Arthur Upfield - Man of Two Tribes

“It conveys nothing, Mr. Black. How did you come to be here?”

“Dumped by wild aborigines.”

“Wild aborigines! How extraordinary. What are those things you are sitting on?”

“Camel gear.”

“Camel gear! Camels! Wild aborigines! Whom did you murder?”

The light-blue eyes were compelling, the eyes of a man accustomed to being obeyed. He was, Bony was aware, Dr. Carl Havant, a psychiatrist who practised in Sydney until eleven years ago.

“I cannot recall having murdered anyone,” Bony replied.

“I am still doubtful. What school did you attend?”

Ah! Clever indeed is the man who can adopt a fictitious character and maintain it under sudden stress. He had spoken in his usual manner.

“Never mind about that,” he said sharply. “Who are you, and what are you all doing here?”

“We are merely in residence.” The tall man regarded Bony gravely. “Would you oblige by telling us precisely where our residence is, we presume, in Australia?”

“We are now on the northern extremity of the Nullarbor Plain.”

“There, Maddoch! Did I not argue that we must be on the Nullarbor Plain?”

The dark eyes looked down upon the short man whose clothes hung upon him, and who appeared emotionally bankrupt. The man with the knees like springs answered for the little man.

“Could have been east Gippsland, like Clifford said. Could have been up north a bit from Perth, like I told you.”

“Yes, yes! Quite. Well, we are at the north of the Nullarbor Plain. And now, Mr. Black. You tell us that you were ‘dumped’-your own word-down here by wild aborigines. I’ve always thought that wild aborigines are to be found only in the north of Australia. Pardon repetition. Whom did you murder? Please do not hesitate, Mr. Black, or be alarmed.”

“Caw,” exploded the man with the springy legs, “I know this Mister Black now. I’d bet on it. Doc, and ladies and gents, meet Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Bony isHonoured

THEYwere young and deeply in love. He was a tally clerk on the wharves, and she worked in a city shop. They were saving to build a home, but in these days it takes a long time to meet the rising costs of building.

So Nature won. Their dream was a home, not a hasty marriage and return to the parental country home. Only in the city could they earn ‘real’ money. Eventually, following much discussion, the man talked with another, who suggested the name of a woman; the girl consulted the helpful nurse who arranged her admittance to a private ‘hospital’, together with a goodly proportion of the money they had saved.

It was all very mysterious. Shortly after, the body was found in a ditch fifty miles out of town, the young tally clerk was interviewed by a detective and taken to the morgue to identify his sweetheart. He was asked where the operation had been performed, and he explained that a taxi had called for the girl at the shop at close of business. This was in accordance with agreement made by the girl with someone of whom he knew nothing.

He admitted that he knew the girl’s intention to enter a hospital, but nothing beyond this. The taxi-driver came forward to report that he had picked up the girl outside the shop, having received instructions by radio from his garage. The garage manager said that the instructions were the result of a telephone call.

At the passenger’s request, the driver had put his fare down in the main street of an outer suburb. The girl paid the charge. He took particular notice of her because she was pretty, and was obviously under a great strain. Then by a quirk of fate his engine stopped, and he had to tinker with it. It was while doing so that a private car stopped and collected the girl. He remembered the car because it was a late model Lagonda. He remembered, too, the registration number.

The Lagonda was owned by Doctor Carl Havant.

So Doctor Carl Havant, the well-known psychiatrist, was charged with murder, found guilty of manslaughter, sentenced to ten years.

That was in 1947, and now in 1956 he was with Inspector Bonaparte in a cavern under the Nullarbor Plain. Even with the normal remissions for good conduct, the dates seemed wrong.

“Inspector of what?” asked Dr. Havant, and Edward Jenks of the springy knees chortled:

“Detective-Inspector, of course.”

Edward Jenks was thirty-five and employed as cook on a small station property when Bony arrested him. Now he looked over sixty. He was of middle height, thick-set, still powerful, and his large head was set on a short thick neck. A sailor ashore in Brisbane, he had been bilked one night by a prostitute, which so annoyed him that subsequently he waylaid her for the satisfaction of strangling her. The death sentence having been abolished in Queensland, he was sentenced to life, but had served only nine years when released on parole.

“A detective-inspector,” echoed Dr. Havant, and the woman laughed with a hint of hysteria. “And Bonaparte is the name. Happy to meet you Inspector Bonaparte. I’m sure we are all glad you have found us.”

The sunlight was now funnelling directly upon Bony who still sat at apparent ease on the mass of his gear. The doctor’s face, and that of another, had the cretaceous quality of chalk. They had shaved quite recently. A tall man who looked to be about thirty had cultivated a brown vandyke beard, and in the shadows the little nervous man looked old and ill.

Mere impressions. The figures were tense, the least taut being the woman. Her hands were well kept, and her hair neatly coiled and pinned. Bony recalled the voices deep in the tunnel, and decided to take control of a situation which neither they nor he could yet understand.

“Are you Myra Thomas?” he asked.

“I am,” she replied calmly. “You should know that.”

“You must admit to your identity.”

“Of course. Sorry, Inspector.”

“I have been looking for you.”

The psychiatrist-abortionist chuckled, then sniffed.

“Do I smell coffee, Myra?”

“You do. But there’s a body if anyone is interested. I was preparing breakfast when Igor was killed.”

The little man began denial of something, and the man with thevandyke beard began to talk him down, when the doctor loudly ordered silence. A huge fellow now inserted himself into Bony’s notice by saying:

“Have some common. This bloke’s a d. Blimey! Do we want trouble piled on? Gimmethe lamp, Mark. I’ll fix the business.”

“It can wait, Joe, till we sort of straighten things,” Vandyke said impatiently. “Forget the d. He can’t do anything. We’ll have breakfast and let him tell us how he came here, and what he intends doing now he is here.”

“Quite,” murmured Havant. “Breakfast, Myra. Coffee.”

They dispersed. The woman and Jenks faded into the natural annexe where Bony had seen the large kerosene stove. Vandyke said:

“I’ll give you a hand to shift this stuff to one side, Inspector. The name’s Brennan, Mark Brennan.”

Whatwas all this? Mark Brennan! Bony glanced sharply at him, and encountered light-blue eyes, steady and candid.

Mark Brennan! Bony knew the name and the circumstances, and created a picture from what he had read:

The golden shafts of sunlight poured upon the little church set amid encircling gums a few miles from Orange, New South Wales. The small crowd outside the main door could hear the Wedding March. The year was 1939, and the military camps were beginning to accept volunteers.

Among the people outside the church was a young man in uniform, not yet accustomed to wearing it. Beside him were several other young men, obviously a little envious of his attraction for the girls who cast admiring glances at him as they waited to see the bride. The young man was the son of a local storekeeper, and now on his first leave.