Bony Listens to Radio Play
“DIDthe dogs bark?” Bony asked when Mr. Luton had admitted him and they were again in the sitting-room.
“No, exceptin ’ once when one of ’emyapped as if a flea bit him without knocking.”
Bony related the incidents of the evening, believing Mr. Luton should be prepared for possible future developments, and the old man frowned at the story of Knocker Harris’s visitor, and chuckled when hearing of the ‘accident’ to the car.
“First,” Bony went on, “nothing of our knowledge to Harris when he comes again. You must wait for what he gives or won’t give about that car driver. Ostensibly, the man went to Harris to arrange for the delivery of fishing bait tomorrow, but actually to obtain information about your relationship with Ben Wickham. Which indicates that the centre of interest in Wickham’s papers has moved to this house of yours. Those two foreigners were first to make that move: these last two fellows are coming round to it. We may assume that the last two are not associated with the first two.”
“The two to-night? They foreigners?”Mr. Luton put forward.
“Not from their accent. The driver of the car need not be the owner, but the owner’s name is Marsh. The garage account is for general servicing, not repairs. Now to see what is in the notebook.”
Study of the notebook occupied five minutes.
“The driver, if not the actual owner, could be a commercial traveller,” Bony said, slowly. “This is a record, almost in diary form, of expenditure on petrol and oil, hotel expenses, meals, roughly jotted down, possibly for transference to a swindle sheet at the end of the day. It begins in April, 1953, continues through to four days ago, when petrol was purchased in Cowdry. Between dates, the driver visited Adelaide, Melbourne, where he probably lives, then Canberra, back to Melbourne, Sydney, and so on. If he is a commercial traveller, then his territory covers three States and the Australian Capital Territory. The car being a Buick, his firm must be a wealthy one, or he could be the head of a small but prosperous firm. He could be a Government servant. Getting in deep, are we not?”
“We’re left with some dark horses, eh?”
“No show, Mr. Luton, if we adopt the racecourse for the sea. Time is my bet. I am ever an admirer of Time, for Time has been my greatest ally. Now, there is another matter. Those records and the green notebook in the chest could be located I am uneasy, and we should do something about it. Have you any suggestions for a better hiding-place?”
“Don’t know. Have to think. The pub’s secret enough, isn’t it?”
“I fear not,” Bony said. “If the house was searched by experts, they would quickly find the trap-door. We must use imagination. Let us assume that you arean habitual drunk. That you were married to a very suspicious woman who does not approve of the cursed drink, and will, on sight of a bottle, empty it down the sink. Where would you plant your bottle?”
“In a hole under the perches in the fowl-house,” promptly answered Mr. Luton.
“I anticipated your selection,” Bony said smilingly. “Your hiding-place would not be a hundred per cent proof against a suspicious wife, but it ought to trick a change-daily boy. We’ll do the job right now.”
Mr. Luton was ready and eager. It occupied them almost an hour, for work had to be done without light, without disturbing the hens and their lord roosting on the perches, and replacing the over-lay exactly as formerly. The hole was not large, because Bony finally decided to leave the annual records in the chest, burying only the notebook, the will, the smaller book taken from the car, inside a biscuit tin.
Afterwards they ate a light supper, drank a hot toddy and retired, all doors locked and windows bolted, the loaded shotgun on Mr. Luton’s bedside table, and the furniture and floor-covering in the kitchen-living-room so arranged as to permit Bony easy egress if essential.
Both slept in undisturbed peace.
At nine o’clock Mr. Luton took a breakfast tray down to his guest, who planned to spend the day on further study of the records in the chest. He then proceeded with the chores of the day: freeing the dogs, tidying the house, doing a little digging and sowing peas and transplanting early cabbage.
Shortly after ten, Senior Constable Gibley called, knocking on the front door, when Bony mounted the brandy steps.
“What! You again!” Mr. Luton said sharply.
“Me again, Luton,” agreed the policeman. “How’s the kettle? Boiling?”
