Intuition
THE SYDNEY newspapers arriving at Bermagui on 17th January contained matter highly gratifying to Bony but annoying to Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.
He had had an unfortunate day at sea, having lost a striped marlin swordfish through haste in bringing it to the gaff in short time. Then a seal had followed theMarlin for two hours, apparently to gain relief from boredom. Its presence keeping away probably swordfish from Bony’s bait-fish, Wilton and Joe between them did everything possible trying to “lose” it. They put the launch at top speed to tire the seal, but it evidently liked speed. Every time it went below the surface theMarlin was put hard to port or starboard with the hope of escaping, but on coming again to the surface the seal would raise itself high out of water, look about like a crop-eared dog, spot the launch and come tearing along after it. Short of shooting it there was no getting rid of its unwelcome presence until it chose to leave, and neither Bony nor his launchman thought to do that.
Then, when returning to his hotel after this unfortunate day, Blade called him into his office.
“These newpaper reports will interest you.” Blade told him. “The papers arrived this afternoon.”
He displayed several sheets on which he had enclosed matter with neat blue crosses. Bony’s attention was at once attracted by the headline over one of the reports. It read:
“Brisbane Detective-Inspector Captures Giant Swordfish.”
Two inches were given to facts of the capture of Bony’s second fish and its weight and measurements. Four inches were given to him:
“There is, of course, in Australia only one Mr Napoleon Bonaparte. He is an inspector attached to the Criminal Investigation Branch in Brisbane, a man whose career is as romantic as it is remarkable. It is said that he has never failed successfully to finalize a case assigned to him, and that his bush craft and gifts have raised him high in the estimation of his superiors. His presence at Bermagui probably indicates that he is enjoying a busman’s holiday; for the disappearance of a launch off Bermagui, and the subsequent recovery in a ship’s trawl of the mutilated head of the angler who disappeared with the launch, a relic which unmistakably proved that the unfortunate man was shot, presents one of the most baffling mysteries of modern times.”
Yet another Sydney daily mentioned Bony’s profession and hinted that he was taking a busman’s holiday. It added:
“His record of successes has created strong confidence in him by his superiors, and on several occasions he has been loaned to the Police Departments of other States to clear up a particularly difficult case. Should D-I Bonaparte really be working on theDo-me case, it may be taken for granted that startling developments will ultimately take place.”
Setting the papers down on Blade’s desk, Bony walked to the door where he stood and pondered on this particular “startling development”. Blade came to stand behind him his face troubled.
“I feel that I am partially responsible,” he said.“Not, however, for the information concerning your profession and presence at Bermagui. Those secrets have been well kept by all you took into your confidence. We’re not gossipers.”
When Bony turned to the club secretary he was smiling although his eyes were serious.
“It is obvious, Blade, that the facts concerning me were given by editorial direction,”
“I am glad you accept that,” Blade hurriedly cut in. “It has been my practice to post the newspapers with any unusual happening down here, and, of course, your five hundred and eighty-pounder swordie was an unusual happening. It’s good for the town and the club, you understand. I hope that the unfortunate revelation won’t have any serious effect on your investigation.”
“I think not, Blade, and it is not worth worrying about really. It will cause comment, and people here will want to know why I am enjoying myself fishing for swordfish if I am investigating the disappearance of theDo-me; and they will want to know why I am not investigating the disappearance if I am really here on holidays.” Bony chuckled. “And I was thinking of capturing half a dozen more swordies before I finalized this investigation. Now, I will have to work.”
“Are you making any headway at all?”
“Yes, a little, a little. I am almost in the position of being able to say how it was done and who did it. I am waiting to know why it was done. That is strictly betweenourselves. Ah-here’s Constable Telfer.”
“Afternoon, Mr Bonaparte,” the man with the big hands, the tough and big body, and the red and tough face said in cheerful greeting. He glanced at Blade, hesitating to speak further. Bony said:
“Did the inquiry about dark-grey kalsomine paint bear fruit?”
“Yes. The party bought ten packets of dark-grey kalsomine on 11th September at Milton’s hardware store in Cobargo.”
“Oh! That, Telfer, is most satisfactory. By the way, I will probably be out fishing tomorrow, and should Sergeant Allen or another officer arrive when I am away, I want you to be careful not to disclose an item of interest concerning our work on thisDo-me case. We are not going to permit any loss of credit to ourselves.”
The constable’s face and eyes indicated happiness.
“In fact, Telfer, it would be well for you, and you too, Blade, to be extremely dense and mentally vague. Allen might ask if you know a man having blue eyes and soft hands, a commanding presence and an English accent, and in age about sixty. I am expecting Allen or another officer to bring me important information concerning the man I have just described, and he may think himself sufficiently clever to put one over on poor old Bony. Keep him occupied, therefore, with subjects such as the weather.”
