Sinister Stones b-19

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “I’m a little worried about your brothers,” he said. “We think thedesert blacks are near us to seize and kill the second man they’re after. I repeat: we think they are near. The dogs are quiet, aren’t they? Suppose the wild men are not here. Suppose they are making their way northward. Suppose they believe their second victim is one of the men returning with Jasper and Ezra. Suppose they believe that the second man they want is Jasper or Ezra.”

  Kimberley was silent for minutes before saying grimly:

  “If you’re not trying to frighten me, then we must warn them. Pat O’Grady might have intended to do that when the wild blacks got him.”

  “He might have left with that intention.” Bony’s voice became faintly stern. “For whom would the boss stockman leave the safety of this homestead to warn of danger from the desert blacks?”

  “I don’t know. Stugger, it might be. Or Frypan,” she replied, faintly.

  “Or Jasper! No! No, it couldn’t be Jasper. What are you saying? Jasper wouldn’t have killed Jacky Musgrave. Pat O’Grady wouldn’t have ridden north to warn Jasper. Or Ezra. Only to tell them that the wild blacks were afterStugger or Frypan or Stan, or Old Bugle who’s doing the horse-tailing.”

  “Have you any idea where they will be camped tonight? They’ll be on the way home now, won’t they?”

  “Yes. They should be camped at Salt Creek, thirty miles north of Camp Four. That’s if the Meat Works took the cattle in without delay.”

  “You couldn’t contact a homestead by transceiver to send them a warning?”

  “No. And the damned bloody truck is useless with a broken axle.”

  Bony heard her abrupt movement, and a streaking meteor was bright enough to reveal her standing form. He remained seated, and soothingly he said:

  “Don’t worry. Irwin and I will go north early tomorrow. I wonder whyStenhouse was interested in that shaft near Black Well.”

  The other chair creaked, and he knew Kimberley had sat down again. He could hear her breathing, irregular and restrained. Presently she said, unevenly:

  “Howd’you know ConstableStenhouse was interested in that shaft you tell of?”

  “Because that is where he and Jacky Musgrave were shot.”

  “But he was shot on the far side of the Range… on the Wyndham track.”

  “He was shot at the shaft near Black Well. His body was carried over the Range by a party of four aborigines led by a white man.”

  “A white man! Jack Wallace!”

  In the dark of the veranda, Bony managed to roll a cigarette, or what served for one. Patiently he waited before striking a match, his confidence in the silent dogs supreme.

  “You know, Miss Kimberley, the machinery of justice is a terrible thing,” he said, smoothly. “I am part of the machine, like Irwin, asStenhouse was. Someone commits a crime, and the machine of justice is set in motion. I’ve been a detective for many years, and I am still appalled by the almost frightening irresistible impetus of the machine once started. In this case, ConstableStenhouse was killed, and his tracker withhim, and the machine is put in motion and nothing will stop it until the killers are brought to the bar of justice, or death intervenes. Shooting me won’t stop the machine.”

  He leaned forward and took the revolver from her. And in the darkness he heard her crying quietly. His voice was gentle:

  “I know how it is… how one does jump to defend those one loves.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Cake in the Hat Box

  FOLLOWINGAPROLONGEDINTERVAL, Kimberley Breen said, hopefully:

  “I don’t think those wild blacks are mooning about. The dogs are too quiet.”

  “It would be unlike them to attack in the dark, even if they did intend to storm the homestead,” Bony said in agreement. “Dawn is their customary zerohour. Irwin should be here in an hour or so.”

  “Where was he camped?”

  “On the Wyndham road whereStenhouse was found. He would have to drive south and take the track over the Range from Agar’s, would he not?”

  “No. The shorter way would be up round McDonald’s Stand. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I would, indeed,” Bony replied.“Provided it won’t be too much trouble.”

  “It’ll be no bother. There’s a pressure stove in the living-room. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  She rose, and he stood with her. She felt the touch of metal against her hand, and he said:

  “You may need it, although I think not.”

