Dropping the flimsy to the table, he drank while regarding his host over the glass, as he had done down below.
“Not the usual wording,” he said.“Slightly ambiguous, the ambiguity being the additional personal note from Linton. Good man, Linton. We all like him, though he isn’t prone to ‘additives’, a word now favoured by oil companies advertising petrol. Normally, ‘report back or be damned’; in this instance, ‘add my personal entreaty you comply without delay.’ And so, Mr. Luton, as someone once said: ‘The game’s afoot.’ ”
Mr. Luton could not, of course, understand the basis of his guest’s obvious satisfaction, and naturally could not grasp the real significance of that telegraphed order. He knew that Bony had applied for and had been granted ten days’ leave of absence from duty, but did not see the point that, the leave period being granted, only a reason vitally important would have dictated its cancellation.
He was not perturbed when Bony abruptly withdrew to the front veranda, there to meditate until called for lunch. During lunch Bony spoke but seldom, so preoccupied was he, and immediately after lunch he went out to the garden without offering assistance with the washing-up. It was three o’clock when Bony reappeared to say that the Reverend Weston was fishing from the bank, and that he had a score to settle with him. And:
“Afternoon, Padre. Any luck?”
Light grey eyes were turned upon Bony, and the quick smile did nothing to soften the ever-present hint of harsh intolerance.
“Ah! Good afternoon. No, they are not biting to-day.”
“Do you mind if I cast beside you?”
“Go right ahead. Let your neighbour do unto you what you did unto him.”
Old clothes and weathered boots failed to detract from this man’s grimly powerful personality. He examined Bony as the latter baited a hook with a bunch of garden worms. The long brown fingers fumbled with the task, and so the parson turned his attention to his own gear. That gave Bony the chance to bait with witchetty grubs.
Before those grubs had descended three feet they were devoured by a fast-moving kingfish. The water swirled. The tip of Bony’s rod flashed downward.
A kingfish is a different proposition from a gentlemanly trout. There are no ‘by your leaves’ in his make-up, and he has much in common with Australian politicians and Australian thugs, who invariably mix it, boots and all. Bony was determined to land this fish, and without damage to Mr. Luton’srod, and the Reverend Weston quickly admitted that he knew how to handle this ruthless fighter.
It occupied Bony eleven minutes to bring the fish to the gaff expertly wielded by Mr. Weston, whose sportsmanship was adequately proved. Afterwards they sat on the log seat and estimated the weight of the catch as being about fourteen pounds. That subject disposedof, it was time for a cigarette. Then they tried again, with worms, and nothing happened, and Mr. Weston said he really would have to employ someone or other to prepare the boat for trolling.
These two men found much in common. They were both insatiably curious. The minister was the less patient.
“Would you be offended if I asked you one or two candidly personal questions?” he asked.
“Not at all, provided they don’t touch my income-tax returns. I suggest that we trade a little. It could be that we stand either side a fence.”
“Agreed. We’ll trade. You open the negotiations.”
“What was the basis of Ben Wickham’s friendship with John Luton?”
“Alcohol. His father was a solid drinker, and he lived long. Ben took after his father, but he didn’t have his father’s rigid social code.” Weston smiled when he added: “Nor did he have his father’s capacity and staying power.”
“Thank you, Padre. I have two more,” Bony said.
“Good. Shoot them.”
“At whose instigation was Wickham’s body cremated?”
“Difficult. I think it was I who first suggested it. There is much to be argued in favour of cremation,?sthetically chiefly. I recall that the suggestion was opposed by Mrs. Parsloe, and supported by Dr. Maltby and his wife. Mrs. Parsloe surrendered when Maltby further suggested the dispersal of the ashes over Mount Mario, as a fitting gesture to a famous man.”
“Again, thank you. My third question: Is Dr. Maltby well off?”
“I can best answer that by saying that Maltby and his wife are worried by the non-location of Wickham’s will, under which, Wickham once told them, they were to receive substantial sums.”
“Would you permit a fourth question?”
“Certainly,”assented the Rev. Weston, brows uplifted to narrow forehead.
“When Luton asserted that Wickham died of a cause not due to alcohol, why was a post-mortem not insisted on:
Weston chuckled, and the humour in his eyes seemed to be genuine.
“It was obvious, even to Maltby, that the cause of Wickham’s death was the effect of too much alcohol on his weak heart. Luton could produce neither proof nor logic in support of his astonishing assertions. I think I see what you are driving at, Bonaparte. The feeble-minded might be led to indulge in a whispering campaign, but that couldn’t touch the family. Anything more?”
“No,” replied Bony, smiling. “It’s now your turn.”
“Very well. How did you manage to rise so high in your Police Department? I am not being impertinent, I do assure you. You must have met many obstacles, extraordinary hurdles, and I sense a story far more irresistible than that of errand boy to millionaire.”
“My beginning was subordinate to that of the errand boy,” replied Bony. “I was found beneath a sandalwood tree, found in the arms of my mother, who had been clubbed to death for breaking a law. Subsequently, the matron of the Mission Station to which I was taken and reared found me eating the pages of Abbotts’sLife of Napoleon Bonaparte. The matron possessed a peculiar sense of humour. The result-my name. Despite the humour, she was a great woman. Aware of the burden of birth I would always have to carry, she built for me the foundations of my career. My entry to the Queensland Police Department came about after I had won my M.A. at the Brisbane University, and my progress in the Department has been due to the fortunate fact that the Commissioner abhors failure in anyone, and has managed to evade dropping dead from rage-induced apoplexy long enough to ensure that I received just recognition. You see, I have never failed to finalise an investigation.”
