Continuing idly to watch the cat, Dick heard Roy present the case from a different angle.
‘There is logic in what you have said, old man. That is, logic from your viewpoint But let us adopt the argument, or basis of argument, that Colonel Swinton put into a short story I think he called “The Green Curve”. That is about two opposing generals in a war. The general who won was he who successfully anticipated how his opponent was thinking and deciding his tactics accordingly.’
‘Well—what have generals got to do with our winning the Melbourne Cup to oblige a lady?’ Dick cut in observing with a shade more interest the cat outside on the verandah rail, again standing up and slowly arching its back.
‘This. Let us ask ourselves why Diana after having said she loved neither of us, set us a seemingly impossible task. I believe if she had been sure she didn’t love one of us she would not have given us the “wee chance”. The Melbourne Cup is six months ahead. Diana, I think, gave us a “wee chance” in order to give herself six months’ time to make up her mind.’
‘About what?’
‘Which one of us she loves.’
‘Meaning that in six months time she will know her own mind.’
‘Just that. She knows we have as much chance of winning the Cup as we have of marrying into royalty. She realises that there will be no chance of you, for instance, snaffling the Cup and she finding out she loves me; or vice versa. If and when she does find out which of us she cares for, trust her—or any other woman—to convey the intelligence.’
‘Well, what do we do?’ he demanded.
‘We will try and get the Cup.’
‘But we haven’t a hope.’
‘We’ll try nevertheless.’
Yet again the cat was slowly arching its back. Dick Cusack, still idly watching it, pressed the catch of his petrol lighter, brought the flame against the end of his third cigarette. The weed alight, still without definite purpose, he lowered the lighter a few inches, when the little flame revealed the cat on the rail several degrees clearer. The cat was in the act of hissing—not at him.
‘I’ll stop the sale of Olary Boy tomorrow,’ Roy went on. ‘We’ll put our other mokes away, and concentrate on these possible but not probable Melbourne Cup winners. We’ll give the Cup a fly. If all the other acceptances for the race should perish of cold and one of our mokes manage to get around the winning post, we’ll both go to Diana and say: “We don’t hold you to your promise, because neither of us expected to get the gee-gaw. Forget it. If you still think you love neither one, hurry and say so, please. If you know you love one of us hurry ever so much more to say so. The loser will not squeal.’”
‘Good egg! I’m game,’ Dick agreed, standing up. ‘I think—I’ll take a walk!’
He took a short spring, vaulted the windowsill, landed like a cat in the verandah, as lightly as the actual cat fled, spun to his right and so came face to face with Senor Alverey, who stood with his back against the house wall but a foot to one side of the window frame.
‘Beautiful night, isn’t it—for spies,’ Dick drawled dangerously low. ‘Come right in and have a little talk.’
‘I was but just passing, Mistaire Cusack.’
‘You don’t say! Well—come in.’
Senor Jose Alverey, still arrayed in immaculate dinner dress, was gripped by the silk lapels of his coat and almost lifted from his feet right into the bedroom.
‘I never did have very much time for you, friend Josey, and just now I have no time at all for you,’ Dick stated grittily.
‘I was, I can assure, just passing.’
‘The cat on the balustrade proves you a liar.’
‘You call me a liar?’
‘Too right.’
Alverey sprang into the air at the instant he attempted to strike. It was, however, an unsuccessful attempt, because a short arm uppercut sent him sprawling on to Roy’s bed. ‘Now get out before I help you in your going.’
Alverey’s dark face was like that of a corpse.
‘You will regret,’ he managed to jerk out. ‘You win the Melbourne Cup with your, what you say?—your down-on-the-feet cab horses.’ His white hands became fluttering wings. We will wait. We will see. I crush you. You insult, you strike me, eh? You call me Josey! Bah!’
‘See my boots anywhere, Roy? These felt slippers are no good,’ Dick said plaintively.
4
I’ll Try It
Roy Masters fell asleep, thinking of Olary Boy, and picturing himself presenting the Melbourne Cup to Diana. Probably he was over-tired when he turned in, for his sleep was fitful and interspersed by dreams which had no sequence. He awoke once to hear rain roaring on the iron roof of the homestead, and, above that sound, the deeper note of the wind. Afterwards, dreams continued to flicker across his restless brain until the moment the maid knocked at the door with the morning tea.
