The Neanderthal
ITWASAfew minutes before three o’clock when Bony entered the police station, to find Mawson in full uniform. Automatically the constable stood, and remembered in time not to salute.
“Going to the funeral,” he explained, noting Bony’s interest in the uniform.“Timed to leave the undertaker’s parlour at four.”
“You enjoy funerals,” Bony said matter-of-factly, and Mawson flushed.
“Best to go along,” he said. “These Answerths are influential.”
“And influential people require police attendance at their funerals. Anything I ought to know in this instance?”
The question worried Mawson, for he was still unsure of this Inspector, this remarkable half-caste who had nothing of the policeman in his outward appearance. He recalled the iron stiffness of Detective-InspectorStanley, and the same mental stiffness of the officer in charge of his own Division. With them it was impossible to compare this man unfavourably.
“Perhaps you’ve never come up against what’s like a blast of cold air coming down from somewhere up top,” he said, diffidently. “I’ve never felt it, and don’t want to, but the feller before me did. He had a disagreement with Miss Mary Answerth and she told him she’d have him shifted from Edison. He came back by telling her he had a job to do and would go on doing it, and that no one could shift him. In two months, he was shifted to a one-pub township so far west that he could throw a stone into the Northern Territory. He had nothing to do there but look at the sand.”
“How d’you think Miss Mary managed the transfer, Mawson?”
“Through the local Member of Parliament who has the ear of the Chief Secretary who has the ear of the Chief Commissioner. Same bloke is still our M.P. So Idoes my duty, and I dips me lid to the Answerths. The bloke before me had a wife and three kids to educate, too.”
“And was lacking in tact, I expect. Anyway, I’ll hold the fort while you are absent. Did I hear someone swearing in the back yard?”
Mawson smiled, and found that it hurt. Bony noted the livid mark on the left cheek.
“In pursuance of your directive,” Mawson said. “I parked Robin Foster in one of the cells.”
“Strife?”
“Plenty. He wasn’t really drunk enough to arrest easily. Had to borrow Mrs Carlow’s wheel-barrow and call on bystanders to assist in the name of the King. Took four of ’em and me to get Foster in the wheel-barrow to the lock-up. Wheel-barrow’s damaged. Three assistants damaged, and I’m going to have a black eye. But he’ll be ripe for questioning any time you want him.”
“You charged him with…?”
“Drunk in a public place, to wit the sidewalk outside the Edison Hotel, using obscene language, resisting the police… and one or two more items. It was before I put on me uniform for the funeral.”
“Your day will not be without interest,” Bony said, smilingly. He fingered the cloth-covered cord of the telephone instrument. “Did you obtain prints of Lofty’s photographs?”
“Yes. Here they are.”
Accepting the large envelope, Bony withdrew the pictures to arrange them in an arc on the desk.
“I suppose I ought to be armed with a large magnifying glass,” he said. “I decline to carry one, however, because it tends to sag the coat pocket. Peculiar mark round the neck, isn’t it? The cord which strangled the unfortunate woman comprised two wires each covered with cotton materials over rubber and twisted into a rope… like this telephone cord.”
“By gum, that’s true,” agreed Mawson. “Telephone flex.”
“Or electric light flex. Is electric power being brought to Edison?”
“No. Been hoping for it, but it seems we can go on hoping.”
“Are any of the houses or offices here wired for electricity?”
“No, not to my knowledge.”
“There isn’t an electrician living here?”
“No.”
“Get me Dr Lofty.” A minute later the doctor was on the phone. “Thank you for your prints, Doctor. Yes, just what I required. I am wondering if the mark about the neck suggested to you the type of cordemployed? ”
“Yes, light packing-case rope,” replied Lofty.
“What is your reaction to my suggestion that it might be telephone or power flex?”
“Entirely favourable, Inspector. Damn it! I should have thought of telephone cord. Why it’s looking at me now.”
“Thanks. I’m glad we agree. You might… er keep that up your sleeve. Going to the funeral?”
“Oh yes. Are you? Everyone will be going.”
“I have work to do, Doctor.”
“So have I, blast it. But… can’t get out of going.”
“Well, enjoy yourself. Good-bye and thank you.” Bony replaced the receiver on its cradle. “Telephone flex, Mawson. Electricpower flex. Did you observe that Morris Answerth was fishing from his window with power flex?”
