“Reckon that’s so,” agreed Harmon. “And we got no cards extra to those three you put up. And what’s more, our abos aren’t civilised. And there’s only a few of the young ’uns who can make themselves understood in English. Fat lot of use they’d all be on the witness-stand. But you have proof, Nat, that Tony didn’t make those tracks we got on to the other morning?”
“I found proof of that,” admitted Bony. “But there is no one to support me on that particular angle. So that evidence of itself couldn’t stand up in court. Actually, we are left with one course of action, and that is to make the murderer admit to his crimes.”
“How? Just tell us how, Nat,” implored Melody Sam.
“By making him come right out of his hole.”
“No answer. How?”
“In the cities, Sam, the Law has its special weapons. Fingerprinting is one. Ballistics is another. Blood classification is a third. Here the Law has its special weapons of a different kind: the weapons provided by nature, very special weapons, weapons little understood in the cities and therefore unacceptable in city courts of law. Our weapons may be listed as arts, not sciences, but nevertheless if used rightly can be just as powerfully effective in achieving the conviction of a criminal.
“Our criminal isn’t exceptionally clever, but he has employed one most important attribute when carrying forward his master plan: that of patience. Like most of us here, time has less influence with him than it would if he lived in a city. He has been patient enough to make his moves at the moment which favours him, and that moment isn’t when the policeman’s back is turned, but when he can confidently expect nature to be on his side.
“All this denies us the use of weapons provided by science, and the weapons to our hands become blunted if used to convince city people who don’t understand them, don’t want to understand them. Therefore, we have to use our special weapons to compel our criminal to confess to his crimes and provide the necessary evidence in support of our own, to convict him.”
“Well, what do we do, Nat?” demanded the exasperated Sam.
“We have lunch. Then we go along to talk with the aborigines. Then we sittum-down alla same poor abo and wait. Do I have your co-operation?”
“Wait for this feller to give himself up?” queried Thurley.
“Wait for him to make his move, that we can make our move, and so on, back and forth. Just like a cat and a mouse.”
“It’ll be fascinatin’ to watch,” supported the postmaster.
“Too right, Nat. Give your orders,” commanded Melody Sam,
“Les Thurley, kindly return to your office and relieve the switchboard operator for security. Then connect us with Lorelli.” The postmaster left, and several minutes passed before the telephone bell shrilled. “All right, Harmon. That’ll be Lorelli’s homestead. Find out how many men are there.”
At the phone, the policeman said that the cattleman and two hired hands were then at lunch.
“Ask him,” requested Bony, “to proceed at once to block the road to Laverton at a favourable place near his homestead. Suggest wire rope to reinforce the gate opposite his house. Answer no questions.”
Marvelling at his own acquiescence, Harmon complied, succeeding in gaining swift co-operation and promising an explanation later.
“So far so good,” Bony told him. “Now take Tony to lunch. Cross to your house as though you were comradely father and son. That will make our murderer still more curious. Sam, you and I will stroll to the hotel, where you will have lunch in the dining-room and I will take over the bar.”
There were few people on the sidewalks. There were people seated on the tree benches, and others stood idly in doorways of shops and houses. Talking gaily, Bony accompanied Sam to the hotel, and after arranging with the cook to bring him a tray lunch, he entered the bar, unlocked the front entrance, and wondered if the fly-wasp that came in and gathered a victim was the same wasp that had called on that first afternoon when he had persuaded dark-eyed, vivacious Katherine to act with him the love scene which had tricked Melody Sam up from his gelignite-protected lair.
As a good barman should be occupied, he was polishing glasses and betting ten to one that Bert Ellis, the council staff, would be his first customer, when he lost his wager on seeing Fred Joyce enter.
“Day, Fred!” he greeted cheerfully. “What’s it to be, beer?”
“A sort of show-down with you, Nat.”
Now Bony stood square with the counter and the customer. On the counter was a two-shilling piece and a well-kept Winchester rifle, the muzzle happening to be pointing towards the barman. Bony filled a beer glass, accepted the coin and dropped it into the till. Calmly he looked into the cold grey eyes regarding him, casually glanced at the rifle, finally looked back at the man.
