Arthur Upfield - Man of Two Tribes

“I told you, Inspector. In the kitchen.”

She was perfectly composed.

“I recall that is what you told me, but where were you?”

“Well, I can only…”

“I want the truth, Myra. Why are you opposed to admitting that you were with Mark Brennan in the passage to the blow-hole?”

“Because I don’t want to admit I was alone with any one of those murderers, that’s why. I suppose Brennan crowed about it.”

“No. I knew you must have been there, because the draught trapped your scarf and it led me to the outlet above.

“When we reach a civilised point, we shall be surrounded by police and Security men-the latter because it is thought your disappearance was deliberate, and for the purpose of spying into secrets of the rocket range. I can clear you with a word, or I can, and will, have you held for weeks on suspicion-of murder.”

She was stilled, and the flickering firelight danced in her fathomless eyes.

“I want the murderer of Igor Mitski,” he went on. “It’s up to you to clear yourself. From whom, or from what, did you evolve the theory that Mitski’s murderer planned to kill all rivals, so as to be the only lion in the den?”

“It was Havant’s idea. He predicted it would happen, and when we were all looking at Mitski and knew he’d been murdered, he said, ‘Who’s next?’ ”

“Did you kill Mitski?”

“Of course not. He was quite harmless, like you.”

“Do you know who did?”

“Why? Should I?”

“Answer me. Including Mitski, there were six men with you. Who, assuming he was the only one left with you, would you fear most of those six?”

“Riddell.”

“Who, under those circumstances, would you choose to be leftwith, again assuming you intended to preserve your chastity?”

“So modestly put,” she mocked. “I could name Maddoch, but… some spiders bite and some don’t.”

“Then you think it possible that Maddoch killed Mitski?”

“Yes. Riddell accused Maddoch, but then Riddell’s just an animal. I’ll tell you this, dear Inspector. Any one of them would have attacked me if they hadn’t been afraid of being killed in the rush. I like it that way.”

“You include Doctor Havant?”

“I wouldn’t agree to stay behind with him, would I?”

Bony raked the loaf from the ashes, and rebuilt the fire for another loaf. She watched him warily.

“Whatd’youhope to do when you’re free of the Plain… and of me?” he asked.

“The Press boys will bearound, and plenty. I’ve got it all plotted, provided you don’t spoil the show. The men will say their little pieces, never fear. But I’ll work on the angle of the hen among the roosters. They can’t say they seduced me. I’ll tell how I out-witted their persistent efforts. Thatwill be news. I could mention how I had to resist you, but I won’t, because there’s a lot about you that my grandmother would admire. I know a man in Melbourne who’s the king of publicity agents. I’ll script the lot forU.S. A Radio, and go over there to appear onT. V., and he won’t hesitate to back a brave girl. Australia can go hopping. It can buy my leavings from America, same as it buys the leavings of all American and English top-liners. The art is to withhold to create demand. I have the art, plus.”

Bony could easily believe her about mastery of the art of withholding. He spoke ironically:

“It seems we shall not be treading on each other’s toes.”

“Is that all you have to say? Good-night, Inspector. I hope you trust me now.”

“On all counts excepting the killing of Mitski.”

“Ye Gods! You remind me of Nemesis.”

“Others before you have been so reminded. Good-night, Myra.”

He continued to squat on his heels, damping the fire to conserve the precious supply of wood, and he watched the little holes appear in the fine ash atop the baking loaf, and the tiny spurts of steam erupting from them. The fine ash covering the graveyard of his mind broke open, and a voice from the past said: “She’s a tough item.”

Myra Thomas was a tough item. Her trial for murder hadn’t softened her. Her trials in the caverns hadn’t reduced the toughness. It must have been there at birth, and no Pygmalion could have done anything about it.

Well, he would give these people a day’s spell, for the Plain would tax them and wear them down even more. He foresaw explosive situations which would tax all hisacumen, and the condition of these people when those situations arose would be that of utter exhaustion. It was, of course, impossible to place any trust in Myra Thomas. She would continue to use them all when it suited her, and so additional physical hardship for her wouldn’t be amiss.

Lucy came to him and stood gazing hopefully. She had fed well, and could have wanted for nothing. Shortly afterwards, movement behind him made him swivel about, and there stood the two camels, heads low, the upper lip of each lifting like the nostrils of hungry men smelling a delicious dinner. They had been good companions. They might still be. He pondered on whether they could carry the girl and Maddoch without the riding saddles, and concluded it might be managed but would be fraught with difficulties which would cause dangerous delay, so decided against it.

On digging the loaf from the ashes, he set it end up against the billy-can to steam dry, and broke off pieces from the first loaf for the dog to carry to the waiting Millie and Curley.

Having placed the bread where the camels could not get at it, he baled water for himself and bathed. Later, he took his blanket to the shelter of a distant boulder, and there tied the dog to an ankle, and slept the clock round. The sun was friendly when he woke to see the others about the camp fire, and to find the camels missing.

He was greeted almost cheerfully. Later in the morning when they were still disposed to loll about, he advised them to bathe and wash their clothes, as they would have to move on next morning.

Brennan and Riddell objected.

“It would be wise for all of you to stay here until I can obtain transport,” he urged, and was instantly opposed. “Well, it’s up to you, individually. Before sun-rise tomorrow I shall be leaving.”

Riddell continued to grumble, but Brennan surrendered with good heart, as did Jenks. Maddoch was silent, and would still need supervision.

During the afternoon he offered his worn riding boots to Myra, who found she could wear them when her feet were protected with strips of blanket. He did what he could to mend the footwear of the others, who now knew what the saltbush could do to naked feet.

When the sun rose the next morning, Bumblefoot Hole was a full mile behind them.

The Plain’s Last Assault

ONE? Two? How many days ago was it when we rested for hours and hours at that dump the Inspector had called Bumblefoot Hole? What the Hell! He wouldn’t look at the ruddy Plain. That was no use. Nothing to see, nothing but that precipice at the end, and the feeling of being pushed over it. Therewasn’t even any clouds to look at, and looking at Joe and Ted and moody old Clifford was like looking at himself.

Mark Brennan tramped. He was tired of whispering to himself ‘left, right, left’. But he could still hear it and it wasn’t his voice shouting. He recalled the voice, the man and the place. The place was a road bordered by green paddocks. There were roadside gums, and in the distance were green hills. The man was a sergeant marching beside a squad of fellers like himself. He had ribbons, too, thesarge had, medals from War One.

A good mob that was. Lot of ’emgot killed, and some perished as prisoners of war. Pity he hadn’t gone off with ’em. Pity he’d lost his block over that wench. The bitch! Him doing his duty by the country, and her rushing to marry that schemer who had no intention of fighting, going to stay on the farm and make lots of dough out of black markets and things.