P.S.-Igave John Muir a good talking-to for being so silly as to interest you in the wheat-belt case.
P.P.S.-He has not altered a bit. Rushed in yesterday to tell me that he had got his prisoner to Brisbane and was leaving with him the next morning. Danced me round the kitchen and then insisted on making afternoon tea.
Bony read Marie’s letter a second time. He felt proud of her and very proud of his oldest son, Charles. He was conscious of the position; to which his achievement had raisedhim, feeling warmly satisfied that he, a half-caste, was urgently wanted not only by his adored wife, but by a Chief Commissioner of Police. The telegram he opened with a wry smile. It was short-and to the point.
Such a message would have made many men downcast with disappointment, but Bony chuckled, for he could so easily visualize the Colonel whilst he dictated the telegram. With red face and stuttering speech, he would have raised himself and his chair and banged the chair on the floor at least six times. Bony should have reported for duty before that day, and even if he left Burracoppin that night for the eastern States he would have overstayed his leave by ten days. He foresaw the inevitable “sack” then on its way to him through the mails and tentatively considered an original method of gaining reinstatement.
After dinner this evening Mr Poole and he sat on fruit cases outside the boarding-house shop, when the western sky was like a celestial slaughterhouse and the air was coloured like old port. A long goods train drawn by two engines was then halted at the station, while the engines took on water from the huge iron tank high up on supporting staging. Steam escaping from one engine, with a low roar beneath the hissing, beat on their ears so that when eventually the escape was shut off the drooping Mr Poolesighed his relief.
“The old ’un is a bit waxy tonight,” he said whilst engaged in fashioning one of his long, drooping cigarettes. Mrs Black riles her a deal. Theblanky cow was dry again thismornin ’ when I went to milk her.”
“Why not keep the cow tied up all night?” Bony suggested.
“That’s my idea, but the missus won’t ’aveit,” Mr Poole said, going on to talk as a sage of ancient times. “You know there’s been wiser coves than mewot’s tried to understand a woman and give it up as hopeless. To take my missus. I suppose she’s just average woman. Sometimes she’slovin ’ and soft, and at others she’s like one of them railway engines, ready to bust if the steamain’t let out. But wot raises the steam no man yet, or a woman either, can say. Now a man’s about the same all through the piece. You and me can count onbein ’tomorrer night just wot we are tonight, but there’s no telling what a woman will be like one hour ahead.
“If it was me I’d beat Mrs Black byhavin ’ the cow tied up all night, as you said, but the missus will let the cow loose before we go to bed. Why? I’ll tell you. Because she likesarguin ’ with MrsBlack, and theblanky cow gives her a good excuse. She would be real unhappy if Mrs Black gave upmilkin ’ our cow. Here comes old Thorn. Look-he’sgettin ’ rounder every day.”
“You seen the old woman?” demanded the Water Rat of another and aRabbitoh.
“Nope. You chasm’ her?”
“No fear. Only I’mgoin ’ along to ’aveone, and I didn’t want to run into ’er. Comin ’ down to the pub for a snifter?”
Mr Poole glanced sharply back into the shop before saying:
“All right. Comin’, Bony?”
“Well, yes,” assented the detective hesitatingly. “I will not stay with you long, as I have letters to write which should have been written a week ago.”
For the third time during his stay there Bony found himself in the bar of the Burracoppin Hotel. Mr Wallace waited upon some dozen customers unsupported by his wife. The general conversation was held in a loud tone, but as yet the evening was too young for hilarity.
“Good night, Leonard?” inquired Mr Thorn when he came to rest against the bar counter with a seraphic smile. The red face was beaming. His manner was affable as he openly nudged Bony.
“None the better for you asking,” replied Mr Wallace with a snarl of temper.
“Oh! Fightin ’ the missus again? Give up, Leonard,” advised Mr. Poole. “You’re old enough to know that youain’t got a hope of besting a woman on a wet wicket.”
The publican leaned over the bar counter the better to get his mouth closer to his customer’s ear. He said:
“She makes me sick. Locked me out again last night after telling everyone I’d murdered George Loftus. If only I could get hold of a gun them times.”
