The Cake in the Hat Box
FOLLOWINGAPROLONGEDINTERVAL, Kimberley Breen said, hopefully:
“I don’t think those wild blacks are mooning about. The dogs are too quiet.”
“It would be unlike them to attack in the dark, even if they did intend to storm the homestead,” Bony said in agreement. “Dawn is their customary zerohour. Irwin should be here in an hour or so.”
“Where was he camped?”
“On the Wyndham road whereStenhouse was found. He would have to drive south and take the track over the Range from Agar’s, would he not?”
“No. The shorter way would be up round McDonald’s Stand. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I would, indeed,” Bony replied.“Provided it won’t be too much trouble.”
“It’ll be no bother. There’s a pressure stove in the living-room. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
She rose, and he stood with her. She felt the touch of metal against her hand, and he said:
“You may need it, although I think not.”
Saying nothing, she accepted the weapon and entered the house. Bony stood lazily leaning against a veranda post, and a dog came to muzzle the cuff of his trousers and whine a greeting. He felt no satisfaction with progress made in this investigation, no elation at approaching its climax, for the thought was clear that this girl whose background was so unusual was going to be badly hurt by events with which she had had no connexion.
TheseBreens reminded him of the termites who in their mysterious way live in darkness and to themselves, building a castle strong to withstand all enemy attack, and ever ready to die in defence of the community. An attack on one Breen meant an attack on the family, and the failure of a Breen was the failure of the family. And now Kimberley was hastening to defend the breach made in the House of Breen, and she did not know the extent of the damage and danger.
Standing there with the dog lying against a foot, Bony worked to correlate facts with dates and distances between points, having to keep in mind the speed of surface transportation in this chaotic land.
The interview with old medicine-man Bingil would have been exasperating to anyone unaccustomed to aborigines and unfamiliar with mentality which to the white man is seemingly unreachable. The wisp of information Bony did extract from Bingil was a creditable performance, and it would be naive to expect to gain more.
His mind came round again to Jack Wallace, and again he teased the facts into position relative to the important geographical points of this case. The trite phrase “East is east and west is west” bore down heavily when recalling that theWallaces lived east of Black Range and theBreens westward of it: and, when assessing what, if anything, Jack Wallace had to do with the killing ofStenhouse and his tracker, he had to recognize the acumen of those untamed savages from the far desert.
Their study of the site of the double killing, of the placing of a body under a dead horse, and their singular method of establishing the identity of the murderer, led them to believe that their quarry was on theBreens ’ side of Black Range.
There could be but two reasons prompting Jack Wallace to leave after learning what had happened to O’Grady. One, he was afraid he might be caught in a siege of the homestead and, two, that he determined to warn theBreens of a threat to them conjointly with himself. The journey north with Irwin in the morning would decide this point.
“I’ve made the tea. Will you come in?”
The clear and steady voice brought Bony from the mists of speculation, and he followed Kimberley Breen into the living-room, where she bade him be seated at the great table.
“This table wasn’t made in a factory,” he said. “I’ve never seen a table like it.”
“My father built it when he and my mother had built the house. He could do anything… my father.”
“In those far-off days people had to be self-reliant to establish themselves in mountains like these. Are your parents buried here?”
“Yes. My father made the coffins for himself and mother out of the same timber he got for this table and other things. I wanted the boys to have headstones properly printed with their names, and Silas said he would order them, but never did. He made new crosses for them when FatherO’Rory complained about it.” Kimberley smiled faintly. “I could never manage Silas like I could Jasper and Ezra.”
Bony left the table and stood before the picture of Mrs Breen, and Kimberley remained silent while he, with deliberation, faced the portrait. Without turning to her, he said:
“Who crayoned the pendant?”
“I did.”
“Very well done, too.”He faced her. “Exactly like the real one you wore that day Irwin and I called. Did that come from the shaft near Black Well?”
The grey eyes did not waver, but he detected the shutters lowered behind them, and noted the momentary stillness of her hands.
“Of course not. I bought it. I get a share of the cattle money, you know. I sent down to Perth for it. I love opals.”
“Of all precious stones, I likethem best, Miss Breen. Have you any others like that black one you were wearing?”
“Any others? No, why? Why should you think I have other opals?”
Bony smiled disarmingly, and reminded her she had said she loved opals, not that particular opal she had worn with the ballerina dress, and the swift revelation of uneasiness passed.
“When I was courting my wife to be,” he said, “I gave her an opal brooch. Opals were not as expensive as they are now. It’s a green opal, and she still has it. Could never afford to buy her another, what with high living costs and income tax.”
