“When he came back from Ford’s and told his mother he would never work else but on the farm, she believed him.”
“Well, well,” Bony said, lighting the cigarette. “Most women are soft with their sons.” There was a tell-tale flush on the old man’s face, and a mask before the bright blue eyes, and not to permit suspicion that the slip had been noted, Bony went on: “Like many another wild young man, no doubt Eldred will settled down some time. Better to sow the wild oats in the twenties than the forties.”
“You say true, Mr Rawlings, sir, you say true,” and Bony detected a note of relief. The switch of subjects seemed to confirm it. “This here board is for your coffin. I had t’others all put together time the news about Dick came. So I chose this ’un, and a few more to build yours. Ought to be ready for a fitting in a couple of days.”
“It’s very good of you, Mr Penwarden.”
“Good for good, Mr Rawlings. Them bloodwoods have been in my mind as much as a fine dress in the mind of a young gal to be married. You know, wood’s wood. I mind me many a year ago I were down on the beach and found a tough plank the like of which I’d never seen. I made the mantel in our sitting room out of her. Daffodil yellow she be, and no one can tell me the name of the tree. Musta come a long way in the sea. A university man looked at her and he said she never come from an Australian tree. Yes, wood’s wood. This here casket of yours will have the best red-gum, and very extra polishin’. You’re going to remember old Ed Penwarden every time you look at her.”
“I’m sure to.”
The plane was taken up and the blade was scrutinized and reset. Dropping the implement on the board was not normal to this craftsman to whom tools were extremely precious. The plane was again put to work, and a moment later a step sounded just beyond the wide door.
Bony turned to see Fred Ayling enter. Old Penwarden put down his plane. Ayling came forward, striding over the shaving-littered floor as though on a mission of dramatic import.
“Good day, Ed!” And to Bony: “Day!”
“Same to you, Fred!” chirped the old man. “Glad to be lookin’ at you.”
“An’ me you, Ed.” Ayling stood firmly balanced on his feet. His heavy brows were low to the dark eyes, and the eyes were small. “Thanks for doing a good job with Dick’s box. His old man was telling me about it. What’s it going to cost? I want to pay for it.”
“I ain’t worked her out yet, Fred. By and by, perhaps. You have much trouble getting across the Slide?”
“You could work out the cost now, couldn’t you?” persisted the axeman. “Dick and me were cobbers. You know that. I want to do something for Dick.”
Penwarden took down his pipe and fingered it. He appeared to ponder, and Ayling gave him half a minute.
“You work out the cost right now, and I’ll square the account.
“Well, I don’t know about that, Fred. You see, I was thinkin’ of making her a kind of present to poor Dick, havin’ know’d him since he were a baby, and smacked his bottom and boxed his ears more’n once for cheekin’ me.”
Ayling was insistent. His face was grim, and it seemed that the paramount emotion ruling him was anger, not grief.
“I want to pay, and I’m going to pay,” he announced slowly. “He was my cobber, not yours, Ed. You tot it up right now. How much?”
“Ha, well! I suppose if you want to you want to.” The old man returned the pipe to the shelf and put on a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. From a wall nail he lifted down a child’s school slate, cleaned it with spit and rag, and proceeded to draw figures. Ayling remained motionless, keeping his gaze directed to the coffin maker. The silence was oppressive.
“Here she be, Fred,” came the old man’s soft voice. “Material and labour brings her up to twenty-five pound and ten shillings.”
Ayling produced a wallet, and counted the money in notes upon the bench, and it was so quiet that Bony heard the rustle of the paper.
“Send us a receipt sometime, Ed,” Ayling said, stepping backwards from the bench until Penwarden and Bony were to his front. His eyes were again small, and his voice clipped when he spoke to Bony.
“Funny thing you happened to be down at the beach that morning to find Dick dead and all broken up.”
“Chance,” Bony said. “The sea was raging that morning and I wanted to look at it. What is peculiar about my being there?”
“That all you found ... the body?”
“Should I have found anything beside the body?”
“Don’t know. You wouldn’t be putting anything over?”
“I don’t understand you,” Bony countered.
