Walking up the highway to the hotel, he went over the events culminating in this tragedy, and he pondered on the probable motive prompting Lake to retrieve the murdered man’s effects, despite the hazards. Again he saw Lake with Fred Ayling walking from the latter’s camp to the first of the wood stacks, and the following conversation most likely took place:
“When I was leaving the Wessex homestead last afternoon,” Ayling said, “Mary came after me, telling me that the feller at the pub, Rawlings, had found our old cave.”
“Crikey!” exploded Lake. “What happened?”
“She told me she’d been watching him. Couldn’t tell me why. Said he went down the ledge and that she lay down on the cliff and waited for him to come up. He was down there a long time. When he came up, she bashed him with a rock ... when his head was about level with the cliff edge. Seems that she ran away, believing that she’d knocked Rawlings off the ledge.”
“And she didn’t ... knock him off ... couldn’t have.”
“That’s about it, Dick. He must have hung on in spite of the blow. Reckon Mary’s clear on that point.”
“He musta found them clothes and suitcase,” said the now alarmed Lake. “Was he bringing anything up with him, did Mary say?”
“She said she didn’t think he was. I kept asking her about that.”
“Sounds crook, don’t it?” was Lake’s opinion, and Ayling said:
“Rawlings isn’t what he’s making out to be. More’n likely he’s a detective.”
“Yair. What beats me is how he came to find out about the cave. Did Mary say?”
“No, she didn’t. But he had Bert Washfold’s dog with him. She saw Stug with Rawlings when he went down, and he was coming up the ledge after him. The dog could have put him wise to the cave.”
“Yes, crook all right, Fred. What do we do now, d’you reckon?”
“You go down for those clothes and things as soon as you can. If they’re all there as you left ’em, there’s not much harm done. If any of them, or all of them, are gone, then Rawlings must have taken them.”
“All right, I’ll shift ’em tonight. Hell! What rotten luck. And our old cave the best possible place too. Did Mary tell you when she conked Rawlings with the rock?”
“No. Couldn’t get that from her. What worries me, and makes me think he’s a d, is that he never said anything about being hit.”
“Never showed no mark on his conk that I noticed,” vowed Lake. “Mary musta been mistaken. Anyhow, I’ll fix it about them clothes.”
That appeared to be the basis of Dick Lake’s foolhardy attempt to negotiate the rain-sodden ledge in the middle of the stormy night, for he had gone down the ledge before six that morning when the rain had stopped.
In the hotel. Bony found Moss Way with the licensee.
“Happen to have seen Dick?” Moss asked.
“Why?” evaded Bony.
“Wasn’t in camp when I woke up,” replied Way, obviously perturbed. That was early, too.”
“Ever walk in his sleep, d’you know?”
“Him! Sleeps like a dog without fleas. Like me. Why?”
“He must have sleepwalked last night. He fell over the cliff opposite the Lighthouse. I went along the beach to the Point and found him under the cliff. Been dead for hours, I think.”
“You sure it’s Dick?” demanded Way, and Bony nodded and sipped whisky and soda.
“Why I asked if he ever walked in his sleep was because he was wearing no overcoat over his working clothes, and was wearing canvas tennis shoes. Another drink, please.”
“Well, that beats hell,” exclaimed Washfold. “You look cold, Mr Rawlings. Didn’t you take an overcoat this morning?”
“Yes. I placed it over the body. I think you had better ring through to the police.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
The licensee rolled away to the telephone, and Way said:
“Decent ... to leave your coat over him.” He eyed Bony steadily, and with difficulty controlled his voice. “Me and Dick’s been cobbers ever since he came back from the war. Good bloke all right. Never groused, never argued, never shirked his share of work. I can’t believe what you’re telling us.”
“Did you know him before the war?”
“No. I come from Port Campbell. His old woman will be upset, and his pa. Good sorts, the Lakes. I’m havin’ another drink. What about you?”
