Bony - 28 - Madman's Bend

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “You would be foolish to attempt it, Bony,” said Mrs Cosgrove, who was standing beside him. Ray, appearing at his other side, earnestly agreed with her.

  “I think it feasible to scull a boat close to the bank up to the place where Lush’s body was held,” Bony explained, “then to row fast across the river, when the current would take the boat downstream and permit a landing on that sand spit over there.”

  “Looks feasible, but it’s damn dangerous,” Ray said. “And how do you plan to get back this side again?”

  “By the return route. Up along that far bank, then cross to be swept down to land where I started.”

  “Just why do you want to do it?” asked Mrs Cosgrove. “What d’you hope to find over there?”

  “Something missed at my last visit.”

  “But no sure purpose?”

  Bony sighed, shrugged, and fell to making a cigarette. “I have a long record of crime-investigation successes,” he said, so softly that he might have been talking to him­self. “The record is founded on patience, tenacity, obser­vation. I’ve had a great ally, time. Should I fail in this particular investigation, no one is going to concede that it was the river which defeated me. That will be bad enough, but what will be far worse is that I myself will know that, had I not feared this day, I would have crossed and might have found a clue to add another success to the total. So I must cross, or never want to see myself again in a shaving-mirror.”

  “Then the sooner you make the attempt the better,” young Cosgrove said. “Help me with the boat. We can manage.”

  “I shall not stay to watch,” said Mrs Cosgrove, and left them.

  Ray led Bony to a near-by shed, where the two boats lay bottoms-up on trestles. He advised Bony to take the smaller craft, saying it was the easier to row, and this they turned over to rest on a wheeled carriage.

  “Better take an extra oar, Bony. You might lose one. Never know how it will turn out.”

  The boat was launched below the pumping-engine slipway, and Ray turned it about to grasp it by the stern and allow Bony to step in.

  “You know how to row, I suppose?” the young man taunted him. “Take a mug’s advice and face the bow and push at the oars. You can see where to go.”

  Now that he was about to begin the crossing, Bony’s depression lifted.

  “I’ll be all right,” he called over a shoulder, and shipped the oars. “Push me off, and thank you.”

  He felt the stern sink lower with the forward move­ment, then felt the craft shudder, and heard a splash. Thinking that Ray had fallen in, he was about to whirl the boat about when Cosgrove said:

  “Full speed ahead, Bony, or we’ll be taken into the billabong.”

  “You idiot! What are you in the boat for?”

  “ ’Cos you can’t row close to the bank with your star­board oar out. I can feather-scull over the stern, and keep it hard against the bank.”

  When they had passed the inlet to the billabong Bony was ordered to unship his oars; turning, he berated his companion, who was standing and calmly moving the craft within a foot of the steep and greasy bank.

  “Shut up, Bony. I’m the captain of this ship. Save your breath for oar-pushing. You’ll want it.”

  “Lunatic!” shouted Bony, really angry. “Mrs Cosgrove will be furious with me for allowing you to take risks without possible reason. We’ll put back. Turn the boat around.”

  “You attend to your duties, sir. So far we’re doing nicely.”

  Bony surrendered. It was too late to turn back. He was conscious of the bank slowly passing on the one side and an enormous tree passing on the other, its branches seem­ingly reaching for the cockleshell. Inactivity was begin­ning to attack him when Ray asked did he think this was far enough up-river to make the crossing.

  “What do you think?” he countered, sensibly admitting that the young man had had far more experience than he.

  “This will do. Let’s see what’s coming first. Right! All clear, bar the rising submarines. Now push like hell.”

  Bony pushed like hell, and Ray feathered hard to keep the bow slightly up-river. The current took them, and the trees on the far bank seemed miles away and determinedly marching up-river. Ray began to whistle the “Jolly Swag­man” to a march beat. Then Bony’s starboard oar scraped on something harder than water, and up beside them rose a “submarine”. Fortunately they found themselves on the right side of it, and when Bony again dipped the oar the log had sunk.