Mr Thorn laughed wheezily and added his advice to that given by Mr Poole.
“Give in, Leonard,” he said. “Be like me. Take no notice. Make out you’re taking it lying down, but chalk up a mark on the quiet, and don’t wipe out the mark until you get your own back in your own little quiet way. Use your brains. You can always beat a woman with brains.”
“I’ll use a gun one of these nights,” Wallace said darkly, and turned then to attend an impatient customer.
“I overheard him trying to borrow Inspector Gray’s gun not long ago,” Bony remarked softly. That made his companions chuckle.
“Everyone in Burra knows these two,” Poole explained. “And, of course, when either of ’emwants to borrow a gun everyone says their gun is out at the farm or awaybein ’ repaired. You see, they do get terrible narked with each other on occasions, and they might use a gun then, but neither of ’emin cool moments ever dreams ofbuyin ’ a gun. Poor old Wallace! He-”
“Good evening, people! Mrs Wallace said gaily when she appeared dressed in her usual black silk. She smiled at every customer in turn, but when finally she noticed her husband the smile vanished. “Go and get your tea. Do you think the maid is going to wait all night for you? Don’t stand there like a stuck ninny. Go… and… get… your… tea.”
She was then facing the main door, and her frown of displeasure became magically replaced by a radiant smile of welcome. The general hum of conversation ceased. A man’s laughter was cut short. For the second time that night Mr Thorn nudged Bony, and the detective, turning towards the main entrance, observed the well-built military figure of John Muir standing against the bar counter. Mrs Wallace’s carefully attuned voice was one degree higher than it should have been.
“Hullo, Mr Muir! You’re quite a stranger. I do hope you are not going to ask me any more questions about my dear husband and poor Mr Loftus.”
“I am going to ask you one serious question, Mrs Wallace,” Muir said with affected grimness.
“Very well. Only one, then.”
“Is the beer cold?”
“Oh! It is, I assure you. Why, you frightened me. Yes, it is ice cold. Will you take a pot?”
John Muir overlooked the customers, including Bony. Between them no sign of recognition passed. Not a few there eyed the sergeant in a furtive manner. Mr Wallace disappeared towards the dining-room, and his wife again laughed gaily and chatted with the new arrival as though her life was one long dream of domestic bliss.
John Muir’s appearance acted like a refrigerator with warm meat. His presence froze the conviviality of perfectly law-abiding men, a manifestation of crowd psychology which Bony often before had observed. It was the main reason why he always worked incognito, a circumstance to which most of his successes were due.
It was not now letters he wished to write, but to talk with John Muir, and, when able, he left Mr Thorn and Mr Poole and crossed to his room at the Rabbit Depot. Twenty minutes later the sergeant joined him.
“Good night, Bony,” he said with restrained quietness when he had carefully closed the door. “How goes it?”
“Excellent, John. Your trip, I hope, was successful?”
“Yep. I landed Andrew Andrews without any trouble. He proved to be one of those birds who give up when caught, and now he’s due for fifteen of the best. The Chief was mighty pleased with me, but he seemed a little disappointed with you. Can’t understand why you haven’t reported progress.”
“That is as I wished. I wanted you to get the credit for the location and arrest of Andrews. I am glad that you have got it. I want you to get the credit for this Burracoppin case, and you will get it if you obey my instructions. As you know, I am indifferent to authority. Unlike you and your colleagues, I do not dream of promotion. The excitement of the chase is all that I desire. You saw Marie?”
“I went to see her, of course. She gave me afternoon tea.”
“And you boiled the kettle and danced her round the kitchen to stop her speaking her mind to you for interesting me in this case.”
“You’ve had a letter from her?”
“This morning. And how did you find Colonel Spender?”
Only with an effort did John Muir refrain from laughter. Then:
“I had to report to the old boy. Like a fool I let the cat out of the bag when I told him about the Loftus case and you taking hold of it. He didn’t look too healthy then. He kept on calling me ‘sir’; that is, when he got his breath. He said: ‘You’re a damned scoundrel, sir. I’ll have you broken, sir. I’ll raise hell, sir.’ You go back, Bony, by the quickest and shortest route.”
