“Tell the cook to make tea in the thermos flasks. We’ll want a bottle of milk. Get the bottle of brandy from the chiffonier. Bill the Better can take the mattresses from the beds in the two single rooms.”
“All right, Miss Lacy. Is Mr Lacy badly hurt?”
“Yes, very, but don’t stand there talking.”
When Diana went out to the truck it was loaded and her brother was waiting at the wheel. She climbed into the seat next to him, Bill the Better beside her. He was red with dust, but his watery blue eyes were at the moment strangely clear and hard.
“The boss would go down the flamin’ well,” he shouted to beat the roar of the engine and the wind lashing the passing trees. “I went down and told ’im and Fred what was wrong and where it was wrong. Fred tried to stop ’im goin’ down, but ’e would go down. Why does ’e think ’e’s a bloomin’ three-year-old? ’E slipped off the ladder and ended up on the pump platform. Busted a leg down there, ’e did. I went down after ’im, and lashed ’im to the windlass rope and held ’im while old Fred pulled us up.”
“Where is the leg broken, do you know?” Diana asked, wondering why her brother didn’t drive the truck all out as she would have done.
“Dunno properly. In the thigh it looks like. The boss ’e yells at me and says: ‘You tell ’em back at the homestead not to send for no flamin’ quack till I say so.’ We lays ’im out on the ground, careful like, and Fred got ’is straw mattress for ’im to set ’is head on. Then ’e says: ‘Wot in ’ell are yer gapin’ at me like that for? Get goin’ in the car and don’t drive fast or you’ll bust the big ends and the station can’t afford a new set with the dry times on us.’ ”
A few minutes later, he said:
“Me and old Fred done our best, but ’e would go down the flamin’ well. You know how ’tis. There ain’t no ’oldin’ the boss when ’e’s set on doing anythink.”
Diana laid a hand on his grimy forearm, saying:
“Don’t you worry, Bill. We know you did your best. Everything will be all right.”
They found Old Lacy lying on the ground near the well coping, his head resting on a straw mattress, a billy of jet-black tea and two pannikins beside him. Fred rose from squatting on his other side. He was a wild-whiskered nugget of a man.
Diana ran to her father and knelt at his side. She stared down at him with tear-filled eyes.
“Oh dad, is the poor leg broken, d’you think?”
“ ’Fraid so, my gal, but don’t you fret. It was me own fault. Bill was doing all right, but I went down to check up on him, old fool that I am. You brought the mattresses? Good! Set ’em out on the floor of the truck. Fred’s taken the door off the hut to roll me on and to lift me up on to the truck.”
Diana offered him brandy but he refused it. They lifted him on to the door, and he instructed them how to raise him carefully and then to slide him off the door on to the mattresses.
“Have a peg before we start?” suggested Young Lacy.
“No, lad, I’m all right. Give a stiffener to Fred and Bill. Where the devil have you got to, Fred? Oh, there you are! Don’t you go down that flaming well, now. I’ll send out to have the cattle shifted until we can put another shaft down. I think I will have a peg, lad. I got sort of shook up.”
It was noon the next day when Diana remembered her appointment with John Gordon fixed for eleven o’clock.
Chapter Twenty
Colonel Spendor
THE well nourished and still erect figure of the Chief Commissioner of the Queensland Police passed through the outer office to that inner room in which even the walls exuded police history. He was white-haired and white-moustached; his feet trod lightly, bespeaking training as a cavalry officer; his lounge suit of light-grey tweed fitted admirably, but a uniform would have fitted better.
“Good morning, sir!” said the secretary, having come to attention from bending over the huge table desk set in the middle of the large room.
“Mornin’ Lowther!”
Off came the Chief Commissioner’s hat, to be flung into a chair as he passed behind the desk to the comfortable swivel affair in which he did his daily work. Lowther retrieved the hat and hung it on its peg inside a wall cupboard. He had shaken the cushion in the swivel chair, but Colonel Spendor punched and belaboured it further till he was satisfied. Then with many snorts and hmffs, he sat down.
The morning had begun.
Two pink, plump hands went out to draw a pile of opened correspondence nearer their owner. A pair of dark-grey eyes directed a flashing glance to the secretary still standing beside his chief.
“Well, what the devil are you standing there for? Got a pain or something?”
Long association with Colonel Spendor had given Lowther mastery over his features.
“Superintendent Browne is anxious to see you as early as possible, sir,” Lowther murmured.
“Browne!” The Colonel swung a little sideways the better to deliver a frontal attack. He repeated the name as though it had been that of a famous ballet dancer, gave a terrific snort, and propelled himself round again to the table with such violence that the chair revolved almost in a complete circle.
“Superintendent Browne hinted, sir, that the urgency of the matter was dictated by a communication concerning Detective-Inspector Bonaparte.”
Two plump hands swept aside the pile of correspondence, then they fell to the chair arms and grasped them, so that when the Colonel rose the chair rose with him. When he relaxed the chair thudded heavily on the carpet.
“A deserter, Lowther. I ordered Bonaparte to report by a certain date. He said he would before he left on that assignment. He didn’t report on the date named. I wrote saying that if on the expiry of the term he had not reported he would be dismissed. He hasn’t reported. He flouts my authority. Dumbly tells me to go to hades. He’s unreliable, Lowther. I’m tired of him. Now, no more about Browne. I’ll see him at the morning conference.”
Colonel Spendor dragged the pile of correspondence tempestuously to him.
“Inspector Bonaparte is too much a Javert, sir. I wouldn’t like him on my tail.”
“I’m not interested in your tail, Lowther. I am trying to be interested in this correspondence, trying to earn my salary. I’m the only one here who is trying to do that. How many times have I had to sack Bonaparte? Tell me that, as you seem to ache for a back-yard gossip this morning.”
“Six times, sir. You have reinstated him without loss of pay on six occasions.”
“Just so, Lowther. I’m soft. But I’m not going to be soft any more. Discipline was becoming so bad that it would have been only a matter of time when every constable on the beat would have thumbed his nose as I passed by. What progress is Askew making on the Strathmore case? Did Browne tell you that?”
“He didn’t mention it, sir.”
“He wouldn’t. Why? Because Askew is a fool. Why? Because Browne would sooner waste my time than take an interest in his department. Bonaparte should have been assigned to that case, and, Lowther, Bonaparte is mooning about the bush looking at the birds and things and explainin’ to people what a damned fine detective he is.” Up rose the Colonel and the chair to fall again with a thud. Police typists in the office below looked at each other and grinned.
The courageous Lowther persisted.
“The matter concerning Inspector Bonaparte is one of life and death, sir.”
“Life and death!” shouted Colonel Spendor. “Aren’t we all alive to-day and dead to-morrow? What the devil’s the matter with you this morning? Blast you, Lowther, you must be sickening for something.”
“Maybe, sir, but I would urge you to see Superintendent Browne. I wouldn’t dare to urge it, but the Superintendent stressed the importance of the matter.”
Colonel Spendor sighed as though he had held his breathing for five minutes. Again he looked directly at his secretary.
“It’s well for you, Lowther, that I’m a meek and tolerant man,” he said, without sign of
humour. “I’ll see Browne. Send him in.”
The Officer in Charge of the Criminal Investigation Branch was waiting in the outer office. A large man in his early fifties, Browne looked precisely what he was—a bulldog. Long before he could reach the Colonel’s desk he was asked, firmly:
“What the devil d’you want to interrupt me at my routine work for? You know I never grant interviews before I clear my desk. Sit down—there.”
A pudgy pink forefinger indicated the chair placed opposite the Chief Commissioner.
“Thank you, sir. When you have heard me you will probably be glad that I insisted on seeing you so early,” Browne said, before sitting down. “I have had a personal letter from Sergeant J. M. Blake, stationed at Opal Town. Mrs Blake is related to my wife, and on that score Sergeant Blake has written privately to me instead of through the ordinary official channels. You will remember, sir, that Inspector Bonaparte went to Opal Town several weeks ago to investigate a disappearance.”