“And I don’t understand you, Mister Rawlings. I may ... one day. One day I may get to know why you’re nosing around down here ... walking the roads after dark, asking questions about things and people what don’t concern any visitor. There’s some...”
“That’ll be enough from you, Fred, my boy,” interposed the old man. “You clear off and think things over, and give yourself a chance to calm down. Poor Dick’s death don’t only affect you, you know. He was your cobber, as you say. And he was my friend, same as you and Mr Rawlings. I’ll have no ill words said in my workshop.”
Without countering that firmly-spoken declaration, Fred Ayling strode to the door and passed from sight, and again the old man took down his pipe and stood merely fingering it. It became obvious that he waited for Ayling to withdraw from earshot.
“That’s Fred,” presently he said. “That’s Fred as he allus was. Good feller, and straight. Hot-tempered, generous, patient, true. Him and Dick were allus good cobbers. Don’t be put out, Mr Rawlings, sir. Fred’ll be good again tomorrow.”
“Without doubt,” agreed Bony. “Naturally he’s very upset, and probably made more so having been unable to be at the funeral. It was good of you to concede him the privilege of paying for the casket.”
“’Tain’t nuthin’.” The old man struck a match and lit his pipe to his satisfaction before adding: “When you gets old you learns wisdom how to deal with others.” A smile crept into the bright blue eyes. “I’ve learned when to give away, and how much. Don’t you say nuthin’ to no one, Mr Rawlings, sir, but that coffin Dick Lake’s sleepin’ in is worth a hundred pounds of anyone’s money.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Dead man’s Tracks
THERE WAS NEITHER a break in the leaden sky, nor a mark on the leaden sea, save where it surged against the claws of Split Point. The air was still and cold.
Amid the tea-tree on the headland was a bower overlooking the ocean, and there Bony sat on a magazine, and Stug uneasily squatted at his side. Together they had been tramping about the cliffs, and the dog had chased rabbits that had tossed their heels and defied him. Both man and dog had collected many burrs.
The problem occupying Bony’s mind was whether the time was come to declare himself and question in an official capacity. Earlier this day he had driven to Lorne, where he had spoken with the Superintendent by telephone, and had learned that Waghorn had not been seen by Sydney’s underworld for many weeks, and that he had not been picked up by the police in any capital city.
Failure to find Waghorn irritated Bolt, and gave Bony satisfaction by strengthening conviction that Eldred Wessex had come to Split Point prior to the discovery of the body in the Lighthouse.
Moss Way had said that Lake went to Geelong to meet Eldred off the train, and had returned without him. Old Penwarden had inadvertently let slip the half-statement that Eldred had come home “that dark night”. The night of February 28th – March 1st was a dark night. The slip had confused the old man, of that there was no doubt.
“Yes, yes, Stug! Relax,” Bony urged the dog. “Leave my sock alone.”
What kind of a man was he who breakfasted with Jean Stebbings on the morning of her birthday, then walked out of the flat and never returned? Why, the latest edition of the youth who tried to work for Penwarden, attempted to help his father, dallied awhile at the Ford Motor Works, and elsewhere.
He was impetuous, rash, restless, a liar, conceited, able to put forward a pseudo-charm, ruthless and cold and imaginative. He conformed to a type as easily recognizable as that of Dick Lake.
“I shall have to tackle Moss Way with greater determination,” Bony said to the dog, and Stug continued to worry a sock and with teeth bared delicately detached from the wool one of several burrs. “I must find out if Lake mentioned another man he expected to accompany Eldred Wessex. Perhaps, in view of all the circumstances Baker did accompany Eldred, and Dick Lake did meet them at the station and drive them to Split Point. Oh well, Stug! As Penwarden would say: ‘Good for good’. I now see that you want me to relieve you of a few uncomfortable burrs in exchange for the service you are doing me.”
Pulling burrs from the dog’s hair produced plain gratitude that the uneasiness had at last been understood, and Stug determinedly proceeded to bite away the remaining burrs clinging to socks and trouser cuffs.
