Arthur Upfield - Death of a Swagman

“He left our hut about ten. He was camped up at the wool-shed,” volunteered Johnny.“Never saidanythink about going on that night. Come to think of it, he passed through here some time back. Don’t you remember, Sam?”

“Can’t say as I do,” replied the cook.

“Anyway, he’s dead now,” Bony put in. “He made a very good job of himself.”

“Ruddy shame-bloke likethat being on the tramp,” snarled the cook.

“Might sooner be on tramp in freedom than penned up in a hospital,” remarked an elderly man. “Hospitals are good places to be out of.”

“I remember-” began Johnny, and then cut off.

Sam the Blackmailer glared at him.

“Well, whatd’you ruddy well remember?”

“About that swagman. He nevercome through here like I thought. I seen ’imover at Ned’s Swamp that time me and Jack Lock went over there to fetch them horses. Yes, that’s where I seen ’imbefore.”

“Ned’s Swamp is a run on the other side of the Walls, isn’t it?” inquired Bony, who knew it quite well.

“Yes. Me and Lock went over to the homestead-sixteen miles across. That’s where I seen that swagman. I remember, too, when that was. It was three days before George Kendall was murdered. Funny!”

“What’s ruddy funny?” growled the cook.

“George Kendall was murdered six or seven weeks ago and thatswaggy told us he’d been in hospital for the last three months. Didn’t he, Harry?”

“He did so.”

“Must have beenwanderin ’ in his ruddy mind,” asserted Sam. “Must ’ave’ad a lot on ’is mind last night when he was here, to go and ’ang’imselflike that.”

“He didn’t seem to haveanythink on his mind when he was talking to us, did he, Harry?”

“No,” replied the thickset man. “He did not. He was cheerful enough. Talked about going down toMelbun for Christmas. Got a sister down there. Didn’t-”

“Cripes, now!” almost shouted the youthful Johnny.

“Don’t let it ruddy well ’urtcher,” urged the unsmiling cook. “And look at the time. The ruddy boss will be sacking the lot of you if you don’t do a get back to work.”

Johnny’s eyes were big, expanded by the idea in his brain, and he had either to get it out or explode. He said, when on his way to the door and back to his work:

“I wonder if that swagman killed old Kendall, and then had to go back to the scene of ’is crime? Then he got overcome by remorse and did ’imselfin.”

The thickset man chuckled.

“You might be right, Johnny me lad, but don’t go gabbing about it to the police,” he advised, winking at Sam. “Besides, blokes these days don’t hang themselves through remorse. You been reading too many of them murder mysteries. You stick to the sporting news in future.”

“Kendall!” exclaimed Bony with raised brows. “Was Kendall killed in that hut?”

“Too ruddy right he was,” asserted the cook. “He was bashed about, somethink awful. His blood was all over the place, wasn’t it, George?”

The elderly man nodded and stroked his grey moustache with the stem of his pipe.

“All over the floor, anyway,” he corrected. “It was the boss and me who found him. Wewas going farther out, away across the Walls that day, and we called in at Sandy Flat with rations for Kendall.”

“The police never got anyone for the crime, did they?” asked Bony.

“No, they didn’t, and theyain’t likely to now. A d. came out from Sydney, but he didn’t dono good-leastways it never came out,” cut in Sam the Blackmailer. “There was a bit of a blue at the social and dance the night before, and Kendall was mixed up in it. It seems that Kendall pushed Rose Marie, the sergeant’s daughter, and young Jason took aholt of ’imand marched him outside. They had a fight afterwards. You seen ’im?”

“Young Jason? Yes. He doesn’t say much.” The remaining men left for their work, and Bony asked: “What kind of a man was Kendall to work with?”

Sam gazed straight into Bony’s blue eyes, paused before saying:

“There are some blokes whatwasborned to be husband of a nagging wife. Thereis other blokes what wasborned to have sixteen kids. And there are some blokes which areborned to be murdered. Kendall wasborned to be murdered. The surprising thing is that he was murdered so late in life.”

“You don’t say,” Bony observed.

“I do say. By rights Kendall ought to have been murdered when ’e was much younger… say about two days old,” proclaimed the cook. “Kendall was justnatcherly a nasty bit of work. He never could say a good word for anyone. Australia ’as the best Labourgov’ment what ever lived, and Kendall didn’t even have a good word for it, let alone local man, woman or child. We ’ere was all very glad when the boss sent ’imout to Sandy Flat.”

“How often did they take Kendall out his rations?” Bony asked without apparent interest.

“Every month. Why?”

“Just thinking I might ask the boss here for a job. A man out at Sandy Flat would kill his own meat?”

“Of course. There was ration sheep in the yards when Kendall was murdered. Everyone was so excited at Kendall being flattened that them sheep was forgotten for nigh a week. Three of them there was. They reckoned that Kendallmusta got ’emyarded just before he went to town that evening, ’costhere was a full carcass in the safe. Having killed one, he ought to have let the others go. Mustaforgot.”

“Well… well… and now he’s dead. And now that swagman is dead in the same hut. Don’t you think it funny that swagman left here in the middle of the night to tramp to Sandy Flat?”

“Come to think of it, I do,” agreed Sam the Blackmailer.

“How long was he here? Any idea?” persisted Bony.

“Yes, I know that one. He arrived the afternoon before and camped in the woolshed. He called in here when wewas having dinner. I give ’ima handout.”

“If it was roaring hot weather, he could be expected to travel at night. But why go to Sandy Flat? There’s no public road past that well and hut, is there?”

“There’s no public road, but there is a track what begins againt’other side of the Walls, a track that goes on over to Ned’s Swamp homestead.”

“So actually that swagman spent a full day here?”

“Yes. That’s so, mate.”

“What road’s this place on?”

“On the road toPooncaira. Dry track, too. There’s another road what branches off just north of the woolshed what goes to Ivanhoe. You worrying about getting a job?”

“Not exactly,” Bony said carelessly. “Went down to Melbourne and went broke. You know, pawned a watch for me fare up to Mildura, and I’d like a couple of months’ work somewhere.”

“Ask the boss. He’ll put you on.”

“I will. Want to write a letter, too, when I get back. When does the mail go out?”

“Went through here yesterday. Left Merino yesterday. Won’t be another tillSat’day.” Sam uncoiled himself and clawed at the table to get himself to his feet. He stood then, looking down at Bony, and he said paternally:

“Don’t you go taking a job out at SandyFlat. That’s no ruddy place for no ’umanbeing, what with a murder and a suicide being done there.”

“I wouldn’t loseno sleep over it if I did go there,” Bony stated, getting to his feet. “Suppose I’d better get back to the car. Thanks for the lunch. See you sometime.”

“Yep. In the ruddy pub, prob’ly. Hoo-roo!”

On leaving Sam the Blackmailer, Bony walked back to the car, and then strolled along the creek bank to the woolshed and shearing shed, a quarter of a mile distant. He came first to thewoolshed, now empty of wool, its great doors wide open, and before them a makeshift fireplace.

There was no one within. He stood for a moment in the doorway, surveying the dim interior. It was cool within and smelled of wool in the raw. On one side were two hydraulic presses; along the other was a stack of wool tables.