Bony and the Mouse

by Arthur W. Upfield

  The gelding was ‘rarin’ to go’, and Harmon was, as always, envious of Bony’s slickly smooth action of rising into the saddle and settling there before the horse realised it. The horse reared, was slapped smartly with the end of the reins, and permitted to cavort all the way down Main Street, watched by Harmon at his gate, by Fred Joyce outside his shop, Sister Jenks at her door and the children being lined up to march into school.

  At a hard gallop Bony rode down the slope to Dryblowers Flat to call at the House of Elder. He was pleased to hear that the old man was away with his partner dry blowing, and additionally pleased at being invited to morning tea, served by Joy Elder under the bough roof of the floorless veranda.

  “Janet’s out with father, Nat,” Joy announced, her large golden eyes steady and inquiring. “Is there any news of Tony?”

  “There is and there isn’t. Then again there could be and there couldn’t be,” teased Bony. “You might say that Tony’s up against it, and you might say he’s in love. You answer a question?”

  The girl, who had been holding an enamel pannikin in one hand and a slice of cake in the other, put both on the table and stood, saying:

  “Go on. Ask it.”

  “Very well, I will. Do you love Tony Carr?”

  For a fleeting moment anxiety was banished by the stirring power of pride, and she answered with a simple statement:

  “I couldn’t love him more.”

  Knowing that one day he would have to relate all this adventure to Marie, his romantic wife, Bony put another question.

  “Why do you love Tony so much?”

  The girl frowned, and then smiled, saying:

  “Yes, I know why. It’s because he couldn’t cut the splinter out of my foot.” Nodding understanding, Bony munched the brownie cake. “Well, Nat, tell me about him. You know something. I know you do.”

  “I can tell you this, Joy. That Tony isn’t as far away as you think, and might be closer than you think.” Gazing at the shadow of the roof where it was terminated across the rough table, he went on: “Ah! Now the sun says it’s a quarter to ten, and we have work to do. D’you think you could ride behind me on the gelding?”

  Again the frown, this time accompanying the nod of assent. As Melody Sam had done, as Iriti had done, and Harmon, so now did Joy Elder see this man for the first time emerge from the man they were sure they had known so well.

  “I want you to go with me to Sam’s Find,” he said. “Afterwards, I want you to go into Daybreak and do something for me. And for Tony.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  “Let me finish my cake and tea. Even Drake finished his game of bowls.”

  “Who’s Drake?”

  “A legend of the sea, as Melody Sam is a legend of the land. Two hundred years hence they’ll regard Sam as a great land hero, and you, Joy, who knows! They might look back down the years to read about their Australian Maid Marion who was married to her Robin Hood.”

  “I remember Robin Hood, Nat. There’s a book here about him and Maid Marion and Little John and all. And there’s Ned Kelly, too.”

  “Illusion flies over the veranda rail,” cried Bony, pushing his chair from the table. “Robin Hood killed robber barons, Joy. That horrible Ned Kelly murdered policemen. Come, our steed is champing on the bit.”

  The Romantic leaped into the saddle and the grey swirled about like a top until calmed with soft words and gentle hands. Joy put her foot into the stirrup, and was assisted to swing up behind the saddle. She wasn’t close enough to hug the rider, but she could grip the leather about his waist. The motionless air became a wind to ruffle his black hair as the horse ran in free gallop, and the girl’s red-gold hair streamed behind her, as legend has it the Maid’s hair floated from her.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Daybreak Jury

  THEY SLID to ground in the shadow of the poppet head at Sam’s Find, and Bony climbed high among the ancient timbers and surveyed the surrounding country. There was no movement, no sight of travelling nomads, but far away in line with the summit of a hill, up-thrust above the horizon, there rose two broken columns of smoke.

  Without doubt the columns were smoke signals, and as it was most unlikely that aborigines not of Iriti’s tribe would be in that country, there was but the one assumption: Justice had been delayed but upheld, and the man responsible for the lubra’s death had paid the penalty.

  When again to ground, Joy Elder wanted to know the reason for the climbing.