“It is now too late, John. The ‘sack’ will be on its way through the post. I shall have to think out a quite original method to gain reinstatement, and I am almost run out of ideas.”
“I’ve a letter for you from Inspector Todd. He’s much worried. He said all the things the Colonel said, bar adding the ‘sir’.”
Smiling, Bony took the proffered envelope, tore it open, and extracted the contents. Before reading it he said:
“Go outside, please. Look at the sky east of north. Look for a red glare in the sky.”
“Eh!”
“Please, John.”
Bony’s voice had suddenly become hard. It was not the hardness of a superior so much as the steel hardness of the master displeased by a pupil’s rebellion. The sergeant went out. Bony read Todd’s long letter, which described a case beyond Cunnamulla made extraordinary by features of aboriginal participation in it. Reading between the lines, the detective saw Colonel Spender’s plea for immediate help on account of the victim’s relationship to the most powerful politician in office. Presently he glanced up at John Muir, who had come in to report.
“I can’t see any glare in the sky. Is it a joke, Bony?”
“No. I am expecting developments in this Loftus case.”
“How far have you got? What have you discovered? Was Loftus murdered? Do you know who murdered him? When are you going toeffect an arrest? How-”
“For heaven’s sake, cease your machine-gun questions.”
“By the Great Wind! I’m not a Doctor Watson. I tell you I’m not,” Muir declared with sudden passion.
“You are,” Bony said definitely. “You will remain a Doctor Watson for a further period of four days, five days at the most. You will retire to Merredin, where you will do nothing but pretend to be making inquiries. You will report to your chief that you are about to finalize this matter, having received a lead from me. Patience will win you promotion.”
Into John Muir’s wide, fearless grey eyes flashed an appealing look. His red hair was tousled by the freckled fingers which tore through it like horse combs.
“Be a sport now,” he entreated. “Tell the tale. Was Loftus murdered?”
“He was.”
“Who killed him?”
“Cock Robin.”
“A man ought to pick you up and shake you. You’re the most aggravating cuss I know.
Bony sighed deeply. “Your only hope, John, is in the cultivation of patience. Age might change you. For your sake I hope it does. I will give you your bird in the near future. There is plenty of time for that. Now tell me what Todd told you about the case which has them bluffed. Relate the details to me slowly and carefully. Omit nothing, nothing. Banish from your mind any thought of Andrews and of Loftus.”
And so for more than two hours they discussed the Queensland case. They read copies of statements and reports. They studied roughly drawn maps and many enlarged photographs of aborigines, tracks, blackfellows’ signs, or what might be signs, and pictures of station scenes.
“To me everything now is quite plain,” Bony said at last. “That is a blackfellow’s sign, although the ignorant would not think so.
“It describes a violent death, a death of vengeance, carried out by an aboriginal. The emu feathers stuck among the fan-arranged sticks at the bottom of a steer’s leg bone denotes the totem of the killer. The murdered man seduced a gin, and the gin’s husband or lover slew him.
“Yes, despite all this, the killer was not a black. He was a white man, devilish clever, who, however, made the one inevitable mistake. Clever as he was in forging the sign, he forgot to add the hair of a black woman, which a black killer would have placed just below the emu feathers. The murder was committed by the only white man who could possibly have done it. In the morning, John, I will telegraph Todd to arrest Riley. You see, I can successfully conduct a case through the post. Easy isn’t it?”
“Easy! By the Great Wind! If only I had one-tenth of your gumption, Bony.”
“Patience will give you just as much gumption. You must learn to proceed slowly. Now go. I will accompany you to your hired car. Remain in Merredin as I said. You will hear from me soon.” At the Depot gate Bony gazed long and earnestly towards the south-east.
“What the dickens are you looking for?” demanded John Muir.
“Even at your departure you must ask a question. I shall have to arrange a scale of fines for your questions according to their degree of pertinence. Your last question of tonight, John, I will answer. I am looking for the reflection in the sky of a burning haystack. Now, good night! Good night!”