“I think it was more on her side than his. When Edward was speaking at the local hall at election time, Miss Janet was sitting beside me. I happened to glance at her and I saw the way she was looking at him. I ought to have been proud, but I wasn’t. She’s too old for Edward, I thought. And then I remembered who she was and I hoped just a little.”
“Was that, do you think, as far as it went?”
“Yes. Mind you, Edward might have asked her later on, but he was very ambitious. He used to tell me, when I teased him about having no real girl friend, that first things had to come first, and the first things were money and position. I don’t know ... Oh, I don’t know why he stole the wool, and why he kept the money from the till. We were so very happy together, and hardship and want were far behind us. I...”
Bony stood and patted the woman’s shoulder as she wept.
“I’ll come to see you again, Mrs Carlow,” he told her, and added, softly: “as a friend.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The Fox Often Wins
HALF PAST SIX, and the windy dusk deepening upon Edison was almost eerie. The long cloud bank to the north was dull red, and all the world below the township was darkly mysterious.
Mawson decided to wait no longer, when Bony came in, his steps crossing the outer office betraying haste.
“Won’t keep you, Mawson, more than two minutes,” he said, sitting at the desk to roll a cigarette. The wind had tossed his hair and the dust had stained his cheeks, but Mawson noted how brightly the blue eyes gleamed. “What did the slaughterer have to say?”
“Says, of course, that he knows the shed very well. Doesn’t remember ever seeing it unlocked. Never asked the Carlows about it and didn’t need the key, because he had no cause to enter. The hides and skins from the animals he kills he stacks in the open shed.”
“Your impressions, please.”
“Speaking the truth.”
“It fits, Mawson. What about that niece of yours?”
The weathered face expanded, and one knobby hand carelessly combed the fine gingery hair. Mawson recited:
“Would she listen in to any calls for Venom House? No, certainly not, Uncle! Did she ever listen in to conversations? How dare you, Uncle! Well, would she, as a very special favour, listen in to calls for Venom House from now on and report same to her doting uncle? He wasn’t her doting uncle any more after trying to persuade her to betray her trust as a telephonist. Yes, she was interested in the maintenance of law and order. Yes, she liked Inspector Bonaparte, who was her mother’s paying guest, but ... Oh, all right, as a very special favour she would note the time and the name of anyone calling Venom House. Further than that, no, a thousand times no ... with two stamps of the foot. And that’s how it went.”
“You saw her, at what time?”
“Round about twelve o’clock.”
“I shall meet her at dinner. Did you examine the exhibits?”
“Yes. D’you want to see ’em again?”
“No. Give me your conclusions.”
“Two lassoes. One is thirteen feet long, the second is eleven feet. They’ve been made the same way ... a small loop or eyelet at one end. The eyelet binding of the longer lasso is light twine. The binding of the other eyelet is strong sewing thread.”
“The long one being recently in the possession of Morris Answerth,” Bony pointed out. “And found in the chimney.”
“Yes. The eleven-footer half-strangled Miss Mary, and the thirteen-footer strangled Mrs Answerth. Don’t know that I’d use such stuff to choke anyone with. The pistol wasn’t loaded, and hasn’t been fired, I’d say, since it blew off old Jacob’s head. Must have took a full hour to load and prime it before pulling on the trigger with both hands.”
“The noise must have been terrific,” Bony said, standing. “Well, we had better go along, or we’ll be unforgivably late for dinner. Doing anything tonight?”
“I was thinking of listening to a favourite radio session.”
“I do hope it is not entertainment by morons for morons, Mawson. I shall spend my evening in pursuits more elevating.”
“Such as...”
“Communing with the stars. Meditating upon the weakness of man and the wiles of woman. There is, I believe, no place more conducive to meditation than the old logging stage. I’d be grateful if you would run me out after dinner.”
“I’ll be through in half an hour,” Mawson said as he locked the exhibits in the safe. “Wouldn’t like a nice companion to meditate with?”
“The solemnity of the occasion dictates solitude. Some other time, perhaps. When will this wind go down?”
