Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

“It’s true, and that’s Australia all over,” was the support he received from Jessica Lawrence. “You can’t doanything, get anywhere, in this country unless you belong to a trade union. It doesn’t matter how clever you are, unless the powers that be say ‘Bless you, my brain child.’ Mr. Wickham was an outsider, so he couldn’t possibly know anything about weather science. There are fully qualified doctors working as labourers because they qualified in Europe and won’t be accepted by the local medical union. Carl has been a qualified meteorologist for fifteen years, and they’d put him to work ploughing or milking cows.”

Doctor Linke held up a hand, saying:

“Please, my Jessica. You ought not to speak so of the Government, of the leaders of this Australia.”

“I will, Carl. I can and I will,” the girl flashed at him.

“Same here,” shouted Mr. Luton, pouring the tea on the tray instead of into a cup. “To hell with theGov’ment, the loafing, lazy, money-grabbingbas…”

“Now, now!” interposed Bony, laughingly, “you must not unduly shock Dr. Linke, who hasn’t been long enough in the country to appreciate that one of our remaining freedoms is to gibe at the antics of our multiple rulers.”

Mr. Luton chuckled; Jessica squeezed her sweetheart’s arm, and Bony led the way to less contentious subjects. He felt that hewas knowing Ben Wickham much more than hitherto and that Wickham must have been a great man to have inspired loyalty in such contrasting people.

As the girl and Linke were leaving, she squeezed the hand of Mr. Luton, and thanked him warmly for his hospitality, and he looked down upon her from his great height and chuckled.

“Fine young woman,” he said when again seated with Bony. “I like that German more than I did. Some of ’emmust have had a rough time.”

“What he told us was significant,” Bony said. “There is one point, however, which isn’t as sharp as others. One day Mrs. Parsloe opens the private safe and does not find the secret notebook, and the next day the Investigation man arrives to put Linke through the mill. The period is too short between the time Mrs. Parsloe reported Linke and the time the CommonwealthI. S. man arrived. I must find out if he has an office at Cowdry, or was staying at Cowdry. And why.”

“Think he could have burgled the office for Ben’s books and things?” asked Mr. Luton. He smiled. “It would be funny if he did, ’cosI’ve an idea.”

“Many ideas are productive of great results, Mr. Luton.”

“Can you pick locks?”

“I am a professional,” replied Bony gravely.

“That don’t tell me much, but I’ll pass it. Down below there’s a chest what Ben kept things in. After we decided on that last bender, he went down there with some papers in a leather case. Might be we could take a look.”

This time Bony smiled broadly. “I saw a piece of wire just outside the kitchen door. As you suggest, we will look at once.”

He brought the wire when Mr. Luton was locking the front door. Then he made sure that the window blind was drawn that there was no possibility of anyone looking into the living-room-kitchen from without. He pushed the table to one side, and carefully rolled the linoleum so that it would not crack or crease.

“A long time ago, the Parsloe woman came and found me and Ben on a bender,” he said. “We’d got a supply of whisky from the pub in Cowdry, and she heard about it. So we dug the hole, as I told you, and carried the mullock down the gardenso’s no one would know. Ben had a friend up in Adelaide, and the friend has a son who has a car and an outsize caravan. So every year when the fishing is good, the friend and his son come down with a load of grog to keep us stocked up.”

Mr. Luton set a match to the wick of an oil-lamp. He lifted a trap-door to disclose a flight of wood steps flanked by a handrail. He went ahead carrying the lamp, and a moment later Bony stood in the cellar and began to chuckle.

“Whatd’you think of her?” asked Mr. Luton, having set the lamp on a bar of polished red-wood. Behind the bar the shelves were packed with bottles of spirits. In front of the bar were two cuspidors and two wood box seats. There were veritable stacks of cased spirits along one side of the cellar, which was as large as the living-room and the sitting-room combined.

“Are all those cases full?” Bony asked.

“Well, me and Ben never hadno use for empty cases.”

Bony sat on the pile of two which served as a seat at the bar. He noticed that none of the shelved bottles had been opened, and the proud Mr. Luton guessed the thought and said:

“We used to spend a lot of time down here, before Knocker called pretty late one night and we had to rush up top and straighten things quick enough to stop him getting suspicious. After that we didn’t use the place as a pub, just kept her as a store. Just as well, too, because the steps got awkward as time went on, and then there was always the lamp.”

“Harris doesn’t know about this cellar?”

“That’s right, Inspector. No one knows. Only me and you.”

“And Ben’s friend and the friend’s son?”

“They don’t know, either. When they brought the supplies we got ’emto stack it all in the sitting-room, and out in the shed. Brought it down here ourselves.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

Mr. Luton chortled, and was frank enough.

“Eleven year back I was sort of retired on a small place I had on the Darling, and Ben came there and wanted me to come and live near him. Said he owned a nice little cottage where I’d be comfortable and he could come and have a drink without being blackguarded by his relations. So I sold out up north and came here. Now he’s dead I think I’ll go back up north. They always say that once you’ve been on the Darling River you’re bound to go back to die on her. Ah, now! Ben’s box.”

Mr. Luton pulled down a stack of whisky to disclose a longcedarwood chest having a heavy brass lock and two heavy brass clasps, and, under the minute, Bony had the lid raised. There were several hard-board, loose-leaf files, a large envelope unsealed, and a green-covered notebook.

JustA Country Town

TENo’clock the next morning found Bony and Mr. Luton on the high road to Cowdry. It was Friday, market-day, and both intended to shop. The sun was masked by scudding cloud racing eastward, and the air was cold with the acrid, scentless tang of drought. But a good day for walking.

“I intend to interview the manager of the Commonwealth Bank,” Bony said when they were nearing the town, at a pace that Mr. Luton thought too slow. “Do you happen to know the staff at the bank?”

“I know ’emby sight, but not all of ’emby name,” replied the ageless man. “Manager’s name is McGillycuddy. There’s two clerks. One is Craig and I think the other’s called McKenzie. The cashier’s name is Kirkdale, and a young brat of an office boy who don’t do much but read comics. Thenthere’s a couple of young flips.”

“Why is it that our national banking institution is overloaded with Scotchmen, and the Customs Department is snowed under with Irishmen?” asked Bony, and his walking companion chuckled and replied, evading the question.

“Now, now, no sectarianism.”

“I was merely being conversational,” Bony observed with slight asperity, and again Mr. Luton chuckled.

“I’m careful because underneath Cowdry there’s a lot of it, the sort of sectarianism whichdon’t always apply to religion. Out a bit from town there’s a settlement of small market-gardeners what is crammed with Italians. There’s some in Cowdry who hates them, and some they hate, with reason. So the Scotties run the banks, the Irish run theGov’ment Departments, the Italians run the market gardens, and the Australians chew tobacco and lean up against veranda posts. If only all these ruddy lunatics would forget their grandfathers, the country would be worthlivin ’ in.”