It was Dick who sprang out of bed, flung on a dressing-gown, and took the tray from her. When setting down the tray on the table, he grinned in his cheerful manner, his face becoming more square than ever.
‘A nice day—by the sound of it,’ he said.
‘Have a look, and estimate how many feet of rain have fallen,’ Roy suggested.
Raising the window blind, Dick took in the grey film of falling water partially obscuring the garden and its wind-lashed fruit trees.
‘Five feet, seven inches, if a point,’ Roy was informed, seriously. ‘I hope it is a general rain, and reaches as far south as my old place. The lambs and ewes want green feed badly. A light?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Still keen about Olary Boy trying to complete the course for the Cup?’ Dick asked.
‘Yes, I intend to telephone a wire to Sparks as soon as the Mount Lion post office opens. What’s the time now?’
‘Ten past eight.’
‘So! Well, I must arise and shine.’
It was one minute after the half hour when Roy entered the station office, there to find the bookkeeper at work and Mr. Tindale in conference with his manager. There was no sign of an abatement of the raging elements. Having wished the three men good morning, Roy said to the bookkeeper:
‘I want to get through to the Mount Lion postmaster to dispatch a telegram.’
‘I have just tried to get the town exchange for Mr. Tindale, Mr. Masters, but the ’phone is a blank. Communication is destroyed somewhere—by a fallen tree, probably.’
‘Oh—damn!’
‘Something important, Roy?’ inquired the squatter.
‘Very. I must get a telegram away by eleven at the latest.’
‘Might be able to raise the postmaster later. They don’t open before nine. Had breakfast?’
‘No, not yet I’ll have it and try the ’phone later. Thank you, Mr. Keen. Let me know at once when you can get through, please.’
‘Bit of bad luck,’ Dick said when Roy joined his friend at the breakfast table.
‘Something will have to be done about it when we’ve fed. The dark gentleman isn’t on deck this morning.’
‘Dagos and cats are much alike, although the house cat evidently didn’t like Alverey. Toast?’
‘Confound the rain.’
‘Tut-tut. Blessed be the rain,’ Dick said reprovingly. ‘Every drop means a penny to the station hand, a zac to the manger, fourpence to the squatter, and twenty-five bob to the government.’
‘I have no doubt you are right,’ Roy said, attempting sarcasm, ‘but I don’t like the prospect of driving a car thirty odd miles through this rain.’
‘Don’t worry. You’ll not be driving any car thirty odd miles through this rain, Roy.’
‘But, I’ll have to if they can’t get the ’phone line repaired.’
Dick shook his head. ‘There will be no driving of motor cars about the landscape today. Three hundred and seventeen points of rain have already fallen.’
‘But I’ve got to get that telegram away even if ten inches fall between now and when I start after I’ve eaten.’
‘Morning everyone,’ she greeted the half-dozen at the table. ‘Isn’t the rain splendid? We are water-locked, and no-one will be able to leave today, at least. What say we arrange a bridge tournament?’
‘But mother and I will have to go. We simply must catch the Adelaide express from Broken Hill tonight,’ exclaimed a pretty brunette. ‘We promised faithfully to be at Bobbie Culbert-Smithson’s wedding tomorrow.’
‘Bobbie will have to get married without your blessing, Eva,’ Dick cut in.
‘But why? Why? Why?’
‘Yes, why?’ added Roy.
‘Because on these north-western tracks a baby’s pram would be hopelessly bogged in the first mile. What is it from here to Mount Lion? Thirty-two miles, and one hundred and sixty miles on top of that to Broken Hill. Nope—we play bridge, Eva, all day long. And, perhaps, all day tomorrow, too.’
‘I’m so glad,’ Diana said impishly.
Breakfast over Roy and Dick made for the office. Mr. Keen rang up Mount Lion and failed to raise the exchange.