“Might keep up for a couple of days.”
“Think it will rain?”
“Might before morning ... if the wind swings to the west.”
They parted, Bony to walk smartly up the street to his lodgings, where at the gate he was met by Mrs Nash’s daughter. She had her mother’s eyes and Mawson’s pleasing smile.
“Good evening, Inspector Bonaparte.”
“Ah! I seem to be for it. All my friends call me Bony.”
“Did you happen to ask my uncle to get me to eavesdrop on telephone calls?”
“I did suggest it,” Bony gravely admitted.
“Then why didn’t you ask me?”
She was facing the line of now white cloud, and he saw with amusement that her candid eyes were seeking to impale him. Ah ... these women! So direct when it suited them: so evasive when intuition warned. Like a small boy placating an irate teacher, he replied:
“Well, you see, Miss Nash, it was most important to my work here, so important that I felt the matter ought to be placed before you with all possible personal influence. Knowing how much your uncle thinks of you, and you of him, I, well...”
She began to laugh, and taking him by the arm, said:
“Come along in to dinner. You’re terribly late. I’m sorry I couldn’t do what you wanted ... not without the postmaster’s consent. So I did the next best thing. Here are the calls to Venom House.”
“This is generous of you. You won’t be on duty tonight?”
“No. I’m on again at eight in the morning.”
“Perhaps tomorrow you would continue...?”
“Maybe I will, Bony.”
“Ah, that’s better. Now all is well.”
Within his sitting-room he studied the memo, reading:
“4.51p.m. Mr Harston to Venom House.
“6.19p.m. Mrs Carlow to Venom House.”
Venom House! Everyone naturally referred to the house on the lake as Venom House. He wondered if the Answerths had objected and, finding objection of no avail, accepted it.
As he walked to the police station, the day was dead and the night very much alive. The stars looked unhappy. Shop signs complained as though rebelling against working after hours. Save for windows alight above shops and offices, the only street lamps were the red one over Dr Lofty’s door and the blue one in the wooden arch over the police-station gate. Mawson’s car was parked at the kerb.
“Right!” Mawson said from behind the wheel, and Bony, on sitting beside him, switched off the dash light. Silently the constable released the brake and allowed the car to roll down the street and out of town. Before switching on the engine, he made an observation.
“Light rubber-soled shoes. Black scarf instead of white collar. Old suit and cloth cap. Torch in the inside pocket of the coat. Where d’you carry your gun?”
“A gun is gangsterish, so crude, Mawson. Near the logging camp I noted a heap of old German fencing wire. Stop there, and I’ll obtain a length of about four feet, and make a hook at one end to use as a handle.”
Mawson chuckled. “You’d sooner stick a man than shoot him.”
“Slashing a man across the throat with a length of heavy wire doesn’t make a noise, Mawson. Neither does he.”
“What are you planning?” asked the constable, more than curious.
“Officially, I may be away for several days. Between
ourselves, I’m going bush, and during my peregrinations I may exercise a suspected talent for burglary. I would like you to keep close to your telephone for three days at least. If you have to leave town, try to keep in close contact with your niece at the exchange.”
“All right. Go on, I’m liking this.”
“Your niece was co-operative. I told her I thought you would be so pleased you would give her a pair of those Italian shoes.”
“The hell you did! What d’you think I am?”
“A doting uncle.”
“You don’t cotton to the fact that her wages are almost as much as mine, and that mine is about as much as quarter pay to a wharf labourer.”
“Money,” scoffed Bony. “What is money?”
“Featherweight stuff the boss hands out and the Government takes off you.”
“Precisely, Mawson, and so milk your bank for as much as possible. It isn’t worth the germs sticking to it, anyway. Shoes patterned with gold, now, would...”
“What she gave you is a better subject.”