The constable’s eyes narrowed, and, leaning over the desk towards his superior, he drawled:
“No. Now you’re telling me. Funny sort of cord to have in Venom House. It’s not wired for power. I…”
“Is there a telephone mechanic stationed here?”
“No. Repairs done by Manton people.”
Bony glanced at the wall clock, rose and passed to the front window. A hearse was drawn up before the mortician’s parlour across the street, and many cars parked along the kerb behind it. The sidewalk was crowded.
“What is your opinion of the Answerths, and the cook, based on our visit there this morning?” he asked without turning round.
“They seemed edgy to me,” replied Mawson. “But then there was a murder in the family. Those two women weren’t exactly full of mutual love. They sort of gleefully bowled each other out, and both of ’em were upset when you insisted on seeing Morris. You don’t think…”
“Why dress a grown man in a schoolboy’s clothes, Mawson? Why keep him confined to his rooms? Why prevent his mother visiting him of late? I found him rational, if childish. I found him tidy in person, clean, and meticulous in keeping his books in order. His room was clean and fairly tidy. There was no evidence that a person of unsound mind inhabited that room. Now you be off to your funeral. They are bringing out the casket.”
Continuing to stand at the window, Bony watched the policeman cross the silent street. All about Bony was silence, but from a distance came the sound of a man’s muffled shouting.
The casket was placed inside the motor hearse. There was a vision of masses of flowers. People appeared to dwindle in number, and the cars became prominent. The undertaker walked down the street before the hearse, and car by car moved away in procession.
Following the hearse was a utility almost buried beneath flowers. Following that was a smartsedan in which were two ministers and Janet Answerth, in black. Behind the sedan was the station wagon driven by Mary Answerth and without a passenger. Car after car passed the police station, and Bony recognized Mr Harston in one and a woman in a van driven by a youth and having on the panel the words “E. CARLOW, BUTCHER”. When the last car had glided down the street, there was not one person to be seen. The town wore its Sunday clothes.
Bony found the key of the lock-up and passed out to the rear yard. At the back of the yard were three cells under the one roof, with a face behind the grille in the centre door. The shouting stopped as he approached the prisoner.
“What’s to do?” he enquired, mildly. “You seem to be making a fuss at a most inopportune time.”
The prisoner’s faded blue eyes glared from behind the bars, and fair hair almost met the eyes, so low was the forehead.
“Let me bloody well outer here,” he roared. “I bloodywell done nothin’ agin the bloody law.”
“Drunk in a public place. Resisting the police. Assaulting the police. Using obscene language. Damaging property, to wit a wheel-barrow. Creating a public nuisance. Obstructing the footpath. And… oh well, that will do to go on with. Let us say a month.”
“A bloody month,” shouted the prisoner.“Caw!” He was abruptly awed by the enormous wickedness of the coppers. “And who the bloody hell are you?”
“I,” began Bony, pretentiously, “I am Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte. I am fate. I am doom. And you are facing a month.” Leaning against the wall of the lock-up, he gazed round the angle of the grid to watch the prisoner’s expression change to swift uneasiness, and then to bewilderment. “Care to answer a few questions, Foster?”
“I don’t bloody well know nothin’.”
“You know how old you are, surely?”
“Course I bloody wellknow how old I am.”
“Then you know something. Answer my questions to the best of your knowledge and ability, and I’ll unlock the door that you may return to the hotel and continue your bender. It’s not in order, but then I am not an ordinary policeman. Do we trade?”
As Foster was completely sober, as he suffered a poisonous hangover, as the pub was within three hundred yards of his thirsting throat, what could he do but trade?
“All bloody right,” he snarled. “But I bloody well tell you I bloody well know nothin’.”
“You were in Edison on a bender that night Edward Carlow was drowned in Answerth’s Folly, weren’t you?”
“I bloody well was…thank Gawd.”
“Why are you thankful?”
“Why! And you a bloody demon? If I hadn’t been on a snorter of a binge that night you bloody (twice) demons wouldof said I drowned Ed Carlow, that’s what you’d have bloody well done.”
“And immediately after Mrs Answerth’s body was found you came to Edison with Miss Answerth and started on another bender,” Bony persisted. “When the inquest was held into the death of Edward Carlow, you were still on that bender and were incapable as a witness.”
“I wasn’t bloody well wanted for a bloody witness,” shouted Foster.
“You thought you might be required to give evidence, and so kept yourself full of booze.”
“I’m telling youse… I bloody well didn’t.”