‘Well, I’ve got to get a telegram away,’ Roy persisted, adding to the squatter: ‘What do you think about it? Dick says it is impossible to reach Mount Lion today by car.’
‘Dick’s right, Roy,’ corroborated Mr. Tindale.
‘What about horses and buckboard?’
‘Saddle horses would get further than a buckboard, but Red Creek will be in roaring flood. Why, this is the best rain we’ve had in these parts for three years or more.’
‘There is no centre we could ring up other than Mount Lion?’
‘None. Your business terrifically important?’
‘Yes, very. I had arranged with my trainer to sell a horse of mine if I did not cancel the arrangement by noon today. I’ve altered my mind. I simply cannot let the horse go. What other township is near here?’
‘Milparinka—forty-six miles distant.’
‘There is no point we could reach from which a ’phoned telegram could be sent to Milparinka?’
‘Yes. You could ’phone a message from Moorabbin Station homestead thirty-eight miles from here. But understand, Roy, all the creeks will be running bankers. I am afraid there is nothing you can do to save your horse from sale—unless the line break is discovered and repaired in time this morning.’
With vexed impatience Roy paced the length of the office, Dick meanwhile studying a survey map of the district hanging on the wall.
‘Could a saddle horse make the trip?’ he demanded, swinging round to the squatter.
‘I much doubt it. A lot of swimming would have to be done.’
‘Would you lend me a good hack?’ Roy further demanded.
‘Yes, but you would be foolish to undertake the trip.’
‘No matter. I’ll try it. Order me a horse, Mr. Tindale, please, and let me start at once. There is not a minute to waste.’
‘All right. Fix it, Miles,’ the squatter asked his manager. ‘You can get the Ten-mile, can’t you, Keen?’
‘Yes, the break is beyond that.’
‘Good! Ring them up and tell them to have a saddle horse they’ve got there ready for Mr. Masters. And say I would like one of them to accompany Mr. Masters as far as Red Creek.’
‘I’ll change,’ Roy snapped, hurrying out.
‘Think he’ll do it?’ questioned Dick.
‘I don’t, but he seems determined to try it,’ Mr. Tindale replied grimly, and Dick fell again to studying the survey map.
Five minutes dragged on before Roy re-entered. The bookkeeper made another attempt to get through to Mount Lion and failed.
‘I see they’ve saddled a horse for me. I’ll be off,’ announced Roy. ‘Here is the telegram I want sent. Keep trying to get through in case I don’t reach Mount Lion on time.’
‘All right Now get this information clear,’ the squatter snapped. ‘Mount Lion from here is almost south-west. The first ten miles will be fair going and you won’t lose the track. You will then arrive at one of our huts named the Ten-mile. We have two riders living there and they will have a horse ready for you. From the Ten-mile to Red Creek is eleven miles, the worst stretch of the journey. One of the Ten-mile men will accompany you as far as Red Creek, because you will be unable to follow the road in places and will be apt to miss it. Should you get across Red Creek you will find the remaining eleven miles easy to trace, for you will then be in the gibber uplands. If you should determine to cross Red Creek, please don’t ask the Ten-mile man to accompany you, because he’s a good sheep man and I don’t want him drowned. Now—get away and the best of luck.’
‘Thank you,’ Roy said quietly. ‘So long, Dick.’
‘So long, Roy, and good luck,’ Dick replied absently.
5
In A Hurry
At the beginning of a ride he never was to forget, Roy Masters had no little difficulty in managing the dapple-grey gelding which the manager had selected for him, but when once the powerful horse warmed up he moved like a well-oiled machine.
In less than two minutes Roy was saturated with water. It drove against him from the rear off-side, heavy sheets of rain flung forward by a tempestuous north-west wind. His world was wind-lashed mulga and sandalwood trees growing on undulating red sand-covered country from which the last summer’s sun had scorched all herbage. In and out among the higher ridges wound the narrow track easily discernible despite the wind, for the rain had arrived several hours before the tempest.
What was it? What had Tindale said? Easy going to the stockman’s hut at the Ten-mile. Then eleven bad miles; then Red Creek, which apparently was supposed to stop him. After that, eleven more miles, comparatively easier.