  “First things first,” Bony informed her. “I am expecting visitors.”

  The next time he climbed the poppet head he wasn’t there more than a minute. “Now, Joy,” he said, on rejoining the girl, “listen carefully to what I want you to do. Wait here until you see me waving my handkerchief and then walk as fast as you can to Main Street. Go along Main Street, and every so often you must stop and look back to see me aloft and still waving.

  “When people see you gazing this way, they will also look and see me. I want everyone in town to see me, and wonder what the heck I am doing up there. Clear? Of course it is. When you arrive at the police station, take no notice of Constable Harmon, who will be busy, and go in to speak to Esther. Be sure no one overhears you telling her that a young man she knows will not have to stay much longer in the city. Clear?”

  “No. What young man? What city, Perth?”

  “Just tell her quietly that a young man she knows won’t have to remain much longer in the city. Repeat that.”

  Joy obeyed, puzzled and a little rebellious.

  “I don’t understand it a bit, Nat. What do you mean?”

  “Esther will know. Repeat it again.” The girl did so, and Bony smiled approvingly. “Now wait till you see me wave.”

  At the top of the poppet head, Bony made himself as comfortable as possible. The smoke columns had been cut off at base and now were rising in the still air, to feed a white-topped cloud of their own creation. Far away to the northwest he could see human figures moving about in the vicinity of the sandal-woods marking Dryblowers Flat. Nearer, much nearer, he watched the minister leave the Manse, saw Sister Jenks cross the street to the post office, could see Fred Joyce working on his utility in his yard behind the shop. Two men, of whom one was Melody Sam, sat on the form outside the hotel bar, and he could not mistake the burly Constable Harmon lounging outside his kitchen door.

  The minutes passed, an estimated twenty of them, and the sun reached the eleven-thirty calibration on the celestial clock, when Bony saw the dark line of human figures appearing from the abutment of a sandhill. Iriti and his people would be keeping the appointment with White-feller’s Justice.

  Bony waved his handkerchief.

  Joy Elder waved her hand and started walking smartly towards Daybreak. Constable Harmon left his kitchen door and made for the street, walking unhurriedly. Crossing the street, he stood before the two men seated on the form. They stood, and Melody Sam accompanied Harmon to his front gate. He was arguing, and Harmon was shaking his head.

  The council staff appeared from beneath a pepper tree and was sweeping debris into a heap. Sister Jenks left the post office for her house, and Melody Sam walked slowly to the police office whilst Harmon sauntered along the street to the council staff. In his yard, the butcher was running the engine of his utility, and so clear was the air that Bony could see the exhaust smoke.

  Harmon was inside the post office when Joy reached Main Street, and she deliberately looked back at Bony waving his handkerchief. Someone must have been seated under the first pepper tree, for Joy said something, and the guess proved correct when a woman appeared and gazed steadily towards the mine.

  So it went on according to plan. People followed the girl’s action by also gazing at Bony on the poppet head. Sister Jenks called to her, and then joined the growing crowd. Harmon appeared, this time accompanied by the postmaster, and they walked back to the station office. One by one, the people of Daybreak paused in their activities to watch Bony. Even Fred Joyce was caught
when he saw beyond his yard gate a woman gazing steadily towards Sam’s Find. He walked to the street, said something to the passing Joy Elder, and alternately watched her and the waving Bony.

  The school bell clanged and the scholars poured from the building for their midday break. Joyce, who could not but see the policeman and the postmaster approaching the station gate, moved nearer the hotel, when he could also see Melody Sam waiting outside the station office. The three men entered Harmon’s office, and all the children halted their running about and joined the people in watching the waving Bony.

  Joyce moved back to the yard gate beside his shop and was met by his wife, attracted by the unusual street scene. Leaving him, she spoke to another woman, and he walked quickly to his utility and drove it from the yard. He headed for Sam’s Find.

  All the aborigines were now in clear view, walking in a straggling line towards their camp at the great boulders on the far end of Bulow’s Range. Of the hunter’s smoke columns, nothing remained other than the one smoke cloud of snowy white, suspended in the otherwise virgin sky.

