Death of a Swagman b-9

by Arthur W. Upfield

  The dead man’s tracks were on the path beside which were the holes made by the point of his stick. His tracks were all about the outside of the fence, to and from the wood heap and the office. There were, too, the tracks made by a heavy dog from the right forepaw of which a toenail was missing, and those made by alighterweight dog. At present there was only one dog barking from beyond the wood heap. There were the tracks made by the feet of two white children whose visit had been made at the shortest two days previously.

  Bony walked over to the wood heap to visit the dog.

  It was a kelpie. She greeted him vociferously, straining at her chain at his approach, and inviting him with impatience to loose her. She was the lightweight dog, obviously owned by old Bennett, and there was no need to examine her right forepaw to find all the nails were there. The dog minus the toenail was probably a town dog.

  Bony returned to the path by skirting the rear of the hut. He made a second tour, the hut forming the hub, he the rim of the wheel fifty yards out from the hub. Now he was walking on his toes, his body bent slightly forward, his head hunched between his shoulders and his face tilted downward, his blue eyes never still as they surveyed that narrow section of the Book of the Bush over which he passed. And when almost opposite the gate, he read a sentence on this page of the book which immediately aroused his interest.

  As has been stated, the hut faced towards the east across three miles of open country falling gently to the foot of the Walls of China. Here and there were giant redclaypans, hard as cement and separated by narrow ridges of loose sand. Old man saltbush were scattered about the scene, and widely spaced water gutters, now dry, zigzagged slightly to the north-east to join a dry creek bordered by box-trees.

  What aroused Bony’s interest was a peculiar mark made on a sand ridge separating twoclaypans. It was not distinct and the depression was very slight, but those keen blue eyes could see the crisscross lines forming a patch in symmetrical pattern. The mark had been made by hessian sacking, but the sack itself was not to be seen, and no human tracks were there to prove how the sack had been removed.

  Now walking quickly, he followed the edge of the claypan round to its opposite side, where the sand ridge was only a foot wide, separating it from another and larger claypan. He traversed the edge of this one, and on its far side came to a wider stretch of sand. There in five places he saw the mark of the sack. Still there was no sign of the sack itself, but beside the sack marks were the imprints of the dog having a toenail missing. The dog had come from the creek to the north-east.

  Bony proceeded tobacktrack the dog, and quickly came to see that the animal had been tracking the thing that had made the sack marks. From the spacing of the sack marks, which never would have been noticed by other than an experienced tracker, it became obvious that a man had wrapped sacking about his feet that he might pass over these pages of the Book of the Bush, leaving only the minimum impression of his passing, impressions lighter than those made by a small bird.

  He returned to the place where he first saw the sack mark, and then, with apparent aimlessness, he wandered to and fro on a zigzag course toward the gate. He saw the mark again, twice, the second mark approximately eight feet from the gate.

  Turning, Bony went back on his own tracks to the farthest point out, and from there he continued tobacktrack the dog because that was easier and the dog had stuck to the man’s tracks. The sack-footed man had approached the hut from the north, and when almost a quarter mile from the hut the tracks came from the south-east, from the road running out from the town. Near an old man saltbush the dog had sat to scratch, and on the ground close to the mark Bony found hairs which established the colour of the animal.

  He continued to backtrack the dog and man, saw the tracks deviate to the south-west, and so found that the sack-footed man had left the end of the macadamized section of the road passing through the township.

  The sun was westering. He saw the police party was leaving the hut, so he rolled a cigarette, lit it, and strolled up the street in which now were people shopping and gossiping. Some regarded him with faintcuriosity, others said “Gooddayee ” to him. Children were driving two cows and a mob of goats down the street. A car overtook him, and the driver said something to one of the children, who thumbed his nose in reply. Outside the garage a tall man in engineer’s overalls was serving a truck with petrol. A Major Mitchell Cockatoo spread its multi-coloured crest at him and called softly, “It’s time for a drink.”

  Quite a friendly town was Merino. Beneath the pepper-trees edging the sidewalks were seats on which people were lounging in the cool air of late afternoon.

  In his prison cell Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte waited for Sergeant Marshall. When he arrived Bony asked almost casually:

  “Well, how was the man killed?”

  “Excuse me for saying so, but you haven’t displayed much interest,” Marshall ventured.

  “Oh, but I have,” Bony countered, faint mockery in his voice. “I was confident that two policemen, assisted by a doctor, could establish what had killed the victim. My contribution was, if possible to establish who killed him.”

  The sergeant refrained from expressing a thought, and he said: “Edward Bennett wasn’t killed. He just died. He fell and struck his head on the doorstep. Dr Scott says that the fall itself did not occasion death, which was caused by heart failure.”

  “This Dr Scott… good man or indifferent?”

  “First-class. I don’t hesitate to accept his opinion… and the death certificate which he says he will sign.”

  “And your own opinion, position of the body, and the rest?”

  “Gleeson and I agree with the doctor,” replied Marshall. “Old Bennett obviously took bad and tried to leave his hut for assistance. He got as far as the door and then dropped to hit his forehead on the step. He must have been dead before he fell.”

  “When?”