But he must not delude himself that he was in for an easy ride. Without doubt he could push his grey over the ten miles to the hut, but the horse he obtained there, no matter how good, would have to be ridden carefully the remaining twenty-two miles.
When through the first gate, three miles on his way, he walked the horse for half a mile. His hat had been blown from his head and he had not turned back to rescue it. Steam from the gelding drifted away to the near side, but of the two living things in that world of falling water the horse was the least discomforted.
Then on again at an easy canter until stopped by a wide box-lined creek down which ran a surging mass of water. Yet here was small danger, a creek not worth mentioning by the squatter. As, indeed, was it, for it is the narrow creek which runs deep.
They must have crossed half the distance to the Ten-mile. Five miles! Thirty-two, less five, was twenty-seven, and those twenty-seven speedometer-measured miles to be crossed before half-past eleven at the latest. He knew Sparks well enough to be sure that he wouldn’t clinch the deal one second before twelve o’clock. And because Nat Sparks thought a lot of Olary Boy, it was likely that he would delay the business thirty minutes, or even an hour, hoping to receive orders to cancel the sale.
An ugly brute, Olary Boy. Roman nose; thick legs. A clothes prop of a horse to look at. He could run a bit, to be sure, but in appearance no credit either to owner or trainer. Yet for all that, he was a fool to part with Olary Boy. Yes, a fool too, to feel annoyed because a girl, when she first saw the horse, laughed at Olary Boy’s disreputable appearance. Sired by a Caulfield Cup winner, too, and out of a mare who had raced well at the many provincial meetings in her day. Well, they couldn’t always breed ’em up. And as a yearling the moke suggested no throw back.
The ground was slipping away beneath the gelding’s feet. He was beginning to blow a little. But he would be blowing a bit harder when they reached the Ten-mile.
‘Come on—get on with it,’ Roy cried, and for the first time, touched the animal’s flanks with his spurless boot-heels.
The grey responded well, indicating plenty of reserve. The country now was gathered into wide spaced, but steeper, sand-ridges running east and west. The track angled up one side of every ridge and angled down t
he other, the long narrow flats between composed of sticky chocolate-coloured soil bearing saltbrush.
The rain continued steadily. The wind was veering slowly westward, coming to send the stinging raindrops against the rider’s right cheek. The horse galloped without apparently tiring, but his chest was heaving, his nostrils widely showing pink, and his body steamed.
And thus unexpectedly they reached the southern most rampart of sand, to see from its summit the rain-dulled picture of a little iron hut on the far side of a small treeless plain.
‘Now for it, old boy,’ Roy shouted, and urged his mount with heels and open hand. In a grand final burst of speed the gelding crossed the mile-wide plain to pull up with heaving flanks and drooping head.
Two saddled horses and one horse bridled only were tethered to a horse rail in the lee of the hut. Two men in rough overcoats ran out of the crazy structure, one to take over the dappled gelding. Said to the other:
‘You’ve made good time. The boss has just rung up. They still can’t get through to Mount Lion. We’ve made a cupper tea. ’Ave a drink before we push on?’
‘Yes, I’ll spare one minute,’ Roy agreed. And then, when inside the hut and sipping tea alternately munching brownie whilst standing before the great fire in the open hearth: ‘Three horses ready. Both you fellows coming with me?’
‘No, I’m going with you as far as Red Crick. I’m taking a spare ’orse for you to change over when we git there. None of ’em ain’t no Carbines, but they can travel faster than Darling when Tom rid ’im parst the grandstand yesterdee. I bin laffin’ all night about it.’
‘Were you there?’
‘Too right. Fred an’ me went in on his ole truck.’
‘Well, we’d better go,’ Roy decided, draining the tea in his tin pint pannikin.
‘Righto!’ and the stockman began to remove his overcoat.
‘You’se gonna git wet, Jack,’ prophesied the man referred to by Jack as Fred.
‘Too right, I’m gonna git wet. But that bleeding overcoat’s gonna weigh ten pounds or more when she gits full of rain,’ Jack drawled in the unhurried manner of the bushman.
The Great Melbourne Cup Mystery Page 3