Bony - 20 - The Battling Prophet

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “We’re left with some dark horses, eh?”

  “No show, Mr. Luton, if we adopt the racecourse for the sea. Time is my bet. I am ever an admirer of Time, for Time has been my greatest ally. Now, there is another matter. Those records and the green notebook in the chest could be located I am uneasy, and we should do something about it. Have you any suggestions for a better hiding-place?”

  “Don’t know. Have to think. The pub’s secret enough, isn’t it?”

  “I fear not,” Bony said. “If the house was searched by experts, they would quickly find the trap-door. We must use imagination. Let us assume that you are an habitual drunk. That you were married to a very suspicious woman who does not approve of the cursed drink, and will, on sight of a bottle, empty it down the sink. Where would you plant your bottle?”

  “In a hole under the perches in the fowl-house,” promptly answered Mr. Luton.

  “I anticipated your selection,” Bony said smilingly. “Your hiding-place would not be a hundred per cent proof against a suspicious wife, but it ought to trick a change-daily boy. We’ll do the job right now.”

  Mr. Luton was ready and eager. It occupied them almost an hour, for work had to be done without light, without dis­turbing the hens and their lord roosting on the perches, and replacing the over-lay exactly as formerly. The hole was not large, because Bony finally decided to leave the annual records in the chest, burying only the notebook, the will, the smaller book taken from the car, inside a biscuit tin.

  Afterwards they ate a light supper, drank a hot toddy and retired, all doors locked and windows bolted, the loaded shot­gun on Mr. Luton’s bedside table, and the furniture and floor-covering in the kitchen-living-room so arranged as to permit Bony easy egress if essential.

  Both slept in undisturbed peace.

  At nine o’clock Mr. Luton took a breakfast tray down to his guest, who planned to spend the day on further study of the records in the chest. He then proceeded with the chores of the day: freeing the dogs, tidying the house, doing a little digging and sowing peas and transplanting early cabbage.

  Shortly after ten, Senior Constable Gibley called, knocking on the front door, when Bony mounted the brandy steps.

  “What! You again!” Mr. Luton said sharply.

  “Me again, Luton,” agreed the policeman. “How’s the kettle? Boiling?”

  “Damnation!” roared the old man. “You think I can supply the whole ruddy police force with cups of tea, and tea the price it is?”

  “No. Actually, I brought you a pound of tea. Sergeant Maskell gave me the doings to buy it for you. Sends it with his compliments and thanks for the fish you gave him. Now you goin’ to ask me in?”

  “I’ve never yet refused a man a drink of tea or a bite to eat. Come on through. S’long as you don’t ask fool questions, or make silly threats, you’re welcome. What d’you come for?”

  “I just told you,” replied Gibley, easing himself into a kitchen chair.

  “Now, now! That’s only the jemmy that edges open the bank safe. Better, let it out, or you won’t enjoy the cakes I baked a couple of hours back.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I came to ask if you happened to fire the car down at the bridge.”

  Mr. Luton looked stunned, and waited.

  “Seems that two men who’ve rented a holiday shack in Cowdry left their car at the bridge to do some night fishin’. Went down-river a bit, and while waiting for a bite, the glare told ’em about the car goin’ up. What do you know?”

  “What do I know?” roared Mr. Luton. “What do … Why, next thing you’ll be accusing me of murder!”

  “Do that, too, if your yarn about those hoo-jahs was true,” counter-attacked the policeman. Mr. Luton was cut off from emphatic protest by his table guest. “Now, don’t get so hotted up, Luton. Here am I being quite matey, and you almost make me believe you dislike me. Didn’t you see the glare over the trees?”

  “I certainly didn’t, Gibley. On a cold and blustery night I don’t go outside lookin’ at the stars and things. I bide quiet afore my own fireside without wantin’ to warm me hands at other people’s fires. You telling me someone fired the car?”

  “No, just a bit of fun,” admitted Gibley. “They must have left a cigarette butt under a cushion or something. Must have been a good blaze. Burned the ground all round for yards out.”