“You must find that most gratifying,” dryly remarked Mr. Weston, and the undertone was not unnoticed by Bonaparte.
“I must not fail, and that is not gratification of vanity. You may fail and try again. Another’s failure will be accepted without comment, and little effect on his career. To yet another, failure will have no adverse effect on his mind or his career, for he will take it as temporary. But I must not fail, ever.”
Mr. Weston was not unintelligent.
“Tell me more,” he urged, “of your career.”
“That Mission Station matron began it,” Bony went on. “She gave me all her affection and, too, she gained mine. She began my training before I could crawl, began the building of this misnamed man of two races. She inculcated in me beliefs and ambitions which were to become the driving forces of my life; and with these forces I have had to contend against prenatal influences inherited from my aboriginal mother. She instilled into my mind the ability to see and evaluate my own limitations, and enough wisdom to detour, as it were. She taught me to fear nothing of the living, to fear no one other than myself. She didn’t think of it, I suppose, because she didn’t teach me not to fear the dead.”
“And you really feel yourself omnipotent to-er-finalise your present investigation?”
Mr. Weston found himself drawn to meet the blue eyes of the man who turned slowly to look at him. It was then that Mr. Weston realised that his ideas of half-castes were somehow just so much tosh. It was then that he first realised that the circumstances of a man’s birth are no obstacle, save to the snob. He heard a voice which seemed to have no association with the mind beyond those extraordinary eyes.
“My present investigation, Padre?”
“Well, er… I thought… I thought you might have credited old Luton’s crazy theories with a modicum of truth. There could be a basis of truth in them, don’t you think?”
“What do you think, Padre?”
Mr. Weston felt like a small boy caught out in some deceit. Abruptly, he regretted having been so superior, of having thought of himself as being a pinnacle high above a half-caste. He was angry now, because he suspected he had been subtly encouraged to tumble into a trap. He had to answer that question; and truthfully.
“I think there might be something in what the old boy says.”
“Mr. Luton has had a wide experience of delirium tremens,” reminded Bony.“Proof of his assertion that each type of spirituous liquor will produce its distinctive demons, is, however, not forthcoming. Were you referring to Mr. Luton’s assertion that Ben Wickham did not die of alcoholic poisoning?”
“If we admit that Mr. Luton is right on the first, then he could be right on his second claim,” allowed Mr. Weston, mopping his forehead with a red silk handkerchief, and obviously relieved that Bony was gazing outward over the river.
“There are, I understand, many people made happy by his death.”
“That is so, Inspector Bonaparte.”
“Do you think that among them are those living locally?”
“I could admit only to the possibility.”
“When did you first come to think there could be something in Mr. Luton’s theories?”
Mr. Weston hesitated.
“It was some time after Ben’s body had been cremated. I am sure of that.”
Bony said suavely: “Should I begin an investigation relative to the death of Ben Wickham, be sure that I shall continue until I prove to myself, at least, that he was murdered or that he was not murdered. Meanwhile, I am enjoying my stay with my old friend.”
“Of course! Of course! Then am I to understand that you are not investigating the circumstances surrounding the demise of my late friend?”
“You are to understand precisely what appeals to you most.”
“Ah! You do right to chide me, Inspector. Pray accept my questioning as from an interested party. Perhaps Mr. Luton has told you of my position in the house up yonder. I have for long years been very close to both poor Ben Wickham and his sister, Mrs. Parsloe.”
“He did mention you,” Bony replied with a chuckle. “He told me of your concern for his health after I had informed him how you had caught a fish from under my own hook. It was then I told him I would balance the scales. Acknowledge that I have now. The secret? I’ll give it to you. Witchetty grubs are first-class bait. You’ll find them if you split firewood.”
Mr. Weston stood with Bony and smiled. Gone was the unease, and healed were the wounds to his vanity, for he was now in the presence of a merely ordinary man, and a likeable one. It was long after he left Bony on the river-bank that he remembered being led into a trap, and suffered a sneaking fear that he was to be lured into another.
Bony watched his tall and angular figure trudging along the track to the main road, and when the parson had disappeared he sat again on the tree-trunk and again rolled a cigarette. Casually he said twice, the second time loudly:
“The enemy has retreated. You may come out, Mr. Harris.”
Knocker Harris emerged from the hollow log to rise stiffly to his feet, and with a thankful sigh to sit beside the fisherman.
“Beaut, ain’the?” he said, nodding at the kingfish.“Nearer fourteen than thirteen pounds.”
“Why were you holed up under my favourite seat?”
“Well, it’s like so,” defended Knocker. “I’m on me way to visit John and you, see? I’mdrawin ’ nigh when Isees the Reverencecastin ’ down-river a bit, like. I sees I can’t side-step without him seeing me if he looks my way. So Iacts theabo. When he does look up-river, I’m a fence-post. When he looks somewhere else, Imoves forward to this log. Only cover for me is inside, like. Then his reverence comes along right beside here, and I know he’s here ’costhe dogs barked.”
“They didn’t bark when you came?”
“No, of course not.”Mr. Harris chuckled while splitting open a cigarette for the tobacco, which he tossed into his mouth.“Got no time for him, Inspector. Nasty bit of work. What’s the use of parsons, I’d like to know? Only bludging on the people. Never doesno work. Parishes, Icalls ’em. Always sticking their dirty noses into other people’sbis’ness, like. Gonna put me and old John into a home, says he. What a ruddy hope! Heget any change outer you?”
“You heard what we said,” Bony said, coldly.
“That I didn’t. Wished I could of. The hole into the log’s a bit small, like, and it was sort of blocked with me feet. How did you know I was in there?”
“I could smell you.”