Arthur Upfield - Death of a Swagman

“Do you and your wife occupy the same room?”

“This, sir, is becoming outrageous,” snorted the minister.

“But, my dear Padre,” Bony murmured soothingly.“Recall. You state that your wife can vouch for you that you were not out last night, and I am given to understand that you do not occupy the same room. My question was to verify that. As you do not occupy the same room, how can your wife vouch for the truth of your statement? How could she know whether or not you left the house after both of you had retired for the night?”

“If you think-”

“I don’t think what you think I am thinking, Padre.”

“Stop the padre-ingfor goodness’ sake,” shouted Mr James.

“Certainly. Merely a habit of mine,” Bony said calmly. “Let me tell you a little of what I know. I know that your horse was taken from Mr Fanning’s yard very late last night and was brought back shortly before day broke this morning.”

The light blue eyes were a little less indignant.

“Someone else must have taken him out. I didn’t,” asserted Mr James.

“Then do you let it out? Or lend it out?”

“Let it out! Lend it out!”

“Yes. Do you hire it out to anyone? Or do you lend it to anyone?”

“No, of course not. If my horse was out of its stable last night it was taken without my permission.”

“Ah!” Bony almost whispered. Then he smiled in quite friendly fashion. “Yes, that’ll be it. Someone must have borrowed the horse. You will have to buy a chain and padlock and secure the yard gate. Why do you pose as a man having a weak heart?”

“I don’t pose. I have had a weak heart from an early age.”

“Have you sought medical advice?”

“No. I am not a wealthy man. The living here is very poor.”

Bony placed the tips of his fingers against the point of his chin.

“You know, Mr James, all men walk differently,” he said. “I have made a lifelong study of tracks left on the ground by human beings. One day I am going to write a treatise on the subject. Long study has proved to me quite clearly that in addition to men walking differently, sick men always walk differently from healthy men. A sick man always places his feet evenly on the ground, for subconsciously he hasn’t that confidence in his own strength that the healthy man has. It is possible, of course, to read character from the palms of the hands, but it is very much easier to read character from the footprints left on the ground. You have not a weak heart, Mr James. There is nothing weak about you. Try more exercise, especially before breakfast. I suggest ten minutes with the gloves with Lawton-Stanley. Good afternoon. I may ask you to call again. Meanwhile please do try to remember to whom you lent your horse last night.”

Bony rose to his feet and escorted the minister to the outer door. Sergeant Marshall heard him say in stuttering anger:

“I shall make a very strong written protest to the chief commissioner. Your attitude is absolutely astonishing.”

Then Marshall heard Bony’s suave counter:

“Do, Mr James. Allow me to assure you that my commissioner really and truly likes to receive protests about me. It provides him with the golden chance of saying just what he thinks about me. Good afternoon.”

On re-entering the office, Bony was met by a Sergeant Marshall gone off his head. The sergeant’s huge arms were wrapped about his slight body and Bony was danced around whilst the sergeant’s gruff voice repeated and repeated:

“You beaut! You little beaut!”

The Sting-Ray

ON REACHING MERINO shortly after four o’clock, the two constables sent by district headquarters were given a late lunch by Mrs Marshall, who had relinquished her nursing duties to the trained Mrs Sutherland. At five o’clock they reported to Sergeant Marshall, who was alone in the station office.

“Thewife fix you up all right?” he inquired in his official manner. On being assured that “the wife” had certainly done that, he sent one of them to relieve Gleeson at Dr Scott’s home. When Gleeson returned he asked:

“Seen anything of the inspector?”

“Yes, Sergeant. He’s been with the doctor for an hour. Then he went over to the parsonage, and after he left there he came up the street and went into Fanning’s shop.”

“Hum! Seems to be busy. You go out and ask the wife for a cup of tea. May want you to stay on duty. Hear how Florence was when you left?”

“Still unconscious.”

Marshall sighed, and Gleeson turned about in his stiff military manner and departed. The second constable from headquarters was seated at Gleeson’s desk reading a newspaper, and to him the sergeant said:

“At any time now Inspector Bonaparte will come in. I’m telling you because to look at him you wouldn’t think he was an inspector. I didn’t when I first saw him. He’s middle-aged and of medium build-a half-caste but not the kind we see knocking about the bush. You’ll know that when he looks at you.”

“All right, Sergeant.”

Marshall returned to the work of compiling a report. The constable returned to his newspaper. Through the open window came the familiar sounds of this bush township towards evening, the sounds of lethargic human activity beneath the piping of birds and the drowsy humming of nearer blowflies. The wind had gone down and was coming coolly from the south. In his secret heart Marshall was wishing for the old-time conditions of normal life when there were no worries additional to maintaining local order and being scrupulously careful with reports. Howcould he concentrate on this one?

Gleeson came back and sat bolt upright in the chair opposite him. He sat as though he were having his photograph taken. The sergeant glanced up at him, then back at his writing. But somehow writing was impossible. He liked Gleeson. Men cannot work together in harness for years without getting to know each other. A bit of a crank on efficiency and abiding by rules and regulations, but a sound man at heart. A good one, too, to have with one in a brawl.

A footstep sounded on the front porch. Marshall wanted to say “Thank heaven” or something like that. Gleeson stood up and crossed to the other constable, who also stood up to attention when Bony came in.

“Ah! Here we are, Sergeant,” he said briskly, adding: “Hope you haven’t been thinking I got bushed or actually had eloped with Mrs Sutherland. Thank you.”

“Have been wondering where you had got to, sir,” Marshall told him without smiling.

“I’ve been doing a little visiting, Sergeant. Interviewed the parson and paid my respects to his wife. Had a chat with Mr Fanning and went into a huddle with Dr Scott. And now, I think, we are all set.”

“Meaning, sir?” asked Marshall, his eyes abruptly big.

Bony smiled, and Marshall was never to forget his face in that moment. In the dark blue eyes lurked that expression he had seen when, on the threshold of his daughter’s room, he was told to go and dress. In the smile he saw the triumph of the aboriginal about to throw his spear at the kangaroo he has been stalking for hours.

“Constable Gleeson!” he said sharply.

“Sir!” replied Gleeson, and strode to the desk.

“I want you to go along and ask the elder Jason to step in here for a moment.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Er-you will see to it that he arrives.”

“Very well, sir.”

Gleeson turned about.

“Oh! Gleeson!”

“Yes sir!” Gleeson turned back and faced the man sitting in the place so familiarly occupied by Marshall.

“It might be as well to take a gun,” Bony advised, and the air was sucked between Marshall’s teeth with a soft hiss.

“Very well, sir.”

Bony, the sergeant, and the constable watched Gleeson stride over to the big safe, in the lock of which was the key. They watched him swing open the door and take from the interior a heavy revolver in its leather holster attached to a black leather belt. They watched Gleeson buckle the belt round his hard, slim waist, saw him take up his hat, and watched him leave the room. They heard the sharp but light step of this mounted constable in the passage without, and then on the porch. After that, in the comparative silence, they listened. Then Bony spoke softly.