“I’ll do my best to keep him interested,” Blade assented.
“And I’ll be a gawk from Woop-Woop,” Telfer added, delighted by the prospect.
“I am sure that we, with the possible assistance of the Cobargo uniformed police, can deal with our own affairs,” Bony said. “My impression of Allen is that he wouldn’t hesitate to steal a march, and it is he who is likely to convey the information, being so familiar with the ground. Now I must prepare for dinner. I am displeased with myself for having lost a swordie through sheer brainless stupidity. Aurevoir!”
“Must we let the Cobargo crowd in on this job?” Telfer asked, doubtfully.
Bony nodded.
“There are more bolt-holes than you and I could cover, and more than one rabbit.”
When he had gone Telfer regarded the club secretary. Blade smiled and said:
“He said that you and he wouldn’t be able to manage all the bolt-holes. He didn’t include me, but I am going to look after one of those bolt-holes, and you’re not going to stop me.”
“I don’t aim to.” Telfer sighed and added: “I wish I could get results like he does, and go fishing while I’m doing it. When I think of all the nights I’ve stopped up out of bed teasing my nit-wit brain to work out a theory or two about theDo-me, and him away fishing and doing his real job at the same time, I reckon I ought to get away from The Force and take on wood chopping.”
At dinner Bony had to assure his table companion, Mr Emery, that although he was a detective-inspector he was really and truly on holiday and not at all interested in the fate of theDo-me. He did this with no betrayal of “hate” of telling lies. He could “sense” the additional interest in him exhibited by everyone about him. In itself this interest fed his abnormal vanity, but beneath the pleasure it gave him lurked a feeling of annoyance. Time had forestalled him, had played a trick on him by revealing him to this Bermagui world before he was ready for the revelation.
When it was dark he strolled along the main street pausing to gaze at the captures suspended on the town triangle. His own gigantic swordfish, due to be removed the following day, was also displayed, and he felt secret satisfaction that those brought in this day were in comparison mere tiddlers. Afterwards, he strolled on along the road to Cobargo, turned to the skirting higher land. He saw a light shining from an unguarded window; eventually he knocked on the door of the small hut in which this window was built.
“Come in!” called Joe Peace.
Bony entered. Joe was seated at a roughly made table. The stove gleamed with fat which had escaped from the frying-pan now on the wooden floor and occupying the interest of four large black and white cats. There was a bunk on which was a toss of blankets, indicating that Joe “made” his bed after he got into it. Above the table was suspended an oil lamp, polished and wick-trimmed, the only article showing evidence of constant care. Joe stood up.
“Why, Mr Bonaparte! Come in. Shut the flamin’ door, please. The draught makes the lamp smoke. Here, take a pew.”
He offered his visitor a petrol case.
“Had dinner, I suppose? If not, I can soon lash up a feed of some sort,” he said.
“Thanks, Joe. I’ve had dinner,” Bony told him. “I’ve just dropped in for a few moments. Didn’t think you would mind.”
“Course not. Glad to see you. I’ve just finished my grub. I’ll clear the decks and feed me animals, and then we can settle down for a chin-wag. Me joint ain’t none too flash, but I’m a great one for peace and quiet. Can’t understand any bloke wantin’ to git married. Can you?”
Verbally Bony agreed, but he thought that marriage would have improved Joe’s surroundings. The place was spotlessly clean, but its contents were in fearful confusion. Joe went out, and the four cats went with him. He closed the door and was away for two minutes. On returning, the cats came in with him. He gave them milk in a pie-dish, and meat on a plate, and the plate and dish he subsequently washed with his own utensils. Then, seated opposite Bony and smoking a cigar his guest had presented, with the four cats purring and cleaning themselves on the table between them, he ceased his careless talking and waited to learn the purpose of the visit.
“I understand, Joe, that once you did some prospecting about Wapengo Inlet,” Bony began.
“Too right I did. Went into that country years ago looking for colours and sleeper timber. Found plenty of timber but no metal. Gold must be there, though, washed down outer them ’ills.”
“Was that before Rockaway settled there?”
“Years before.”
“By the way, Joe, how does Rockaway get his mail and papers?”
“Tatter comes for ’em on ’is moter-bike. ’Tain’t far on a moter-bike. Two miles from the ’ouse to the Tathra road, and seventeen to Bermee.’E’s a bit of a scorcher isTatter, and the Rockaways don’t ’ave dinner till eight.”
“Oh! What is this Tatter?”
“ ’E’sthe butler. When the truck isn’t in. Tatter makes the trip for the mail and papers.”
“What kind of man is he to look at?”
“Tatter? A biggish sorta bloke. Done a bit with the gloves at some time.’E’s never run foul of me-yet.”
