Bony - 10 - The Devil’s Steps

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Bony looked steadily at the big man, pinching his nether lip between forefinger and thumb.

  “Thanks, Super,” he said. “Now, Mason, what did you get from the curators?”

  “Chiefly support for your own theory,” answered the Sub-Inspector. “The mixture of grass put down in that lawn is quite suitable for the locality. The two experts I interviewed both agree that the marks were caused by abnormal weight when the grass was stiffly brittle with frost. The abnormal weight crushed the grass stems and the surface roots, and then the action of the sunlight during the subsequent sharp thaw burned the bruised grass, which was not able to with­stand the effect of frost as the uninjured grass did.”

  “What’s the strength of all these Devil’s foot-marks?” interposed Bolt. “Mason told me what you told him, but what’s it all about?”

  “Well, you see, it turned out like this,” Bony began in explanation. “That night Grumman was poisoned, his body was carried from his room down over the lawn to the wicket gate at the bottom and then to the road and into the ditch where it was found. Grumman’s weight was eleven stone and some odd pounds. If the weight of the man who transported the body to the ditch was ten stone, there was a combined weight of more than twenty-one stone, or three hundred pounds, or a little more than two and one half hundred-weights, concentrated into the area of a man’s shoe sole. When the killer of Grumman walked down that lawn with the body, he left shoe-tracks as plain as though he had walked on sand, the tracks branded upon the grass as though the shoes were red hot.”

  “Ah!” Bolt breathed. “And you are an expert on tracks, aren’t you?”

  “I have done a little,” Bony modestly admitted.

  “Then you know the size of the shoes, eh?”

  “Oh, yes! They are size twelve.”

  “Size twelve! Same boots, or shoes, you saw on the ramp that night Grumman was corpsed.”

  “I know the man whose shoes most likely made those marks.”

  “Eh!” exclaimed Bolt. “You know the man who made those foot-marks?”

  “Pardon me, but I did not say that. I said that I know the man whose shoes most likely had made those marks.”

  Two pairs of eyes bored into Bony’s eyes. Bony fell silent.

  “Well, go on, man!” urged the Superintendent. “Who is he?”

  “It would be unfair of me to state the name of the man whose shoes most likely made the marks on Miss Jade’s lawn,” Bony told them firmly. “When I know the name of the man whose feet were in the shoes belonging to the man who most likely owns the shoes, I shall suggest that you order his apprehension.”

  “Then you think that the shoes which made the marks had been stolen and used for the occasion?” enquired Bolt.

  “That may have been possible. I am not sure of anything. Tomorrow, Mason, I’d be obliged if you called on the Bagshotts and told them that a man alleging himself to be a collector of clothes and foot-wear for the war victims of Europe has been operating in the district. He is known to be a person of ill repute, and the police would like to know if he called on the Bagshotts and if they gave him any old clothes and shoes. Will you do that?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Why put that over on the Bagshotts?” demanded Bolt.

  “Because the imprints on Miss Jade’s lawn were made by shoes or boots size twelve, and because Bagshott wears shoes of that size.”

  “O—oh!” breathed the Superintendent.

  “My contention is that because a man’s shoes have made certain imprints it doesn’t follow that that man’s feet were inside the shoes when the imprints were made by them.”

  “And you have reason to think that Bagshott’s feet weren’t in his shoes when his shoes made the marks on Miss Jade’s lawn?”

  “That, Super, sums up the situation. Now, let me have a few minutes with the bust of our dear friend Marcus.”

  Mason went to work unpacking a common butter box.

  “Professor Phisgig insists that the result is only a rough approximation,” Bolt pointed out. “The face is a remarkable likeness to the photographs; it’s the shape of the head which the Professor insists is not accurate.”

  Mason placed on the table a plaster bust. It was the normal size of a man’s head. It might well have been a copy of a piece of Grecian sculpture. The features possessed classical symmetry.

  Bony gazed at it for a full minute. For almost that period he looked at it in profile, and then for three minutes he gazed at the back of the head. Eventually he placed it on the floor and looked at it from the back and from a higher level. Bolt stolidly smoked. Mason did nothing but stare at the bust, saying nothing.

  “If Lombroso were living today and could study that head, and then was asked to outline the character of the original, he would say that Marcus was the good boy of an upper-middle-class family,” Bony observed.

  “Instead of which he is the bad boy of an aristocratic family,” Bolt contributed. “The Italian criminologist was a bit out—here and there.”

  “I agree with him, however, that genius is a form of degeneracy,” argued Bony. “Further than that I will not accompany him. However, there are exceptions to every rule, and the rule is that evil within the mind is stamped upon the features. Marcus is an exception. By the way, do I remember correctly from your records of Marcus that he was known to be in Victoria in 1937?”

  “Yes. He killed a man named Langdon in June of that year.”

  “And he was not apprehended?”

  Bolt shook his head. Bony rose to his feet.

  “I’ll be getting along,” he said. “Thanks, gentlemen and comrades, for your co-operation. I have an intuition that Marcus is not as far away from us as the facts and assump­tions indicate.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Shadows Against the Sky

  IT WAS fifteen minutes to ten when Bony again entered the lounge at Wideview Chalet, finding it occupied by Sleeman, Downes and Lee. Sleeman was asleep, Lee was reading, and Downes was seated at a table writing letters. The last named said:

  “Blowing up for rain, d’you think?”

  “Looks much like it,” replied Bony. “Wind’s in the north and the only stars are those to the east. Won’t get that fog-cloud over the valley tomorrow. Worth looking at, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, very fine. Care about a drink?”

  Sleeman roused sufficiently to mumble something, and Downes regarded him with faint contempt. Bony shook his head, smiled, picked up a magazine and settled into a chair. Downes went on with his writing.

  Miss Jade did not appear, and Bony wondered where she was, as the office was in darkness when he passed through the reception hall. Presently Lee rose and came to sit beside him. The big man moved with a minimum of effort.

  “How’s your place off for rain?” he said, opening the conversation.

  Mr. Bonaparte, passing as the squatter whose station was in Western Queensland, was able to answer the question with a fair degree of accuracy, having studied the weather reports over the last six months just in case.

  “We had a good rain at the end of July, and another in the third week of August,” he said. “The stock are fair-conditioned. I suppose you would like to have more rain on your place.”

  They discussed pastoral problems and conditions until Downes pocketed his letters and joined them.

  “What about a drink—before Sleeman wakes up?” he suggested. “I’d like just one as a night-cap.”

  “I’ll be with you,” Lee agreed.

  “So will I, but I insist that it’s my call, and like you, one will be sufficient,” added Bony.

  Lee, however, voiced a protest. Downes regarded him with his steady eyes, on his face a cold smile.

  “If you really want to indulge in an orgy,” he murmured, “I offer the suggestion that after Bonaparte and I have had our little night-cap with you, you might awaken Sleeman. Still, as Bonaparte has insisted that it is his call, and as I broached the subject, we will make it two drinks with my call added.�
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  “Make it three for peace sake,” pleaded Lee.

  “My dear fellow, I have been magnanimous by declaring the limit at two,” countered Downes in such tones that Lee offered no further argument.

  Downes crossed to the bell push, summoning the steward, and Alice entered the lounge with her tray.

  “What is that place actually like—you know, that place you were telling us about last night where Sleeman wanted to go round on his hands and knees with Bagshott, the author?” asked Downes of Bony.

  “Wanaaring!” Bony smiled broadly. “Well, like the major­ity of outback townships, Wanaaring has fallen sadly from its state of affluence back in the days of old. Why Bagshott should have chosen Wanaaring, I don’t know. Many roads converge upon Wanaaring, which is a centre for surrounding pastoral properties. And, of course, station people and station hands all have a thirst to quench when they visit the town­ship.”

  “How would Bagshott get there—if he did go?” pressed Dowries.

  “By car he would go to Mildura, then up the Darling River to Wilcannia and from Wilcannia to the northwest via Momba and several other stations, the names of which I forget.”

  “Hum!” murmured Downes. “You know, that jaunt is becoming slightly attractive. I’ve never been up in the real bush. I’ve got a good mind to buy a car and go and see it. Bagshott writes fairly clearly about it.”

  The subject held them until Sleeman awoke, when Downes and Bony rose with the intention of retiring to their rooms. They left Lee with Sleeman, and Sleeman was pushing the bell for Alice. They said good night to each other outside their rooms, Downes occupying a room farther along the passage. It was then five minutes to eleven.

  At a quarter past eleven, Bony switched off his light and sat in his chair. He waited there for some fifteen minutes, and then soundlessly eased up a window and climbed over the sill into the dark night. He had discarded his evening clothes and instead of the white shirt and collar he wore a blue woollen scarf. Instead of dress shoes, he wore black canvas tennis shoes.

  He had no set purpose in leaving the house this early and by his bedroom window, although he did have a purpose which he intended executing much later.

  Bisker’s rough plan of the house and outbuildings had been most thoroughly done, and by now Bony had memorised all its details. With the main bedrooms and public rooms, of course, he was already familiar, and only a little less so with the staff’s sleeping quarters, the store-rooms, and the purpose for which every outbuilding was used.

  Having climbed through his bedroom window, he found himself in a left angle of the main building, the angle formed by the bedrooms occupied by the staff—the wine-store, the pantry and the linen room occupying the apex of the angle.

  There were no lights in any of the guest rooms on that, the upper side of the building, but there was a light in the cook’s room which was at the far end of the staff’s quarters. In the darkness he was invisible, for there were low clouds on the mountain. He moved round the end of the staff’s quarters and so came to Bisker’s wood-stack containing some­thing like a hundred tons. Passing behind this, he then crossed the roadway leading out through that gate by which Constable Rice had come down from the Police Station. After crossing this roadway, he skirted the rear of the several garages until he came to the rear of Bisker’s hut.

  There was no light from within. Softly he opened the door, when Bisker’s presence was instantly betrayed by his snoring. As quietly, he closed the door. With the blind down, the interior of the hut was several degrees darker than the dark night without, but without difficulty, he crossed to the bed, found the wooden case upon which were the alarm clock, the two pipes, tobacco and knife and matches, the corkscrew and the hurricane lamp. He reached for and found Bisker’s shoulder beneath blankets, and gently and persistently patted it until the man awoke.

  “It’s me, Bonaparte! Don’t speak loudly,” he whispered, and Bisker, having begun to demand who it was, obeyed.

  “Wot’s up! Doings?” he asked.

  “No, everything is all right. I want to talk to you for a little while. Won’t keep you long. When did George leave?”

  “He went on the half-past three bus. Promised he’d come back tomorrow morning.”

  “Did he tell you why he wanted to go?”

  “Yes,” replied Bisker. “Said he wanted to meet a cobber off a ship wot’s in port only three days.”

  “Did you see him leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “Pretty flash. Trilby ’at, navy-blue double-breaster suit and all.”

  “Were you close to him at any time?”

  “Close as I am to you right now. Why?”

  “Did his clothes smell of moth repellent?”

  “Can’t say as ’ow I noticed it,” Bisker replied.

  “All right! We’ll leave that. Have you ever been inside the wine-store?”

  “Yes, plenty of times, carrying in cased liquor, and some­times taking out empties.”

  Further questioning informed Bony that the wine-store was fairly large, in area about twenty by ten feet. It had once been used as a bar, but the practice of allowing guests to drink there had been stopped twelve months before. The stocks of wines, spirits and beer, according to Bisker, were always maintained at a high level. And the door was fitted with a Yale lock, whilst on the inside of the window there were thick iron bars.