“Having spoken of cabbages and kings with Mr Harston, I left him at 4.50 this afternoon. At 4.51 he rang Venom House. The subject of my conversation with Mrs Carlow was kings and cabbages. I left the shop at 6.17, and at 6.19 she rang Venom House. As Mr Harston did not know till I told him that Miss Mary had been strangled, his call was doubtless to ascertain her condition. Mrs Carlow, however, did not know and I didn’t mention the attack on Miss Mary.”
Mawson said nothing for a quarter of a mile.
“Well, what are you making of that?”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of it, really. Those shoes ... beautiful.”
Mawson laughed without restraint.
“You reckon the info’s worth the price?” he managed to say.
“I do.”
“Oh no, you don’t, Bony. You pay for the shoes yourself. We’re right near the logging stage. Whereabouts is the wire you want?”
“Left side. Pull up here and switch off your lights. Keep them off for a full minute after I leave you, and then go home to the radio. If at the end of seven days you don’t hear from me, start dragging the Folly.”
“H’m! Cheerful, I must say.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll not be that careless. If my headquarters contact you about me, tell them I’ve gone fishing, and may be away for a week or two. If they become too fresh, tell them not to be childish ... with my compliments. Between us, Mawson, I am expecting another attempted murder, and I rather want to be present. The slightest interference would delay the attempt, possibly for several weeks, and I cannot be mooning around for so extended a period. Thus interference from headquarters, or from you, would be offset by my displeasure.”
“Ye gods!”
“Meanwhile, if Robin Foster or his brother come to town, keep your eyes on them. Note what the Carlows do, especially the lad. Note, too, if either Janet Answerth or Mrs Leeper appears in town ... who they visit, time and what not.”
“I get it,” assented Mawson. “And if any other d. comes down from headquarters, I’m to go dumb?”
“Dumb or stupid. Some of the cleverest men in history pretended to be stupid. Now I’ll be on my way. Rest easy on my behalf. Remember that Burke said: “What shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue.’ I leave you to become a shadow.”
Silently Bony opened the door, and without a sound closed it. Mawson waited two minutes, and for him they were long minutes.
It was then a quarter to eight, and at nine o’clock Henry Foster was lying on the bunk within his tent, and reading by the light of a hurricane lamp set on a packing case. Beside the lamp were pipe and tobacco and matches, and a tin pannikin containing coffee dregs. Outside, sheltered by a half-round sheet of iron, was his dog. The dog was chained to a stake, and the dog winged as though hard on the trail of a flea. That the dog did not bark remained long in Foster’s memory, for it was the antithesis of the well-fed, slumberous lap-dog. Foster knew nothing of Bony, until the tent flap was raised and Bony entered.
“Good evening!” was the polite greeting.
“Gud-dee!” answered Foster, sitting up.
“Come to the fire. I want to yabber.”
“Cripes! Whose camp’s this?”
“Yours ... for tonight at least.”
Bony withdrew, and Foster found his boots and proceeded to pull them on. Normally he would not have laced them. On emerging from the tent, he found his visitor squatting on his heels beside the fire he had replenished, and as similar visits by strangers were not entirely outside his experience, he dragged a case forward and sat opposite Bony.
“I,” said Bony, “am Detective-Inspector Bonaparte. You are known by the name of Henry Foster, and you pressed the wool at the Answerths’ shed.”
The branch which had been taken from the fire to light the pipe became motionless in the hand of the man as strong as Robin Foster, but over six feet in height and less ugly. He watched Bony light a cigarette before lighting his pipe with the flaming brand. After that he waited, waited with the passive tensity of the bushman.
“As you probably guess, Foster, my job is to ascertain who killed Edward Carlow.”
No response, no movement other than the rhythmic puffing of the pipe. The wind tore through the surrounding trees, tormented the bright fire wanting to burn in peace. Beyond the near trees, nothing.
“In a long report left with Constable Mawson,” Bony went on, “I detailed how you hoodwinked the wool classer and stole a large number of fleeces from his bins. The report also deals with a visit I made, accompanied by a competent witness, to the shed at the slaughter yard once owned by Edward Carlow and, too, the result of my visit to the wool classer, who identified the wool as that from the Answerth clip. Further, six years ago you were working on Jonton Brothers’ station, and only just escaped conviction for theft of cattle, two other men being sentenced to three years.
