Telfer Doesn’t Like It
THROUGHOUT THE swordfishing season, Edward Blade invariably opened his office at seven o’clock each morning to attend to the requirements of launchmen preparing for the day’s angling, and usually he went home again at eight for breakfast to return at nine o’clock. By nine, when all the anglers had gone out, there was correspondence to be dealt with among other demands.
On returning to his office after breakfast on the morning of 18th January, Blade was surprised by Jack Wilton, who was waiting for him when he and his launch and his angler should have been at sea.
“Hullo! What’s your trouble, Jack?” he asked, unlocking the office door and leading the other inside.
“I’ve been waiting for Mr Bonaparte since seven o’clock this morning,” Jack explained. “As he didn’t turn up at the jetty by half-past eight I went to the hotel to see what was wrong. It seems that he’s gone away. He left this letter in his room for Mrs Steele and me.”
Blade accepted and read Malone’s dictated letter with a heavy frown between his widely spaced eyes. He re-read it several times, before looking up to stare at the puzzled launchman. Without commenting he passed to his table and there turned over filed papers until he displayed the hiring contract of fishing tackle signed by “Napoleon Bonaparte”. The letter addressed to Mrs Steele, the licensee, was signed “Nap Bonaparte”. From the examination of the two signatures. Blade glanced up at the waiting Wilton, to say:
“It seems plain enough, Jack. Something had happened which has taken Mr Bonaparte away for a few days. Still…”
“Joe says that Mr Bonaparte visited him at his shack last night, when Mr Bonaparte said nothing to him about going away. In fact, he promised Joe to decide about something when out fishing today.”
“Oh! What time was that, when Mr Bonaparte left Joe’s place?”
“About half-past ten.”
“Yes, that would be about right. I heard him talking to Mr. Emery in the main bar parlour at eleven. They were comparing their plans for the fishing today. And now I come to recall it, I heard Mr Bonaparte say to Mr Emery that they had better be off to bed as there was another day’s angling in front of them.” Again the club secretary read the letter, and again he stared pensively at Jack Wilton. “I can’t make it out. He must have decided to go away after he left Emery to go to bed. Do you know if he took any luggage with him?”
“Yes. Mrs Steele went to his room after I had been there and taken the letter to her. Mr Bonaparte’s two suit-cases are not there now, and the bed was just like he had slept in it.”
“That makes it stranger still,” Blade murmured. “I’ve seen those cases. One was pretty heavy and a good size. He must have left in a car. Couldn’t leave Bermagui with those cases any other way. You wait here. I’ll go along and have a word with Telfer.”
The constable was found engaged with his office work. He read the letter addressed to Mrs Steele, and then he listened to Blade’s vague misgivings. After that he pushed aside his papers and stood up, saying:
“I don’t like it.”
Again he read the letter, and again he said:
“I don’t like it.”
On their way to the hotel Blade mentioned Bony’s visit to Joe, and his subsequent chat with Emery in the parlour. He also insisted that Bony would have taken a car in which to leave Bermagui because of his heavy suit-case which, with the lighter one, had gone with him. They sought Mrs Steele, who conducted them to Bony’s room. She said:
“The maid has just finished tidying.”
Telfer glanced inquiringly about the room. He walked to the table and stared down at the pens and ink and the writing block.
“You came here a while back with Jack Wilton, Mrs Steele. How was the room then?” he questioned.
“Just as usual after a gentleman has left it. The bed was unmade and the ash-tray was almost filled with cigarette ash and stubs. Mr Bonaparte’s fishing clothes are in the wardrobe. He’s taken everything else with him.”
“Oh! The place didn’t look as if he had left in a great hurry?”
“No.”
“Nothing was upset?”
“No.”
“When did you last see Mr Bonaparte?”
“About ten to eleven. He came to ask me to put his brief-case in my safe in the office. Then he went into the main parlour and talked with Mr Emery.”
Telfer’s brows shot upward, and Blade said softly:
“Oh! Ah!”
“I hope there’s nothing wrong, Mr Telfer?” Mrs Steele said, suddenly anxious.
“Don’t know yet,” Telfer admitted. “Anyway, keep quiet about our interest in Mr Bonaparte. Did he say anything, or hint to anyone that he might be leaving?”
