JustA Country Town
TENo’clock the next morning found Bony and Mr. Luton on the high road to Cowdry. It was Friday, market-day, and both intended to shop. The sun was masked by scudding cloud racing eastward, and the air was cold with the acrid, scentless tang of drought. But a good day for walking.
“I intend to interview the manager of the Commonwealth Bank,” Bony said when they were nearing the town, at a pace that Mr. Luton thought too slow. “Do you happen to know the staff at the bank?”
“I know ’emby sight, but not all of ’emby name,” replied the ageless man. “Manager’s name is McGillycuddy. There’s two clerks. One is Craig and I think the other’s called McKenzie. The cashier’s name is Kirkdale, and a young brat of an office boy who don’t do much but read comics. Thenthere’s a couple of young flips.”
“Why is it that our national banking institution is overloaded with Scotchmen, and the Customs Department is snowed under with Irishmen?” asked Bony, and his walking companion chuckled and replied, evading the question.
“Now, now, no sectarianism.”
“I was merely being conversational,” Bony observed with slight asperity, and again Mr. Luton chuckled.
“I’m careful because underneath Cowdry there’s a lot of it, the sort of sectarianism whichdon’t always apply to religion. Out a bit from town there’s a settlement of small market-gardeners what is crammed with Italians. There’s some in Cowdry who hates them, and some they hate, with reason. So the Scotties run the banks, the Irish run theGov’ment Departments, the Italians run the market gardens, and the Australians chew tobacco and lean up against veranda posts. If only all these ruddy lunatics would forget their grandfathers, the country would be worthlivin ’ in.”
“I agree, Mr. Luton. How is Cowdry off for Communists?”
“There’s a local branch, so says Knocker Harris, who thinks he’s a comrade. The chemist is the worshipful master. Thenthere’s the Masons, the Buffaloes, and theRechabites. Knocker has belonged to all of ’emexcept the Masons, who wouldn’t have him.”
“Quite a town,” Bony said as they rounded a bend and came in sight of it.
“Nine pubs, racecourse, two bowling clubs, golf club, tennis clubs, and a two-up school back from the wharf a bit on Sundays.”
“Think I could hire a motor-boat for the week?”
“Out of season, but you might. I know a man who has one with a trusty engine.”
“Would be better than walking back. By the way, that seat outside a hotel mentioned by Harris. From it would you be able to keep the Commonwealth Bank under observation?”
“Easy.”
“Where is the Post Office?”
“Opposite the bank.”
“Excellent, Mr. Luton. I want you to sit on that seat, watch me enter the bank, watch the bank till I come out and until I join you again, which might not be for half an hour, and make a note of any member of the bank staff who might leave the bank, and where he goes. Clear?”
Mr. Luton nodded happily. They came to Main Street, fairly wide and lined with the usual shop and office buildings. Bony estimated the town population at something like two thousand. It had the conventional stone soldier blowing his bugle, the horse-troughs where no horses ever again would drink, and the usual posts supporting the usual shop verandas, with the usual people leaning against them even though it was only a quarter to eleven in the morning.
The Commonwealth Bank was of sandstone that needed washing or painting, and having parked Mr. Luton on the hotel seat, Bony entered. He was confronted by a long counter supporting much brass grille work, and to an unengaged cashier presented his card and asked to see the manager.
“I’ll see if the manager is free,” the cashier said, the burr very faint. He nodded to a point behind Bony. “Take a seat over there, please.”
Bony turned to observe the seat, a hard bench against the wall. It seemed almost that the cashier suspected a hold-up, that he hated anyone to pause too close to his cage. Bony turned back to the cashier, his eyes now glacial.
“Inform the manager that I’m a busy man, without delay.”
The civil servant opened his mouth, shut it as though it ought to be shut, and departed. Bony leaned elegantly against the counter and rolled a cigarette, watched by the cashier in the next cage, who betrayed anger that this customer didn’t swiftly obey the order to withdraw to the bench and wait till he was called. When the cashier returned, Bony’s brows rose to a supercilious question mark.
“The manager will see you. That door.”
The cashier pointed to a stained door off the main hall, and Bony sauntered to it, opened it without knocking. The man seated beyond a large table desk didn’t look up from his writing until Bony sank into the chair placed for the bank’s clients.
“Detective-Inspector Bonaparte? What can we do for you?”
The voice was low and hard and also, like the cashier’s, just touched with a burr.
“Are you Mr. McGillycuddy?”
“Yes.”
“I am hoping for co-operation, Mr. McGillycuddy. Did the late Mr. Ben Wickham have an account here?”
“Mr. Wickham… Mr. Ben Wickham… an account here? No, Inspector.”
“Did he lodge securities with this bank?”
“No, Inspector. What’s on your mind?”
“The bank, therefore, did not have any official interest in the late Mr. Wickham’s affairs?”
“That is so.”
Bony produced his pocket-book bearing his identification card.
“I am not an officer of the South Australian Department, as you will see, Mr. McGillycuddy. You need feel no obligation to answer my questions or give the information I desire. I have recently completed an assignment with the South Australian Police Department, and doubtless could obtain a further seconding from my Department if necessary.”