“You are, it is obvious, a person erroneously called a real Australian,” murmured Bony. “Your employment of the national adjective proves it. However, when I want you as a witness, Foster, I take steps to have you sober. Do we understand each other?”
“Caw! Strike me bloody blue!” The prisoner grabbed at the bars, and tugged and pushed and shouted: “Let me outer this bloody joint. When do I bloody well get out?”
“Perhaps next month if you don’t pipe down. You are the head stockman employed by the Misses Answerth. How many acres do they own?”
“Acres! Sixty bloody thousand acres, and nine outer ten bloody houses and shops in Edison… that’s what them Answerths own.”
“How long have you been employed by them?”
“Six years.”
“You forgot the adjective that time. How many sheep did the Answerths shear this year?”
“How…” The small blue eyes winked.“How many sheep?”
“You heard me. Come on.”
“Three thousand, four hundred and eighty-two, including the bloody lambs, was the tally.”
“Any shortage from the previous muster?”
In the faded blue eyes a shutter fluttered as quickly as that before the camera lens.
“Don’t think,” was the reply.
“Better try. You were and are the head stockman.”
“They’s was a few down at the bloody shearing.”
“How many down?”
“Caw! What am I supposed to bloody well be? Gettin’ on for a bloody hundred, we reckon. Every place is losing a few sheep these bloody days.”
“Did you work in the shearing shed?”
“Course not. I had me bloody time cut out drafting the bloody woollies into the bloody sheds, and taking the cleaners out again to the bloody paddocks.”
“Did you help shift the wool after it was baled?”
“Only once I helped Miss Mary with the bloody bales in the wool shed.”
“How many bales were there?”
“Cor bloody blimey! Whatd’you bloody well take me for? A bloody tally clerk?”
The next question was sharply spoken.
“When did you last see Mrs Answerth alive?”
Foster swallowed. Sweat glistened on his ribbon of a forehead.
“Not for bloody monse. Long time afore the bloody shearing any’ow.”
“You had nothing against her, did you?”
“What, against old Mrs A! Talk bloody sense.”
“What did you have against Edward Carlow?”
“A bloody lot. He was flash, for one bloody thing. About as straight as a porker’s tail. I wasn’t the only one hereabouts what had no bloody time for Ed Carlow, the big, fat, bloody…”
“The other national adjective isn’t permissible, Foster,” Bony hastily interposed. “Your brother didn’t have any time for Ed Carlow either, didhe?”
“No, he bloody well didn’t. But he was drinking with me that night Ed Carlow got bloody wet.”
“Well…” Bony slipped the key into the padlock barring the door. “That will be all for now, Foster. I may want to ask further questions, and when I do you will be sober.”
The door was flung open, and the prisoner came forth. Save for straightness of back, he was Neanderthal. He confronted Bony with bared teeth and clenching hands reaching down to his knees.
“Thanks for bloody well nothin’,” he shouted.
“That’ll be enough,” Bony told him, airily. “By the way, return the wheel-barrow over there to Mrs Carlow. Apologize to her for damaging it.”
Foster rocked on the heels of his riding-boots.
“Caw! The bloody nerve. Why, you bloody…” Stepping close to Bony, he glared at him, in his eyes the Neanderthal’s contempt of restraint and for consequences. A huge fist shot upward to contact Bony’s jaw.
It was, of course, not fair to Foster. He was still full of dead whisky and beer, he had never been scientifically trained, and had nothing with which to think. A battering-ram pounded into his stomach
… so full of dead beer and dead whisky… that made him bend forward to receive the toe of a shoe smack against his Adam’s apple. As he had very little neck, the shoe work was a credit to the expert. He proceeded to gasp for air, as he rocked on his feet. And then he appeared to lie down flat on his back, the back of his head being the first to contact the greater solid.
On regaining composure, he discovered himself to be kneeling, his left arm held by a vice having ten separate jaws. He was ordered to stand, and stood. He was ordered to march, and marched. He was ordered to gaze upon the broken wheel-barrow, and gazed.
“You will return the wheel-barrow to Mrs Carlow’s shop,” said the soft voice from somewhere behind him.
Then he was free. He whipped about and crouched. The man he saw appeared to fade away behind a pair of brilliant blue eyes which magically grew large and larger. He felt for the handles of the barrow and, finding them, pushed the barrow out of the yard and to the street.
“I’m behind you,” softly spoke the voice.
What was the “bloody” use? The butcher’s shop was closed, so he left the barrow outside the “bloody” door.