  Cheerfully, Cosgrove shouted, “See what I mean, Bony. Good enough to sink a battleship. Lash into it, old pal. Only another ten or twelve miles to go.” A mass of tree bark entwined about a buoyant branch bore down upon them, and Ray had to turn the bow of the boat directly upstream to permit it to pass between them and the bank. The bank was now some fifty yards ahead of them.

  When they entered the narrow strip of backwater against the bank Bony was thankful for many small mercies and convinced he would never have made the crossing without Ray Cosgrove’s powerful assistance. With his feathering oar astern, the young man took the boat downstream to the upper “shore” of the sand spit and held the bow against it.

  Bony tossed the anchor to dry land, jumped from the boat, and hauled it high to permit Ray to join him.

  “Nice going, Bony. We’ve earned a fag.”

  “And we have an audience, Ray.”

  On the levee stood the cook and Jacko and Mrs Cos­grove. They were too far off for their expressions to be seen, but the young man offered a guess when he said with mock childishness, “My muvver is gonna go crook when I gets ’ome.”

  “Serve you right. She is entitled to,” Bony said, severely. “I’m not ungrateful, but I cannot commend your action. Most certainly I would not have agreed to it. Now let us take a little walk.”

  They went up to the summit of the bank, and there they could see water amid the trees inside the bend. Almost at once they saw a carpet snake some eight feet long; they were to see many others of various species, from diamond to black snakes, aroused by the creeping water.

  Arming themselves with sticks, they proceeded under the line of red-gums, the debris of which made walking easy; beyond was deep mud. They could hear the noise of the machines away from the shearing-shed, and, as no one sat or stood by the fireplace, Bony presumed that Dead March Harry and his mate were working.

  At the site of the bedraggled, vacated camp Bony asked Ray to sit on a log and be silent while he wandered about and concentrated on reading a story from the rain-soaked ground. As previously noted, the rough-cut poles proved that each of The Brothers had stretched a sheet to form an inverted V to give shelter in case of rain, and beneath these Vs each had formed a thick mattress of leaves. It was a universal practice with men intending to camp more than one night.

  Now Bony kicked these leaf mattresses asunder, hoping that one of The Brothers might have pushed something of value among them and forgotten it. There was nothing. He saw two other such mattresses and kicked those to pieces, too; then he realized that above these were no poles. Five men had been camping here, two in addition to The Brothers. He would have to ascertain which of the ten they were.

  The Brothers had not been unmindful of the ants; they had tossed bottles and tins into a shallow hole some dozen yards from the camp, and here Bony found tomato and Worcester sauce bottles outnumbering a few spirit bottles and several beer bottles.

  Bony called to Ray and asked if the bottles of Irish whisky were stamped with the distiller’s name. He was told that they were, and he found no bottle stamped by Skilly. This dump had been visited by a dog since the rain. The easterlies had carried sheets of newspaper and the well-remembered outside cover sheet of the Bulletin against bush and trees, and much of it still remained des­pite the downpour. Of tissue wrapping paper there was not a shred.

  “Find anything?” Ray asked when Bony sat with him, smoking.

  “Nothing of significance. However, there were five men, not three, camped here. The Brothers had two
guests.”

  “Pity! Had our little row for nothing. Still, it was a break from work.”

  “You mightn’t think so on the way back.”

  “Oh, we’ll get back all right,” said Ray with the assur­ance of youth. “Crikey, look at that!”

  It was a small dog of very mixed ancestry. It stood look­ing at them from the rubbish dump, and its tail was wagging slowly as though its owner were doubtful of the two men. At Ray’s sharp whistle the tail flagged relief, and the animal advanced, venting low moans of pleasure. Her flanks were tucked in by hunger.

  “The Brothers must have left her behind,” Ray said, and clicked his fingers to encourage the dog further. She came right to him, and turned herself into the shape of an S.

  “She’s suckling pups—probably has them hidden and wouldn’t leave without them.”

  Ray began to speak to the dog as though she could understand English, asking about her pups, where they were. Bony started off on another inspection of the camp and, having the dog in mind, sought and found no meat bones. He was aware that the dog was trotting into the bend and that Ray Cosgrove was following her. He teased the mattresses again, and his persistence was rewarded even as Ray shouted for him to join him.