“Damnation!” roared the old man. “You think I can supply the whole ruddy police force with cups of tea, and tea the price it is?”
“No. Actually, I brought you a pound of tea. Sergeant Maskell gave me the doings to buy it for you. Sends it with his compliments and thanks for the fish you gave him. Nowyougoin ’ to ask me in?”
“I’ve never yet refused a man a drink of tea or a bite to eat. Come on through. S’long as you don’t ask fool questions, or make silly threats, you’re welcome. Whatd’youcome for?”
“I just told you,” replied Gibley, easing himself into a kitchen chair.
“Now, now! That’s only the jemmy that edges open the bank safe. Better, let it out, or you won’t enjoy the cakes I baked a couple of hours back.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I came to ask if you happened to fire the car down at the bridge.”
Mr. Luton looked stunned, and waited.
“Seems that two men who’ve rented a holiday shack in Cowdry left their car at the bridge to do some nightfishin ’. Went down-river a bit, and while waiting for a bite, the glare told ’emabout the cargoin ’ up. What do you know?”
“What do I know?” roared Mr. Luton. “What do… Why, next thing you’ll be accusing me of murder!”
“Do that, too, if your yarn about those hoo-jahs was true,” counter-attacked the policeman. Mr. Luton was cut off from emphatic protest by his table guest. “Now, don’t get so hotted up, Luton. Here am I being quite matey, and you almost make me believe you dislike me. Didn’t you see the glare over the trees?”
“I certainly didn’t, Gibley. On a cold and blustery night I don’t go outsidelookin ’ at the stars and things. I bide quiet afore my own fireside withoutwantin ’ to warm me hands at other people’s fires. You telling me someone fired the car?”
“No, just a bit of fun,” admitted Gibley. “They must have left a cigarette butt under a cushion or something. Must have been a good blaze. Burned the ground all round for yards out.”
“Serves ’emright forfishin ’ at night. Why don’t they work instead ofloafin ’ around on holidays this time ofyear. Maybe they’re them foreigners youwaslookin ’ for.”
“No, not them. These fellers come from Melbourne. Car owner’s name is Marsh. I got them clear enough. There’s another thing. Your pal Inspector Bonaparte’s disappeared.”
“Oh!”sneered Mr. Luton. “Was he bound and gagged in the car?”
“Not so funny, Luton. He was last seen at Serviceton, aboard the Melbourne train. Hecome back here?”
Mr. Luton turned sarcastic.
“No. Could be camped with old Knocker Harris. You seen him?”
Gibley ignored that.
“Mind me looking round here?”
“What for? Bonaparte?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m easy, Gibley. You’ve come through the sitting-room. He wasn’t there. This is the living-room. He isn’t here. There’s my bedroom, over there. Take a look under the bed and in the wardrobe. There’s no other rooms. Outsideis the wood-shed and the meat-house. He might be in the meat-safe. Down the garden a bit is the fowl-house, and a bit further is the dog-kennels. Could be in one of them.”
“Could be out in the scrub, where he went when you heard me coming,” added Gibley.
“You got a warrant for him?” asked Luton with unfeigned astonishment.
“No, of course not. Just got to locate him, that’s all. Hear anything about the office up at the big house being broken into?”
“No. By heck, things are livening up, aren’t they?”
“You wouldn’t know who’s doing the livening up, would you?”
“Look! I beenlivin ’ here for years, and all I ask for is peace. Now I hope you’ll take the hint.”
Senior Constable Gibley smiled sourly, and strode from the house. He remembered to thank Mr. Luton for the tea and cakes when half-way to the front gate.
He had acted under orders which his superiors and he himself believed barely concerned them. He was satisfied that the destruction of the car wasaccidental, and satisfied concerning the identity of the driver and his companion. There had been ample time to check the relevant details with the police in Melbourne. As for the disappearance of Inspector Bonaparte from the Melbourne express, he had complied with what verged on a routine police broadcast.