  “Serves ’em right for fishin’ at night. Why don’t they work instead of loafin’ around on holidays this time of year. Maybe they’re them foreigners you was lookin’ for.”

  “No, not them. These fellers come from Melbourne. Car owner’s name is Marsh. I got them clear enough. There’s another thing. Your pal Inspector Bonaparte’s disappeared.”

  “Oh!” sneered Mr. Luton. “Was he bound and gagged in the car?”

  “Not so funny, Luton. He was last seen at Serviceton, aboard the Melbourne train. He come back here?”

  Mr. Luton turned sarcastic.

  “No. Could be camped with old Knocker Harris. You seen him?”

  Gibley ignored that.

  “Mind me looking round here?”

  “What for? Bonaparte?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m easy, Gibley. You’ve come through the sitting-room. He wasn’t there. This is the living-room. He isn’t here. There’s my bedroom, over there. Take a look under the bed and in the wardrobe. There’s no other rooms. Outside is the wood-shed and the meat-house. He might be in the meat-safe. Down the garden a bit is the fowl-house, and a bit further is the dog-kennels. Could be in one of them.”

  “Could be out in the scrub, where he went when you heard me coming,” added Gibley.

  “You got a warrant for him?” asked Luton with un­feigned astonishment.

  “No, of course not. Just got to locate him, that’s all. Hear anything about the office up at the big house being broken into?”

  “No. By heck, things are livening up, aren’t they?”

  “You wouldn’t know who’s doing the livening up, would you?”

  “Look! I been livin’ here for years, and all I ask for is peace. Now I hope you’ll take the hint.”

  Senior Constable Gibley smiled sourly, and strode from the house. He remembered to thank Mr. Luton for the tea and cakes when half-way to the front gate.

  He had acted under orders which his superiors and he him­self believed barely concerned them. He was satisfied that the destruction of the car was accidental, and satisfied concern­ing the identity of the driver and his companion. There had been ample time to check the relevant details with the police in Melbourne. As for the disappearance of Inspector Bonaparte from the Melbourne express, he had complied with what verged on a routine police broadcast.

  With this Bony was also satisfied. What did concern him was that his disappearance had been broadcast. Officially he was a wanted man. And so far, as he had warned Jessica Lawrence to keep his whereabouts secret, only Mr. Luton knew he was in this cellar.

  He heard voices at the rear of the house, and slipped down the brandy steps and climbed the gin steps in time to over­hear Knocker Harris saying:

  “Properly burnt out, like. They was to come in at my jetty this morning for bait-fish, but I suppose the fire sort of upset ’em. I seen Gibley comin’. So he didn’t see me.”

  “How did those fellers find you?” asked Mr. Luton. “They come up-river?”

  “No. Come to my place by car last night. Leastways one of ’em did. The other stayed in the car. That’s what I don’t get. How did the car catch afire? Gibley tell you?”

  “No. He said they told him they was away fishing when she burned. Why should they say that?”

  “Search me. How would I know?” snapped Knocker Harris.

  “You seen ’em before?”

  “No. The bloke what came arrived about nine-ish, like. Said he wanted bait-fish for to-day. I give him a cupper and he give me a quarter-pound plug of chewin’ tobacco. They was to call for the bait at eight this mornin’.”

 
“You never seen the fire last night?”

  “No. Did you?”

  Mr. Luton ignored this question.

  “What time did the feller leave your camp?”

  “ ’Bout eleven, I’d say.”

  “Oh!” snapped Mr. Luton. “Yabberin’ with you for two hours while he leaves his cobber in the car on a cold night. Feller in car musta set fire to the car himself to keep warm. What did you talk about?”

  “This and that.”

  “I asked you a question, Knocker!” Mr. Luton roared.

  “All right, John. Don’t shout at me. What’s got inter you? He said he liked this bit of country, and I said it suits me what likes quietness and to be left alone, like.”

  “What else?”

  “Oh, we yarned about old Ben and his weather-predictin’, like.”

  “Tell him what we think about the hoo-jahs?”

  “Yair, I did sort of give an idea.”

  “You would!”

