Arthur Upfield - Death of a Swagman

Sergeant Marshall exploded.

“I’m damned if I know when you are being serious and when you are pulling my leg,” he snorted.

Bony began to laugh, then checked himself.

“A lot of sense if not all sense,” he admitted. “A case like this is not dissimilar to a sum in addition. We add something to something else, and that total we add to another something else. For instance we now know that Massey Leylan spent that night the swagman was killed at Ivanhoe and therefore could not have done the killing. To that is added the recently acquired information that the swagman’s name is John Way, no known relatives. We have gained a large number of facts with which to play and on which to base assumptions. As sure as the sun will set this evening, we shall one day be in possession of a sufficient number of facts to justify an arrest.”

“Will you tell me something?” Marshall asked.

“I am at your service.”

Marshall wanted to tell Bony that he was a liar.

“I’d like to know why you want to know why the Rev. James keeps ahorse? ”

“That’s an easy one,” replied Bony. “As I told Lawton-Stanley yesterday evening, I am interested professionally in the Rev. James. He rides a horse. In spite of his allegedly weak heart, he rides a horse so hard that the animal becomes winded, and then he wipes the animal down with a piece of hessian sacking. First question: why does he ride a horse so hard? Second question: where did he obtain the piece of hessian sacking? Third question: what was he doing out eastward of the Walls of China early the morning after the swagman was killed, and in country from which the man with hessian sacking about his feet went to the hut and returned from the hut? We may assume that the Rev. James could leave Merino at night much more quietly on a horse than in his car, and that he could return more quietly in the early morning on a horse than in his car.

“When I visited the parsonage I saw no stable, and I am interested to hear from you that James does own a horse which he stables with another belonging to Fanning, the butcher. If inquiries produced the information that the reverend gentleman’s horse was not in Fanning’s stables during the night that Kendall was killed and the night that the swagman was killed, we would have added yet another interesting fact to our collection.”

“Crumbs!” exclaimed Marshall.

“You will not give rein to your imagination, my dear Marshall,” Bony said quietly. “Did I exert myself to find out that James rode his horse so hard as to wind it, and that he wiped it down with a piece of hessian? I did not. Providence gave to me those little facts. Every detective who ever was will admit that Providence is kind to him. Describe to me the position of that stable.”

“It is well back from Fanning’s shop and house,” Marshall began. “The stable is in a yard of about an acre in area. The animals are fed in the stable and have their freedom to run in the yard. Fanning is able to get to his stable through a door in his rear fence.”

“Good! Most interesting! It is a fact, then, that Mr James, or anyone else for that matter, could take a horse from that yard at night and return it before morning without anyone being the wiser?”

“That’s so,” agreed Marshall.

“So that we were justified in not allowing rein to our imaginations, rushing to the conclusion that the Rev. James takes out his horse at night to do a little murdering. You see how we gather bits and pieces to fit into or to discard as useless from the framework in our puzzle. Some of us sometimes have all the pieces in our possession, but only clever people, like me, can fit all of them together. Now I must return to my painting. On several counts I am not a little saddened by the thought that this is my last day as your prisoner. However, I could raise myself on my toes sufficiently to punch your nose and get myself another ten days, couldn’t I?”

“Better not try it,” retorted Marshall. “I can hit hard-when I’m in the mood. And I’m in that mood now.”

“Have patience. Have I not served you for ten long days? See you later. Cheerio!”

Sergeant Marshall’s prisoner would now not be able to complete the painting of the entire compound fence. That fronting the street had been done, the yellow colour outraging the colour sense of every inhabitant of Merino. The division fence between the police station and Mr Jason’s residence had been completed, and but a few yards remained to be done to complete the rear fence. On this remaining section Bony fell to work.

The early afternoon was hot and dry, with a light wind coming down from the north. The sky was stained with a white opalescence beneath the blue which promised wind, and this fact was registered by the mind of the half-caste, whose very being was sensitive to weather changes.

To Bony the day was a good one. He had done more preparatory work than Marshall knew. Marshall was depressed because H.Q. had reported that there were no fingerprints on the door handles removed from the hut at Sandy Flat. They had been wiped clean of all prints, for microscopic examination revealed traces of the rag or cloth over the surface. The report had the opposite effect on Bony. To him it enhanced the interest of the investigation, proving that the man he sought was leaving little to chance, and also providing additional proof, if proof was needed, that he was a killer in the top class.

Marshall did not know that Bony had urged H.Q. to institute inquiries into the histories of theJasons, Mr James, Constable Gleeson, and several other men. People are not murdered without motive, and if the motive for such a crime is not passion, greed, jealousy, then it might well lie somewhere within the limits of insanity. And if that were so, the past might well provide the key piece to this puzzle of the present.

Shortly after five o’clock Bony was summoned to the front fence by a shrill whistle given by little Mr Watson. Mr Watson was without hat, coat, or waistcoat. He appeared to be worn by the heat, for even his grey moustache was less stiff than was usual.

“What about sinking a couple?” he suggested hopefully.

Bony smiled, saying:

“You are a man of ideas.”

“It comes natural to me,” Mr Watson said modestly. “One idea will bring another, see?…Heat-a gargle. Cold-a blood warmer.”

Bony vaulted the fence and joined the local newspaper correspondent.

“Get your story of the inquest away all right?” he asked.

“Oh yes. Great story. It’ll hit the top lines. The papers are sending out a couple of the boys.

Mr Watson led the way into the hotel bar, where they found the licensee in conversation with Mr Jason and two other men who were strangers to Bony. With a soft voice Mr Watson said confidentially:

“Young Tom’s been telling me that the old boy hasn’t done a stroke of work since he held the inquest on that swagman. He’s just living to get the papers reporting that inquest. They should be here tomorrow from Sydney.”

“He’ll be disappointed if you didn’t give him a boost,” remarked the licensee. “I wasn’t there, but they tell me he carried out his coroner’s job first-rate.”

“He did so,” agreed Mr Watson. “Give the devil his due, I say. Old Jason done a good job, and he looks the part too, don’t he?”

“Well, not just now, d’youthink?” Bony argued.

“No, not now, but when he’s on the bench,” persisted Mr Watson. “He knows his law, and he’s very fair, and he can handle a court. Hush! He’s coming along here.”

The two men who were strangers to Bony left the bar, and Mr Jason stalked the few yards to join the latest arrivals. Mr Watson asked the funeral director and wheelwright to name his poison, and Mr Jason called for a shandygaff.