Experience Points a Finger
THEafternoon was cold and blustery, and Bony employed the first part of it at Mr. Luton’s wood-heap, splitting billets for the stove and axing logs for the lounge fire. Mr. Luton did not approve, but Bony wanted exercise, and the labour did produce an idea. Into a tin he dropped the witchetty grubs which the splitting disclosed, juicy fat grubs about the size of a man’s thumb.
It was here that Knocker Harris found him, and, up-ending a log, he sat and relaxed preparatory to a gossip.
“Youdoin ’ a bit ofyakker,” he remarked on the obvious. “Bit of work don’t do nobody any ’arm, like. Have a good time in town?”
“Quite,” replied Bony, leaning on the axe.“Met the policeman. Seems all right.”
“Yair. Seems,” snorted Knocker. “Good atpinchin ’ drunks, and hoeing into the Italians when they kick up a dust. Sooner fish than earn his wages, though.” Mr. Harris spat. “Gonnaput me and John into an Old Man’s Home! That’s what he thinks.”
Bony chopped, watched shrewdly by Knocker, who presently said:
“You walk both ways or get a lift?”
“Walked. We tried to hire a boat, but none are available.”
“Beentryin ’ to get John to buy one, but he don’t take to the idea, like. Anyway, I’ve caught kingfish on me night line, so the yarn ofhavin ’ to troll for ’emdon’t play poker with me. You find out what was give to Ben?”
“Haven’t really tried. By the way, you saw him when he was dead?”
“Yair. About ten minutes after John found himkonked out in the sitting-room.”
“How did he look?”
“Look? Calm like. Coulda been asleep, but he wasn’t.”
“Have you ever seen a man dead of the horrors?” Bony asked, conversationally.
“No. Seen a bloke once pretty crook ondrinkin ’ homebrewed spud juice andmetho. He was a beaut. Black hair and aziff what hid all his faceexceptin ’ his eyes. Did he perform! You oughtaseen him.” The quiet drawling voice held no trace of humour, and not much of interest, till he said: “You know, what John calls the horrorsain’t real horrors, like. They had sense enough, them two, to go on the cure, like, before they got the dinkum sort of horrors. All they had wasseein ’ things what they could flick off their ears or their hair, like. They didn’t do noprancin ’ around, you know, like climbing up the roof or up a tree. They never yelled and screamed like some I knew in the old days. Only time they got excited was when they flogged the trees for bullocks. You oughtaseen ’em. Characters!”
“You never joined them?”
“No, Inspector, I never could. I can’t take it, like. The booze plays hell with me ulcers. One rum is my limit when I goes to town, and only then ’cosI got to be sociable, like.”
There seemed nothing of value to be gained from Knocker Harris, and Bony became bored. Relief was given by the noise of an approaching car, which aroused the dogs to frenzy.
“Could be theflamin ’ quack,” surmised Knocker. “Don’t you take nolip from him.”
A minute later there appeared round the side of the house a woman whose face resembled that of a horse, and whose stocky figure was made ridiculous by the tight brown trousers she was wearing. Her voice was harsh, and she was engaged in what is known as talking-down-in this instance, Mr. Luton.
“The quack’s old bitch,” inelegantly announced Knocker.
“Well, I certainly hope so, Luton,” the lady was saying. “As the doctor has so often told you, a man of your age ought not to take alcohol save medicinally, and then only sparingly.” Mr. Luton began to speak and was wiped off the slate. “We have been greatly worried about you, Luton. This isolation is tragic, tragic. It’s no use arguing. You’ll simply have to give up this place and live where you can be properly cared for. Oh!”
“This is Mrs. Maltby, the doctor’s wife,” boomed Mr. Luton, the lid of his left eye half-masted. “Inspector Bonaparte, Mrs. Maltby.”
“So you are Inspector Bonaparte, are you?” queried the lady. “Wonders will never cease. Before leaving town I called at the Post Office, and the postmaster asked me to bring a telegram for you.”
“That is kind of you,” Bony said, unsmilingly.
“No. I intended talking to Luton on my way back. Er… we have been thinking you might have called at the house. Mrs. Parsloe rather wants to speak to you. Some afternoon about four. Now I must be off. Good-bye, Inspector.”
Bony lowered his head politely, and the woman strode back to the gate with Mr. Luton and the accompanying dogs as escort. Knocker said, as though hoping that Mrs. Maltby would hear:
“Whatd’youknow?”
Bony chopped wood, hoping there were no more Mrs. Maltbys to be encountered during his career. There was only one way of dealing with such women, the way an aborigine deals with his impertinent gin, but that was not for Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte. Knocker Harris’s suggested treatment shocked even Bony. He repeated the suggestion for the reclamation of Mrs. Maltby to the returning Mr. Luton, and was sternly ordered to ‘cut that out, and come in for tea.’ Unabashed, Knocker followed Mr. Luton to the kitchen, and Bony followed more slowly while reading the message: