Breakaway House

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Would you grant me a favour?” she presently asked him.

  “Need you ask that? Command me.”

  “Take me outside where I can have a cigarette, will you?” she entreated. “I’m just dying for one and I haven’t yet plucked up sufficient courage to defy my uncle’s prohibition.”

  Brett laughed delightedly. The girl pleased him with her warm camaraderie after the cold aloofness bordering on snobbery which he had found in her on her return from that sojourn of years in Perth. “Let us conspire against your uncle without loss of time,” he urged.

  So it was that they two, leaving the supper room, came to that door beyond which Tremayne had seen Ned knocked down. Out in the darkness the air was balmy and soft.

  Brett led his companion along the wall of the great iron building till they reached a stack of weather-seasoned fence posts which provided a seat.

  “Ah! That’s lovely!” the girl murmured ecstatically, inhaling deeply.

  Across from them was the men’s kitchen. Bustling figures were revealed through the open doorway. Girls journeyed from the kitchen to the supper room laden with trays. One emerged from the kitchen. They saw distinctly that it was Nora. She was coming towards the shed, when a man dashed out of the skirting darkness, snatched her up in his arms and raced with her to Filson’s car. Then the car engine purred, the headlamps sent forward their beams, and the car speeded off towards Bowgada. They both saw that the man who had carried Nora away was Harry Tremayne.

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE AFFAIR AT ACACIA WELL

  “MR TREMAYNE is behaving rather peculiarly, don’t you think?” Frances said in those icy tones she knew so well how to exercise.

  “Well, one might assume that he should have lived in the days of James I, Miss Tonger,” Brett agreed, unable to decide whether to be angry or not. That Tremayne was merely abducting the girl seemed to him to be improbable.

  From beyond the kitchen a dark figure appeared, ran towards them, and then passed by into the ballroom.

  “Let’s go in, too. I want to dance,” Frances entreated, with just a hint of desperation replacing the chilling tones.

  “Wait a few seconds,” she was urged. “Come to the corner.”

  They gained the corner of the shed, passing the side door, and now had the big double doors on their left. Light poured from this entrance intensifying the darkness of the night.

  Three men emerged from the ballroom, one of whom Frances recognised as Buck Ross. Ross spoke rapidly, and one of the other men ran to a small shed some distance away. Ross and the other man hurried to the parked cars and trucks.

  “What shed is that – where that man has gone to?” Brett asked and was informed that it was the skin and hide shed. “Do you know what’s kept in it besides skins and hides?”

  His question was put quietly, but she sensed its possible importance and experienced the first hint of rising excitement. “Yes!” she replied. “Poisons and dips. Look! What’s he carrying to the car?”

  “It looks like a drum.”

  “A drum? An oil drum?”

  “Yes. What does a drum contain that might be stored in that shed, Miss Tonger?”

  “Sheep dip. Hide paint. Tar.”

  “Tar!”

  “Yes, tar,” she affirmed tensely. “What do you think they’re taking it for, Mr Filson?”

  Brett made no immediate reply. He watched the man with the drum reach the car in which the other two were waiting, its engine running and headlamps switched on. He saw the burdened man place the drum in the car’s tonneau and step in beside it. Then the machine was rapidly driven away over the track Tremayne had taken.

  “Mystery piled on mystery, Miss Tonger,” Brett said, venting a grim chuckle. “If you’ll excuse me escorting you back to the dance floor, I’ll just amble along, too.”

  “I’m going with you,” Frances said determinedly.

  “Better not. The air will be cold driving. You’ve no wraps.”

  “I can soon get a coat. You’ll wait? You’ll not go without me?”

  “Be advised. Go in and dance.”

  Frances caught at his arm and held it with pressure. “I don’t understand what’s going on, but I’m as anxious as you appear to be to find out,” she said rapidly. “Take me, please, Mr Filson. I’m not a sook.”

  “Very well. Run for your coat. I’ll take the first car I can start up easily.”

  Hobbling over to the parked cars, Brett selected a heavy six-seater standing in the outside line. The ignition key was in its lock and the engine turned over after the first few revolutions of the starting gear. Its low sound guided Frances to him, and, muffled in a raincoat, she took her place at his side. He was about to switch on the headlights when she said: “Couldn’t you drive with the lights just dimmed?”

  “Why, yes, but more slowly, although I know every yard of the track. Why dim the headlights?”

  “Because they’d be less likely to see us following them. If they knew we were following they might do nothing.”

  Brett laughed delightedly at her cunning. With the lights dimmed, they slid away. “But isn’t the reason of our little drive to prevent anything happening?” he asked.

  “Yes – but only just before it begins to happen. I want to catch Mr Tremayne with that black woman, and to stop those men doing anything with that tar. It was tar in the drum.”

  “In that case we shall have to travel a little faster.”

  The dimmed lights barely revealed the wheel tracks of the bush road, and since the car taken by Ross and his companions would now be at least one mile ahead of them, even if one of them happened to glance back, he would be unlikely to discern them.

  They soon reached and passed through the open gate half a mile from the homestead, the gate at which Nora had seen John Tremayne when she was oiling the Acacia Well mill, and, that passed, Brett knew that the track sank slightly lower than the general land surface and that his car lights would not be seen again by Ross until they were almost at his boundary gate.

  He risked damaging the car and increased his speed to thirty miles an hour. Presently a pale light glowed in the distance which, when it became stronger, revealed the cut line of the ground rise near the boundary of the two properties. It became just bright enough to indicate its source as being motor lamps facing Bowgada. Lower still dipped the tracks until they met a narrow water-gutter less than fifty yards from the Acacia Well gate. Here Brett stopped the car.

  “If you want to be a spectator in what might be a little drama, flavoured by comedy, I suggest we walk on from here,” Brett said. “Tread carefully and remember your dancing shoes.”

  “I changed them for tennis shoes. Don’t worry about me.”

  Together they reached the higher ground near the gate. Beams of light from two cars flooded the ground beyond the iron hut. In them a group of people danced like midgets. Yells and Nora’s screams drifted across the intervening space.

  “I can’t wait with you. I must run on,” Frances cried to Brett who was going as fast as he could.

  “Wait! Keep by me, Miss Tonger,” he ordered her sharply.

  “Oh! I’ll be all right. I must stop them.”

  Without further hesitation, Frances sped towards the group clearly revealed by the motor lights. A man lay stretched on the ground. Another man crouched before a man who covered him with a pistol. Two others were fighting a third man, and the third man seemed to be holding his own.

  Nora was dancing about close to the combatants, shrieking at the top of her voice with excitement. “Go on, Mr Tremayne! Hit him! Kill him! Kill that Buck Ross!” she implored.

  Frances halted just behind the motor lamps, concealed from any one of them who might look about casually, which, during these electric moments, would be most unlikely. From her toes to the top of her head her body thrilled and thrilled. The man crouching at the revolver point was Ned. She could see the whites of his eyes which glared fixedly at the man holding the weapon. His mouth was open; his ba
red teeth vying with the whiteness of the bandage around his head. She knew that the pistol had but to waver and Ned would spring. She felt like crying out at the courage of him.

  One of Tremayne’s assailants staggered back from a blow, sagged at the knees, and almost went to ground. He pawed his eyes like a man unable to see, staggered to his feet, looked dazedly about, and then lurched forward to something which gleamed whitely.

  “Knock that black on the head, Jake, and come and give us a hand,” Buck Ross shouted.

  “Go on, go on,” yelled Ned. “Shoot! Lift the gun to hit me – and I get you, you white fella devil.”

  “Kill him! Kill him!” screamed Nora, a strange caricature in her black maid’s dress and crumpled maid’s apron. Seeing the man pick up a big piece of white quartz, she looked round and pounced on a similar missile.

  It was at this point that Brett Filson hobbled into the shaft of light and towards the combatants. Frances heard him say: “Jake Matthews, drop that stone!”

  The man with the piece of rock swung round to face Filson, and without hesitation, hurled the jagged piece of quartz at the Bowgada squatter. It struck Brett full in the chest. For a second he seemed all whirling legs and stick before he crumpled and fell.

  But the practical Nora who could kill a running rabbit with a stone was more deadly in action than Jake Matthews. Her piece of quartz struck Matthews at the back of his head, and he collapsed instantly, causing Nora to scream louder in triumph.

  Frances ran to Brett Filson, who was supporting his body with his arms and coughing to regain his wind. The inert form of Fred Ellis began to move. So did Nora with her second missile. To make sure, she ran close to the man bailing up her Ned and, at short range, most unfairly placed him hors de combat. Even before he came to earth Ned and she were on him, clawing, smashing and yelling.

  “Hey! Stop it, you two. You’ll kill him. Take it easy,” gabbled Fred Ellis, lurching to his feet and beginning to run towards the heap of humanity.

  A sickening, smacking sound behind Frances, who was kneeling beside Brett Filson, made her turn her head just in time to see Buck Ross suspended in mid-air like an upturned land crab. Then the ground on which she knelt shook with the impact of his heavy body.

  Next minute Tremayne was beside her, helping Filson to his feet. “Hurt much, Brett? That was a foul rotten blow, to be sure,”

  “I’m all right. Knocked the breath out of me, Harry. Look! Go and help Ellis rescue that man from Ned and Nora.”

  Tremayne rushed over and yelled at Ellis: “Grab Nora, Fred. I’ll take Ned.” He wound his arms around Ned’s torso and pulled.

  Ellis acted similarly with Nora. Both pulled at the same time, but neither Nora nor Ned would let go their hold on the senseless gunman and his inert body was lifted clear from the ground between them.

  Tremayne laughed long and loudly, and his laughter penetrated the passion-inflamed brains. First Nora, and then Ned, let go their hold, they went limp in the arms encircling them, and broke into long peals of mirth, finally conquered by their inherent sense of humour.

  “That’s right. You calm down, We’ve ’ad enough excitement for one night. By cripes! How me ’ead aches,” Ellis cried after releasing Nora.

  “Get some Aspros, Fred,” advised Tremayne, “and bring out a bucket of water. These birds will want reviving by the look of them. Ah! Here’s Ross coming to. Now, Ross, get up and explain this business. Come clean or I’ll have you locked up.

  “You’d have me locked up!” Ross sneered, clumsily scrambling to his feet. “You got no right abducting black women and I’m going to have you charged with that, you flash upstart.”

  “What did you bring the tar for, Ross?” interrupted Brett slowly, unable yet to breathe without muscular constriction.”

  “What tar?”

  “The tar you ordered one or your mates to fetch from the skin house. Don’t deny it. I saw it brought. It seems to me that you’re active in a little game of your own. As Mr Tremayne advises: ‘Come clean’.”

  Being a man of substance and a Justice of the Peace, Brett desired strongly to take these three ruffians to Mount Magnet and hand them over to the police, but he wanted to ascertain what line Tremayne would take. Besides which, explanation was due from Tremayne too.

  “Well, if you must know, we was going to tar this flash bloke for forcibly abducting a black woman.”

  “I can understand your righteous indignation, my gallant prince,” Tremayne said banteringly. “However, as the other patients appear to be recovering, I’ll leave the explanation to Ned. Ned, come here and tell Mr Filson and Miss Tonger all about it.”

  Ned told his story with relish, even laughed when he described how he’d been struck with a length of shoeing iron, while Tremayne mustered the other two and marched them to the group.

  Ned continued: “So I was in the car when Mr Tremayne brought Nora and dumped ’er on top of me. An’ Nora, she fight like an old ewe, an’ Mr Tremayne telling me to go quiet and not bump ’er off. And then we get here with Buck Ross just behind us, an’ we get out an’ Buck Ross an’ his friends start fighting. An ole Fred Ellis, he joins in…”

  “So you see, Ross, your suspicions were entirely groundless,” Brett said sternly. “As I don’t wish to prolong this unpleasantness, and as no serious harm has been done, I’ll take no further action – provided you three get into your car and go back to Myme at once.”