  “George has a key, I suppose?” Bony asked.

  “Yes, that’s so.”

  “Would he have handed over the key to Miss Jade or the secretary before he went off, do you think?”

  “I couldn’t say. Expect so—just in case he never come back.”

  “But he would surely return for his belongings?”

  “Of course. I didn’t think of that.”

  “Have you any reason to think he will not return?”

  “No. I only spoke general like.”

  “All right! Now one more question. What kind of lock is fitted to George’s bedroom door?”

  “Just an ordinary lock. ’Is room’s the one next to the wine-store.”

  “Next to his is an empty room containing lumber, and then two maids’ rooms and finally the cook’s room. Am I right?”

  “All correct, Mr. Bonaparte.” Bisker wanted to ask ques­tions, but remembered Bony’s admonition and remained silent. As Bony did not speak again, after a silence lasting three minutes, he did put a question:

  “Can I lend a ’and at anythink?”

  “If you’d like to, I believe I could make use of you.”

  “Do me. I can dress in the dark.”

  “Good! Before you do, did you see Mr. Downes come back?”

  “Yes, and seen ’im go off.”

  “Did he return with the same people with whom he went away?”

  “The same man. There was only the one man who drove the car. He arrived about half-past two and they came back just before nine. The car was a Studebaker. The bloke driving it was a little man. He sent me in to tell Mr. Downes that Mr. Jackson was come to see ’im.”

  “And this Mr. Jackson didn’t go into the house at all?”

  “No. ’E stayed in the car.”

  “Good. Now for Mr. Leslie. Did you see him go out after dinner tonight?”

  “Yes. ’E left shortly after eight. ’E went down the drive to the main road. I never seen ’im come back, though.”

  “What about Miss Jade?”

  “She went to bed early. I was in the kitchen round about nine ’aving a last drink of corfee when the old cat came in to tell Alice she was going to bed with a ’eadache and that Alice was to lock up the wine-store punctually at eleven and go to bed.”

  “Hum! Well, I think we have got everyone tabbed, Bisker. Get up and dress, and don’t talk. I am going to put you on sentry-go at the wood-stack to watch the scullery door. And I don’t want any talking after we leave here.”

  “Goodoh! I won’t be more’n a coupler minutes getting r
ugged up.”

  “What about your boots? Have you got any rubber-soled shoes?”

  “No, but I got a pair of gum-boots, and I know where all the soft places are to walk about on.”

  “Excellent. Get dressed, and warmly.”

  Presently Bisker announced that he was ready, and together they left the hut, Bony leading the way round the rear of the garages and so to the rear of the wood-stack. It was twenty minutes to midnight.

  At the end of the stack where Bony halted, a watch could be kept on the scullery door, the roadway to the top gate, and the front entrance, which now was locked and unlighted.

  “I want you to stop here and not move away no matter what might happen,” Bony breathed. “I’ll be back later.”

  Bisker softly grunted that he had heard, and Bony moved off to be engulfed in the night. The night was full of noise, the gusty wind roaring in the drive trees and those lining the upper road. At a distance above and below Wideview Chalet, the wind roared with volume through the tree-tops like angry giants walking the mountain slopes, coming near and nearer, and passing away and farther away.

  Although wearing a heavy overcoat, Bisker was becoming cold when he heard light footsteps on the roadway. The person was coming in through the top gate, and bush-wise, Bisker slid down to the floor of wood-chips skirting the wood-stack that he might see the approaching person against the sky, which although black was not as dark as at ground level.

  The steps came quickly, and almost at once Bisker recog­nised that they were the steps of a woman. Then he saw her quite plainly against the sky. She was wearing some material about her head, and whilst in his view, she stopped and stooped and removed her shoes. When again she went on, she moved without sound, and Bisker watched her walk to the scullery door, pause there, then open the door and pass into the house, re-closing and locking the door behind her.