Arthur Upfield - Death of a Swagman

“I think we can leave that little duty safely to Constable Gleeson,” he said. “However, you, Constable, go to the front gate to be on hand if Gleeson whistles for assistance, or if there is any shooting.”

Marshall came nearer the seated Bony.

“Is Jason the man?”

“Jason is the man,” replied Bony. “Providence did drop several important clues into my waiting hand, but today I have really exerted myself. When we have lodged Jason in safe custody we are going to open a bottle of beer-perhaps two bottles.”

“When did-”

“No more just now. I’ll talk it all over with your tame justice and deputy coroner when he arrives. Give me ten days in the jug, would he?” And Bony flashed his normal, sunny smile. That passed away before another mood, and he said: “The law is a terrible thing, Marshall. Think now! We have just given an order to a constable to gather into the law’s grip one little human being. From now onward police and legal officers will be preparing to fight to uphold the law of the country, and others will be preparing to defend the man from the law’s grip. And so the fight will go on and on over one human being who has been caught in the cogs of a machine. You and I are merely the teeth in one of the cogs of a machine which is greater than all the generations of man who have constructed it. And the man caught in the machine is no longer a man: he is merely a piece of living clay, to be fought over and disposed of as other men will.”

“Are you going to charge him now?” inquired Marshall.

“Yes. Ah… here they come. Keep an eye on him. He might start something.”

A short procession entered the office. It was led by the constable from divisional headquarters. After him came Mr Jason, followed by Gleeson.

“Good evening, Mr Jason. Come and sit down,” Bony said pleasantly, and the tall, lean, and not undistinguished man advanced and sat down in the chair opposite Bony.

Jason had discarded his working overalls and was wearing an old brown lounge suit. Bony was reminded of when this man sat on the seat of justice rather than when he leaned against a bar counter and exhaled tobacco smoke for long duration. Mr Jason turned in his chair to look at Gleeson, the constable at the door, at Marshall, who sat at the end of the table desk and thus was able to guard the window. In his full and rich voice he asked:

“What is the meaning of all this?”

The long thin nose was the only feature that held colour. Against the white cheeks and chin the full moustache lay like a black mark. The dark eyes were big beneath the raised brows.

“I may be wrong, Mr Jason, but I think it was a gentleman named Sam Weller who used to say: ‘Cut the cackle and get to thehosses,’ ” Bony replied. “Sound advice. I am going to charge you with the wilful murder of George Kendall on the night of October eleventh.”

“You astonish me,” said Mr Jason calmly. “I presume that you have good and sufficient reasons for such action. I would like to hear them.”

“Yes, Jason, I will outline them to you, although it is not my practice so to do,” Bony assented. “You are a man of above average intelligence, and also one with me in appreciation of the dramatic. Gleeson, will you please search Mr Jason.”

“Stand up! Hands above your head!” snapped Gleeson. Mr Jason obeyed. The constable by the door came swiftly forward to stand behind Mr Jason. With the artistry of a conjuror Gleeson produced a wallet from an inside pocket, pipe and tobacco and knife from a side pocket, and an automatic pistol which seemed to come from a hip pocket. The weapon was deftly passed to the constable behind Mr Jason, and the other articles were placed on the table before Bony. Jason was then ordered to sit down.

“The pistol is not registered,” he said.“A technical fault.”

“To one having your knowledge of the law, Jason, you will agree that it is not inconsequential… now,” Bony told him. He pushed across the desk the tobacco, pipe, and clasp knife, and added his own box of matches. Gleeson frowned heavily. Bony continued: “You might like to smoke, as my recital of facts will occupy a little time.”

“I thank you.”

A silence fell within the office as Jason carved chips from the tobacco plug. When he had cut sufficient from it he laid down the knife and, whilst he was shredding the chips in the palms of his hands, Gleeson’s hard hand slid by him, and picked up the knife. That action made Jason smile coldly. He filled his pipe, made sure that the little nicotine-catching cup at the bottom of the bowl was secure, and laid a lighted match against the tobacco.

As he was known to do in the hotel, so now did he draw and draw vigorously, inhale and inhale, until it seemed impossible that he could breathe. Twice Bony had observed him doing that locally famous act, and on each of those occasions Jason had been very angry. Jason was angry now, but he did not show it. The pipe held in his right hand, his hands came to rest upon the desk. He regarded Bony with his face void of expression.

“Well now, to make a beginning,” Bony said. “You were born and educated at Bathurst, and there you served your apprenticeship to your father, who was an undertaker and wheelwright. Your only brother eventually set up in business as a chemist in Sydney.

“You became well known, first in Bathurst and subsequently in Sydney, as an actor, and the reason why you did not take up acting as a profession was because of your father’s dislike of the stage. When he died the theatre was almost submerged by the moving pictures, and you, having inherited his business, carried on the business until you failed. Your wife then being dead, you came with your son to set up in business here in Merino.

“Here in Merino, cut off from all association with the stage and with people having literary tastes, you began to brood upon the ill fortune which had overtaken you. When you were insulted in the hotel by Kendall about your passion for acting, I discarded that as motive for killing him. It was, however, contributory to the motive, which has been the most baffling feature in this case.”

The tobacco smoke which Jason had inhaled was now beginning to trickle through his pursed lips. His face was still devoid of expression, and his hands resting upon the desk were perfectly immobile.

“The motive should be interesting, if not original,” he said. “Please proceed.”

He passed the matches to Bony when that lover of the drama took a cigarette from the little pile he had made whilst waiting for Gleeson to return with his prisoner. Bony lit a cigarette and noted the thin stream of smoke continuing to issue from Mr Jason’s lips. Then he went on:

“You see, Jason, there is a case on record similar to your own, and this previous case is noted in a volume on medical jurisprudence in Dr Scott’s library. In 1943 in England an inquisition was held on a young man who had a strong propensity for watching windmills-you know, the old-fashioned windmills having large latticework sails for arms. He wished to be tied to one of the arms and so go round and round and round. He would actually sit for days watching a windmill.

“You became a windmill watcher through first staring at the cooling fan of motor engines in your garage. It became an obsession with you, and your son discovered it and did what he could to wean you from a practice which would have ugly results to yourself. I myself once heard him shout at you to get away from the engine I saw you watching.

“Within a radius of three miles of Merino, there are three modern windmills. They are: the one at the town dam, the one at the homestead of Mrs Sutherland, and the third at Sandy Flat. You could not watch any one of those mills during daylight hours, firstly because your son would stop you, and secondly because you knew that others would be bound to observe you. But you could watch a mill in action on a moonlit night.