Way lifted the counter flap and poured the drinks leaving a florin on the counter. Bony was feeling warmer when Washfold returned to say that Staley would try to get through as soon as possible in view of the landslides and would have to use a bicycle.
“Said as to leave the body where it is until he gets here,” supplemented Washfold.
Bony looked doubtful, for it was necessary to keep Moss Way from his camp until Staley did arrive.
“Tide was high last night,” he said. “Up to within a dozen feet of the body. Could come higher still this afternoon.”
“It will that,” agreed Washfold, and Way said:
“Blast the police. We’ll go for Dick now. Only right and proper. Who’ll tell his ma and pa? Not on the telephone, are they?”
“No,” replied Washfold. “But the Wessexes are. Alfie could ride over with the news from there. Creeks can’t be that bad.”
“Alfie would swim a horse acrost the creeks, Bert. You phone Mrs Wessex now. Then we’ll take your truck down as far as the picnic ground. Have to make a sort of stretcher, too.”
It was one o’clock before the body was brought to the old school house, and four o’clock when Staley arrived with Dr Close. The policeman grumbled at the disobedience to his orders, examined the body, received the doctor’s report, and sought Mr Rawlings for a statement.
“Funny business, sir, isn’t it?”
“Yes, strange,” agreed Bony. “As I have no explanation to offer at this stage, we could say that the dead man possibly met his death whilst walking in his sleep.”
“Long way to walk. And such a night,” objected Staley, stiffly.
“I won’t argue, Senior,” Bony said, gently. “He had light rope with him. I took that when I found him. I know where he was going when he fell. We will stick to somnambulism. I’d like you to go at once to lake’s camp and impound his effects, among which may be the answer. You could stay the night here, and so put the things in your room, and we could go through them later. Take the Super’s car.”
“Very well, sir.”
For the rest of the day Bony kept from public gaze, and during dinner that night, taken with Staley, he learned that the Lakes had arrived and that Mrs Penwarden had insisted on putting them up.
“In view of the doctor’s opinion,” Staley said, “I let them have the body. Tom Owen brought a coffin from Penwarden’s workshop. The old man came with it. Mrs Wessex helped him with the body. The old identities around here weren’t slow in claiming one of their own. What did you think of young Lake?”
“Good type, Staley. The smile hid much, you know. You impounded his possessions?”
“In my room. The key’s in my pocket.”
Mrs Washfold came in with pork cutlets on a tray and tears on her unadorned cheeks. She said nothing, and they gave her no opportunity for emotional relief. She and her husband were abed when Bony entered Staley’s room.
“Well, what have we?”
“A tin trunk, a suitcase and a kitbag, sir.”
“Good! We’ll begin with the kitbag.”
The bag contained nothing but working clothes, and a pair of old shoes. As Staley replaced these things, Bony offered no comment. The suitcase was small and its contents were next lifted and placed on the bed.
It contained two new shirts, several pairs of unworn socks, three soiled linen collars, a writing pad and a fountainpen and a bankbook. The bankbook showed a credit of five hundred and forty-seven pounds. Under the cover of the writing pad were two letters addressed to the dead man by a woman in Geelong. They were innocuous. Engraved on the gold band a
bout the pen was the data: “To DL from SPPS, 1939.”
“Nothing so far,” commented Bony.
“Expect much, sir?”
“A gold signet ring engraved with the letters B B.”
The suitcase joined the kitbag in a corner of the room and Staley opened the lid of the tin trunk, an old-fashioned, well-made receptacle. The first article lifted to the bed was the heavy blue overcoat Lake had worn for the trip to Geelong with Ayling and “the mob”. Then followed the suit and shoes he had worn that evening. More shirts, both used and new, came to light, and a pair of expensive gloves never worn and still within the gift box in which they had been bought.
“This might be interesting,” Staley said, setting on the bed an object wrapped in tissue paper.
Bony removed the paper and the light was reflected by the honey-coloured brilliantly polished surface of a flattish square box. Lifting it, Bony murmured:
“No visible joins. Penwarden’s work for sure.”