Kimberley smiled her relief, herunsophistication apparent.
“It’s a wicked shame how the Government tax and tax us for everything,” she said, the smile gone, swift bitterness in her voice. “Look at all the war taxes still on after years of peace, and people groaning under the weight of ’em. Taxes on clothes. Taxes on trucks. Taxes on petrol… on everything.”
“Taxes certainly make survival difficult,” Bony agreed.
“They do and all, and poor people just struggling along while the Government votes itself more and more wages. Will you have another cup of tea?”
“Thank you.”
“Help yourself to cake.”
“You cattle people do have the chance to keep something back for yourselves,” he murmured, cutting the cake. “The taxes are deducted from my salary before it’s paid to me.”
“There’s not much chance. We depend on the cheque from the Meat Works, and that has to go to the bank at Derby. Is your wife a lady?”
The question tended to throw Bony off balance.
“Not a grand lady,” he replied, seriously. “Marie likes to read the best books, and she plays the piano very well. We have three sons. Charles, the eldest, attends the University. He’s hoping to become a medico-missionary. I’m sure my wife would join me in giving you a warm welcome to our home should you ever come to Brisbane.”
Her pleasure was childlike in its swift expression.
“Would she? Oh, I would like to go to Brisbane and see her and talk about things. Would she take me to the shops?”
“Would she! Why, if you gave her any encouragement, she would spend all day long at the shops.”
Kimberley rolled a cigarette and beat him to it with a match. She was very serious when she asked:
“Would your wife…does she… would she take me to have my hair done properly?”
“She would be very happy to do so. Then there are the theatres and the cinemas. Have you ever been to a cinema?”
Kimberley shook her head. She was seeing visions.
“The actresses… in the magazines,” she said, almost whispering. “Their wonderful clothes… their hair. Jasper used to cut mine… with clippers… like a man. Ezra didn’t like it when I grew up, and they made me wear it long, and I hated having to roll it up. Then Ezra showed me a magazine picture and said that’s how my hair ought to be cut, and I let him have a go at it. He made a terrible botch at first. Afterwards he did all right. But I’d love a perm.”
“I don’t believe a perm would improve it. It’s very wonderful as it is,” Bony assured her, and she flushed.
“It would so. Would your wife let me stay with her for a little while? I wouldn’t like to be all by myself in a city.”
“Of course she would. She would be most happy. You see, we have no daughter. I shall ask her to write and invite you.”
A smile broke the slightly strained expression, and abruptly she left the table and crossed to a dresser on which was a pile of magazines. She was there for a minute or more, hunting for a particular copy. She returned with it, and, opening it beside him, pointed with a broken-nailed finger to a picture of a famous actress. He nodded gravely when she said she would have her hair done in the same way.
“Does she have a lot of cake?” Kimberley asked.
“Yes. Probably a great deal of…er… cake. I know very little about ladies’ hairdressing, but I think that the really expert stylist studies the subject’s face and head shape and colouring, and advises the most suitable hair-do. Anyway…”
It sounded as though twenty thousand dogs waited for a signal. The silent world without was shattered to fragments by their frenzied barking. Bony jumped to his feet, and their gaze met as they waited tensely to discern the meaning of the alarm. But there was no menace in the uproar which dwindled as the dogs raced in a pack to the back of the house.
“Constable Irwin coming,” Bony decided, and they listened. They heard the sound of the approaching utility above the growing volume of excited voices of the aborigines. Kimberley shouted that it was only the policeman coming, and she ran from the room to reassure them. Bony waited till he could hear her shouting from the side veranda, and then quickly knelt before the sofa and dragged out one of the hat boxes.
The key was in the lock. He lifted the box. It was heavy. He raised the lid. It appeared to be empty. Cake crumbs lay on the brown paper resting at four-fifths down from the top. He lifted out the paper. The light from the suspended lamp fell directly into that hat box.
Bony was looking into a faintly dark cloud in which lived the colours of the setting sun after a day of dust, and the soft sheen of green seen by pearl divers. Opals… black opals… uncut and unpolished. He lifted out one. It was roughly circular and as large as the palm on which it rested. Imperfect, it could be cut to three magnificent black opals. His hand trembled and a blood-red sun danced at its right edge and green and blue fire ran like streams to the base of his fingers.
Gently he replaced the gem with the others, and swiftly he replaced the brown paper, closed the lid and pushed the hat box under the sofa. For those opals the film actresses would have gladly exchanged her a million dollars. Cake! Cake in a hat box!