed that she was catapulted to the back of Ezra’s horse. Ezra shouted, jumped, was too late to stop her.

  Argument was interrupted. The three white men and the two blacks still standing at the back of the utility watched Kimberley Breen racing the horse across the stony country to the widely extended horses and attendant riders. They saw the man on the far side check his mount and sit more uprightly in his saddle, saw his indecision. The girl swept round to the rear of the aborigine stockmen, rode straight to the white rider, and he raised both hands to the back of his head.

  Neither Irwin nor Bony looked at Ezra when he said:

  “That’s blasted it.”

  They watched the girl haul back her horse before the white rider. She pointed accusingly at him, kneed her mount to his side, stretched out her hand, received something. For a minute they talked, then came towards the waiting group at a jog-trot as though the man were the prisoner of the woman.

  The blackness of the lower extremity of the man’s face was gone. He was talking to the girl, and she was riding with her eyes to front. Distance dwindled, and Bony recognized the huge Silas Breen who had carried his brother from the crowded bar in Agar’s Lagoon. Distance dwindled still, and he could see the strip of goat’s hide Kimberley was carrying. Then he was looking into the menacing blue eyes, and hearing Silas Breen shout that which he least expected:

  “Good day-ee!”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  After Sunset the Sunrise

  CONTEMPTUOUSLY, the blue eyes passed over the three men, the utility and the trackers beyond them, and re­turned to Kimberley Breen astride Ezra’s horse and holding the strip of goat’s hide. Bony said
coldly:

  “I’ve been investigating the death of Constable Stenhouse, Mr Breen, and think you may be able to assist me to clear up one or two quite minor points.”

  “Such as?”

  “Why you have been impersonating your brother Jasper.”

  “Yes … why?” cried Kimberley, her voice sharp and resolute.

  The big man swung a leg over his horse’s head and sat sideways in the saddle.

  “That’s my business,” he said. “Us Breens mind our busi­ness, mister, and we don’t take interference from anyone. We market our cattle and we looks after our abos, and we owe no man a farthing. If I want to play a little game with Kimber­ley, making out I’m Jasper, that’s my business. Jasper doesn’t care. You ask him.”

  “Your brother Jasper lies buried beside your mother and father.”

  Not a muscle twitched on the heavy face. The huge hands clasped against the hard stomach remained passive. Kimberley slipped from her horse and ran to Bony and clutched him by the arm. Her voice wailed:

  “What’s that you said? Tell me!”

  “It’s true, Miss Breen,” Bony told her loudly enough for the others to hear. “Your brother Jasper was shot, and Silas took him to Agar’s for surgical attention. Doctor Morley was drunk, and Jasper died of his wound in the hotel bar. Silas brought home your dead brother and buried him in the cemetery … when you were with the cattle.”

  “It’s a lie,” roared Silas, and Ezra spoke, softly and yet with a lash.

  “Quit, Silas. Get off the bloody horse and take it.”

  As the big man dropped to the ground, he shouted:

  “It’s a lie, I tell you. I’m the boss around here.” He strode towards Bony. Irwin stepped forward to intercept him, but Ezra was first, and said, like the tail-end of the cry of the whip-bird:

  “Quit.” The big man glared at Ezra, and wilted. Passing Ezra, he stood before Bony, looking down from his superior height, and now the small blue eyes betrayed entreaty en­gendered by recognition of defeat.