“Of course, Inspector.”The manager was now suavely affable. “The precise nature of your official position at the moment need not concern us.”
“I thank you,” drawled Bony, and produced his tobacco pouch and papers. The manufacture of the terrible cigarette fascinated Mr. McGillycuddy, and when burning tobacco threads fell to his blue carpet, he restrained a shudder.
“I am prosecuting a line of enquiry into the activities of the late Mr. Wickham,” Bony went on, “and I have learned that on the night of July 13th he paid a visit to this bank, following a conversation on the telephone you had with him early in the evening. I would be vitally assisted did you inform me of the reason for that visit.”
“Mr. Wickham did not come here, Inspector! He was never one of our clients, as I admitted a moment ago.”
“Oh! A social visit, perhaps.”
“No. I did not know Mr. Wickham well enough for him to visit me in private hours.”
“Well, well! I find it disturbing to have doubt cast on the veracity of my informants.”
Their eyes clashed. The manager’s gaze didn’t waver, nor did the expression of polite interest wane.
“Obviously, Inspector, you have been misinformed. Mr. Wickham did not call on me at any time.”
“Too bad.”Bony pretended to be vexed and seemed in no hurry to depart. “After Mr. Wickham died, were you ever asked if he had lodged securities with you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, his sister called one morning saying they were unable to locate some important documents and asking if we had them. I told her we held nothing belonging to her late brother. Is it… are you interested in those missing documents?”
“Partly, Mr. McGillycuddy, partly. Mr. Wickham appears to have been lax in matters not immediately connected with his work. Well, I won’t keep you longer. Thank you.”
“Anything, Inspector, that we can do to assist you.” The manager came from behind his desk and accompanied his visitor to the door. They shook hands, and Bony stepped into the main hall and heard the door close behind him.
Crossing to the bench he sat with several clients, and with some deliberation withdrew a notebook from his breast pocket and proceeded to pencil notes ina shorthand he could not decipher, nor could his close neighbours on the bench. There were then no clients actually being attended to by the cashiers. The cashier who had taken his card to the manager left his cage and passed in the direction of the manager’s office. Covertly watched by the second cashier, Bony continued with his meaningless notes. A number was called and a client rose from the bench and walked to the grille of the second cashier, who pushed money and a bank-book under the grille to her.
The first cashier was absent a full three minutes, and he had been back in his cage a minute when Bony casually returned the notebook to his breastpocket, rose and sauntered out.
At the kerb lounged First ConstableGibley. Gibley was in plain clothes, and was apparently astonished to see Napoleon Bonaparte make his exit from the Commonwealth Bank.
“Hullo! Mornin ’, Inspector! How did you get along with the Reverend yesterday afternoon?”
“He annoyed me,” the smiling Bony told the policeman. “Cast his line within a yard of mine and instantly hooked a sizeable bream. And I’d been there for hours.”
Gibley’s chuckle was more a rumble deep in his hard stomach.
“You can’t beat the Church,” he said.“In for the day?”
“Yes, a few things I want. A road map of the locality. Where is the bookshop?”
“Just along the street. I’m going that way. Whatd’youthink of Cowdry?”
“A sturdy little town. Orderly?”
“No crime. A few drunks on Saturdays and a fight or two at the football. No place for a feller wanting to keep in training. Still, we can’t all go up like you’ve done.”
They came to the bookshop, and the policeman entered with Bony. Bony did not want the road map, but he bought one and a couple of magazines. Again on the sidewalk, he said:
“Is there a foreign element in this town?”
Gibley frowned for a fleeting split-second.
“Can’t say there is,” he replied.“Italians out atDoubie’s Creek. They keep close, work hard, and don’t often go to market in the brawl line. Any reason for asking?”
“I am always interested in the composition of a community. By the way, where is the Police Station?”
“Farther up the street, and then down a side street. Good house. The kids are well schooled, and the climate is healthy.”
“You must have hurried to reach the bank when they telephoned you I was there?”
“Yes. Had to move. They wanted a check-up on you.” The big man brought his gaze back from the road to the slim man at his side. “What the… Did they tell you they phoned?”
“Oh, no,” drawled Bony. “No, they didn’t tell me, Gibley. It just happens I am a mind reader… sometimes.”
“Damn! I sort of slipped, didn’t I, Inspector? Well, I got office work to do. Be seeing you again, I hope. The wife’s pretty handy with the teapot, any time you like to call.”
“Thanks. I’ll remember that.”
The policeman crossed the road to take a side street to his station, and Bony strolled on until he found a cafe where he lingered over an ice-cream he didn’t want. From the cafe he walked back along Main Street, on the Post Office side, went into a butcher’s shop and purchased five pounds of the best steak. He was now sure that Constable Gibley had seen him enter the cafe, had watched him enter the butcher’s shop, and continued to watch as he entered the Post Office, where he despatched a telegram to the Officer in Charge of the Traffic Branch, Adelaide, asking for the owner of car numbered X