“You chucked out?” he inquired.
“Requested to leave,” corrected Bony.
“Are they at it again?”
“They are at it again. Bob. Pause awhile to give them time to cool. Otherwise you may have the tea-pot thrown at you.”
Lester sniffled and squatted on his spurred heels with admirable dexterity.
“Seems they got things on their minds.”
“What things?”
“Oh, this and that. Could be each of ’em thinks the other’s got something they haven’t.” He stood up, “Well, I’m goin’ to chance my luck. I’m dry.”
“Then take my cup in. You might need ammunition.”
Bony chuckled and brought another sniffle, and he left a little hurriedly as Lester made for the door. Glancing back he saw Lester on the step, his hand turning the door-knob, and a look of cunning concentration on his face.
Other than himself and Lester, no other man was in for lunch. The cold meal was set out for them. Neither woman appeared. Throughout, Lester was thoughtful and spoke but little. Witlow came in from his day’s job just before the afternoon smoko, and when they were strolling to the annexe, the Swede joined them. The tea and cake were on the table, but the women were still absent.
Lester was still moody, and Witlow was about to chaff him when the irrepressible Swede cut in with:
“How hot today, Bony? ’Undred and eighty?”
“A hundred and nine.”
“Looks like March won’t see no water in the Lake,” observed Witlow.
“Pelicans leave soon, I bet,” Helstrom laughed at an undisclosed joke. “P’raps tonight. I bet level pound no pelicans here tomorrer.”
“Keep it,” said Witlow.
“You not sports, eh?” He stood up and tapped his chest. “Me, I real Australia. All yous New Australians. Not sports. You too soon in Australia for to be sports.”
“You were, I suppose, born at Snake Gully,” smiled Bony.
“Me! Na! I been in country forty-one year. I real Australia. How long you been in Australia?”
“Forty-one minutes.”
Helstrom roared with laughter.
“Ya! I tink now why you spik like Bob Menzies. What place you born, eh? London?”
“Yorkshire.”
“Yorkshire!” The Swede indulged in ponderous thinking. Then he grinned and shouted: “Ya! You got any brass?”
The Swede certainly was one big bright boy, and only Lester failed to appreciate him.
“What’s wrong with Sniffler?” Witlow asked when they were on the veranda, and the rouseabout had saddled a horse and gone for the cows.
“Maybe he’s worried because the women had a fight at morning smoko,” Bony surmised. “They ordered me out, and I told him to give them time, but he would go in and probably had his ears blistered.”
“Ah,” murmured Witlow, smiling satisfaction. “Working out, eh! Well, you’re going to have it all on your own. Me and Kurt’s shiftin’ camp in the morning.”
“Oh! Where?”
“Takin’ ewes into the River. Fifty miles is too far to be handy when it happens.”
“When what happens?” Bony asked quickly.
“You took me up on the murder bet.”
“So I did,” Bony drawled. “I shall be collecting four pounds from you.”
“I’ll bet a pound you won’t.”
“Now we’re becoming involved. Straighten out.”
“All right. I lay you four to one there’ll be a murder hereabouts before shearing starts. And I lay you a level pound I win that bet. Sort of a bet behind a bet.”
“It’s as well for me that you are leaving. When were you told?”
“This morning at orders.”
“Sorry about the move?”
“No. Much better on all counts at the River.”
“You will have your cobber with you.”
“Yair. Me and Swede get along. You’re gonna be lonely.”
Bony agreed and crossed to the yards, and had been there only a few minutes when a new and large American car brought the large Mr Wallace, owner of Porchester Station. Wallace must have noticed the dust being kicked up by the horse Bony was handling, for he walked stiffly from the car and hauled himself up to sit on the top rail. There Bony joined him.
“How’s things?” asked Wallace.
“Could wish for a spell of cooler weather,” replied Bony. “The grey there has turned out well. You want him, Martyr said.”
“Yes. Always liked that gelding. My second daughter’s coming home next week. Good enough for her?”