“Not a word. Not even a hint, Mr Telfer. In fact, he was telling Mr Emery that he was going to persuade Jack Wilton to troll today around Montague as he hasn’t been up there yet.”
Telfer stared at her in his disconcerting manner.
“We’ll go along to your office,” he said, decisively. “I’d like a look at that brief-case.”
In procession they passed along the corridor, down the short flight of steps, into the original building, and so to the small office built beneath the staircase. Telfer motioned Mrs Steele and Blade to go in. He himself casually toured the parlours and the bar before joining the licensee and the club secretary. Mrs Steele had opened her safe, and she produced Bony’s brief-case. Telfer unlatched it and swiftly glanced over the papers whilst being watched by the others. When he replaced them and fastened the case, he said:
“I’ll take charge of this, Mrs Steele.”
“But,” objected Mrs Steele, “Mr Bonaparte told me to take great care of it and to give it to no one but himself.”
“It’ll be all right,” Telfer told her. “He didn’t say how long he would want you to keep it?”
“No.”
“Did he seem worried?”
“Oh no. He was just as nice and smiling as always.”
“Did he use the telephone last night, do you know?”
“I don’t think so. I can find out for sure from the barman.”
“I’d like to know-for sure.”
Mrs Steele was away for a few minutes, to inform them on her return that no one had used the telephone after five o’clock the previous afternoon.
“I do hope nothing is wrong, Mr Telfer,” she said, earnestly. “What with theDo-me and poor Mr Ericson-”
“You just say nothing about anything to anyone,” Telfer told her. “You’ll oblige me by doing just that.”
“Oh, I’ll not gossip.”
“Good woman! Come on, Blade.”
Silently they walked to Blade’s office which was nearer than the Police Station, and there Telfer said slowly, ponderously:
“I still don’t like it. Why the devil would Inspector Bonaparte say nothing about going away? He goes to bed as usual, and then he gets up and dresses and packs his two suit-cases and clears out when he’s expectin’ a C.I.B. man here today with important information. Why? Tell me that.”
“I can’t, Telfer. The point is, how did he leave Bermagui? He must have hired a car to go away in, having those suit-cases. He couldn’t go away by any other means. Whose car did he hire?”
“Yes, whose? We must find that out. I wonder why he visited Joe last night. We’ll find that out, too. Meanwhile I’ll take the brief-case along to my office, and hunt up the night telephone operator. You could, if you like, see Smale and Parkins about the hired car. There’s no others he could have taken.”
They met again in the street an hour later, when Blade said that neither Smale nor Parkins had taken the detective away from Bermagui, and Telfer said that Bony had not asked for a telephone connection the previous day. Guarded inquiries had established the fact that no one within the hotel and no one living along the only street of the township had heard a car arriving at or leaving the hotel after ten o’clock the previous evening.
“I was mooching about till midnight,” Telfer stated, “and I didn’t see or hear a car anywhere. I’m liking it now less than ever. I wonder if he went away in a launch.”
“He might have done that, but if so wouldn’t he have chosen theMarlin?”
“Well, there’s Wilton down outside your place. Let’s go along and see if he noticed any launch missing early this morning.” They had almost reached Blade’s office when the policeman halted, and said: “I can hear an aeroplane.”
Blade listened.
“Yes. I can hear it, too. Coming from the north, from Sydney. It might be bringing the C.I.B. man Bonaparte’s expecting.”
“If it should be like that, remember that we promised Bonaparte to be dumb,” urged Telfer, who was becoming increasingly anxious that through Bony’s unaccountable absence all credit would be withdrawn from him. “It wouldn’t do to blab out everything we know, which isn’t much, just because the inspector went away for a day or two.”
“Still…” and Blade hesitated. “It’s all too mysterious for my liking. And we know he strongly suspected the Rockaway people.”
“We’ll wait, anyway, before we disobey Inspector Bonaparte’s orders,” Telfer countered stiffly. “Let’s go on and question Wilton about the launches.”
Jack Wilton was invited to follow them into Blade’s office, and there he was asked if any launch was out when he first went down to the jetty that morning.
“No, they were all at the jetty,” Wilton replied. “The only launches that have gone out took anglers with ’em. If Mr Bonaparte went away in a launch instead of a car, then that launch got back before I went down at six this morning.”
“Humph! Where’s Joe?”
“I think he’s in the garage soldering some hooks to traces.”