“A show-down?” he questioned. “What about?”
“You were up at the poppet head waving to Harmon that the abos were coming back to Daybreak,” Joyce said accusingly. “You said Harmon wanted ’em officially. Why? You been with him since. Over at his office with Sam and Les Thurley. Well, what happened there?”
“Can’t see why you’re so damned interested,” returned the yardman. “Why don’t you ask Harmon? I’m only the woodcutter and beer-puller around here. What’s eatin’ you anyway?”
The hard grey eyes were discs of slate. Pressed hard on the counter were the man’s huge fists. The beer was forgotten.
“I gotta right to know what’s goin’ on,” asserted the butcher. “Harmon and you tracked young Carr on that last murder. You find all the evidence. Harmon arrests him. And now Harmon and Carr are close like lovin’ brothers. I gotta right to be told why. Tony Carr’s my responsibility. I’m his employer and all. I...”
“No good arguing the toss with me, Fred. There’s Harmon. Ask him. He’s the John, not me.”
“All right! All right, Nat!”
The man’s left hand casually went to the rifle grip, the other took up the glass, and, maintaining the stony stare on the barman, Joyce emptied the glass, banged it on the counter and ordered a re-fill.
“Me and Harmon had words last night, Nat. About nothing, really. Now be a pal and tell us what’s on the board over there.”
“Well, if you put it like that...” Bony placed the filled glass before Joyce, and began the making of a cigarette. “You could have pumped me up to a Sputnik when I looked in the office door and saw the meeting set up. Then when Harmon tells me to go over to his shed and fetch young Tony, you can understand.... Anyway, I did what Harmon asked, and then we were told to sit down and keep our traps shut.
“So Harmon tells us that, from information received, young Tony was framed for those murders. At least, that’s what he made it sound like. He did say, sort of stern, that he was taking us out to the aborigines’ camp to ask ’em a lot of questions. Didn’t say what about. I asked him, and he shut me up.”
“Yair. Could be you’re speaking true, Nat. I asked Les Thurley and he said the same.” The thick fingers began drumming on the counter. The slatey eyes remained directed to the barman, and the barman drew casually at his cigarette, and appeared to be momentarily interested in another fly-wasp, or the same one.
“I’ll tell you something, though, that might have a bearing, Fred.” Without being instructed, Bony refilled the customer’s glass, and a smaller one for himself. “It was the day before yesterday, in the morning, when I was over with the grey. Harmon called me into the office, all smoogey-like. He said ... yes, that was it ... he said: ‘You remember, Nat, when me and you were tracking young Carr that morning he murdered Kat Loader?’ I said I did, but that he wasn’t with me all the time because he went home for his gun and uniform trousers, and came back to pick me up. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘but you remember that rock surface where Carr changed the sandshoes for ordinary boots?’ I said I did, and he said: ‘Well, remember the root that Carr tripped over and then smoothed out his hand prints?’ I said I remembered that, too. So he goes on, Fred, and says: ‘Now
, Nat, from here on you remember right good. From that root where Carr tripped, can you remember anything funny about those tracks?’
“I did what he wanted, Fred,” continued Bony. “I thought back to that morning, and I can’t remember seeing anything funny about the tracks after Tony fell over the root. I told Harmon so. I told Harmon I’d been over all those tracks later on that morning. It was before you took the plaster casts in the yard. And I asked him what was funny about them.”
Bony sipped his drink, and worked on another cigarette, and the big man was literally dancing, his fingers tattooing the linoleum-topped counter.
“Well, did he tell you what was funny about them tracks?” he shouted, really shouted.
“All right! All right! What’s up with you, Fred? You got the willies or something? Better change over to whisky, if you’re going to go on like that. I’m not deaf.”
With terrific effort Joyce regained control.