“I don’t think you know Eldred Wessex,” Bony said. “Could have done, of course, for you must be ten years old. So what, Stug? Dick Lake must have gone to Geelong on February 27th or 28th and met Eldred, who either flew down to Melbourne or caught the night express. From Melbourne to Geelong by train would be only a little more than an hour. I can see Lake meeting his pal. But I cannot see how Baker entered the picture where he remained as a naked corpse.
“The money found in the wallet assumed to have belonged to the dead man is a point which I find of greatest interest,” Bony confessed to the dog. “All told, the amount was L89 7s 5d. As the novelist would say, it is out of character for Eldred Wessex to have left that money with the dead man’s clothes. I am strongly inclined to think it would be entirely in character for Dick Lake to have left money and wallet, even taking care to place the odd seven and fivepence inside the wallet. That indicates a strong sense of honesty in Lake. Why the revolver was not left in the cave would indicate that it belonged not to the dead man but either to Eldred or Lake...
“Well, Lake is now beyond the reach of the stoat, but Wessex isn’t. Eldred Wessex is still at large, living possibly somewhere on his father’s farm, probably over beyond Sweet Fairy Ann, with or near Fred Ayling. I anticipated that Bolt would fail to find him as Waghorn, which is why I gave the Super that little something to occupy his attention. And now, Stug, as Pepys would say: ‘Home for a glass of ale and a rousing good dinner’. Many thanks for divesting me of those burrs.”
Stug staggered down the headland slope behind Bony, and he lurched up the highway to the Inlet Hotel as though nothing mattered save to flop upon the mat outside the bar room door. Yet with spasmodic enthusiasm he accompanied Bony down the road after dinner, and along the Inlet track to the camp where Moss Way lived.
It was a one-room iron shack set back off the road between Penwarden’s house and his workshop, and Moss was found seated on a case at a rough deal table and reading a newspaper by the aid of a storm lantern.
“Picking winners?” Bony surmised from the doorway.
“Hullo, Mr Rawlings! Come in! Matter of fact, I was.”
There were two rough bunks, one either side the open hearth. Cooking utensils, food wrapped in paper, bottled condiments, created the confusion seemingly inseparable from men baching for themselves. Moss indicated a broken chair beside the fire, and moved his case to sit with the visitor. Stug silently came in and lay down at Bony’s feet.
“How you been puttin’ in the day?” asked Moss.
“Went to Lorne this morning. Tramped along the cliffs this afternoon. Calm sea. Seems too cold for rain.”
“Might blow a dry easterly tomorrow. Glass at the pub’s high.”
No anxiety in the easy voice. Despite the chill of the night Moss sat in his cotton vest in sharp contrast with the heavy working trousers and nail-studded boots.
“You will have to find another partner,” Bony said, lighting a cigarette.
“Yair,” agreed the long man. “Put it on Fred Ayling last night. Must have been the wrong time. Fred was terrible sore about something. He came in to see if there was anything left of Dick’s. I asked him what about it, and he said he might be goin’ to work for Ma Wessex.”
“What d’you think he was sore about?”
“Aw, I don’t know. Always was a moody bloke. Been living alone too long, I suppose.”
The dog raised his head and growled ... and went off to sleep. Bony steered the conversation away from Ayling to the safer water near the ports of General Subjects. It was fully half an hour before he brought it back to the point he wished to anchor it.
“You’d think that Eldred Wessex would have made certain of being at Dick’s funeral, wouldn’t you?” he suggested.
“Yes ... and no, from what I’ve heard of Eldred Wessex,” replied Moss. “Don’t know much about him, not being one of the mob around here. You’re either in or you’re out, and if you are out you don’t never get in, if you know what I mean. What I reckon is that Eldred never was any good, but he was able to put it over people, especially his friends. Use ’em up, right and left, and never blink an eyelid.”
“Couldn’t have bothered much about writin’ to Dick explaining why he didn’t arrive at Geelong.”
“That’s what worried Dick, I think. And Dick waiting all that day, and when Eldred didn’t come off the train, camping in the car all night outside the station, and waiting all the next day, too.”
“A long wait,” murmured Bony.