With this Bony was also satisfied. What did concern him was that his disappearance had been broadcast. Officially he was a wanted man. And so far, as he had warned Jessica Lawrence to keep his whereabouts secret, only Mr. Luton knew he was in this cellar.
He heard voices at the rear of the house, and slipped down the brandy steps and climbed the gin steps in time to overhear Knocker Harris saying:
“Properly burnt out, like. Theywas to come in at my jetty this morning for bait-fish, but I suppose the fire sort of upset ’em. I seen Gibleycomin ’. So he didn’t see me.”
“How did those fellers find you?” asked Mr. Luton. “Theycome up-river?”
“No. Come to my place by car last night. Leastways one of ’emdid. The other stayed in the car. That’s what I don’t get. How did the car catch afire? Gibley tell you?”
“No. He said they told him theywas away fishing when she burned. Why should they say that?”
“Search me. How would I know?” snapped Knocker Harris.
“You seen’embefore?”
“No. The bloke what came arrived about nine-ish, like. Said he wanted bait-fish for to-day. I give him a cupper and hegive me a quarter-pound plug ofchewin ’ tobacco. Theywas to call for the bait at eight thismornin ’.”
“Younever seen the fire last night?”
“No. Did you?”
Mr. Luton ignored this question.
“What time did the feller leave your camp?”
“ ’Bouteleven, I’d say.”
“Oh!” snapped Mr. Luton.“Yabberin’ with you for two hours while he leaves his cobber in the car on a cold night. Feller in carmusta set fire to the car himself to keep warm. What did you talk about?”
“This and that.”
“I asked you a question, Knocker!” Mr. Luton roared.
“All right, John. Don’t shout at me. What’s got inter you? He said he liked this bit of country, and I said it suits me what likes quietness and to be left alone, like.”
“What else?”
“Oh, we yarned about old Ben and his weather-predictin’, like.”
“Tell him what we think about the hoo-jahs?”
“Yair, I did sort of give an idea.”
“You would!”
Knocker Harris snuffled, but Mr. Luton probed farther. Asked what else was said about Benjamin Wickham, Knocker admitted he had told the stranger Ben and John had been cobbers for a long time, and that Ben often visited John without looking for a bender. It came out that Marsh had learned nearly all there was to learn. He even asked about Mr. Luton’s recent visitor, and was told all about Inspector Bonaparte.
“It seemed all right to,” whined Knocker Harris. “Not a local, like, what could get back onsomething. ”
Then Mr. Luton asked the question Bony ached to put:
“You tell him all this off your own bat?”
“Don’t think I told him anything he didn’t ask. He was just sort of interested, like, and wantedsomethin ’ to talk about. Nice bloke, too.”
“What else was he interested in?” pressed Mr. Luton. “Who else beside me and Inspector Bonaparte did you talk about?”
“Dr. Linke, the Parsloe woman and the parson. That’s all.”
“So that’s all, is it? What about Dr. Linke?”
“He asked me how long the doctor had beenworkin ’ up at Mount Mario, and if Dr. Linke came here much to yarn with you, like. Hey, when’s all thisgoin ’ to stop?”
“Why ask me?” snarled the old man, deliberately perverse. “You start something, and then expect me to know when it will end. Leave me and my affairs out of talking to strangers. I don’t want them to know how much I got in the bank, or how much I keep under thelino. Howd’you know that feller isn’t a rob-and-bash man? Could break in here after my dough and murder me forobjectin ’. Nice sort of friend you are.”
“But I didn’t mean no ’arm, like, John.” The voice was distinctly desperate. “We beengood neighbours for a long…”
“Well, we won’t be if you gogassin ’ to every nosey tourist what comes along. Now getgoin ’ and don’t come back for a week.”
“All right, John,” agreed the plaintive Knocker. He scraped his feet on the floor and paused just outside the door to add: “If youwants me, like, you know where I hang out. Come Pension Day, you might wantsomethin ’ brought out from town.”
“That’ll be the day,” exploded the unrelenting Mr. Luton.