“Should be. Leave him with me for another week.”
“All right.” The large man eyed Bony sideways. “How’s the other business coming along?”
“My interest is being sustained,” replied Bony, and Wallace was astonished to see no smile accompanying the statement. “How long will the Lake last?”
“A week at most if the heat continues. Important?”
“It seems to be,” admitted Bony. “Don’t ask me why. You could perhaps work out a small problem. I understand that Kurt Helstrom and Witlow are leaving here tomorrow for the River. You knew of that?”
“I knew that forty-four hundred ewes would begin the move to the river country in the morning.”
“Not that the Swede and Witlow would be taking them?”
“No. I leave the hands at this end of the run to Martyr. Martyr is a good man. The best overseer I’ve had. Always believed in loading responsibility on those who can take it. What’s the problem?”
“I am presented with what is probably a coincidence, and if coincidence or not, I must determine,” Bony said. “It’s a subject I must ask earnestly that you treat confidentially. When Witlow and the Swede leave Lake Otway tomorrow, there will remain the seven people who were here when Gillen vanished.”
Wallace produced a pipe and filled it, taking his time, and lighting up before he spoke again.
“Coincidence.”
“But ... When did MacLennon and Carney and Lester last go down south on a spell?”
“I must think that one out. The book-keeper will know.”
“Inform me later. I know that these men haven’t taken a holiday since before Gillen vanished fifteen months ago. That applies also to Mrs Fowler and her daughter. What about Martyr? Doesn’t he take annual leave?”
“Yes, of course ... What the hell is on your mind? He was due for leave after Christmas, and the Christmas before last he didn’t take it; said he couldn’t afford to as his mother had to undergo an expensive course of treatment for something or other and he was her sole support.”
“Very well. We can leave Barby out as he has a reputation for saving money. You have six people, all here when Gillen vanished. Not one has left even for a holiday. Normally everyone would insist on taking a break from this isolated place. Martyr, you say, selected the Swede and Witlow to move the ewes. Could you invent a reasonable excuse for suggesting to Martyr that Witlow be retained and one of the others sent?”
“Yes. What’s the point?”
“I want to know if Martyr purposely selected those two men, or if he offered the move to one or two of the older hands and they refused it. Living conditions at your homestead by the River would be superior to those ruling here, don’t you think?”
“Yes, of course. Regular mail. Close to Menindee. Fair amount of traffic passing through. I see what’s on your mind. Any man here ought naturally to want to change to the river homestead.”
“That is so. When anyone doesn’t react naturally, I am elated,” Bony said, beaming at Wallace.
Chapter Nine
A New Experience
BONY RELAXED ON the edge of the bluff. It was almost totally dark, and he had watched the night extinguish the furnace colours on and above Lake Otway. The Swede would have lost his bet had anyone taken his odds on the pelicans leaving, for last seen by Bony they were gathered in close-packed mobs like crowds about road accidents. Now it was night
and the only sounds to reach Bony were the conversations of waterbirds and the radio in the house behind him, for the men were at dinner in the annexe.
All the people who were at Lake Otway when Gillen vanished were here this night, save Barby in his camp across the Lake. The only addition to this community was himself, a supposedly itinerant horse-breaker. Before Wallace had left to return to the big homestead he had made clear the selection of Witlow and Helstrom to take the ewes to the River, having ascertained from Martyr that the overseer had offered the change to MacLennon and Carney as they had been working much longer at the out-station. Both these men preferred to remain, the former because he did not like change and the latter because the pubs at Menindee couldn’t be far enough away.
This cleared up a minor point concerning Martyr, a point which would have had to be considered had the overseer not given those two old hands the opportunity of change, but it stressed the significance of the fact that those two men had remained constantly at Lake Otway, and were determined to stay on.