  “He has been dead from twelve to twenty hours.”

  Bony blew a smoke ring lasting but a second.

  “How was the body dressed?” he asked.

  “In pyjamas.”

  “The bed-where is it?”

  “In the inner of the two rooms.”

  “The old man died just inside the only door of the hut, the door giving entry to the outer, the living, room?”

  “That’s so. There is no door between the living room and the bedroom.”

  For an appreciable period Bony did not press his questions, and Marshall took from his tunic a notebook and pencil and began the addition of notes. Bony smoked his cigarette to its last half inch and tossed the stub out through the doorway before he spoke again, which was to ask what arrangements had been made for the body.

  “I have given the dead man’s relatives charge of thebody, and it will be buried tomorrow afternoon. The inquest can be held the following day.”

  “Ah me!”Bony sighed. “I have been anticipating a nice murder, having about it circumstances similar to those of the Kendall case. There is, I think, no greater tragedy than when a mischievous boy pricks the toy balloon belonging to a trusting child. I am feeling not unlike the child whose balloon has been pricked.”

  A slow grin spread over the sergeant’s face, for the twinkle in the bright blue eyes belied the seriousness of the voice. Then abruptly Bony chuckled, and Marshall could not but chuckle in sympathy. Then Bony said:

  “You must make sure tomorrow that I am sentenced to fourteen days’ hard labour withpaintpot and brush. I am going to enjoy my visit to Merino. Will the beak at court be amenable to reason?”

  “He’ll give you a month if I put it to him.”

  “Better leave it at fourteen days. By the way, can you tell me who owns a fairly huge dog having brown and white hair?”

  “Yes,” promptly replied the sergeant. “Young Jason owns such a dog.”

  Chapter Four

  A Funeral at Merino

  AT TEN O’CLOCK the next morning Mounted Constable Gleeson entered Bony’s cell t
o conduct him to the courthouse, saying without a smile:

  “Your trial is about to begin, sir.”

  When Bony laughed Gleeson smiled frostily, and in proper order they marched across the compound to enter the court-house by a side door, from which steps led upward to the dock. On this occasion, however, the prisoner was told to halt just within the door. The court was sitting, and when the name Robert Burns was called by the clerk and repeated by Sergeant Marshall, prisoner and escort moved forward to take position beside the solicitors’ table. The clerk read the charge, divided into four sub-sections, and then asked how the prisoner pleaded. On hearing the plea of guilty, he turned to Sergeant Marshall, who prosecuted, and Marshall then intimated that he wished to give evidence.

  Having entered the witness box and taken the oath without assistance, he related how he had found the prisoner sleeping off the effects of alcohol, and the resultant conversation following his being awakened on the bench outside the hotel. The prisoner’s interest was centred entirely on the magistrate.

  He sat alone on the bench, the court record book before him, his hands clasped and resting on the book. His face was long and narrow, the forehead high, and the top of the rounded head covered with sparse dark hair sprinkled with grey. His nose was thin and straight and appeared to part in dead centre the straggling black moustache. Hair and moustache, together with the dark eyes now directed towards Sergeant Marshall, emphasized the pallor of his face, an oddity in this part of Australia.

  Marshall concluded his evidence and waited.

  The magistrate transferred his gaze to Bony, the black eyes solemnly regarding the prisoner in a fixed stare. For a man whose hands bore the marks of manual labour, his voice was astonishingly full and rich when, speaking with deliberation, he asked:

  “Have you anything to say to this witness?”

  “Yes, your honour,” replied Bony, who then turned to Marshall and said: “You said, on oath, that after you asked me my name I opened my eyes and yawned. I suggest to you that I opened only one eye, the left.”

  “I didn’t say anything about opening your eyes, or one of ’em,” Marshall stated with surprise plainly expressed on his weather-beaten face. “I said-”

  “Read over the witness’s evidence,” ordered the magistrate.

  The clerk read it.

  “Well?” asked the magistrate, again regarding Bony with those searching dark eyes.

  “Must have been mistaken,” admitted Bony.

  “Any further question to put to the witness?”

  “Only that I wasn’t doing any harm sleeping on the bench.”

  “What else have you to say for yourself?”

  “Nothing, your honour.”

  “Humph! Ah well! We cannot have people sleeping on benches on our sidewalks in broad daylight. You are sentenced to ten days’ detention.”

  “What! Only ten days? No option?” exclaimed Bony.

  The clerk’s mouthsagged a fraction. Gleeson’s stiffly erect body trembled from the chest upward. The magistrate said sternly and still deliberately:

  “You are granted no option of paying a fine. Ten days.”

  “Come on,” said Gleeson, and he and his prisoner marched from the court back to the cells.

  “Disappointed, sir?” asked the constable.

  “Why, no. It has been a new experience, Gleeson. What is the magistrate’s name?”

  “He’s Jason, the garage proprietor.”

  “Oh! So that is Mr Jason.”

  “Peculiar bird,” Gleeson said. “In his way he’s all there, is old Jason. He’s chairman of the bench and deputy coroner for this district, and a good man for the work, too. Likes himself a lot on the bench, but then, I’d like myself if I were chief commissioner.”

