Arthur Upfield: Death of a Swagman

Bony proceeded tobacktrack the dog, and quickly came to see that the animal had been tracking the thing that had made the sack marks. From the spacing of the sack marks, which never would have been noticed by other than an experienced tracker, it became obvious that a man had wrapped sacking about his feet that he might pass over these pages of the Book of the Bush, leaving only the minimum impression of his passing, impressions lighter than those made by a small bird.

He returned to the place where he first saw the sack mark, and then, with apparent aimlessness, he wandered to and fro on a zigzag course toward the gate. He saw the mark again, twice, the second mark approximately eight feet from the gate.

Turning, Bony went back on his own tracks to the farthest point out, and from there he continued tobacktrack the dog because that was easier and the dog had stuck to the man’s tracks. The sack-footed man had approached the hut from the north, and when almost a quarter mile from the hut the tracks came from the south-east, from the road running out from the town. Near an old man saltbush the dog had sat to scratch, and on the ground close to the mark Bony found hairs which established the colour of the animal.

He continued to backtrack the dog and man, saw the tracks deviate to the south-west, and so found that the sack-footed man had left the end of the macadamized section of the road passing through the township.

The sun was westering. He saw the police party was leaving the hut, so he rolled a cigarette, lit it, and strolled up the street in which now were people shopping and gossiping. Some regarded him with faintcuriosity, others said “Gooddayee ” to him. Children were driving two cows and a mob of goats down the street. A car overtook him, and the driver said something to one of the children, who thumbed his nose in reply. Outside the garage a tall man in engineer’s overalls was serving a truck with petrol. A Major Mitchell Cockatoo spread its multi-coloured crest at him and called softly, “It’s time for a drink.”

Quite a friendly town was Merino. Beneath the pepper-trees edging the sidewalks were seats on which people were lounging in the cool air of late afternoon.

In his prison cell Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte waited for Sergeant Marshall. When he arrived Bony asked almost casually:

“Well, how was the man killed?”

“Excuse me for saying so, but you haven’t displayed much interest,” Marshall ventured.

“Oh, but I have,” Bony countered, faint mockery in his voice. “I was confident that two policemen, assisted by a doctor, could establish what had killed the victim. My contribution was, if possible to establish who killed him.”

The sergeant refrained from expressing a thought, and he said: “Edward Bennett wasn’t killed. He just died. He fell and struck his head on the doorstep. Dr Scott says that the fall itself did not occasion death, which was caused by heart failure.”

“This Dr Scott… good man or indifferent?”

“First-class. I don’t hesitate to accept his opinion… and the death certificate which he says he will sign.”

“And your own opinion, position of the body, and the rest?”

“Gleeson and I agree with the doctor,” replied Marshall. “Old Bennett obviously took bad and tried to leave his hut for assistance. He got as far as the door and then dropped to hit his forehead on the step. He must have been dead before he fell.”

“When?”

“He has been dead from twelve to twenty hours.”

Bony blew a smoke ring lasting but a second.

“How was the body dressed?” he asked.

“In pyjamas.”

“The bed-where is it?”

“In the inner of the two rooms.”

“The old man died just inside the only door of the hut, the door giving entry to the outer, the living, room?”

“That’s so. There is no door between the living room and the bedroom.”

For an appreciable period Bony did not press his questions, and Marshall took from his tunic a notebook and pencil and began the addition of notes. Bony smoked his cigarette to its last half inch and tossed the stub out through the doorway before he spoke again, which was to ask what arrangements had been made for the body.

“I have given the dead man’s relatives charge of thebody, and it will be buried tomorrow afternoon. The inquest can be held the following day.”

“Ah me!”Bony sighed. “I have been anticipating a nice murder, having about it circumstances similar to those of the Kendall case. There is, I think, no greater tragedy than when a mischievous boy pricks the toy balloon belonging to a trusting child. I am feeling not unlike the child whose balloon has been pricked.”

A slow grin spread over the sergeant’s face, for the twinkle in the bright blue eyes belied the seriousness of the voice. Then abruptly Bony chuckled, and Marshall could not but chuckle in sympathy. Then Bony said:

“You must make sure tomorrow that I am sentenced to fourteen days’ hard labour withpaintpot and brush. I am going to enjoy my visit to Merino. Will the beak at court be amenable to reason?”

“He’ll give you a month if I put it to him.”

“Better leave it at fourteen days. By the way, can you tell me who owns a fairly huge dog having brown and white hair?”

“Yes,” promptly replied the sergeant. “Young Jason owns such a dog.”

A Funeral at Merino

AT TEN O’CLOCK the next morning Mounted Constable Gleeson entered Bony’s cell to conduct him to the courthouse, saying without a smile:

“Your trial is about to begin, sir.”

When Bony laughed Gleeson smiled frostily, and in proper order they marched across the compound to enter the court-house by a side door, from which steps led upward to the dock. On this occasion, however, the prisoner was told to halt just within the door. The court was sitting, and when the name Robert Burns was called by the clerk and repeated by Sergeant Marshall, prisoner and escort moved forward to take position beside the solicitors’ table. The clerk read the charge, divided into four sub-sections, and then asked how the prisoner pleaded. On hearing the plea of guilty, he turned to Sergeant Marshall, who prosecuted, and Marshall then intimated that he wished to give evidence.

Having entered the witness box and taken the oath without assistance, he related how he had found the prisoner sleeping off the effects of alcohol, and the resultant conversation following his being awakened on the bench outside the hotel. The prisoner’s interest was centred entirely on the magistrate.

He sat alone on the bench, the court record book before him, his hands clasped and resting on the book. His face was long and narrow, the forehead high, and the top of the rounded head covered with sparse dark hair sprinkled with grey. His nose was thin and straight and appeared to part in dead centre the straggling black moustache. Hair and moustache, together with the dark eyes now directed towards Sergeant Marshall, emphasized the pallor of his face, an oddity in this part of Australia.

Marshall concluded his evidence and waited.

The magistrate transferred his gaze to Bony, the black eyes solemnly regarding the prisoner in a fixed stare. For a man whose hands bore the marks of manual labour, his voice was astonishingly full and rich when, speaking with deliberation, he asked:

“Have you anything to say to this witness?”

“Yes, your honour,” replied Bony, who then turned to Marshall and said: “You said, on oath, that after you asked me my name I opened my eyes and yawned. I suggest to you that I opened only one eye, the left.”

“I didn’t say anything about opening your eyes, or one of ’em,” Marshall stated with surprise plainly expressed on his weather-beaten face. “I said-”