Arthur Upfield - Death of a Swagman

Both the doctor and the policeman agreeing that the inquest could be held in the morning, Bony beamed upon them in turn. He was almost gay when he said:

“If old Bennett did die of fright produced by the threat of murder, and if that man in the hut was first killed and then hanged, and if Kendall’s body was taken to that hut from some other place where he was murdered, we are entitled to assume that in this district there is a tiptop, first-class, dyed-in-the-wool murderer. You know, gentlemen, I am beginning to enjoy myself. The answer to the question: ‘Whodunn -it?’ is going to be most interesting. Now, Doctor, who do you think it will turn out to be?”

“Rev. Llewellyn James,” was the doctor’s prompt reply.

“Dear me!” exclaimed Bony mildly.

“Yes. The fellow would murder anything. He’s a hypocrite, a malingerer, and a fraud. Says he suffers from a weak heart, but he’s too cunning to let me examine him. Sits most of the day on his veranda reading books, and lets his wife chop the wood in the back yard. He’s as strong as a young bull, and he could hang that man with ease.”

Bony chuckled. He turned to Sergeant Marshall.

“What about you?” he pressed.

“Good job these guesses are off the record,” growled Marshall. “I think I’ll vote for Massey Leylan. He’s young and strong, and he has a violent temper.”

“My guess,” said Gleeson, accepting Bony’s invitation, “is young Jason. There is a certain amount of evidence pointing to him. Sergeant Redman picked on him too. Bad-tempered, sullen fellow. Strong despite his deformities.”

“Now we have three likely-looking coves all ready for the neck-tie ceremony, as the late William Sykes would have said,” pointed out the delighted Bony. “Henceforth I will take an especial interest in them.”

Gleeson asked Bony who was his guess, and Bony was evasive.

“I am a personage of such terrific importance that I dare not hazard even a guess off the record,” he said smilingly. “Were I to name the elder Jason, the hotel licensee, or the butcher, or even you, Gleeson, you would condemn the named person out of hand. I can accept your choice with an open mind; you would accept mine as a certainty.”

The Guest of Sam the Blackmailer

AS A MAN, Sam the Blackmailer would never be cast for a screen lover, but as a cook he was superlative… when he liked to exert himself. He was known from one end of the Darling River to the other, and no squatter alive was game enough to offend him, for at the least offence, real or imaginary, a superlative cook would demand his cheque and make post-haste for the nearest pub.

Be it known that cooks are not as plentiful as peas in a pod; they aremore rare than rich squatters who breed Melbourne Cup winners. Sam’s bread and yeast buns were a delight to eat, whilst his pastry simply floated down the throats of men long used tosoddy damper and mutton stews thickened with pure sand.

Sam was tall and thin. His face was as white as his bread, and his unruly, straggly moustache was the colour of beer. When he sat down it seemed that he coiled himself, and when he got up he took an appreciable time to uncoil himself. He had never been known to wear other than white flannel trousers and cotton singlet, and when his great flat feet were thrust into cloth slippers he was the monarch of all he surveyed.

The men’s eating-room at Wattle Creek Station was akin to that on the majority of stations. It was a dining-room cum kitchen combined, and at half past three o’clock it was Sam’s duty to have tea and brownie ready for the hands working about the homestead.

This afternoon he heard a car arrive and stop outside the station office three minutes before the time to call the men. He was about to coil himself upon a petrol case preparatory to peeling the dinner potatoes when he changed his mind and sauntered to the door, there to lean against the frame to observe the well-known figure of Sergeant Marshall being welcomed by Massey Leylan. Bony he did not recognize, but he did see that Bony was not dressed as a policeman, and when his employer and the sergeant went into the office he whistled with his fingers and then beckoned the stranger to him.

His next act was to lurch from the doorpost and amble to the short length of railway iron suspended from a tree branch. This he struck with an iron bar, giving it one terrific clout as though it were his greatest enemy, who needed only the one blow. He was seated at the end of one of the long forms flanking the dining table when Bony entered, followed by several hands.

“Gooddayee, mate. Come and have a drinker tea,” he said to Bony.“Pannikins on the wall there. Tea here in the ruddy pot.”

Bony nodded his thanks, took down a shining tin pannikin, and poured himself tea.

“Sit down, mate,” invited Sam the Blackmailer. “Ain’tneverseen you before. Bushman?”

“Yes. Looking for a job… or was,” replied Bony, helping himself to brownie.

“Cripes!” exclaimed one of the hands. “Ain’tyou the bloke what was run in and made to paint the police station fence?”

“My fame as a painter of police station fences has, apparently, gone out far and wide,” modestly admitted Bony, beaming upon them all.

“Ruddy shame,” snarled Sam the Blackmailer.

“Oh, the work is easy enough, the hours not long,” Bony said lightly. “And I get my meals at the sergeant’s table, and his wife’s a good cook. Plus two bob a day to spend over at the hotel half an hour before closing time. I needed a spell. I’m getting it.”

“I still say it’s a ruddy shame,” persisted the cook. “The ruddygov’ment ought to be made to pay union wages, that’s what Isays. What did they shoot you in for?”

“For several things all at the same time,” Bony replied laughing, and recounted how he had been awakened by the sergeant, and the answers he had given to his questions.

“That’s what old Marshall would do,” asserted a thick-set man, and the cook demanded to know what Marshall was doing here at Wattle Creek.

“To ring up old Jason and ask him to take a truck out to that hut at Sandy Flat for a body that was found hanging from a beam,” Bony answered carelessly. He was lounging over the table and methodically stirring the tea in his pannikin, but he registered the effect of the announcement on each of his hearers. “A swagman hanged himself in that hut last night.”

“So!” Sam the Blackmailer said softly, and his brown eyes seemed unnaturally large. There was complete silence following Sam’s exclamation, broken only by the cawing of crows and the methodical action of an engine pumping water. “Now whatd’youknow about that? Is he a medium-sized bloke, grey hair, getting along for half a century, and dying of consumption?”

Bony nodded.

“How did he do it?” demanded a youth who wore spurs that tinkled like cracked bells every time he moved his kangaroo-hide riding boots.

“Buckled his swag straps together… after making a noose through the buckle of one. Got up on the table, put the noose round his neck, tied the other end to the beam, and stepped off the table. You fellers know him?”

“Can’t say as we know him,” replied Sam the Blackmailer. “He was here last night having his dinner.”

“He was over at the hut afterwards,” supplemented the youth.

“That’s right,” agreed the thickset man. “Meand Johnny was pitching to him for a coupler hours.”

“Where did he come from, did he say?” Bony asked.

“Said something about having come out of the ’ospitalat the Hill,” answered the youth. “Come to think of it, he didn’t give much away about himself, did he, Harry?”

The thickset man agreed. Bony spoke, softly, indifferently. “He must have left this homestead pretty late last night. What time did you see him last?”