  Bony timed his descent to ground with the arrival of Joyce in his utility.

  “What’s all the excitement about, Nat?” Joyce shouted. Bony rolled a cigarette with studied care, then looked up into the open face of the man standing before him.

  “Don’t rightly know, Fred,” drawled the hotel yardman. “Been doing a job for Harmon. He’s been expecting the abos to come back from walkabout, and he got me to shin up the poppet head and wave to him when I could see them. Think he did see me?”

  “Musta, Nat. But why all the interest in the blacks? Didn’t he say?”

  “Only that he wanted ’em official like. Could be they hadn’t any business to leave camp so soon after getting in from the scrub. I don’t know.”

  “Don’t like it. Don’t sound sense, Nat. Harmon’s got Sam and the postmaster all inside his office. You been pretty thick with Harmon, haven’t you?”

  “I have and I haven’t, Fred.” The big man stood with heavy hands clamped against his hips. There was a puzzled expression on his face, his eyes were hard, and about the corners of his wide mouth was a greyish tinge. Bony asked:

  “What d’you think is going on?”

  “If I knew I wouldn’t be askin’ you, Nat,” retorted the butcher.

  He strode back to his utility, agilely jumped behind the wheel and slammed in the gears. Instead of returning to town he headed down the track to Dryblowers, and, Bony thought likely, to meet the returning aborigines. Bony crossed to the horse, and when mounted was wondering how the meeting between Fred Joyce and Iriti with his medicine-man would end, when he heard the utility returning, and he moved off the track.

  Obviously, Joyce had changed his mind. The utility passed and entered Main Street, five minutes before he did. He didn’t see it outside the shop nor in the yard when on his way to the station office.

  The office door was open, and Bony entered to tell those waiting with Harmon that he would be with them in two minutes. Crossing the compound, he noticed Esther and Joy Elder standing outside the kitchen, and he angled to speak to them.

  “Both of you will stay here. You will not interfere.”

  The voice, the blue eyes, stunned them. Esther Harmon clutched Joy’s arm when they saw Bony walk to the feed-shed and enter.

  “It’s all right, Tony,” he assured the hidden fugitive. “I told you I would uncover the murderer, didn’t I, now? You’re in the clear at last.”

  A sudden burst of hard breathing, movement, and Tony Carr was standing clear of the bags and the oddments of junk. His eyes were suspicious, and the fingers of his powerful hands were interlocked, and indicative of fearful uncertainty.

  “I am your good friend, Tony,” he was told quietly. “I am a detective-inspector, and tell you that you are completely free of any suspicion of these Daybreak crimes. As for breaking away from Harmon, well, there will be nothing to that. We want you to help us get the truth from the aborigines, interpret for us. Will you do so?”

  Tony nodded. Bony said cheerfully:

  “You can call me Bony. All my friends do. Come on.”

  Together they left the shed, and Bony did his best to shield the two women from Tony, and succeeded. At the office he crowded in hard by the boy. The men with Harmon stood in shocked surprise, and then Bony was given a surprise.

  “Come and sit down, Tony,” Harmon invited from behind his desk. “Been wondering when my sister would spring you. No bad feeling with me if it’s OK with you.”

  The boy was too astounded to move, till Bony pushed him forward, and he sat on the offered chair, still unable to make up his mind whether to fight or run. He sat glaring at the policeman, his large hands clenched. Now seated at his side, Bony said:

  “Be your age, chum. You aren’t on the outside any longer.”

  Melody Sam began to roar and was commanded to hold his horses. He found the situation a trifle beyond him, and flopped down on his chair and chewed his moustache. Les Thurley, the postmaster, calmly waited, and watched Bony roll a cigarette. The task seemed to take a week.

  “My sojourn here at Daybreak,” Bony began, gazing steadily at each in turn, “has encouraged me to take you into my confidence. You being responsible citizens, I expect to have your willing co-operation in furthering my investigation into the series of murders which have blighted Daybreak. I am Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, of Queensland, and now on this special assignment.”

  “Anything, Nat ... er Inspector_____” began Thurley, and Bony cut him short.