“Yes, yes! Get on with it. What’s it all about?”
“I’ll read you Sergeant Blake’s letter. He writes:
Dear Harry—It is only after much hesitation that I am writing to you on a subject that ought probably to be dealt with officially. On the other hand to write officially might get me into hot water because my position is very awkward; and it might be thought that I had no right to interfere in what concerned your Branch and about an officer in your Branch who is my superior. So please understand that I am writing privately and not as a policeman.
Here are certain facts and certain opinions concerning D.-I. Bonaparte now investigating the disappearance of a man named Jeffery Anderson.
When D.-I. Bonaparte began his investigation, five months had passed since Anderson disappeared. He came to believe that the local tribe of blacks had had something to do with it, because some of them kept watch on him and used feathers on their feet to prevent him knowing it.
On 19 October one or more members of the tribe pointed the bone at D.-I. Bonaparte when he was asleep on the veranda of an old hut, leaving at his side a ball of grass gum in which were embedded a number of his discarded cigarette ends, this being a kind of notice of the boning. Shortly afterwards D.-I. Bonaparte complained of being unable to sleep at night, of his skin being irritated by pricking, and of pains in his liver and kidneys. Then, he got so that he was unable to retain food.
When I suggested that he give up the case, pro tem, and return to Brisbane, he raved at me and said he wouldn’t think of giving up the case until he had finalized it, that he had had no failures and he wasn’t going to have a failure this time. His nerves seemed shot to pieces, and he complained bitterly of having been put on leave without pay, and of being interfered with as though he were an ordinary policeman. Then he split open an envelope and wrote his resignation on it and gave it to me to forward. When he wasn’t looking, I dropped it into the lunch fire.
On subsequent dates when I saw him he appeared increasingly worse. He is unable to retain food, and his strength is being sapped, but his mind is as keen as ever and his determination to finalize his case, or die in the attempt, is unshaken. Kate has cooked special food for him which I have taken out every evening, but D.-I. Bonaparte is unable to retain it although he feels hungry.
His illness is similar to what is called the Barcoo sickness, but for several reasons I don’t think it is that. He hasn’t been long enough outback this time to have contracted the Barcoo sickness. The sickness came immediately after the boning. And there is no pain in the liver and kidneys of the sufferer from the Barcoo sickness.
When I suggested that I take a hand and try to discover which of the blacks had done the boning, D.-I. Bonaparte would not hear of it. Nor would he allow me to interview a Mr John Gordon who has great influence over the blacks, arguing that should he have to pull in Mr Gordon he would be embarrassed by the fact of Mr Gordon’s having acted on his behalf. You understand, D.-I Bonaparte took me into his confidence only after I had promised to respect it and do nothing without his permission.
I am writing to you without his permission, and I don’t feel too good about it. But, as Ida says, if D.-I. Bonaparte should die before he winds up his case we would feel responsible, and the police heads might hold it against me. Anyway, we both like D.-I. Bonaparte, and his present condition of health is felt by us as a personal matter.
I think that D.-I. Bonaparte was boned, and that he is not suffering from the Barcoo sickness. A lot of ignorant people would laugh at the very idea, but I’ve heard things, and Mr Lacy, of Karwir, tells of bonings that have come within his experience. Then again, the local blacks are not de-tribalized. The Gordons have done and are doing everything in their power to keep white influence from destroying the Kalchut blacks, so that these people still practise their ancient customs and initiation rites.
You may or may not know that the actual act of pointing the bone is only show. The thing lying behind it, that does the killing, is the mental power of thought transference, the organs of the victim reacting in accordance with the thought-suggestions received from the executioners. D.-I. Bonaparte, being a half-caste, is more liable to be affected by this magic than a white man would be. And in Mr Lacy’s experience even a white man was boned to death.
Miss Lacy and her father, as well as myself, have urged D.-I. Bonaparte to retire from his case and see a doctor. But the Lacys don’t know of the boning and D.-I. Bonaparte argues that, since he was boned, no treatment for the Barcoo sickness would be any good. He says that the boning is being carried on to force him to give up his case, and that if he completes it, or if he consents to retire (which he won’t) the boning will stop and he will automatically recover.
