Progress Reports
THEPOLICEOFFICEat Agar’s Lagoon was a depressing place. The walls cried for paint, and the several maps, calendars and pictures of criminals wanted by the police of other States failed to relieve their drab monotony. The large deal table was almost covered with files and record books, and the safe in the corner looked like rusty junk.
Bony had just come in from the hotel, where he had eaten a late dinner, and now, with a pile of his extraordinary cigarettes and matches on a sheaf of documents weighted with ribbon stone, he was prepared to outline his investigation to the man who had need to be a greater administrator than a detective. “It was as well that I went down to theLangs ’,” he said.
“Going to be difficult… this case?” asked Walters, who, as always, sat stiffly erect. Bony smiled and his eyes beamed, and Walters knew how his question was answered.
“The facts from the evidence are these, Walters. We know thatStenhouse left here with his tracker on the afternoon of August 12th. That night he stayed with theCumminses at Red Creek. So far, it accords with the diary. The next day, August 13th, according to the diary, he left Red Creek, called on theLangs, and stayed the night at Richard’s Well homestead… which is a false statement. On leaving theCumminses, he certainly headed for Leroy Downs, but when about ten miles from there, he left the road and returned over the ranges by an old donkey track used by Lang in the early days. We went in on that old track from this side, and found where he and the tracker had camped. I saw the imprints ofStenhouse’s boots, and having made imprints of the boots before I left, I cannot be mistaken.
“It’s probable thatStenhouse waited until dark on August 13th before coming on to join the road just outside Agar’s Lagoon. We can be sure that on August 14th he was somewhere on the Wyndham track.”
“He didn’t return here that night,” growled Walters. “I’ve questioned everyone here, and no one saw him after he left on the 12th.”
“It does seem that that false entry in the diary could mean one of two things,” Bony continued. “Stenhouseleft Agar’s Lagoon with the intention of deceiving everyone concerning an investigation in the opposite direction. Or he could have done what he did to cover some skulduggery of his own. I think the latter. When he left Agar’s he made that report to you about the assault on the aborigine at Leroy Downs an excuse to serve his private ends.”
“Looks like it,” agreed Walters. “No need to make false statements in his diary if he doubled back over that old track on official business. I’ve been through his records and I found nothing even hinting at an investigation north of Agar’s. His papers here contain a copy of the telegram stating his intention to make the patrol down to Leroy Downs to inquire into that assault case. You going north tomorrow?”
“Yes. Can you spare Irwin?”
“As long as you want him. Pick up anything on the tracker, Jacky Musgrave?”
“Nothing of importance. He was pretty thick withStenhouse, and every report on him is adverse to the theory that he shotStenhouse. Stenhouse bought him for two plugs of tobacco from the chief of histribe, one called Pluto, and transformed him from a skinny, semi-starved desert rat to a fat, prosperous and important personage. Know anything about this Pluto?”
“Only fromStenhouse’s reports,” replied Walters. “Pluto’s Mob is the name given to the Musgrave people. Cattlemen along the southern fringe of the Kimberley Ranges have suffered periodical attacks on their cattle, but sinceStenhouse made a patrol to the Musgrave Ranges, the trouble ceased. I’ve had the idea for some time thatStenhouse adopted unorthodox methods to stop the trouble from that quarter. Effectively, but not to be officially countenanced. Anyway, he achieved results. Someone told me that the only white man other thanStenhouse ever to have seen Pluto is the yardman at the hotel here. What’s on your mind?”
“Might be more trouble now thatStenhouse is dead, and his tracker turned into a horse.”
Inspector Walters frowned. There are moments when facetiousness isn’t permissible.
“I understand that MrsStenhouse was one of theWallaces who live some fifteen miles eastward of the Wyndham track,” Bony said. “Stenhousetreated her badly.”
“She died three years ago, not three weeks.”
“Time sometimes increases the desire for revenge. Opportunity accounts for more revenge killings than planned action. Anyway, I’ll look theseWallaces over. Is there anything inStenhouse’s records concerning the movement of cattle to a market point?”
“Yes. I’ll dig it up.”
Bony studied the file. Walters fell silent.
“The only stations having cattle on the hoof along the Wyndham road on or about August 12th were theBreens, theMastertons, theAlverys and theLockeys,” Bony said. “TheBreens must have got away late, for they were supposed to have left with four hundred head on August 7th.”