He raised the lid and found that the contents were wrapped in tissue paper. There was a wristlet watch of good quality, a new Testament on the flyleaf of which was inscribed: “For Dick from Mum and Pop Wessex. To keep always in his tunic pocket that he will be armoured against all enemies and often reminded of those who pray for him.”
“Fine woman,” said Staley.
“Agreed. Young Lake certainly valued highly gifts he received. This lighter ... never been used. Ah! Might be photographs.”
The paper was removed to reveal photographs pasted to cheap mounts. All were of soldiers save one in which a sailor appeared. Lake was included in every group, Ayling in one, and Eldred Wessex in two. These pictures Bony put aside.
“Casual about renewing his driver’s licence, and particular with gifts from friends,” Staley eventually agreed with Bony. “The type never varies.”
He brought up another suit, a sports coat and grey flannel trousers, a pair of new shoes, a tennis racket having a broken string, and a red-and-white football jersey with the figure five emblazoned on the back.
“Played for Geelong?” questioned Bony.
“Not Geelong’s colours. Local team.”
“This local team ... go far to play matches?”
“Oh, yes. Warrnambool, Colac, Point Lonsdale.”
Staley brought up a worn copy of the Union Jack Magazine, featuring Sexton Blake and his boy assistant, Tinker; a copy of the Argus, on the front page of which was a picture of marching troops and, written in ink, “Good old 7th Divi”; a Japanese soldier’s tunic; a Malay kris, and, accompanied by an expletive from Staley, a revolver.
“A thirty-two,” Staley said, glancing down the barrel. He broke it open and looked through the barrel pointed at the light. “Been fired since it was last cleaned. Man in Lighthouse killed with a thirty-two.”
“Put it aside,” ordered Bony, pleased that Staley proved to be no novice when handling the weapon to preserve possible prints. “What next?”
“Looks like a lot of old letters.”
There could be thirty letters, all addressed to Lake, care of the Post Office, Split Point, and Bony sorted them in accordance with the calligraphy of the writers whilst noting the postal date stamp. This done, he said:
“Have a smoke, Senior, while I go through these.” A half-hour passed, when he said: “None posted prior to the end of the war, and the majority of no use to us. But, Staley, there are letters from Eldred Wessex and letters from a girl signing herself Jean Stebbings, and these are certainly of interest. First the letters written by Eldred Wessex.
“The story of Eldred Wessex reads like this. In June, 1946, Eldred wrote from Sydney saying he had informed his parents of his intention to go to America to make a wad of dough ... to use his own phrase. It’s evident that Lake wrote urging him to return home before going. In December of the same year, Eldred wrote saying he was back again in Sydney, that the trip to America was a failure, and that he was doing fairly well with a valuable agency which demanded his close attention.
“From his letters it’s obvious that Lake repeatedly urged him to come home, but Wessex presents one excuse after another. Nothing in his letter reveals the nature of his business activities in Sydney.
“There are four letters addressed to Lake by a girl in Sydney who signs her name as Jean Stebbings. The dates of these letters all follow the discovery of our Lighthouse murder. Jean Stebbings is concerned about the whereabouts of Eldred Wessex, who left her on the morning of February 26th. Her next letter indicates that Lake had not seen or heard from Eldred Wessex. Her last letter was posted on March 26th, and again the writer implies she had heard from Lake that Eldred Wessex had not turned up at Split Point.”
“Eldred Wessex is important, sir?” asked the baffled Staley.
“It would seem so, Senior. Put all these things back in the trunk and we’ll go to bed. I’ll keep the letters, the photographs and the gun. When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow. You want the inquest delayed a bit?”
“Yes. You can release Lake’s possessions to his parents.” Bony lit a cigarette and pensively watched Staley. “I’m not liking this. A detective should earn his clues by exercising his brain.”
“Meaning, sir?”
“I don’t like clues to come to me through the death of a man who might have risked his life to save a pal.”