  Saying nothing, she accepted the weapon and entered the house. Bony stood lazily leaning against a veranda post, and a dog came to muzzle the cuff of his trousers and whine a greeting. He felt no satisfaction with progress made in this investigation, no elation at approaching its climax, for the thought was clear that this girl whose background was so unusual was going to be badly hurt by events with which she had had no connexion.

  TheseBreens reminded him of the termites who in their mysterious way live in darkness and to themselves, building a castle strong to withstand all enemy attack, and ever ready to die in defence of the community. An attack on one Breen meant an attack on the family, and the failure of a Breen was the failure of the family. And now Kimberley was hastening to defend the breach made in the House of Breen, and she did not know the extent of the damage and danger.

  Standing there with the dog lying against a foot, Bony worked to correlate facts with dates and distances between points, having to keep in mind the speed of surface transportation in this chaotic land.

  The interview with old medicine-man Bingil would have been exasperating to anyone unaccustomed to aborigines and unfamiliar with mentality which to the white man is seemingly unreachable. The wisp of information Bony did extract from Bingil was a creditable performance, and it would be naive to expect to gain more.

  His mind came round again to Jack Wallace, and again he teased the facts into position relative to the important geographical points of this case. The trite phrase “East is east and west is west” bore down heavily when recalling that theWallaces lived east of Black Range and theBreens westward of it: and, when assessing what, if anything, Jack Wallace had to do with the killing ofStenhouse and his tracker, he had to recognize the acumen of those untamed savages from the far desert.

  Their study of the site of the double killing, of the placing of a body under a dead horse, and their singular method of establishing the identity of the murderer, led them to believe that their quarry was on theBreens ’ side of Black Range.

  There could be but two reasons prompting Jack Wallace to leave after learning what had happened to O’Grady. One, he was afraid he might be caught in a siege of the homestead and, two, that he determined to warn theBreens of a threat to them conjointly with himself. The journey north with Irwin in the morning would decide this point.

  “I’ve made the tea. Will you come in?”

  The clear and steady voice brought Bony from the mists of speculation, and he followed Kimberley Breen into the living-room, where she bade him be seated at the great table.

  “This table wasn’t made in a factory,” he said. “I’ve never seen a table like it.”

  “My father built it when he and my mother had built the house. He could do anything… my father.”

  “In those far-off days people had to be self-reliant to establish themselves in mountains like these. Are your parents buried here?”

  “Yes. My father made the coffins for himself and mother out of the same timber he got for this table and other things. I wanted the boys to have headstones properly printed with their names, and Silas said he would order them, but never did. He made new crosses for them when FatherO’Rory complained about it.” Kimberley smiled faintly. “I could never manage Silas like I could Jasper and Ezra.”

  Bony left the table and stood before the picture of Mrs Breen, and Kimberley remained silent while he, with deliberation, faced the portrait. Without turning to her, he said:

  “Who crayoned the p
endant?”

  “I did.”

  “Very well done, too.”He faced her. “Exactly like the real one you wore that day Irwin and I called. Did that come from the shaft near Black Well?”

  The grey eyes did not waver, but he detected the shutters lowered behind them, and noted the momentary stillness of her hands.

  “Of course not. I bought it. I get a share of the cattle money, you know. I sent down to Perth for it. I love opals.”

  “Of all precious stones, I likethem best, Miss Breen. Have you any others like that black one you were wearing?”

  “Any others? No, why? Why should you think I have other opals?”

  Bony smiled disarmingly, and reminded her she had said she loved opals, not that particular opal she had worn with the ballerina dress, and the swift revelation of uneasiness passed.

  “When I was courting my wife to be,” he said, “I gave her an opal brooch. Opals were not as expensive as they are now. It’s a green opal, and she still has it. Could never afford to buy her another, what with high living costs and income tax.”