“Sorry, Nat. I am a bit cranky this morning. Missus been playing up. You know, too much drink and all that. Now, look, what you been saying is very interesting. I went round Carr’s tracks with the aborigines, and they didn’t say anything about the tracks being funny.”
“No use arguing with me, as I said a while ago, Fred. I wasn’t with you and the abos that time.”
“I’m not arguing, Nat,” Joyce almost pleaded. “Now just tell what Harmon said was funny about those tracks. No, I don’t want another drink.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I think I can repeat his very words, Fred. He said: ‘From information I’ve received about Carr’s tracks, after he tripped over the root he didn’t limp. Not for about a hundred paces he didn’t limp, Nat. Now how come you didn’t notice he didn’t limp when he’s got a natural limp?’ I said what did he think I was ... an expert aboriginal tracker? And he said: ‘It’s a damned funny thing, Nat, that Iriti and Abie and all them others didn’t see that Carr walked without a limp after he fell over the root.’ And that, Fred, is what I reckon he’s taking us out to the camp this afternoon for, because if he’s right, then why didn’t the aborigines point out to you that Carr forgot to limp when he was all chewed up after tripping?”
Joyce was now breathing heavily. He said:
“Yes, why? A man who limps don’t forget to limp, does he?”
“Not that I know of, Fred. A feller limps, he limps, doesn’t he?” Bony now stared hard, meeting Joyce’s hardness of eye. He was being examined patiently when previously impatience had ruled the other. Joyce was waiting for the implication to dawn in the mind of this barman, the answer to his own question: ‘If a feller limps, he limps, doesn’t he?’ And with iron control waited for the answer: If a feller forgets to limp, then his limping was put on.
“I better be going,” he said slowly. “Must run down to Laverton, and then on to Kal. Spot of business to attend to.”
Taking up the rifle, he withdrew the bolt sufficiently to see the cartridge case in the breech, and as though without intent, held the weapon that the barman could see it too. “Might get a ’roo or something,” he added, laying a hint of emphasis on the ‘something’. Almost carelessly, he swung the rifle in an arc to point at Bony, and his grey eyes held a hungry look as though, having had death in his fingers, he wanted to have it again.
Bony turned his back, went to the rear wall bench and returned with a tray of clean glasses. This he put down on the counter and began to polish the glasses. Then, glancing at the butcher, he asked:
“Another drink, Fred? Long way to travel. Oh, you said you didn’t want another. Wonder how Harmon got Tony Carr back to Daybreak so secretly. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was only a yarn, you know, about Tony getting away from him near Laverton. Harmon’s been on to something, with his mind dwellin’ on tracks he reckons look funny. I couldn’t see anything funny about them.”
“Nor me, Nat. I don’t see anything funny about anything.” The slate-grey eyes were calculating, powerfully probing, and Bony was beginning to feel the strain. He failed to understand why no other customer entered the bar, and why the cook did not appear with his lunch.
“Manner of speaking, Fred,” Bony said, vigorously polishing an already well-polished glass. “Anyway, Tony’s pretty thick with Harmon this morning, and Harmon telling me to fetch him to the office ... well, it all beats me. I give up. Horsebreaking’s my line. I’m sticking to it, too. Harmon can make his arrests when and how he likes after this.”
“I don’t know, Nat,” Joyce drawled with ice-cold tones. “I’ve a mind...” The rifle muzzle came again to bear on Bony. The man gulped visibly. “I’d better be going.”
Abruptly turning, he made for the door, paused there to look up and down the street before passing from Bony’s view. The quietness of the day came in, to be mocked by the barroom clock, and Bony thankfully left his glasses, passed through the counter opening, and thumped over the floor to the street door. Noisily he unhooked it from where it was fastened to the inside wall, and whistled a tune to inform the world, and possibly Fred Joyce standing just outside, that he was going off duty, and glad of it.
From the curtained front window he could see nothing of Joyce. No one was in sight. Nothing stirred in the town. A half minute slipped into limbo and the passage door was quietly opened, causing Bony to spin about. It was Melody Sam.