  “What’s the wife like?”

  “Never knew her. She was dead when he and young Jason came to Merino eight years ago. He’s been an actor in his early days, I understand. The son is a bit of a trial.”

  “How so? Tell me about him.”

  “He is, I think, twenty-three. Dark like his father but not so tall and much stronger. Has a harelip and one shoulder is higher than the other. Surly disposition and has no respect for the old man. What with his harelip and one shoulder higher than the other, I suppose he couldn’t be expected to have a sunny disposition. To make him worse, one leg is shorter than the other and he has a crooked spine. Still, he’s active enough and as strong as a young bull.”

  “They live next door, do they not?”

  “That’s so. A woman goes in every day to clean up and prepare the midday dinner. I have heard the old man cooks the breakfast and gets the tea. If you are going to the funeral this afternoon you’ll see the old bird in his funeral regalia, which is in keeping with the hearse. You are not going to forget it for many a day.”

  Half an hour after Gleeson had departed for the station office Marshall entered Bony’s cell.

  “What was the idea of arguing about eyes?” he asked.

  “I wanted again to hear the magistrate’s voice,” replied Bony.“Why the ten days? Was I not to get fourteen?”

  “Old Jason sometimes isn’t as tame as I’d like him to be.” Marshall scratched his nose.“Was in one of his cranky moods this morning. Still, ten days is better than a five-bob fine, I suppose.” The sergeant grinned and then said sternly, with faint mockery in his voice: “Now you… you’re here for ten days and nights. You’ll find time drag a bit, and in here it’s a bit hot during daytime. If you’ll do some painting for me I’ll let you take your meals with me, and I’ll give you a couple of bob a day to spend over at the hotel before closing time.”

  “Sounds fair enough to me,” Bony agreed.

  Again Marshall grinned and suggested:

  “Why not come over to the house for a drink of tea before you start? I’d like you to meet the wife. I told her who you are. She’s safe. Wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t been.”

  “Wise man.”

  “Perhaps. You married?”

  “Yes. Three sons. Eldest at Brisbane Uni. Going to be a medical missionary to his grandmother’s people. Good lad, Sergeant, but he’s always chronically broke and always, therefore, touching me for a quid. The expression is his, not mine, I hasten to assure you.”

  A minute later he found himself being introduced to a woman as tall as her husband and larger.

  “I know all about you,” she said after welcoming him and urging him to be seated with her husband at the kitchen table, where she served tea and little cakes. “I am to call you Bony. Rose Marie told me all about the tea party in the cell yesterday.”

  “You are fortunate in being the mother of Rose Marie,” Bony said, bowing slightly from his chair. Mrs Marshall glanced at her husband, also seated at the table, and said:

  “She is a sweet child, but she’s terribly precocious. The things she gets to hear other people say is extraordinary. There’s no need for me to visit to hear all the news. I only hope to goodness she doesn’t relate to other people what she hears us say.”

  “I gathered from what she told me yesterday that your daughter didn’t like Sergeant Redman,” Bony observed. “I do not think that odd.”

  “Nor did we,” Mrs Marshall said. “But Rose Marie hated him. Did she tell you why?”

  Bony nodded, saying:

  “It appears that Rose Marie likes young Jason, and that Redman bullied young Jason.”

  “Redman as good as accused young Jason of having murdered Kendall, but then he as good as accused a dozen people of having done that,” Marshall put in.

  “What is your opinion of young Jason?” Bony asked.

  “He’s a surly pup, and he’s a long way from being handsome,” replied the sergeant. “There is one great thing in his favour, and that is that children like him and trust him. Our Florence has long conferences with him; quite often she will sit with him on a box or against a petrol pump and talk and talk. And sometimes there will be half a dozen children in the conference.”
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  “He tells them fairy tales,” Mrs Marshall said. “But are you actually going to do the painting about the place?”

  “Of course,” replied Bony. “Didn’t you know that I have been sentenced to ten days’ hard labour with paint and brushes?”

  He rose to his feet. “A fortnight hence you won’t know your police station. Thank you for your morning tea… and the breakfast you so kindly sent over.”

  “And I am really to call you Bony?”

  Her large open face pleased him.

  “Pro temmy name is Robert Burns… with apologies to every Scotchman,” he said, smiling. “However, all my friends call me Bony, and I hope that I may include both of you among my friends.”

  After he had left her kitchen with her husband Mrs Marshall sat down at the table, poured herself another cup of tea, and stared unseeingly at the hot stove, her mind seeing him bowing to her prior to his leaving.

  At the expiration of the lunch hour, which began at one o’clock, Bony returned to the front fence from which he had begun to scrape the old paint. The previously clear morning sky was now filling with blue-black clouds having ponderoussnowcaps, each cloud mass sailing like a galleon upon an azure sea. There was no wind, and the air was slightly oppressive.

  When, a little before three o’clock, he left his work and walked to old Bennett’s hut, a vast cloud shadow lay upon the land between the township and the Walls of China, which were sunlit and rested along the distant horizon like misty blue velvet upon which were the blue-black undersides of distant thunderclouds.