“As I mentioned, I am investigating the murder of Edward Carlow. I am not officially interested in the theft of the Answerth wool, and this will have some bearing on what I shall presently say to you. What did Carlow pay you for the wool?”
“What d’you think I am?” Foster asked with dangerous calm. He watched Bony idling with a length of stout fencing wire, and because such a weapon is the choice of anyone thinking to meet a snake, he wondered, with a part of his mind, why this man carried such a weapon at a time too early for snakes to be about.
“The situation, Foster, is too serious for facetious questions,” Bony said sharply, and outlined the details of the theft, ending with: “And after the camp was asleep, you and your brother carried the day’s ‘lift’ away in bags and handed it over to Carlow, who was waiting with his van. What did Carlow pay you for the wool?”
“Robin been talkin’, eh? We was to get half what Carlow got for it.”
“Edward Carlow was murdered too soon after receiving the final consignment of wool for you to think he had double-crossed you. Therefore, as I am interested only in the murder of Edward Carlow, I am willing to trade for information with my evidence against you in the theft of the wool.”
Foster pondered before saying:
“Must be a catch in it somewhere.”
“There is no catch. I am merely being pressed for time.”
“Who can trust a copper?”
“I am not concerned with whether you trust me or not. I am trading you the chance of remaining out of gaol. Remember, when you are found guilty, the judge will have in his mind your close shave at the Jonton station. Shall we look into his mind and estimate the term as five years?”
“All right. What d’you want to know? You hold the whip.”
“I want to know fully and exactly what Miss Mary Answerth said to you about the loss of her wool.”
“And get carted away to hospital! No fear. Five years of the best would come easier. Crikey! You don’t know that woman.”
“She need not perturb you, Foster. She was strangled last night.”
&nb
sp; The eyes staring at Bony were reflecting redly the firelight. The hand holding the pipe fell to rest on the case. Thence the man’s stillness in anyone not a bushman would have been remarkable.
“You don’t go to market about the wool if I talk?” he persisted.
“I have said so.”
“That report...”
“Mawson will either return the sealed report to me or hand it to his superior officer if I fail to claim it.”
“All right, I’ll talk. The day after I got me shearing cheque, I was up to Edison paying me bills and having a few drinks with Robin and the boys. Robin wanted me to stay with him at the pub, but I wasn’t having any as I aim to buy a bit of land and build a house. I came out of the pub about half past five and rode out of town, and when I’m half-way to the logging stage, Miss Mary catches up with me in her wagon.
“She says: “Where’s my wool, you bastard?’ She’s itching for me to have a go at her for calling me a bastard, and I wouldn’t have taken it from her, either, only I sorta knew I was in the wrong. Anyway, if I’d made a smack at her, I’d been half-killed. So I told her what had happened to her wool.”
Foster relit his pipe.
“Then she blames me for pinchin’ her sheep, and that’s too thick ’cos I never lifted no Answerth sheep, and I’ll swear to that. Mind you, I know who did, and I won’t tell her ’cos I’m not falling foul of certain blokes. She wants to know what happened to them. And to some cattle what’s missing.
“What got me is how she knew about the wool. Aw, well, she knew, and I couldn’t do nothing with her. She says to me: ‘Look, Henry Foster, you tell me who bought them stolen sheep and who got them cattle, and I don’t say nothing more about the wool.’ Any’ow, it ends up with me telling her who I’m pretty sure got the sheep and the cattle in carcases from the lifters who’d slaughtered ’em in the scrub, and that feller was the local butcher, Ed Carlow.
“She says: ‘Foster, if you says a word to anyone what you’ve told me, I’ll hunt you out of the last rat-hole on earth and shove you inter the jug meself. I exact me own justice, in me own time and in me own way, and that’s why I won’t say no more to you about thieving me wool. You do it again, though, and I’ll...’”
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