Across the area of the bar-room they looked steadily at each other, before Sam tiptoed dramatically through the counter opening, and so to stand with Bony. Outside somewhere a motor engine broke into roaring life.
“That will be Fred,” Bony said, and sighed. “He’s our man.”
The vehicle was coming up the street towards the hotel. They saw it pass—a utility driven by the butcher.
“The bastard’s getting away,” roared Melody Sam, and Bony said, reassuringly:
“No, Sam, he’s not getting away. He’s beginning the journey to the hangman.”
Chapter Twenty-two
The Fidget
1
FROM THE south end of Main Street they could see the dust cloud and its dark metal tip speeding towards Lorelli’s homestead and far distant Laverton. Sometimes the sunlight glinted on the utility, at others a land fold hid it.
“Five miles on a rough road, say fifteen minutes,” Bony remarked, and raced across the street to the police station, where he shouted for Harmon before entering the office. At the telephone he asked for the Lorelli homestead, and the waiting postmaster put him through at once.
“Mr Lorelli ... quickly, please,” he asked the housekeeper.
When the cattleman spoke, Harmon introduced Bony, who then took over the receiver.
“The road block, Mr Lorelli. What have you done?”
“Strung wire windlass rope between the gateposts, Inspector. My men are there now. What’s up?”
“The situation is delicate,” Bony said. “Frederick Joyce is on his way, possibly intending to travel to Laverton. He is suffering from grave mental distress. He is armed and might be dangerous. I am hoping that when he sees you and your men at the blocked gateway he will take the branch track westward to your mill and well at the edge of the mulga. If he does not, invent excuses to stop him from proceeding past your house until I arrive there. Now back to your block, please, and let me know the result.”
“Good enough, Inspector. I can see his dust on the track beyond my window. About a mile off. He’s coming like hell.”
Bony heard footsteps retreating hurriedly before silence shut away the homestead. Then: “Harmon, your car. And guns. Sam, have trucks go and bring in Iriti and all his bucks. Have them brought here to the compound. Feed them. A ration of tobacco. Keep them here. No questions now.”
Tony Carr appeared in the doorway, and Bony beckoned.
“Tony, I want you to stay here and take over this telephone. Clear?”
“Taking over the phone is. Nothing else. What_____”
“No questions. Do as you’re asked ... with a smile. Ah! Yes, Mr Lorelli. Yes! He has! Good! Excellent! Ye
s. I anticipated he’d take that side track, but I wanted to be sure he would when he saw you on guard at the gate. Thank you very much. Yes, remain there till we come. Thanks again.”
Bony hung up, and at once was called by Les Thurley at the switchboard. His voice was desperate with curiosity.
“My plan has worked very well so far,” Bony told him. “The man I want has left Daybreak in a panic. I cannot answer questions just now. Please stand by your board.”
Harmon came in, carrying a rifle. He opened his safe and dragged out service revolvers, and, his arms loaded, he glared wolfishly at Bony, saying:
“It’s Joyce, eh? What happened?”
“Tell you on the way. Come on!”
In the car, bucking like a steer and with Daybreak blotted out behind by its dust, Bony related what had taken place in the hotel bar, and outlined his successful strategy at Lorelli’s homestead.
“I wanted him to bolt, and he did,” he shouted above the racket. “I wanted him to run for the mulga, and he’s doing that right now. To make sure of it, I got Lorelli to frighten him off the Laverton road. He’s just a mouse, Harmon, and I wanted him to run into a hole of my own choosing.”
“Go on! Go on! I don’t get it,” shouted the policeman.
“You will. I started panic in him when in the bar, and now panic has him by the throat. I know what he’s thinking. I know where he’s making for, and I’ve driven him to his ultimate destination.”
“Where’s that, damn it?”
“The aborigines’ ceremonial ground, Harmon. I made him believe that you know everything, have all the evidence to hang him ten times over. He’s running for the only place he believes he can hold out, shoot it out with us. But the forest, man! The forest will give us the vital evidence to raise what we have to legal perfection.”
Bony and the Mouse Page 16