  Without a word they obeyed, and drove off to Myme via Bowgada.

  “Nora, who told you to come to Breakaway House tonight?” demanded Frances.

  “Mr Tonger sent me word to go,” Nora replied saucily.

  “And I went after ’er,” added Ned abruptly.

  Frances turned towards the two cars without comment.

  “Come and get your parcel, Ned,” Tremayne ordered.

  CHAPTER XIV

  A PROBLEM SOLVED

  “NOW, Harry, if you’ll take Miss Tonger back to Breakaway House, I’ll come on after I’ve had a heart-to-heart talk with Ned and Nora,” was Brett Filson’s very welcome suggestion, at least to Tremayne.

  “But are you all right?” Frances asked him anxiously.

  “Quite, Miss Tonger,” she was assured. “A little sore, perhaps, but nothing to worry about. Please don’t delay on my behalf. Your guests will be wondering what has become of you.”

  “Very well. Are you ready, Mr Tremayne?”

  “I’m always ready. May I drive?”

  “Yes – if you wish, and aren’t reckless.”

  “I’m the most careful driver in Australia, as you will concede when we reach Breakaway House.”

  His last boast Tremayne proceeded to justify by keeping the speedometer needle pointing to the figure five, and when the first half mile had been covered in silence, Frances asked: “Has this car rear bumpers?”

  “Yes. Very strong bumpers, too. Why?”

  “It seems likely that Mr Filson will crash into us no matter how slowly he drives.”

  “Life is full of risks, but they’re so common that we seldom give thought to them,” he said, and then abruptly turned sideways to face her in a casual, conversational attitude, steering with one hand. “I haven’t yet apologised for being discovered by you engaged in fisticuffs. But, alas! I will never be a gentleman.”

  “Perhaps not. They say, once a policeman…”

  “Now, now! Why harp on that?” he cut in, grinning. “Let’s discontinue patting each other, metaphorically, I mean. Let’s talk about you on Monday in the shadow of that balancing rock, a subject of unequalled interest, I assure you.”

  “Do you say those things for the sake of hearing your own voice?” Frances inquired with dangerous mildness.

  The dash-light clearly revealed their faces to each other in semi-profile, and Frances noted the discoloration of the flesh about Tremayne’s left temple, indicating the recent impact of a fist. Almost despite herself, she was quickly coming to see that beneath his flippancy was strength of mind and f
ine character.

  “There are times,” he told her with sudden gravity, “when a man is very like a woman in that he says things to prevent himself saying others, and does things to stop himself doing other things he badly wants to do.”

  “For instance?”

  “The other day, when you fell off your horse because you were so angry with me, I teased you to prevent myself rushing after your horse and killing him. By the way, I trust that Mr Ross isn’t a great friend of your uncle’s?”

  “Bosom friend, no. I believe, though, that they have mutual business interests. Why do you ask?”

  “Because Ross is not the type of man I would have expected to find at a squatters’ ball. And the same applies to his friends.”

  “They have money.”

  “Have they?” Tremayne looked into her eyes with disconcerting directness. “Tell me, does your uncle entertain much?”

  “There seem to be always people coming to eat or sleep over night. But why these personal questions?”

  “One more, and then I’ll talk about moonlight and roses and melody. Are most of your uncle’s visitors of the Buck Ross type?”

  “Well…” she paused. “They’re not very interesting. Do I rightly assume that you are interested in my uncle and his guests in an official capacity?”

  “Unofficially, yes. I’m far more interested in some of your uncle’s chance guests than in your uncle, and much more interested in you than in all your uncle’s guests put together.”

  “I suppose that’s to be my reward for information given?” she asked pointedly.

  “If to hear truth is a reward…”

  “If you don’t drive more carefully, my reward will not be a compliment, but death. Tell me, how are your mother and father?”

  “I haven’t seen them for several years, but they are well, if worried very much about my younger brother, John.” Watching her face relax from a hard, cynical mask, Tremayne made up his mind to take chances with this girl. He had sensed her disapproval in her replies regarding Tonger and his associates.