Suddenly the dog appeared coming up along the ledge. He appeared from under the bulge of the cliff, and he was exceedingly excited. The narrowness of the pathway worried him not at all. Clenched between his teeth was a shoe. Arrived at the top, he playfully snarled, dropped the shoe and ran a short distance where he waited for the shoe to be tossed.
Bony picked it up, vented a sigh of immense satisfaction, and, after effort, managed to push it deep into a side pocket. It was certainly the fellow of Stug’s previous find, which now was locked in Bony’s suitcase. The dog was disappointed but not dismayed. He returned to the cliff and trotted down the ledge. A little way down he stopped and, managing successfully to turn about, he barked invitation to the man to follow.
Go down that ledge! Not for a million! Bony cried “Soolem!” but Stug declined to sool anything if his cobber wasn’t game to go with him.
That at least one brand-new shoe had been lying somewhere down that ledge was proven. Bony thought of assistance, of ropes. He considered the feasibility of being lowered below that overhang, and then imagined the rope frayed to breaking point. Down beneath the overhang might be other articles of clothing thrown over the cliff by the murderer he sought. For a split second he considered calling on the police at Lorne to assist in the investigation of the face of this cliff. The thought quickly expired, and before he was actually aware of it, he had stepped from the verge down to the ledge.
Men perform great feats for small reward. There are many who play the game of life with the dice loaded against them. Bony turned to face the aged face of Split Point, and proceeded to shuffle along the ledge. Slowly he sank down from the verge, and then he was beneath the edge of the cliff and gripping weathered rock with both hands. His mind fought back Thought which was panic.
The dog turned again and ran on down under the overhang. He could be heard vociferously urging Bony to follow him, and Bony knew that to hesitate, to go back to safety on firm ground, and plenty of it, would achieve nothing but the acknowledgement of common sense. Provided the ledge didn’t give under his weight, provided he did not stop to look down, provided the rocky protuberances he chose to grip did not part from the cliff face, he would continue to live.
When the ledge took him under the overhang, he felt like a bristle under a giant’s chin. The wind slapped the back of his clammy neck. The beach was an electro-magnet increasing in power to drag him from the gold knobs of the vast golden wall. The sea hissed like serpents about his feet, the soles of which tingled with exquisite agony. His gripping hands were white like marble. And in his ears thundered the voice of pride:
“Go on, craven! What about the great D I Bonaparte now? Not so good, eh? Keep going ... the dog’s ahead of you.”
The ledge rounded a curve. He could see it from the corner of his eye. It was now a little wider, sixteen to eighteen inches. He reached the curve at the narrow shoulder, passed round and saw, just beyond, Stug waiting for him, Stug standing on a tiny level area and barking encouragement, and behind Stug the small dark opening of a cave.
He must have held his breath all the way down, for when he stood on the little platform with Stug, his lungs panted for air. With his back to the cave entrance, he gazed out over the smiling sea, and all he could see was water. He could not see the beach, and realized that no one on the beach could see him ... or the mouth of the cave. He looked upwards, and nowhere could he see the top of the headland. There and then, he decided that never, never would he walk back up that ledge.
Then he was conscious of the dog nuzzling the back of his legs, prodding him with his nose, growling and shaking hell out of something. Still panting, he turned about to see Stug with a man’s waistcoat, and the dog backed into the cave continuing to growl and worry the garment.
The entrance was a trifle less than five feet high, and little more than three feet wide. Bony went in after the dog, and inside was able to stand upright. It appeared to be occupied.
That was the first impression Bony received. On the floor of rough rock lay a man’s clothes, and with them a small suitcase. Memory of his ordeal was erased from his mind as he stooped to examine the clothes ranging from a light raincoat to underclothes and socks, and when Stug interfered he shouted angrily, and then repented and petted.
“You lie quiet, Stug, and leave all this to me. I’ll give you my own waistcoat to tear to pieces when we get out of this place. You lie down and take a nap. Just watch me smoking a consumption tube and trying to regain my habitual calm.”