“Well, slip in there and bring him here.”
Joe appeared in less than a minute-as the aeroplane was roaring overhead on its way to the landing-ground. Telfer became brisk.
“Now, Joe, I understand that Mr Bonaparte paid you a visit last evening. What for?”
Joe’s face expanded in a mirthless grin.
“ ’Ecome to see me cats.”
“What else?”
“To ask kindly after me ’ealth.”
“Didn’t he make you a promise to decide about something when you were at sea today?”
Joe considered his reply before giving it. Then:
“Well, he was thinkin’ of me and ’im doing a bit of pros-pectin’ down around Wapengo Inlet.”
“Oh! He was, was he! Why?”
“Struth! Why does a bloke go prospectin’ if it ain’t for metal?”
“Rot, Joe. Now look here. We think that something serious has happened to Mr Bonaparte,” Telfer said, confidingly. “It’s up to us to get together and find out just what has happened to him. What do you think, Jack?”
“I think like you do, but Joe won’t talk.” Wilton answered.
“I promised ’im I wouldn’t,” Joe cut in. “It was a little private matter between me and ’im, and it ain’t got nothin’ to do with ’im goin’ away.”
“How do you know it hasn’t?”
A car hummed by the office building, and Blade knew it was driven by Smale, who was under contract to meet all planes.
“ ’Cosit ’asn’t, that’s all.”
“You’ll excuse me saying so, Joe Peace, but you’re an obstinate old fool,” Telfer told him with slow deliberation. “After Mr Bonaparte left you last night he returned to the hotel, had a drink with Mr Emery, and then went to bed. This morning he has gone, with his suit-cases, leaving a note to say he’ll be back some time. Supposing-I say supposing-the people who murdered Ericson got wind they were being cornered and to save themselves took Mr Bonaparte away, intending to put him out safely? Come on, we’ve got to find him. Tell us everything he talked about last night.”
“Well, ’e talked about cats and dogs and gold and caves and the Rockaway push.”
Further to this Joe would not add, and the purple-faced constable could question no further because Smale was returning from the landing-ground. He emitted a long-drawn sigh of exasperation.
“You two fellers quit for the time being,” he said, addressing Wilton. “And keep your mouths shut tight.”
He followed the launchmen as far as the door from which position he gazed along the road to Wapengo at the oncoming car. Blade joined him, saying:
“I think that what Joe said about the conversation with Mr Bonaparte is substantially correct. Joe wants to make a mystery of the entire visit.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Telfer conceded. “Ah-thought so! Here’s D-S Allen.”
The man who stepped from the car halted opposite the office was big and lean and efficient in action and appearance. He strode smartly towards Telfer, who had stepped down from the club office to meet him. And he said, as though words were time wasted:
“Day, Telfer!”
“Good day, Sergeant. You on the job again?”
“Yes. Mr Bonaparte out today?”
“Yes.”
“All right! I’ll go on to the hotel and fix a room. See you later.”
The two men watched him being driven to the hotel, and the constable said, gravely:
“I’m likingit less and less. He’ll be expecting Bonaparte back on theMarlin this evening, and when he learns that Bonaparte didn’t go fishing today, and that he left some time during the night, I’m going to get it well and truly in the neck. Darned if I know what best to do. Anyway, I’m going home for dinner.”
An hour later, when he returned, he found Blade studying a large scale map of the district.
“I been thinking,” he told Blade. “Perhaps one of the fellers at Cobargo saw or heard a car pass through there from here. Mind me using your phone?”
“Go ahead. Then we’ll test an idea of my own,” Blade said, using a pair of compasses with which to measure distances on the map.
Telfer was engaged four minutes, and, looking up, Blade saw him staring at the ceiling.
“Mounted Constable Earle lives near the Cobargobridge,” he said slowly. “Earle says he heard a car enter Cobargo from the Bermagui road, pass over the bridge, and take the road to Bega. Bonaparte might have been in that car. Time-two-twenty a.m.”
“That’s quite likely, Telfer. Now listen to my idea. Bonaparte visited Joe last night and they talked about Wapengo Inlet. Supposing that after he went to bed he decided to prospect the Rockaways’ place, and so packed up and got himself driven, say, to Lacy’s or Milton’s at the back of the Inlet, and from there do his prospecting?”