  Kimberley smiled her relief, herunsophistication apparent.

  “It’s a wicked shame how the Government tax and tax us for everything,” she said, the smile gone, swift bitterness in her voice. “Look at all the war taxes still on after years of peace, and people groaning under the weight of ’em. Taxes on clothes. Taxes on trucks. Taxes on petrol… on everything.”

  “Taxes certainly make survival difficult,” Bony agreed.

  “They do and all, and poor people just struggling along while the Government votes itself more and more wages. Will you have another cup of tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Help yourself to cake.”

  “You cattle people do have the chance to keep something back for yourselves,” he murmured, cutting the cake. “The taxes are deducted from my salary before it’s paid to me.”

  “There’s not much chance. We depend on the cheque from the Meat Works, and that has to go to the bank at Derby. Is your wife a lady?”

  The question tended to throw Bony off balance.

  “Not a grand lady,” he replied, seriously. “Marie likes to read the best books, and she plays the piano very well. We have three sons. Charles, the eldest, attends the University. He’s hoping to become a medico-missionary. I’m sure my wife would join me in giving you a warm welcome to our home should you ever come to Brisbane.”

  Her pleasure was childlike in its swift expression.

  “Would she? Oh, I would like to go to Brisbane and see her and talk about things. Would she take me to the shops?”

  “Would she! Why, if you gave her any encouragement, she would spend all day long at the shops.”

  Kimberley rolled a cigarette and beat him to it with a match. She was very serious when she asked:

  “Would your wife…does she… would she take me to have my hair done properly?”

  “She would be very happy to do so. Then there are the theatres and the cinemas. Have you ever been to a cinema?”

  Kimberley shook her head. She was seeing visions.

  “The actresses… in the magazines,” she said, almost whispering. “Their wonderful clothes… their hair. Jasper used to cut mine… with clippers… like a man. Ezra didn’t like it when I grew up, and they made me wear it long, and I hated having to roll it up. Then Ezra showed me a magazine picture and said that’s how my hair ought to be cut, and I let him have a go at it. He made a terrible botch at first. Afterwards he did all right. But I’d love a perm.”

  “I don’t believe a perm would improve it. It’s very wonderful as it is,” Bony assured her, and she flushed.

  “It would so. Would your wife let me stay with her for a little while? I wouldn’t like to be all by myself in a city.”

  “Of course she would. She would be most happy. You see, we have no daughter. I shall ask her to write and invite you.”

  A smile broke the slightly strained expression, and abruptly she left the table and crossed to a dresser on which was a pile of magazines. She was there for a minute or more, hunting for a particular copy. She returned with it, and, opening it beside him, pointed with a broken-nailed finger to a picture of a famous actress. He nodded gravely when she said she would have her hair done in the same way.

  “Does she have a lot of cake?” Kimberley asked.

  “Yes. Probably a great deal of…er… cake. I know very little about ladies’ hairdressing, but I think that the really expert stylist studies the subject’s face and head shape and colouring, and advises the most suitable hair-do. Anyway…”

  It sounded as though twenty thousand dogs waited for a signal. The silent world without was shattered to fragments by their frenzied barking. Bony jumped to his feet, and their gaze met as they waited tensely to discern the meaning of the alarm. But there was no menace in the uproar which dwindled as the dogs raced in a pack to the back of the house.

  “Constable Irwin coming,” Bony decided, and they listened. They heard the sound of the approaching utility above the growing volume of excited voices of the aborigines. Kimberley shouted that it was only the policeman coming, and she ran from the room to reassure them. Bony waited till he could hear her shouting from the side veranda, and then quickly knelt before the sofa and dragged out one of the hat boxes.

  The key was in the lock. He lifted the box. It was heavy. He raised the lid. It appeared to be empty. Cake crumbs lay on the brown paper resting at four-fifths down from the top. He lifted out the paper. The light from the suspended lamp fell directly into that hat box.

