Arthur Upfield: Death of a Swagman

It was an instruction to him from the chief of his division to render all assistance to Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, who was reopening the investigation into the death of one George Kendall.

Still stiffly erect, the sergeant returned the instruction to its envelope and the envelope to a tunic pocket. Hiseyes were no longer small, nor was his face brick-red-it had become distinctly purple. Redman had told him one evening in the office something about this Napoleon Bonaparte and had said he was the best detective Queensland, or any other state, had ever produced. And he, Richard Marshall, first class sergeant, and the senior officer of Merino Police District, had locked him up, because… He fought for composure.

“I regret having charged you, sir. I didn’t know,” he said.

“Of course you didn’t know me, Sergeant,” Bony agreed soothingly. “Sit down here beside me and let us talk of cabbages and murders and things.”

“But… but… oh, my aunt!”

“What is the matter with your aunt?” mildly inquired Bony, and then smiled.

“Bit of a shock, sir, finding that I’ve locked up aD. I. Took you for an ordinary half… ordinary station hand. Saw you were a stranger in my district, and we want the station compound fence painted and the cells whitewashed.”

“Labour scarce?”

“No, but money is.”

“And so you arrest a stranger in this town, get him seven or fourteen days’ detention from a tame justice, and then provide him with apaintpot and brush, three meals and a bed, and two bob a day to take over to the hotel half an hour before closing time. I know. Good idea. The swagman gets a nice rest and the taxpayer has a drop of his money saved out of the ocean he provides. But you want always to be sure not to lock up police inspectors or union bosses. Supposing I had been a boss of the painters’ union?”

“That would have been too bad-for the union boss.”

“How so?”

“He would have had to do a spot of work or…”

“Or what?”

“Sweat it out in this cell.”

“He would have worked,” Bony predicted confidently. “Better work than sweat. I’ve had some. And don’t you go and scold Rose Marie. She saved my life with her tea and cake. Yes, I thought that your compound fence needed paint, and the work will provide me with a reason for being closely connected with the police. When do you intend to arraign me before the local magistrate?”

“Eh?” barked the sergeant.

“When will you prosecute me for (a) giving fictitious answers to lawful questions, et cetera, including (b), (c), and (d) in brackets?”

“You are not being serious, sir?”

“I am. You will press all those charges. I will plead guilty. You will whisper a word or two beforehand into the ear of the beak, asking him to give me fourteen days without the option of paying a fine. I will lodge here, eat of your wife’s excellent cooking-your own physical condition indicates that she is an excellent cook-and every evening at five-thirty you will pay me two shillings to spend over at the hotel. And then instead of everyone holding their horses in the presence of Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, they will talk quite freely with poor old Bony, the latest victim of theber -lasted per-leece. It is all so simple.”

“But what if the heads hear about it?”

“Who’s running this show, you or me?”

“I’m supposed to be running the district,” said the sergeant, a little doubtfully.

“You are. And I am running the investigation into the death of George Kendall. We are going to run in harness, and run well. The killing of Kendall wasn’t just a plain, ordinary booze and bash murder. Had it been, I would not have been here talking to you. There are aspects of this Kendall case which not only interest me but which escaped Detective Sergeant Redman, and, I venture to say, you too. For instance, you and Detective Sergeant Redman, and others, all believe that Kendall was murdered in his hut at Sandy Flat on Wattle Creek Station. I have not been there, ever, and I know that he was not murdered in his stockman’s hut.”

“But the blood on the floor… all about the body!” objected the sergeant.

“Oh, of course, the blood!”Bony agreed calmly. “Was anything done to establish if it was human blood or animal blood? Of course not. The man lay in blood, and therefore it must be his own blood. So say Detective Sergeant Redman, and you, and others. Well, well, you may all be forgiven for believing that Kendall lay in his own blood. But first things first. Allow me to introduce myself.

“I never arrive on the scene of a crime, the investigation of which has baffled others, in my official uniform and accompanied by experts. Most often no one outside police circles knows what I am and cares less who I am. Publicity is not my forte. As my own chief commissioner says so very often that repetition of the obvious wearies me, I am not a policeman’s bootlace. But, Marshall, I am an investigator of violent crime in Australia’s outback, and so here I am about to investigate the murder of Stockman Kendall. Now tell me about yourself. How long have you been stationed at this district?”

“Eleven years, sir. A long time.”

“You didn’t get along too well with Redman, did you?”

“Well, no, sir, I didn’t,” Marshall admitted, his mind instantly imagining an adverse report on him by Detective Sergeant Redman. “You see-”

Bony cut in, nodding his head to emphasize his words:

“Yes, I know. Redman is a city man. He has no bush background like you and me, and Gleeson, your constable. Redman is used to bullying loose women and thieves for information. We have had to use our grey matter and obtain our information from such things as sand and birds and tracks. Wouldn’t you like a change to a big town or city?”

The sergeant nodded. Bony’s clear blue eyes and dark face seemed to blaze into a flashing smile and the other man’s mind began simultaneously to work along two lines of thought: one that this famous detective could do him an extra good turn, and the other that only now was this half-caste revealing to him his personality. It was as though the smile was a lamp showing a man seen previously only in half-light. When Bony continued speaking, even his voice changed from the soft tones of his mother’s people to the fuller cadences of the white man used to authority. Already Sergeant Marshall was becoming aware of his own mental inferiority. Bony was saying:

“Men like you who have gained valuable administrative ability are often the forgotten men of our state’s police force. You see, I have so often worked pleasurably with men of your type. You rule over an area of thousands of square miles, efficiently and without fuss, and the chiefs are unconcerned because you do not give them concern. I have given my chief a great deal of concern-and I am an inspector. I will show you how to earn promotion and a move to a large town or city where Rose Marie will receive a better chance in life. You and I will co-operate. We understand each other and the bushlands. Redman was a child-here in our element.”

“That’s so.” he agreed.

“Well, then, if you can spare the time from your labours of collating statistics about sheep and fences and bores and income taxes and stinkweed and other stupid things not connected with the maintenance of law and order, I would like you to relate to me in chronological sequence the facts concerning this murder. Redman’s report is full enough, but I want to hear the story from a bushman.”

Marshall nodded. Bony was an entirely new experience, one that hewas liking more and more.

“On the night of October eleventh last,” he began, “there was held in the local hall a social and dance. In point of attendance it was most successful, nearly all the townsfolk being present as well as most of the people from the surrounding stations. Mrs James, the wife of the parson, organized it in aid of the aborigines’ missions, and what she organizes is always successful.