“You’re telling me. He left here at one to meet the 2.20 in from Melbourne. All keyed up, too. Got a telegram early that morning, and we drove out to Eli’s place to borrow the car, Dick putting up a tale he wanted to meet a girl friend for the day. He aimed to bring Eldred back on the quiet, walk in on the old people to give ’em the surprise of their sweet lives. I come across that telegram this morning. Found it stuck behind the flour tin up there.”
“Hm!” murmured Bony, rubbing his nose with a fingertip to prevent Moss from noting how the nostrils quivered.
“Dick musta put it there, and then forgot all about it,” Moss went on. “Terrible disappointed when he came home, he was. I come in for a drink of tea and some grub about midday, and there’s Dick cleaning up his best clothes. With his other clothes he wouldn’t care a damn if the backside of his pants was hanging down and trailing after him. His best clothes, though they had to be looked after like he was getting married. I’ll get that telegram. You take a deck at it.”
Moss obtained the flimsy from a writing pad.
“Shows how artful Eldred was to beat the Post Office,” he said, passing the message to Bony.
It was accepted by the GPO, Sydney at 5.35 pm, February 26th, and read:
“Hope to arrive Geelong per train about two tomorrow.
Want you meet me with car. Say nothing to anyone as father might get to hear about us. Love always. Ethel.”
“Ethel!” purred Bony, and Stug growled without lifting his muzzle from his paws.
“Eldred,” Moss said, triumphantly. “Dick didn’t know any Ethel. Told me he didn’t, anyhow. Said the telegram was from Eldred.”
“He could have come home for the funeral,” Bony persisted. “Probably his failure to do so upset Fred Ayling.”
“Musta. Fred told me to keep out of it, and not to talk about Dick. As though Dick belonged to him. I’ve been Dick’s cobber and partner since he came back from the war, and I’m going to talk as much as I like. There’s some things, though, that I’m not going to talk about. Wouldn’t have talked about ’em to you only you’re a sort of friend, going over Sweet Fairy Ann with us, and Dick saying you was all right. What’s in my mind, did Dick spend that night in Geelong?”
“What’s the point?” objected Bony.
“I dunno. Washfold went to Anglesea that evening, and he thought he saw Wessex’s car parked beside the road at the Memorial Look-Out.”
“That’s on a hill this side of Anglesea, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I never said nothing to Washfold abou
t Dick going to Geelong, and what time he said he came home. Nothing to do with Bert Washfold.”
“No, of course not. Better forgotten, eh?”
Moss stared hard at Bony, and nodded.
A few minutes after that Bony left, and at ten o’clock the following morning he was seated in Bolt’s car parked outside the Geelong Railway Station, and watching the passengers coming off the first train from the city. There, following a telephoned request, a detective, attached to Divisional Headquarters, joined him.
“Yes, I’m Inspector Bonaparte. Get in the car. What is the CIB’s report?”
“That at 9AM this morning Waghorn had not been located, sir,” replied the detective, crisply. He was a slight, grey-eyed man whose chief distinction was not to look like a policeman.
“You were on the Lighthouse murder investigation?”
“Yes, sir. I know the district and the people. Was stationed at Lorne for seven years in uniform.”
“You know, then, the people living behind the Inlet ... the Wessexes, the Lakes and the Owens?”
“Yes, sir. More than once I had to visit the Wessex farm about the son. Before the war that was. Eldred just missed being charged twice in the period 1936–39. He made the old people sick worrying about him. Same old set up, sir. Doting mother and weak father.”
“And Richard Lake, recently found dead at the foot of Split Point?”
“Bit of a lad, but nothing bad to him. Pity he ended like that. Did well in the Army, I understand.”
“What of Lake’s partner?”
“Moss Way! Nothing against him. Steady sort of a chap.”
“And Fred Ayling?”
“Slightly erratic. Know nothing to his disadvantage, sir.”
“H’m! Most helpful that you know all these people. Smoke if you want to whilst I explain what I want done. Bear in mind the date that Fisher found the body in the wall locker. On February 27th, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, Dick Lake came here and parked Eli Wessex’s car to wait for a man coming off the 2.20 train from Melbourne.
The New Shoe Page 17