  Bony was looking into a faintly dark cloud in which lived the colours of the setting sun after a day of dust, and the soft sheen of green seen by pearl divers. Opals… black opals… uncut and unpolished. He lifted out one. It was roughly circular and as large as the palm on which it rested. Imperfect, it could be cut to three magnificent black opals. His hand trembled and a blood-red sun danced at its right edge and green and blue fire ran like streams to the base of his fingers.

  Gently he replaced the gem with the others, and swiftly he replaced the brown paper, closed the lid and pushed the hat box under the sofa. For those opals the film actresses would have gladly exchanged her a million dollars. Cake! Cake in a hat box!

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Fatal Error

  THESUNLEAPTto the summit of Black Range, opened wide his golden cloak and danced a jig. None took notice of him, for Irwin and his trackers were oiling and greasing the truck, and Bony was sauntering about the homestead as though nothing disturbed his meditations. The women were busy at the kitchen preparing breakfast, and Kimberley herself had ridden out for the working hacks and had seen no sign of the Musgrave blacks.

  Irwin had contacted his superior officer at Wyndham onAlverston’s transceiver, and before leaving next morning his sergeant had reported that theBreens had handed over their cattle to three town men, who were to deliver them to the Meat Works. They should now be well along the track to their homestead.

  Irwin had gained a fairly clear picture from Larry of all that had happened throughout the journey with Bony over Black Range, and although impatient to know more about the shaft and the ambushing of Patrick O’Grady, he had refrained from asking questions when firmly told to give the remaining hours to sleep. And he had not met Jack Wallace.

  The dogs were still free. Several were interested in the cooking smells from the kitchen. Three accompanied Bony to a near pile of Devil’s Marbles, climbing with him to the summit of the topmost and evincing no trace of uneasiness of hidden enemies.

  Standing upon the low eminence, Bony could see beyond the ridge at the back of the homestead, and the succession of ridges over which he had walked the previous evening. He could see Black Range sweeping on to the north, its bars and patches of red and of smoky purple subduing the mottled green and brown valley. And to the west, white-painted posts and a white gate enclosing what was evidently the Breen cemetery.

  It was a full half-mile fr
om the house, and Bony reached it by a circuitous route as though arriving there by chance. The enclosure within the netting and barbed wire strung to the white-painted posts was about an acre. In marked contrast with the outside land, which had been eaten bare by goats and horses, the enclosed area was almost massed with native shrubs and grasses, giving the place an appearance of neglect despite the air of an oasis.

  On reaching the white picket gate, he noted that recently several men had passed in and out, and he lifted the latch, feeling confident that yet another facet of his theoretical background of crime was to be proved correct.

  He was surprised by the number of graves. There were seventeen ranged along one side, and without doubt they contained the bodies of aborigines, for at the head of each stood a bar of ordinary shoeing-iron bearing a number. In the centre of the cemetery stood two massive wooden crosses set in blocks of cement to defeat the termites: and each cross had been hewn from a single tree, smoothed and polished, and stood seven feet from the ground with arms at least three feet wide. Carved into the circular centre of the crosseswas the name of the sleeper, and the date of death.

  They were true men and women who came out of Ireland and Scotland and England to conquer a new world with little except tireless energy and unfaltering courage. They were generous to their own and rebels against Caesar. What they won, they held, or, losing, won again. They gave to their children their all: their possessions and their spiritual attributes; and left an example of independence today either ignored or scorned by those desiring to lean on the State from the cradle to the grave.

  There was a third grave, on the far side of that of Nora Breen. This was a new grave, and no cross was erected at its head, and no data of the person buried. Unlike the older graves marked with pavements of white quartz, this third grave was bereft of even the raised mound of displaced earth. In fact, it appeared that evidence of the grave had been carefully removed, and only a stranger like Bony, who sought for such a grave, would have noticed it by the absence of native shrubs and grasses.