“Then why go all the way round through Cobargo and Bega, and then across Dr George Mountain? Why didn’t he take the direct coast road?”
“Because the night being dead quiet, he knew someone here would hear the car departing.”
“Where did he get the car, and when did he order it?” Telfer demanded, triumphantly. “And why didn’t he take the brief-case?”
“Oh, search me!” Blade answered despairingly.
“No, that won’t work out, old man. What I think is this. Assuming that Bonaparte was right on the track of them that killed Ericson-and he was suspecting the Rockaway crowd, wasn’t he-and assuming they are the guilty parties, they’d have knowledge who and what Bonaparte was late yesterday afternoon when Tatter came with the mail. He reads a newspaper, and he telephones old Rockaway about it. He was in town till late last night. I saw him in the pub. Then the car comes in and parks outside the town, and Tatter and the rest pounce on Bonaparte when he’s in bed and take him for a ride, as they say on the pictures. I’ll check up on that car Earle heard early this morning.”
Again he applied himself to the telephone, and when he had done he was smiling a grim and broad smile.
“Gellibrand, down at Tanja, says he heard a car coming along the Dr George Mountain road at half-past three this morning. It was so unusual that he got up and looked out of his window. He saw the car pass his house, and he recognized it as Rockaway’s Southern Star. Says he’ll swear to it.”
After this neither spoke for a full minute; when the silence was broken it was done by Telfer, with positive reluctance in his voice.
“I’ll have to make a full report to D-S Allen. If I don’t I’ll be put on tramp. Blast! What did he want to come butting in for? The Cobargo crowd andus could have cleaned up this business.”
“That’s your best course,” Blade urged. “I’ve been looking at this letter addressed to Mrs Steele, and it makes me almost sure that it’s been dictated.”
“How?”
“Well, look at the word ‘bilk’. Compare it with the other words. It’s written raggedly, as though the writer hesitated to write it. I can’t fancy myself hearing Bonaparte speaking such a word. But, Telfer, old man, I’ve heard Malone use the word more often than once. Then look at the signature here on this contract for fishing tackle. It’s in full-Napoleon Bonaparte. On the letter it’s just Nap Bonaparte. He was a proud man, Telfer, and secretly proud of his name. I don’t think he’d sign Nap at any time. In this case he might have done so to lead us to believe he wrote at dictation. Yes, Allen will have to know all about it. But you can present to him a good case, can’t you?”
Telfer grinned. He was standing by the seated secretary, and he patted Blade on the back, saying:
“Thanks to you. I’ll hop along to Allen right away.”
Blade saw nothing more of Telfer until the constable saluted him from Smale’s car. Beside him sat D-S Allen. The car took the road to Cobargo. It was then four o’clock.
After that Blade found work impossible, for a ‘why’ insistently knocked on the door of his mind. Why were those two going to Cobargo? He watched the car round the bend back of the jetty, saw it disappear behind the bank of the higher land, saw it reappear speeding in front of a dust cloud, saw it crossing the bridge over the Bermaguee River, watched it until it again disappeared just before reaching the road junction where Rockaway’s car had waited for Bony and his abductors.
The sun shone full upon the seated secretary, who absently greeted, or returned the greetings of, passers-by. With the same degree of absent-mindedness he saw the homing launches, and for the first time was thankful that not one of them flew a capture flag. He should have gone home for dinner at six, but he continued to sit on his doorstep.
It was a launch that brought him to his feet as though jerked to them by a rope.
TheMarlin was passing across the inner bay towards the headland and the open sea. It was almost seven o’clock, and quite loudly Edward Blade said to the world in general:
“Where the hell are those two fellows going at this time of day?” Then he hurried into the office, strode to his table, glared at the map almost covering his table. “Damn it all!” he cried aloud. “Why didn’t I concentrate on that brief-case? Either Bonaparte made up his mind to leave the pub before he went to bed, and decided to plant his brief-case in the hotel safe, or he expected a move from the Rockaway crowd and had it locked up for safety. And then they got him. That’s it, then they got him. I’m left here like a dolt while Allen and Telfer and the rest scoop the pool. And I’ll bet Wilton and old Joe Peaceare headed for Wapengo Inlet, too.”
Mr Parkins looked in through the doorway.
“You going dippy-talking to yourself like that?” he inquired.
“Goingdippy! Iam dippy,” Blade shouted.