  Knocker Harris snuffled, but Mr. Luton probed farther. Asked what else was said about Benjamin Wickham, Knocker admitted he had told the stranger Ben and John had been cobbers for a long time, and that Ben often visited John with­out looking for a bender. It came out that Marsh had learned nearly all there was to learn. He even asked about Mr. Luton’s recent visitor, and was told all about Inspector Bonaparte.

  “It seemed all right to,” whined Knocker Harris. “Not a local, like, what could get back on something.”

  Then Mr. Luton asked the question Bony ached to put:

  “You tell him all this off your own bat?”

  “Don’t think I told him anything he didn’t ask. He was just sort of interested, like, and wanted somethin’ to talk about. Nice bloke, too.”

  “What else was he interested in?” pressed Mr. Luton. “Who else beside me and Inspector Bonaparte did you talk about?”

  “Dr. Linke, the Parsloe woman and the parson. That’s all.”

  “So that’s all, is it? What about Dr. Linke?”

  “He asked me how long the doctor had been workin’ up at Mount Mario, and if Dr. Linke came here much to yarn with you, like. Hey, when’s all this goin’ to stop?”

  “Why ask me?” snarled the old man, deliberately perverse. “You start something, and then expect me to know when it will end. Leave me and my affairs out of talking to strangers. I don’t want them to know how much I got in the bank, or how much I keep under the lino. How d’you know that feller isn’t a rob-and-bash man? Could break in here after my dough and murder me for objectin’. Nice sort of friend you are.”

  “But I didn’t mean no ’arm, like, John.” The voice was distinctly desperate. “We been good neighbours for a long …”

  “Well, we won’t be if you go gassin’ to every nosey tourist what comes along. Now get goin’ and don’t come back for a week.”

  “All right, John,” agreed the plaintive Knocker. He scraped his feet on the floor and paused just outside the door to add: “If you wants me, like, you know where I hang out. Come Pension Day, you might want somethin’ brought out from town.”

  “That’ll be the day,” exploded the unrelenting Mr. Luton.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Niece from Melbourne

  THE afternoon passed without incident. No voices up top disturbed Bony as he scanned those bulky files resting on the bar counter. The only sounds reaching him were made by Mr. Luton overhead.

  The old man had accepted rules against which, under normal circumstances, he would have rebelled. The dogs were not to be chained, night or day. The doors were to be kept locked, and he was to go outside the house only to obtain firewood, feed the hens and visit the meat-safe.

  That there would be developments Bony was sure. A pot over a fire of this kind must inevitably come to the boil, and his chief concern was that Mr. Luton should not be scalded. That should have been his main reason for slipping that train. Deep in his heart he knew it wasn’t the main reason, but the insatiable lust of the hunter inherited from his mother’s people.

  He closed the last of the files and returned them to the chest, having gained nothing further from them save clearer pictures of Benjamin Wickham’s fight against orthodoxy and for recognition that came too late. The files showed that only in recent months had his completed work on long-range fore­casting been rightly evaluated with special implications on inter­national relations.

  There were at least two groups most actively interested in locating Wickham’s recorded methods. Mr. Luton’s knees proved the interest of one of these groups, and it was fairly evident that this was the group that had approached Wickham on July 3, and that, normal negotiations being fruitless, its normal bash-and-torture methods had been adopted.

  All this appearing to be gangster warfare conducted on Government level was of itself outside Bony’s territory, save where it impinged on his professional interest in the death of Benjamin Wickham. He had no direct proof that the meteoro­logist had died of a cause other than that stated on the medical certificate. He would never find direct proof of murder now that the body no longer existed. It was, however, possible to gather sufficient circumstantial evidence to convince any re­asonable authority that murder had been done. And while the possibility continued, he would not permit gangsters, foreign or not, to side-track him by pulling strings for his recall.

  As he had told Mr. Luton, the opportunity for murdering Ben Wickham was wide open, and the motive for killing could be one of several to activate a number of people.

  The night brought no disturbance. Even Knocker Harris did not call, probably continuing to be upset by Mr. Luton’s brusque treatment. The evening was spent playing poker, and only once during the night did the roaming dogs give voice to something or other far from the doorsteps.