Chapter Nineteen
Two Women
BONY FLEW TO Sydney, where he paid his respects to the Chief of the New South Wales CIB, and gained willing cooperation.
A police car took him out to Ashfield at ten in the morning, an unfortunate hour for a lady whose habits are irregular. The house at which the car stopped was charming, the front door being protected by a finely-wrought iron grille with the bell centred unobtrusively amid the petals of an ornamental flower.
An elderly woman answered the summons and, on sighting the detectives, instantly betrayed irritation. Upon being requested to inform her mistress they wished to interview her, she conducted them to a restfully furnished lounge. There they sat for twenty-five minutes before Opal Jane appeared.
If Opal Jane was displeased, she didn’t show it. She was dainty, vivacious, dark and distinctly beautiful, and dressed with that sort of simplicity which means dollars in any man’s language. She smiled coolly at the detective sergeant, and with interest not wholly feigned regarded the man who looked like a rajah in civvies.
The detective sergeant presented Bony quite creditably. Opal Jane’s demeanour was unchanged.
“I never rise before eleven, Inspector Bonaparte. I suppose you’ve come to ask more and more questions. I’m beginning to wish I’d never met that wretched man.”
“Our friends are sometimes most embarrassing,” Bony murmured, holding a match to her cigarette. “I hate having to talk shop with you, and would prefer to discuss books and flowers. You knew the late Thomas Baker, for how long?”
The violet eyes hardened.
“Surely you are not going to ask the same questions, Inspector Bonaparte,” she said. “I knew Baker for about five years. In that time he’s called on me about seven or eight times. As I’ve told the Sergeant, Baker was a second steward on a liner.”
“You were really unaware that he traded in imitation pearls and other things?”
“I certainly was. I don’t associate with crooks.”
Bony nodded as though pleased that so unpleasant a subject was finished.
“Tell me, what kind of a man was Baker ... personality?”
“Oh! A good sort. Inspector. He could play around. Free with his money, and not one to be upset over trifles.”
“Expensive tastes?”
“Yes, he liked the best of everything.”
“Did it never occur to you that his salary as second steward, even on a first-class liner, would barely meet his expenditures?”
“No ... o.”
“I understand that he presented you with several most expensive opals, that he took you often to exclusive night
clubs.”
Opal Jane smiled.
“You’re not deliberately being naïve, Inspector?”
“Perhaps I am being natural. Thomas Baker could have been in receipt of a private income. Your friendship with him was ... platonic?”
“He wanted to marry me. They all do. As to the source of his income, I never concern myself about the financial affairs of my friends ... excepting their ability with a cheque-book.”
“Is one of your friends named Eldred Wessex?”
Opal Jane shook her head, and Bony was satisfied that Eldred Wessex was not one of her clientèle. Still, a name often conveys nothing. From his wallet he took the picture of Eldred Wessex, hatless and standing with five other soldiers. Everything bar the head of Wessex he had obliterated with Indian ink.
“Have you ever seen that man?” he asked, proffering the picture.
Violet eyes clashed with blue eyes and the woman realized that in this dark man all her feminine artifice would profit her nothing.
Opal Jane carried the picture to the window. The detective sergeant looked bored. Bonaparte admired a painting of a ship under full sail. The woman returned to her chair before speaking.
“I don’t know why I should answer your last question,” she said. “I had nothing to do with Baker’s murder, and I don’t want to be mixed up with it.”
“Surely I may assume that, having been friendly with Baker, you do not wish his murderer to escape the legal penalty? Or have you something still hidden from us? Forgive the implication, but I cannot evade it.”
“I’ve nothing to hide. I want to be left in peace. Yes, I’ve seen this man. Once when I was dining with Tom Baker at The Blue Mist. He came to our table and spoke to Tom. Another time, Tom and I were going out to Randwick and he stopped for a moment to speak as we were about to get into a taxi. I don’t know his name. And Tom Baker never referred to him.”
“When was it you last saw him?”
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