  “Nat will do, Les. Let’s keep it at Nat. Well, Sam, will you take a hand?”

  “Whatever you say, Nat,” replied Sam. “I told you once before, you’re the boss.”

  “Well, here it is, gentlemen. Constable Harmon and I have been worried ever since we found out that Tony Carr was very cleverly framed for the murder of Kat Loader. We relied on foot tracks, and there’s no doubt, Tony, that the man who framed you walks very much like you do, has your size feet and your weight. Now you take that look off your face and listen to me. I have several important jobs for you to work your brain on, not your boots.

  “Sam, you will agree that the reports made by the aborigines on those tracks about Lorelli’s homestead, and the scene of the Moss murder, were not as clear and full as might be expected of them. You, Constable Harmon, will agree that the aborigines’ report, plus the plaster casts you have collected, would total ample evidence to put before a jury of a thousand aborigines, but is far from ample to place before a white jury gathered together in a city. We all agree that the foot track evidence backed by the discovery of the boots in Tony’s hut, with the shoes tossed to the roof, all total sufficient evidence to send Tony to trial. That was the frame.

  “The murder of the aboriginal girl triggered the remaining three. I have thoroughly investigated the girl’s murder, and found it was a tribal killing. I intend to close my eyes to that, for the time being, in exchange for complete cooperation from Iriti and his people on the white murders not committed by them. What happened was this.

  “The girl was condemned. She refused to go walkabout with the tribe when the sentence would have been carried out, and so a buck was sent to execute her in Daybreak. How he enticed the girl to leave her room doesn’t concern us. He was wearing old boots, probably found on the town rubbish dump, but luck was against him, for he was seen by one white man, who seized the opportunity to blackmail Iriti preparatory to his own crimes. In short, in return for his silence, Iriti’s trackers were to make vague reports on their reading of his tracks when wearing sand-shoes. If Iriti wouldn’t play it his way, he threatened to have Constable Harmon destroy their ceremonial ground and hunt them deep into desert for all time.

  “Our murderer knew he was Tony’s weight and foot size, and that they walked so much alike that white bush trackers would be deceived. All he had to do to complete the forgery was to copy Tony’s slight limp, which he did quite well with practice. Ther
efore, finding himself in the position of being able to blackmail the aborigines, he put into action his long-term plan. And that was to murder three people and frame Tony Carr, leaving himself still the innocent citizen of Daybreak.”

  “What for?” barked Melody Sam. “What was his aim, Nat?”

  “All in good time, Sam. First things first. Yesterday our nice murderer sent the aborigines off on walkabout. I went out after them and talked with Iriti, and Iriti agreed to come back with all his people and have Constable Harmon take statements from them. To gain that assistance in nailing our murderer, I have promised to shut my eyes to the lubra affair, which, when we come right down to earth, isn’t any of our business.”

  “Don’t agree it’s none of our business,” objected Harmon.

  “Damn good trade, anyway, George,” argued Melody Sam. “We give them one. They give us three. Who’s our murderer, Nat?”

  “He hasn’t yet declared himself,” replied Bony.

  “You don’t know who he is, Nat?”

  Bony gazed at them all, and quietly smiled.

  “Yes, I know who he is. I’ve tracked him on Main Street.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Journey to the Hangman

  “WE ARE confronted by a problem,” Bony stated crisply. “We hold a very poor poker hand. Card one: a number of plaster casts of sandshoe and boot prints. Card two: several statements made by aboriginal police trackers in the form of second-hand reports to be offered by police officers. Card three: statements we hope to obtain from Iriti and his people partly supporting card two. It would be useless to play that three-card hand because, as I’ve said, what a thousand aborigines and we would believe, would not be acceptable to a jury of twelve white men.

  “We must not overlook a most important fact, which is that in these days a jury on a murder case almost expects to see the crime committed before it will convict. Your city man is educated to fingerprinting. We have to admit that fingerprinting is an exact science, and that footprinting is not and of itself does not convince a white man who wouldn’t know the difference between a dingo track and fox track.”