Wallace had agreed to probe Red Draffin and the point to be raised was the suitcase key, the key to the true fate of Ray Gillen. Draffin had said Gillen always kept his case locked and the key on a cord round his neck. This was supported by Barby. When Martyr, with Barby and Lester, examined the contents of the case the day after Gillen was missing, it was not locked and the key wasn’t seen by Barby. Draffin said the case was so full that its owner had to kneel on the lid to close it; Barby said the case was but little more than half full when they had listed the contents.
That neither Draffin nor Barby had informed the police or even Wallace of their suspicion that something of value had been removed from the case was quite in character, for neither had closely associated with Gillen and, like the average bushman, they would not want to be drawn into a police inquiry. In none of the police reports was there mention by Gillen’s room-mate, Carney, of the key worn by the missing man ... or mention of it by anyone else.
Bony was considering the implications behind the progress of his own investigation when there was a light step behind him and he turned to see a dark figure approaching.
“I was hoping you were still here, Bony,” Joan Fowler softly said. “I want to talk to you. You won’t mind?”
“No. I won’t be lonely now.”
Together they sat on the edge of the low bluff where steps had been cut. The girl said:
“We must talk quietly, ’cos voices carry, and I’ve sneaked out. I saw you here before it got dark. You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about you. D’you think I was very terrible to sling that milk at Mother?”
“Red Draffin, I think, would have suggested even sterner measures. It would seem that your mother can be very difficult.” “She won’t believe I’ve grown up and all that. You don’t really like me, do you?”
“Not to like you would be plain silly,” was his cautious response.
“I don’t mean just that way. I mean, well, you know how I mean, don’t you?”
“How do you mean?”
“Now you are being difficult. Just imagine. When I go to meet a man, he wants to kiss me to show how much he likes me.”
“Ah! But you see, Joan, I am married, and you are Temptation.”
She restrained her laughter ... and moved close to him.
“Being married’s got nothing to do with it, Bony,” she whispered. “You men! You aren’t all the same, no matter what Mother says. Some want to smother me; others, you for instance, have to be told. Kiss me, please.”
The danger of being seduced had never been previously encountered by Inspector Bonaparte, but one kiss would be both pleasant and ungallant to refuse.
“That was nice,” Joan sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. “Do it again. You like me now, don’t you?”
“Yes. You are very desirable, but I ... I am unseducible.”
“I haven’t really tried yet.”
“What else can I do for you?” hastily Bony asked.
“Would you do anything for me, Bony?”
“Bar throwing milk at your mother.”
“Are you still my friend?”
“I have, I hope, proved that.”
“I must go back.” She swung her body round to confront him, and he could see the starlight in her eyes. “Mother will wake up to me if I don’t. Will you do something for me ... please?”
“Tell me.”
“What would you think about a man who promised to marry you and, because he came into money, wanted to get out of it?”
“If you are the lady, the man needs the attention of a psychiatrist.”
“A what?”
“Mental doctor.”
“Oh! Yes, he does ... Now you’ve made me admit I’m the girl. Well, so I am. Mind you, I wouldn’t marry him now, but I’m not letting him get away with it.” Joan moved closer. “Pity you are pure, Bony, but I’m glad you’ll help me. I’ve no one I could trust to see that I get a fair deal.”
“I shall make sure that you get a fair deal,” he told her.
The girl fell silent, and Bony waited.
“A long time ago,” she resumed, “Harry Carney made love to me. You know how it goes in a place like this. No amusements, nothing much to do, nowhere to go. He promised to marry me, and I believed him. Then he went cold and called it off, and I made him tell me why. He said it would be silly to marry on a station hand’s wages, and that’s all he’d have until his uncle died and left him a pile. When I said we could wait, he said his uncle might live for another thirty years even with a sick heart.”
Joan fell silent again, possibly expecting Bony to jump in with indignant sympathy. Instead, he asked:
“How long ago was that?”
“Just a year. And lately I’ve been wondering about Harry. He’s moody and restless, and I think his uncle died. I think Harry’s come into his money, and I’m worried he’ll sneak off and leave me cold. That’s why I want you to help me.”