He sat down beside the clothes, and with trembling fingers managed to roll a cigarette and light it. With his head on his forepaws the dog watched him, his great black eyes unwinking.
The suit was of good quality and in good condition. It was navy blue, and the colour and quality of the material and the cut more than hinted that its owner had been a seafaring man. The tailor’s name had been cut from the lining of the coat. The coat buttons were of bone and gave nothing. There was nothing in the pockets save a wallet. There was nothing in the pockets of the trousers, but the buttons gave a clue, for they were of metal and on each was stamped the name of a tailor in Adelaide.
The wallet contained eight ten-pound Treasury notes, a five-pound note, four pound notes, and seven shillings and five pence in coins.
The raincoat was of poor quality. In the righthand pocket was a wristlet watch, and a gold signet ring. The watch was good but not expensive. The ring was broken. It had been broken previously and soldered. On the hexagonal plate were engraved the letters B B. Like the suit coat, the raincoat had been deprived of the maker’s tab.
“We can now, my dear old pal Stug, say that robbery wasn’t the motive,” Bony told the dog. “And can even assume that the murderer wasn’t particularly intelligent. He removed the tailor’s name from the suit coat, and didn’t notice that the trouser buttons bear the tailor’s name. He was cautious enough to remove the maker’s name from the raincoat, and that, I think, was unnecessary because the raincoat is probably one of hundreds turned out by its maker.”
The shirt and the tie were expensive, and the underclothes turned out by the mills in thousands. The socks gave nothing. The hat was of a popular make and sold to the retail trade by the ton. The victim’s head size was Bony’s size.
There was no doubt in Bony’s mind that these clothes were once owned by the dead man found in the Lighthouse. Although the floor of the cave was dry, the clothes were faintly mouldy and felt slightly damp, a condition to be expected of clothing exposed to sea air for several weeks.
“Leave that alone,” he said to the dog, nosing into a much smaller cave at the base of the far wall. “What have you there?”
He crossed to see, and found a dead sheep.
The sheep had been dead for several days, and obviously it had starved to death. The dog barked, and Bony looked at him.
“So that’s how it was, eh?” he said. “The poor sheep was feeding on the cliff top, and it came to the verge and saw the tufts of long grass growing on the ledge. It went down for the grass, and then found it couldn’t turn round like you do. So it came on down the ledge, and didn’t have sense enough to go up again. It stood on the little platform and bleated for days. No one came to the beach below, to hear although not able to see it. And towards the end, Stug, the sheep came in here to die in the darkest place.
“You followed your nose to find out all about the smell. Nothing but the smell attracted you, because you’re too well fed at home. And you found the shoes and remembered how, when you were a pup, you loved to pounce on shoes and sneak them out of the house and bite them to pieces.”
Patting the dog, he returned to the clothes, was reminded that one shoe was still in his pocket. The shoe he removed, and placed it with the wallet, the watch and the ring. He removed buttons from the trousers and added them to the treasure trove. In his mind was the unavoidable climb up the ledge. He cut the bottom from the leg of the trousers, preserving the cuff, inside which would be dust which the experts might make
something of.
The clothes were then neatly folded and stacked on a rock shelf which the dog could not reach, and the suitcase examined. It contained a suit of cheap pyjamas, a hairbrush and comb, a shaving outfit, and a small brown paper parcel. The parcel contained thirty-three ropes of pearls. More than probably they were imitations. Two strings he pocketed, and the comb because it imprisoned hairs. The remaining articles he replaced, and put the case on the rock shelf.
This was not a cave known to visitors as those beach caves were known. It was not a place to be visited by anyone not driven by hard necessity. The murderer knew of this cave, and he had risked the journey down the cliff face to deposit here his victim’s possessions. He must have used rope or straps to clamp the clothes and suitcase to his back, for he would certainly have had to use his hands to grip the rock.