The point is that he won’t retire, and it looks as though he may die before he can finish his investigation. Doctors would be unable to cure him. The arrest of the entire Kalchut tribe, besides going against D.-I. Bonaparte’s wishes, would not have the effect of stopping the boning; moreover it would be next to impossible, for at Opal Town there is not nearly sufficient jail accommodation.
Well, Harry, there are the facts. You will understand my position. I know something of D.-I. Bonaparte’s investigation, and I don’t think he has a chance of finishing this job. Only this evening when I was out there to see him he had barely the strength to get on his horse. All he can take is brandy and water. He can’t go on long like that. It seems to me that the only thing to do is to remove him to Brisbane by force.
Superintendent Browne looked up from the letter and encountered the wide eyes of his chief. “Well, what do you think, sir? Gastric trouble or black magic?”
Colonel Spendor had become remarkably passive.
“Causes don’t matter two hoots, Browne,” he replied. “It’s the effects we have to combat. We have to fight the effects and to save Bonaparte for years of service to the State. Blast him, Browne! We both like the fellow; we both acknowledge his remarkable gifts and charm of manner, and now we’ve to take off our hats to him for his pertinacity and courage. Hang it, I’d sooner lose you than him.”
“And I’d sooner lose you as my chief than Bony,” flashed Superintendent Browne.
“That’s right! Argue!” shouted the Colonel. “Waste time arguing when that poor fellow’s out there in the back of beyond dying. By gad, Browne, it’s terrible. Let me see! Yes, you send Sergeant— No, that won’t do. Ah—what about you going out to Opal Town? You could bring Bony back, arrest him if necessary. Trip would do you good. Buck you up. You’re getting too easy with the men. Charter a plane. Go on, do something instead of gawking at me like that.”
A snort. Browne was on his feet. The Colonel pushed his chair back so forcibly that it turned over.
“Money! You ring up the aerodrome about the plane. I’ll see to the money.”
As Browne and his chief moved towards the door, Colonel Spendor bawled for Lowther. Lowther opened the door before Browne could do so.
“You called, sir?”
“Called, Lowther? No, I was singing a tune. You sit down and write a draft letter to the Chief Secretary saying that our advice about the termination of Bonaparte’s appointment was based on wrong premises. You know, much regret and all that foolishness.”
“It’s not necessary, sir. The letter referring to Inspector Bonaparte’s appointment was never sent.”
“Never sent! Why?”
“I forgot to send it, sir.”
Lowther was standing erect, his face a mask.
Slowly the grim expression of the Colonel’s brick-red face faded, and slowly into the dark-grey eyes crept a furtive gleam like sunshine seen through falling rain. Out went one plump hand to grasp Lowther’s forearm and squeeze it. Colonel Spendor knew that his secretary never forgot anything.
Chapter Twenty-one
Facets
ON the morning of the first of November Sergeant Blake received this telegram:
Superintendent Browne leaving by plane to-day for Opal Town. Try to obtain Inspector Bonaparte’s consent to camp with him. Do all possible assist valued officer of the Department. Your action commended. Spendor.
Mrs Blake read this message twice before looking up to encounter her husband’s eyes.
“I said you would be doing the right thing by writing to Harry,” she said, very much the woman. “ ‘Your action commended.’ It might mean a transfer east, or even promotion. Anyway, you’re relieved of responsibility, or very soon will be. Harry ought to be here when?”
“Late this evening. That’s if he leaves early to-day. Don’t think he will, though, otherwise I wouldn’t have been urged to get Bony’s consent to camp with him.”
“When are you leaving for his camp?”
“About eleven,” Blake replied. “I’ve a few jobs to do in the office.”
“Well, I’m sending out a billy of fresh milk and some coffee. You try to persuade Bony to drink some. It’ll be better than only the brandy and water. Thank the good God that Harry is coming west to take him away. Such a nice man, too, in spite of his birth. What about taking a mattress and blankets in case Bony consents—?”
Bony - 06 - The Bone is Pointed Page 20