“How?”
“Just by watching him. You know, without him knowing. Just tell me when he starts packing up ready to go.”
“But he couldn’t go without you seeing him put his things into the Boss’s car or Barby’s utility.”
“He could get away all right, Bony. There’s Ray Gillen’s motorbike still over in the shed. Harry’s good with a motorbike. We took it out one afternoon when Mr Martyr and the other men were away at the lamb-marking. We went for miles on it.”
“The lamb-marking? Last May?”
“Yes.”
“Only that time?”
“Yes.”
“But everyone would hear him start the machine. You would, too.”
“It would be too late then. Harry would be on it and off.”
Bony did not trouble to point out that before Carney, on the stolen machine, could arrive at Menindee to the south, Ivanhoe to the east, or Wilcannia to the north, the telephone could cripple the plan. Nor did he state the fact that Carney was intelligent enough to devise a far more subtle plan. Nevertheless, the motor-cycle in the shed had been prepared for the road.
“He’d persuade George Barby to give him a lift from here, Joan.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” she argued. “I know, because he’s already got the bike filled with petrol. I watched him. It was the day before you came here, and he was supposed to be out riding. I happened to see him sneak into the shed, and ran over and looked through a crack in the wall. He was filling the petrol tank. I saw him unscrew things and clean them. Then he pumped the tyres and put the sheet back, and tossed sand on it to make it look dusty like it was.”
“H’m! Could be serious,” conceded Bony.
“I know what I’m talking about.”
“You have given that impression. You want me to watch him?”
“Please, Bony.” Her hands pressed his shoulders. “Will you ... for me?”
“Very well. Now off you go, and you don’t have ‘to be kind to me’.”
Flippantly,
she tilted his chin, jumped to her feet and ran, and he waited a minute before strolling to the men’s quarters. Someone cut the dynamo motor, and the result relieved the mind and freed the ears to register other noises. Within the house a radio gave music. From the Lake the birds called. In the men’s sitting-room Carney was writing a letter and Lester was reading a paper through spectacles perched on the end of his long nose.
Instead of entering, Bony sat on the broken chair and rolled a cigarette. He wondered what lay behind Joan Fowler’s inducement to persuade him to watch Carney, discarding the absurd story of the rich uncle, and having to accept the fact of the motor-cycle being prepared for a getaway by Carney.
A figure loomed into the light from the living-room, and when the man mounted the veranda Bony saw MacLennon. MacLennon obviously noticed the glow of Bony’s cigarette, for he paced the veranda and sat with his back against a rail post.
“Took a chance and cut off that damn engine five minutes ahead of time,” he said. “Gets on my nerves nights like this. I hate it when the wind don’t blow.”
“Could be no wind for weeks at this time of year,” Bony pointed out. “Getting near the end of the sheep lift?”
“Yes. Passed the last flock to go to the fellers at Sandy Well. Martyr’s given us a day off tomorrow. Crook on the sheep, too, movin’ them in this weather. Not so good, either, on the horses, I suppose.”
“That’s so.” Bony tossed the cigarette butt over the rail and began to roll another. “The Swede and Witlow are lucky to be going to the River.”
“They can have it,” MacLennon said, a trifle sharply. “Too much spit and polish there. Martyr’s easy compared with the Boss. You see the end of your contract in sight yet?”
“About three weeks.”
“You’ll see the Lake dry out.”
“Looks like it,” agreed Bony. “Pelicans seem to be preparing to go for good. Water down under two feet by the marker this evening.”
“It’ll go quick at the end.” MacLennon struck a match and held it against his pipe, and the illumination revealed his square face and powerful shoulders. The black moustache, always trimmed and snipped short, partially balanced the broken nose. He spoke with the slow deliberation of the punchdrunk, and often put a punch into his speech to emphasize a point important only to himself. “Find Ray Gillen when she dries out, I expect.”
Death of a Lake Page 7