  Picking up the unexploded ·32 cartridge, he pocketed it and went through the leaves with his hands to scatter them thoroughly. Finding nothing further, he joined Cosgrove at the end of a wind-severed tree branch. The absence of meat bones at the camp was explained by the numerous well-gnaw­ed bones about the branch.

  “She’s got her pups in there,” Ray said, pointing to the splintered end of the branch. “You can hear them. I’ve reached in, but I can’t touch one.”

  “A problem to get them out. We can’t leave them or the mother here.” Bony was obliged to force his mind from the cartridge and the two additional men to this pups problem. “Now if we only had a length of fencing wire.”

  “Fencing wire! If that’s all we need there’s an old fence down-river a bit. How much do we want?”

  “About a couple of yards to make sure. Bring it, and I’ll try to coax the mother out again.”

  Ray Cosgrove departed for the wire, and Bony squat­ted and whistled cheerfully, fondling the cartridge in his pocket.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Unappreciated Rescue

  BONY WAS holding the dog when Ray returned with the wire.

  “I don’t want to use the wire save as a last resort, Ray. Think we could up-end the branch so that the pups would fall out?”

  “No skin off our noses to try.”

  “We cannot free this lady, and we’ve nothing to tie on to her. Bar that wire. You hold the dog.”

  Had the animal worn a collar the task would have been simple. The wire was old but still stiff. Eventually Bony managed to form a knot which could not slip, and she was attached to another branch.

  Their efforts to raise the branch failed. It was neces­sary to smoke a cigarette before putting the ultimate plan into execution.

  “Now we’ll have to be cruel to be kind, as your great-great-grandmother probably said more than once,” Bony decided. “This entire bend area will be under water by tomorrow. You’ll have to hold the bitch fast, because the pups are going to yell.”

  “I see now how you’ll operate, Bony. Yes, she’ll struggle for sure.”

  The wire was removed from the dog, and Bony straight­ened it and selected a jagged end. Lying full length on the ground, he inserted the wire into the hollow branch and gently felt with it. He could hear the animal inside and when one yelped with surprise he held the end of the wire against it and slowly twisted. The jagged end became enmeshed in hair, and when the pup was strongly protesting Bony was able to draw it from the branch. Its eyes were not yet open.

  Meanwhile the mother was frantic. She quietened a little when given the pup. Bony’s second attempt was not as quickly successful; there was strong protest before he succeeded. Numbers three and four were brought out yell­ing their heads off. Number five seemed to be playing hide-and-seek with the end of the wire, and it took half an hour of prospecting to capture it.

  “I can hear no more,” Bony said. “Any hurt?”

  “One’s got a bit of hide off, and two are scratched some­what. That’s a neat trick.”

  “A lubra first adopted it to get a rabbit from a blind hole. Trust the blacks to invent ways to avoid hard work. Over in West Australia they don’t go to all the trouble of running a meat trail and laying poison baits for foxes; then they’d have to get up at first light to defeat the crows before they tear at the skin. Father Abo sits off the burrow with a shotgun, and Mother Abo sneaks on to the burrow and coughs down a hole. She creeps away, and the fox comes up to see what made that strange noise.”

  “They’re trumps, Bony, old shipmate. Where do we go from here?”

  By now the dog was pacified, and between them they carried the pups to the boat. Ray said that MacCurdle would go crook on him for bringing back five useless mongrel pups to grow into sheep-killers.

  “They just couldn’t be kelpies or border collies,” he said. “They just had to be mongrels. Probably have to shoot ’em. Well, Mac can do that. I couldn’t after the trouble of getting them out.”

  They were sitting on the bank, damp as it was, and the dog was feeding her pups. Bony was again absorbed by the river.

  “The water’s changing colour,” he said, “or am I imag­ining it?”

  “You’re right. It is. It’s getting reddish. I know—it’ll be the water from Red Creek. Runs the colour of blood. The audience is on again.”

  On the other bank was the men’s cook in his white apron, and with him were Jacko and Vickory and several others. Bony sought the sun’s position.

  “After twelve, Ray. Lunch time. Shall we push off?”

  “Might as well.”