Still swayed by the satisfaction given him by this discovery, Bony leaned his back against the wall of the cave and rolled another cigarette, and as he smoked his gaze wandered from the uneven floor to the dead sheep, from the sheep to the walls, the shelves and the crevices. Hope was fleeting that there was another way to the cliff top.
Midway up the opposite wall he espied a niche. As it was large enough for a man to crawl into, and might lead to the top, he went over and felt within, as the shadow was heavy. At once his fingers touched metal, and in the next instant he knew the metal to be rusty keys. He ignited a match to look at them, two keys similar in size to the Lighthouse keys. Dropping them into a pocket, he groped into the niche and brought out a thick wad of paper.
On his knees at the entrance to obtain full light, he saw that time had pulped the paper but had not obliterated the evidence that once the wad had been magazines bound together with string. He managed to part the wad, to bare a page. The print was so blurred as to be unreadable. He tried again, and made out lines like an etching, and after study was able, with a little guesswork, to read: Jack Harkaway’s Adventures in Greece.
Back at the niche, he found a ball of twine so rotted he could barely handle it. There was a Y-shaped piece of wood with material fastened at the ends of the fork. Once it had been a boy’s catapult. He found a book which, like the Jack Harkaway’s Adventures, was pulped by time and the sea air. He could read nothing within the leather covers, but the spine bore the indented letters reading: “Cora.. s. and by R.M. Bal. an ... e”.
Further groping brought to light a cigar box, and strangely enough this box was well preserved. It contained foreign coins, a penknife, snapshots faded beyond determination, and sea shells. Finally drawn out was what proved to have been a box of matches, and four clay pipes which had never been smoked.
All this junk Bony put back in the niche, his mind fired by the knowledge that once this cave had been a boy’s dream of coral islands and pirates bold. Only boys would have the nerve to negotiate that ledge now awaiting Napoleon Bonaparte.
The ledge! He would have to return via that ledge to life and eventual triumph. There was nothing more to be discovered here. He buttoned his coat, passed out to the level place before the cave, spoke to the dog, and faced the golden cliff.
The dog followed, sure-footed, supremely confident. A gull cried from somewhere in the glaring sky behind him. Go on, Bony! Don’t stop! You are loaded with treasure trove, the doubloons and the pieces of eight of success. Not so hard, is it? Better than coming down. The ledge took your weight coming down, it will take your weight going up.
Slowly he drew near to the top. Another foot or two would bring his eyes to the grassy verge of the headland. Better not look up. Be wise and keep the eyes busy locating rock knobs and crevices for handholds. A little farther, and he recognized a handhold he had taken when going down. He was at the top ... almost.
The sky fell and the light waned. Pain shot downwards to his feet, loosed his knees. The light continued to wane. Grip-grip! For heck’s sake, grip! If the grip slips, there’s only the beach below. Stop the light from fading out altogether. Will power might do it. If the light goes completely out you’ll certainly fall.
The light held, began to strengthen. Again he could see the cliff face, and his hands whitened by the strain. It was raining. The raindrops were sliding down his forehead, dripping from his nose. His legs wouldn’t move ... not at first ... not till he shouted at them to move. The dog was barking from somewhere, perhaps the beach, perhaps the cliff top. It didn’t matter. The surf was roaring like a vast herd of ravening tigers.
His feet and hands at last were moving. They had to move ... had to keep moving.... Red rain was falling down his forehead, down his nose. He felt grass under his hands, and yielding sand touching his fingertips. He swam upon the grass, and then lay still with the toes of his shoes beating upon soft turf. An animal whimpered and a hot tongue caressed the nape of his neck.
Chapter Ten
Bony is Generous
ONCE UPON A TIME Lorne was charmingly beautiful. Situated above a wide, sandy and safe bathing beach, its doom was inevitable. Crowded hotels and a fun fair, souvenir shops and crude cafés attracted the flash elements from the city. When Bony saw Lorne, he shuddered.
Senior Constable Staley had become used to Lorne and the peculiar type of people who flock to it. He had always to be firm and natural. He was red, angular, abrupt. And he was ambitious. His “off-sider”, Constable Roberts, was his opposite, and therefore they made an excellent team.
