Arthur Upfield - The bushman who came back

“No feller ’lowed here. What you want? Brekus not ready yet.”

“Iam allowed here,” he told her, adding as though an afterthought, “Iam allowed anywhere. Have you made morning tea yet?”

Without invitation he seated himself at the scrubbed table, stretched his legs, smiled again at Sarah, who was undecided whether to be pleased or angry. It was the blue eyes which brought the indecision, they and the voice more than hinting at authority. Meena appeared, paused in the doorway to the living-room. Sarah swayed the teapot violently to assist the brewing, and, with the pot held by the handle and the tip of the spout, she asked:

“You big-feller policeman, eh?”

“Yes. You knew I was coming?”

Sarah nodded, placed the pot on the side of the stove, took cups and saucers from the dresser. The boss was forgotten. First she served the stranger. Standing before the visitor, Meena came to stand beside her, and Bony said:

“You are Sarah. And you are Meena. I shall be here some time. Is Mr Wootton up and about?”

“He’s inside waiting for his tea,” replied Meena, recalling Sarah to her duties. “What’s your name?”

“Napoleon Bonaparte. If we ever become friends you may call me Bony. Meanwhile, please tell Mr Wootton that Inspector Bonaparte is here.”

“Inspector Bonaparte,” she repeated, and giggled. She cupped her hand about her breast, thrust forward her tummy, and again giggled. Sarah looked at her and dug an elbow hard into the ribs, which cut the giggle. She gasped, and managed to say: “I thought you would be old, have grey hair, look fierce. You married?”

“Mr Wootton… tell him I am here,” Bony urged gravely.

White or black, it makes no difference. Meena smiled at him, her hips swaying as she walked to the living-room. Once she looked back at him, and Sarah exclaimed:

“That Meena!” But there was pride and affection on her broad face.

Meena returned and nodded for Bony to enter the living-room, and, passing her, he tilted her chin and said:

“You will not be so saucy when I leave Mount Eden.”

The cattleman was standing with a tea-cup in one hand and a biscuit in the other. His expression was one of incredulity. His hair was tossed, and his moustache needed clipping.

“Inspector Bonaparte?” he questioned, with emphasis on the rank. “Of what?”

“Of detectives, Mr Wootton,” suavely replied Bony. “It seems that I am famous in some quarters and not so in others.”

“But we know nothing about you. The policeman at Loaders Springs knows nothing.”

“I asked him to know nothing,” calmly announced Bony. “In fact I am ten days late, having been delayed on a case at Boulia.”

“In southwest Queensland? You came here by…?”

“Horse. I needed to meditate between murders, Mr Wootton. My credentials.”

Wootton placed cup and biscuit on the table and leaned forward to examine the open wallet, and the copy of the letter instructing Bonaparte to investigate the murder of Mrs Bell, for and on behalf of the South Australian Police department. Frowning, the cattleman straightened and stared into the blue eyes, so predominant in the dark face. He said:

“You have no objection to my contacting Senior Constable Pierce?”

“None whatever. By the way, your cook gave me a cup of tea which I left on her kitchen table. May I?”

“Meena!” called Mr Wootton. “Bring Inspector Bonaparte another cup of tea and biscuits.”

Meena came in with the tea. Bony’s eyes were directed to the polished panel of the transceiver, and her employer was at the wall telephone. Her gay mood had given place to one of curious watchfulness, and for a second or two she gazed at the slim figure with the squared shoulders, the straight back, before withdrawing with a rustle of her starched apron.

Bony was looking over the titles of the books, of which there must have been a hundred on the shelves beside the transceiver, when Wootton said:

“Pierce said he expected you. He said, also, that he told no one of your coming, in accordance with your instructions. And yet the blacks knew. The maid told me three days ago that a high-ranking policeman was coming. Doesn’t add up, does it?”

“Oh yes, it adds up,” countered Bony. “They communicate, you know. Smoke signals, telepathy. I’ve been associated with them on the Boulia case.”

“On the killing of that aboriginal stockman? I’ve heard about it. You found the killer?”

“Of course.”

“Otherwise you would not be here now?”

“Naturally. I locate a killer once I start on his tracks.”

“I am afraid you won’t get on the tracks of our murderer, Inspector. The wind wiped them out, bar at two places, and that a month back.”

“I was speaking metaphorically.”

“Oh! Well, anything I can do, we can all do, to help, you can be assured… Whatd’you suggest?”

“I am in possession of the frame of this Mount Eden crime, and have to resurrect the flesh. That will take some time, in view of the reputation of Constable Pierce, and the thoroughness of his efforts. As you ask me to make suggestions-a room, a shower, breakfast.”

“Of course. Meena! I’ll have the room prepared for you. Your things… where?”

“On the pack-horse I left in your horse yard.”

“Good! Meena! Call Charlie to fetch Inspector Bonaparte’s gear from the pack-horse in the yard. And see to it that the corner room is ready for the Inspector. Tell Sarah about the extra breakfast. And, Meena, don’t dally with Charlie.”

Meena smiled faintly and departed. She was both impressed and subdued.

“Pardon me remarking on it, Inspector, but your arrival indicates very early travelling.”

“It surely does, Mr Wootton. I came down the Birdsville Track on the mail truck to Maree, caught ‘The Ghan’ to Coward Springs, where I contacted Constable Pierce and borrowed the horses. I made north and looked over the country southward of Lake Eyre. When day broke this morning I was meditating on the long ago of the aborigines. Always I have been interested in anthropology.”

“Sometimes I wish I had studied the subject,” Wootton said. “You know, I’ve been here only five years, and it’s my first experience of the country and the blacks. They defeat me. I hope some day to defeat the country.”

“You never will. No man ever has. But I know what you mean. Could you spare your men for the day?”

“Yes. I had work set for them, but it can wait.”

“Thank you. After breakfast, could we have them gathered somewhere that I may talk to them?”

“Of course. My office is large enough.”

“Kind of you. I will try not to inconvenience you more than necessary. This part of the Eyre Basin needs rain. When was the last rain?”

“Five months back. We want rain all right, but the ground feed is holding out. See anything of the floods up in Queensland?”

Bony could add nothing to Wootton’s knowledge received over the radio, excepting to add his opinion that the water might reach Lake Eyre via Coopers Creek and possibly down the Warburton River. The cattleman sensed the determined avoidance of the subject in both their minds, and escorted Bony to the guest room.

At breakfast Bony raised the subject of Yorky’s singular title.

“Oh, that!” Wootton said, chuckling. “It happened years ago, before my time, anyway. I think Yorky is known, by repute, all over the back country. He’s quite a character, or was before his mind must have become unhinged. No horseman, and useless as a stockman, but handy to have in dry times managing a pumping station, or riding a boundary fence.

“Like most of his type, he’d stick to a job for months, then suddenly leave with his cheque and make for a town. After drinking a cheque at Loaders Springs at the time I’m talking about, Yorky humped his swag out this way, intending to ask my predecessor for a job. The next thing was that the policeman at Loaders Springs-not Pierce, of course-rang through to say he’d received a report that Yorky was living with the blacks down on the creek, and would the owner of this place go along and bring him out. You know how it is, the law against a white man living in an aborigines’ camp.