  With the dogs in the bow, and Bony sitting facing them and ready to ship his oars, Ray propelled the boat up-river, hugging the bank. He was aware of a grave diffi­culty to be overcome. Two hundred yards above the sand spit there was a protuberance of the bank about which the main river current was strong. At this point there was no reverse “shore” current. Coming down-river it was easy to navigate this miniature headland. Now approaching it Ray pointed out that the current might take charge of the bow, swing it outward and take them downstream.

  “I could use an oar to help,” Bony shouted, and thrust the outside oar into the rowlock.

  Without the oar work the current might have won. They went higher up-river to make the crossing, and for a moment or two studied the surface, and then waited for several ugly masses of flotsam to pass by, and observed two wallowing “submarines”.

  The crossing was made, and again Bony was thankful that young Cosgrove was with him. Eventually they were welcomed by the audience.

  Mrs Cosgrove glared at Bony and berated her son. Vickory asked why they were such lunatics, and snorted when Bony told them that he had heard a dog barking on the opposite side, had seen the dog was fearful of the rising flood, and had merely gone over to rescue it.

  “It’s our dog,” claimed a bearded man Bony knew to be one of The Brothers. “Disappeared three-four days before we left camp.”

  “Well, get rid of the pups, Silas. Pity you brought ’em back, Inspector.”

  “We couldn’t leave them after she led us to them in a hollow tree branch,” said Bony quietly. The Cosgroves had gone off to the house; The Brothers took their dog and the pups, and Bony never subsequently inquired after them.

  Before lunch Mrs Cosgrove asked to be forgiven for blaming him about her son, who had admitted he had tricked Bony into taking him on the voyage.

  “Actually, I am very glad he did, Mrs Cosgrove, because I don’t think I would have made it alone. I was angry when I found him in the boat, but. … By the way, did you happen to mention why I wished to cross?”

  “No.” She smiled in that tight manner which gave him cause to wonder whether she was still furious with him
. “Your story to the men was rather thin, don’t you think?”

  “I thought it was rather good,” Bony said, laughingly. “Better a thin one than none. And you should be proud of Ray. He’s quite dauntless.”

  “I am proud of him. As you say, he’s utterly fearless. But neither of you should have taken such risks. You gave me a bad time, but I hope you found it worth while.”

  “Yes, I did.” Bony beamed at her. “We rescued the dogs.”

  “Bony, sometimes you resemble my husband. He used to speak provokingly like that. I am glad, however, that your venture was profitable. My, we must go in to lunch.”

  Before MacCurdle went out again Bony asked for a spare map of the local area, and was supplied with a large-scale map of the Darling Basin. All the station homesteads were marked, as well as the crossings, whether by bridge or ferry. Against the homestead of Markham Downs he printed: Jacko during vital period until next day. Against Murrimundi he printed: D. M. Harry and Mick-Warder. Then he rang up Constable Lucas.

  “When next you see the mailman ask him if he delivered goods to the men called The Brothers. Could be anything. Say within the last four months. Then inquire at the general store as to whom they sold ·32 calibre cartridges, throughout the same period. Anything for me?”

  “Not much so far. On the night in question Wally Watts called for a handout at the Dunlop kitchen, and the Paroo Bikeman was seen camped at the shearing-shed at the Crossing on the night before the vital period cover­ing the Lush murder. I haven’t been able to trace Bosun Dean and Champion so far, but I’ll keep trying.”

  “Thanks, Lucas. It’s a nice contribution.”

  “How’s the flood up there? The rain will raise it more. How much did you get?”

  “A few points over four inches,” Bony replied.

  “Same here. Break up of the dry spell, all right.”

  On this note they severed connection. On his map Bony printed Wally Watts against Dunlop homestead, and the Paroo Bikeman against the Crossing. The placing of the last-named man was interesting. The Crossing was sixty miles up-river from Mira; the distance would be nothing to the Paroo Bikeman, who might well have been camped near the scene of the crime when it was committed. The Dunlop homestead was approximately twenty-five miles up-river, and it seemed un­likely that Wally Watts would have covered that mileage in one day, big and powerful though he was. To tramp twenty-five miles in a day a man would need to have a distinct objective, and none of these no-hopers was at all likely to be so energetic.