Staley was writing a report when Roberts entered his office, lounged to the desk, wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, conversationally:
“Bloke outside asking to see you.”
“What’s he want?” snapped Staley, without looking up.
“Just to look at you.”
“Talk sense. Send him in.”
“...stated that on May 2nd, at about four ~ã, he was outside the Hotel Terrific talking with a friend when a man came up to him and called him a...’, wrote Staley. He heard someone enter his office, and proceeded with his writing: “He did not know this man, and asked him what he meant by calling him a...”
A gentle cough interrupted the flow, and Staley sighed, dropped his pen and straightened in his chair.
“Well! What is it?” he barked at the slim, dark man seated on the only available chair. The dark man was lighting a cigarette, and over the burning match he said:
“I am Detective Inspector Bonaparte.”
“And I’m...” He was about to add that he was Pontius Pilate when stopped by the warming in the brilliant blue eyes probing into his brain. “Yes, sir. I remember now, sir. A memo came to hand a couple of weeks ago notifying me you would be in the district.”
“What is the condition of the road across the mountains to Colac?”
Now on his feet, Staley replied to the effect that the road was rough but passable. In reply to an inquiry about air services, he said that Bony could catch a plane at Colac that night at eight for Mount Gambier, and at seven next morning a plane left for Adelaide.
“I could reach Colac by eight, I suppose?” pressed Bony.
“Yes, you could easily do that, sir.”
“Then please make the plane reservation for me.”
Staley reached for the telephone, and Bony cut in with:
“Firstly, however, contact a doctor and ask him to come here. I’ve bumped my head against a meteor or something, and it’s rather painful.”
Staley’s light-grey eyes became pinheads in his red face. Only now did he note that the caller’s face was neither brown nor white but something like the colour of the dead ashes of a camp fire. Crossing to the inner office door, he said, stiffly:
“Constable Roberts! Bring Doctor Close. If he’s out, telephone Doctor Tellford.”
Dr Close lived next door to the police station. He walked in three minutes later, and Staley introduced him. The doctor examined Bony’s head, and Staley heard him ask what had happened, and heard Bony say that a piece of rock must have fallen from the sky, when he was out walking that morning. The doctor grunted,
and Staley knew he thought this man’s story didn’t matter as he was in capable police hands. The doctor said that the blow must have been severe. However, the scalp did not need stitching and he would send in a salve to reduce the extensive bruising. And a slight sedative. When the doctor had gone, Staley said:
“Get that wallop through some funny business, sir?”
“I think it likely, Senior. I was on a tightrope when the rock fell on me. Be a Samaritan now and ask your constable to bring me a pot of tea and a couple of aspirin.”
“Yes, sir. The sedative, though.”
“I’ll take that, too.”
Funny business meant personal violence. This Bonaparte had been seconded to investigate the killing at the Split Point Lighthouse and that killing had been forward in Senior Constable Staley’s mind. Split Point was in his district, and he had done his best in the resultant investigation. Again going to the door, he told Roberts to ask his wife to bring a pot of tea for Inspector Bonaparte. Roberts turned purple and hurried away.
A boy came with the salve, and Roberts took it in. When Mrs Staley came to the back door with the tray, he took that in, too, finding his superior engaged with the telephone and Bony rubbing the salve on sore places. He was passing out again when Staley snapped:
“Shut the door.”
Staley was able to make the plane reservations, and then Bony was drinking his second cup of tea and looking more wholesome. On his desk had appeared a hair comb. From the comb his gaze rose to encounter the blue eyes.
“I want that comb to reach Superintendent Bolt,” murmured Bony. “What would be the drill?”
“Post it to my Divisional Headquarters, sir, and they would send it to Melbourne.”
“Far too much red tape, Staley. I hate red tape. And, your headquarters would be curious. The post office might be faultless, but I cannot trust that comb to it.”
The New Shoe Page 7