  It was eleven o’clock the next morning when Miss Alice McGorr arrived.

  She had been associated with Bony in a case of mass infant abduction, and she hadn’t hesitated to act, following the tele­graphed request to contact Jessica Lawrence. The car that brought her had stopped at the wicket gate. The driver had carried her heavy suitcase to the veranda, and had waited until the door had opened and Mr. Luton had admitted to his name.

  Mr. Luton didn’t know what to make of her. There was something the matter with her appearance, but he could not decide what. He liked her brown eyes, and thought it a pity she had a receding chin. He knew at once that set against these negative points was physical and mental capacity beyond that of the average woman.

  “You don’t know me, Mr. Luton, but I am your niece, Alice McGorr, all the way from Melbourne,” she told him, and before he could raise argument he found himself inside the house with her and her suitcase, and the door shut. Sub­sequently he was to remember the expression of her eyes when she demanded:

  “Where is Inspector Bonaparte?”

  A sepulchral voice moaned:

  “Down among the dead men.”

  “What is he to you?” asked Mr. Luton, regaining poise.

  “Another uncle. Now lead me to him.”

  Mr. Luton stalked into the sitting-room, Alice McGorr right on his heels. A motion of his hand halted her in the doorway. She watched him gravely move the table aside and, with growing interest, carefully roll the linoleum away from the trap-door. He lifted the trap, held it upright, and Bony emerged to flash a smile of welcome before stepping over the trap.

  “Alice!” he said, and Mr. Luton didn’t fail to note the gladness. “I didn’t expect you, yet.”

  “It happened that I was home when your friend’s telegram arrived,” she explained. “Are you all right? You look normal. What’s the big idea of being down there?”

  “I reside there, Alice. A wonderful place! The finest bar in Australia. Mr. Luton, meet my very dear friend Police­woman Alice McGorr. Alice, I present another very dear friend.”

  Mr. Luton dropped the trap-door and stepped over the rolled floor covering with hand extended. He was smiling, and again the years vanished from his face.


  “Glad to meet you,” he said warmly. “Now I’ll roll back the lino and we’ll celebrate. Just as well I baked them cakes.”

  “In case a visitor should call, remember that Alice is your niece from Melbourne who intends to stay with you a few days,” Bony reminded him. “And if I should disappear, Alice, say nothing and don’t worry.”

  Mr. Luton departed to prepare the party, and Bony asked:

  “How did you manage to get away so soon? Superintendent Bolt obviously co-operated.”

  “Your telegram came just after twelve yesterday, and it took an hour to reach the girl who sent it. The Super was out, and just as well it was my day off duty. He didn’t come to his office till six. When I told him I had had word from you, he said: ‘Shut that door.’ Then he said: ‘Now, let’s have it.’

  “I showed him the telegram and then repeated what the girl had said on the phone. The gist of it was that you were in a spot, and wanted me urgently.

  “The Super said: ‘In a spot! Well stuck, I’ll say. All hell has spewed because he vanished off that train.’ He thought a bit, then said: ‘Look, Alice, that Bony feller has been prodding a stick into an out-size bull ants’ nest. Boase and his Adelaide boys kicked him out of South Aus. and now his Brisbane bosses are kicking a stink ’cos he didn’t get as far as Melbourne. So he went to Cowdry, did he? And now he’s yelling for help.’

  “I said: ‘Pop, he’s not yelling. He’s asking.’ Pop said: ‘You win, he doesn’t yell. Like to go?’ When I told him I was going, with or without leave from the Department, he said: ‘Go on home, Alice, and pack a bag. I’ll work it out.’

  “He came to my place about nine last night,” Alice McGorr continued. “I could see he was worried, and he said: ‘Look, Alice, I don’t like the background of this business. I can’t nail anything, although I’ve contacted both Adelaide and Brisbane. Someone’s dropped a shutter and no one’s game enough to raise it. That means the someone is mighty powerful. Now this is straight. If you barge in, you might lose your job.’