“There is a man cook, isn’t there?”
“Yes. ’Is name’s Jules. Don’t see much of ’im. Bit of weed is Monsoo Jules.”
“A Frenchman?”
Joe nodded and blew cigar smoke at the cats. They objected, and one jumped lightly to Bony’s shoulder, where it settled and purred.
“How long has this Jules and Tatter been with Rockaway?” was Bony’s next question.
“Like the others they come ’ere with Rockaway. Even Mrs Light, the ’ouse-keeper, came with Rockaway and the gal. Some says that Mrs Light uster be lady’s maid to Mrs Rockaway afore she kicked orf. She’s a sour old cow… You like cats?”
“Much, and dogs, too,” replied Bony, who was stroking the animal on his shoulder.
“Can’t says as ’ow I’m partial to dogs,” admitted Joe, and Bony guessed that he was the cats’ defender against the attacks of local dogs. He gazed steadily at Joe, saying:
“When you were prospecting at Wapengo Inlet, did you discover any caves or natural holes in the ground?”
Joe regarded Bony from beyond a pall of smoke.
“It’s funny you asking me that,” he said slowly. “Meand Jack was talkin’ of caves and things last night. There’s a longish cave less’n ’arf a mile from Rockaway’s ’ouse. It goes away back under to top of the ’ill. Just the place for ole Rockaway to plant anybody he wanted to keep quiet-blokes like Bill Spinks and young Garroway, f’instance.”
“Indeed!” Steadily Bony regarded Joe through the smoke. “Do you, too, think they are still alive?”
“Can’t say as I do. But Jack does, and he thinks it because the Spinks women won’t admit they’re dead.”
“Where is the entrance to this cavern-from the house?”
“It’s straight up the ’ill from the ’ouse. Yousee, the ’ill top is sorta ’ollow. Sandstone and granite, and the sandstone ’as washed out leavin’ the granite cap still there. It’s a good place all right. Small entrance what could be easily blocked from outside.”
“Although we are unable to believe that Spinks and Garroway are alive, that cave would be a good place to keep them in for months?”
“For years. As I told you, the entrance is small and can be easily blocked from outside. There’s only one ’ole in the roof, and a rock could be rolled over that. Any’ow, it’s too high from the floor to reach and escape that way. Still, what would be the sense of killin’ Ericson and not them what saw the killin’ done?”
Bony slowly nodded in agreement, and for a space they were silent. Then he said:
“I would much like to examine that cave you speak of, Joe. Although we do not believe those two men to be alive, I must not disregard the possibility. The time has almost arrived to take a certain path of action, and before that action is undertaken I must be sure that the lives of possible prisoners are not endangered. I wonder, now. Would you accompany me, say tomorrow night, down to Wapengo Inlet and there take a look around?”
“Would I! Too right I would,” replied Joe, his mouth a-leer, his small eyes agate hard. “Thinking of Bill and young Garroway makes me kind of take a step or two to believin’ they’re alive.”
“Well,”and Bony lifted the cat from his shoulder, “I’ll let you know tomorrow about the expedition to Wapengo Inlet. Meanwhile I rely on your silence. When we do act we must act swiftly.”
“You can rely on me, Mr Bonaparte. I ain’t married, for a woman to get anythink outer me.”
On reaching the hotel, Bony passed at once to his room which was on the ground floor. There he opened his brief-case to refresh his mind on the statement made to Sergeant Allen by Eddy Burns.
He was standing at the table set before the window that opened on to the yard and garages, the case on the table, its contents not yet withdrawn. Slowly his slight body stiffened until it became utterly immobile. That “sixth” sense named by himintuition, was unaccountably aroused, its physical effect being a tingling sensation at the back of his head.
For quite a minute he remained standing thus, and then his nostrils expanded and relaxed. In this time his maternal blood conquered his white blood, and he became primitive, super alert, controlled by the nervous reflexes of primitive man and animals. Swiftly immobility fled, to be replaced by feverish activity.
He made a thorough search of the room and his possessions, but everything was in order. He examined the brief-case and the papers within, but found no clue to possible interference. He remembered exactly how last he had placed the papers in the case, and they tallied now.
“Strange!” he murmured.
The tingling feeling had passed, and again he was normal. The cause he attributed to a condition of health, for there was nothing within the room, or in the air, to have warned him of danger. It was then a quarter toeleven, and he took the brief-case to the licensee with the request that it be locked in the office safe.
He joined Emery in the main bar parlour, and for half an hour talked fishing over a drink or two. When he went to bed it was to sleep without delay. He was awakened by a small voice full of menace.
“Get up and dress. Don’t so much as whisper, or I’ll spatter the walls with your brains.”