He rose and crossed to the wall map, which he studied for several minutes.
“It is lawful for stockmen to carry arms, I assume?”
“Up here, yes, but not in a settlement. Parts of theseKimberleys have never yet been explored, andthere’s plenty of places where runaway cattle can breed. Sometimes a cattle muster will net wild cattle, and the bulls are dangerous, and often of no use as beef. Carrying arms, however, is now more the result of custom than utility. Come down from the days when the blacks up here were savage.”
Bony lit yet another cigarette from his dwindling pile. He was dissatisfied with progress and Walters guessed it.
“AllStenhouse’s private effects are on the bench behind you,” Walters said casually. “Next of kin lives at Elmore, Queensland, There’s a bank-book showing a credit of close to five hundred pounds. Straight enough. There is, however, a statement issued by another bank, terminating on June 30th of this year. The statement is under the name of George Marshall. There’s no cheque amounts debited, and there’s one credit only noted… an amount of seven hundred and fifty pounds, paid in cash. The date of the credit coincides with a leave period taken byStenhouse down in Perth. That bank is bound to have George Marshall’s signature, and I’ll have the handwriting compared withStenhouse’s first. If it’s his account, it would be interesting to know where that seven hundred and fifty cash came from.”
“His wife’s estate?” probed Bony.
“She left nothing but bits and pieces of jewellery. It’s all in that trunk. His gold wrist-watch; a pair of opal cuff-links and an opal tie-pin I’d like to own are there, too.”
“Opal!” murmured Bony, with the merest shade of interest. “What colour?”
“Black. First I’ve ever seen. Come from Lightning Ridge, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s the only place, I think, where black opal is mined.”
Bony crossed to the bench and opened the old-fashioned tin trunk. He brought back a cigar-box and lifted out two gold watches.
“Lady’s watch as well as his own, eh? Must have belonged to his wife. Her rings, too, and a pearl necklace. Strange that a man who treated his wife so badly should have retained her jewellery. Here’s a locket with a picture of him. Given her, perhaps, when they were sweethearts.”
Bony put aside the watches and the locket and necklace, and for half a minute regarded them dreamily. Inspector Walters was silent. He was feeling a trifle sentimental… From a small case Bony lifted the cuff-links, twin opals set in gold. It was doubtful that they had ever been worn. Audibly, Bony sighed with envy, put them back and snapped shut the box. He regarded for a longer period the truly magnificent tie-pin. Deep in the dark cloud scintillated a sea of emerald, and when he moved the gem lying on the palm of his hand, crimson fire swept across that emerald sea.
“Like you, Walters, I’d like to own a pin like that,” he said.“Any idea of its value?”
“No. Might be worth fifty pounds.”
“More. Twice that. Just look at it! Ah, Walters, what I could do with a millionpounds… opals, jade, alabaster, pearls. You can keep all the diamonds.”
“A million pounds!” soberly echoed Walters.“I don’t want a million pounds. Too much worry spendingit, and more worry keeping it. Fifty quid a week for life would do me.”
Reverently, Bony placed the tie-pin on its bed of black satin, noting that the jeweller’s name on the under lid had, on both boxes, been scratched off. The watches no longer interested him, although he did estimate their current value at about thirty pounds each. Walters watched him putting the items back into the cigar-box, said nothing, watched him replace the box in the tin trunk. On returning to the table, Bony asked was there a metropolitan telephone directory available.
“Nothing like that here,” answered Walters. “What the devil use would it be?”
“Might find Pluto’s name and address and number. Could ring him and ask for the name and occupation of the gent who turned Jacky Musgrave into a horse.”
Walters exploded:
“Damn Jacky Musgrave turned into a horse or a cow or a turtle. What’s chewing your shirt-tail? Come on… tell.”
“Just my sense of humour. I’m going to have a drink and go to bed. Coming?”
“Yes, too damn right I am. Going back to Broome by plane tomorrow, and then you can have thisStenhouse case all to your little self. You’re the most aggravating blighter I know, Bony. Telephone directories! Aborigines turned into horses! A million pounds to buy bits of coloured rock! I wouldn’t be your boss for a shipload of Scotch.”
Bony smiled, and the smile became chuckling laughter. Walters stamped after him to the door, and while waiting for him to lock the building, Bony said:
“My boss knows my methods, Watson!”