Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

“You never joined them?”

“No, Inspector, I never could. I can’t take it, like. The booze plays hell with me ulcers. One rum is my limit when I goes to town, and only then ’cosI got to be sociable, like.”

There seemed nothing of value to be gained from Knocker Harris, and Bony became bored. Relief was given by the noise of an approaching car, which aroused the dogs to frenzy.

“Could be theflamin ’ quack,” surmised Knocker. “Don’t you take nolip from him.”

A minute later there appeared round the side of the house a woman whose face resembled that of a horse, and whose stocky figure was made ridiculous by the tight brown trousers she was wearing. Her voice was harsh, and she was engaged in what is known as talking-down-in this instance, Mr. Luton.

“The quack’s old bitch,” inelegantly announced Knocker.

“Well, I certainly hope so, Luton,” the lady was saying. “As the doctor has so often told you, a man of your age ought not to take alcohol save medicinally, and then only sparingly.” Mr. Luton began to speak and was wiped off the slate. “We have been greatly worried about you, Luton. This isolation is tragic, tragic. It’s no use arguing. You’ll simply have to give up this place and live where you can be properly cared for. Oh!”

“This is Mrs. Maltby, the doctor’s wife,” boomed Mr. Luton, the lid of his left eye half-masted. “Inspector Bonaparte, Mrs. Maltby.”

“So you are Inspector Bonaparte, are you?” queried the lady. “Wonders will never cease. Before leaving town I called at the Post Office, and the postmaster asked me to bring a telegram for you.”

“That is kind of you,” Bony said, unsmilingly.

“No. I intended talking to Luton on my way back. Er… we have been thinking you might have called at the house. Mrs. Parsloe rather wants to speak to you. Some afternoon about four. Now I must be off. Good-bye, Inspector.”

Bony lowered his head politely, and the woman strode back to the gate with Mr. Luton and the accompanying dogs as escort. Knocker said, as though hoping that Mrs. Maltby would hear:

“Whatd’youknow?”

Bony chopped wood, hoping there were no more Mrs. Maltbys to be encountered during his career. There was only one way of dealing with such women, the way an aborigine deals with his impertinent gin, but that was not for Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte. Knocker Harris’s suggested treatment shocked even Bony. He repeated the suggestion for the reclamation of Mrs. Maltby to the returning Mr. Luton, and was sternly ordered to ‘cut that out, and come in for tea.’ Unabashed, Knocker followed Mr. Luton to the kitchen, and Bony followed more slowly while reading the message:

After several cups of tea, Bony strolled along the river-bank as far as the bridge spanning the highway. For some time he leaned against the stone parapet watching the fish jumping for flies, and the larger fish chasing others. He noted with interest the peculiarity of this river, the banks of which were not of earth and shelving, but of precipitous limestone going straight down to the depths. Scrub and tall trees grew right to the edge of these faces of the great cleft which had admitted the sea.

From the bridge he walked to the highway almost to the line of pine trees providing the wind-break for Mount Mario, and then turned off the road to bisect the grazing paddocks where there was no grazing and no stock. He came to a path barely discernible which appeared to come from opposite the gates to Mount Marlo, and which he followed to the back fence of Mr. Luton’s garden, and he wondered if that was the path made by the late Ben Wickham.

After dinner, when they sat smoking over coffee, he said:

“The telegram Mrs. Maltby brought was from the Traffic Branch in Adelaide. They say that the car used by those foreigners to call on Wickham is owned by a staff member of the Hungarian Consulate. Are you still sure that Wickham never mentioned them to you?”

“I am,” replied Luton, calmly. “Nor did he say anything to me about why he called at the bank after hours. Mind you, that was like Ben, not to say anything to me. Exceptin ’ to moan now and then about his sister and theMaltbys, he never talked of his private business, and he had to be pretty full before he’d talk about his work. He did talk about the flaming stars, but not often about his weather-forecastin’.”

“So that when you did meet, you discussed the river, the fishing, and the past?”

“That’s so. You see, Ben was a gentleman. He never deliberately talked over my head, as the saying goes. He’d arrive here, unload his moans about what happened up at the house, and after a bit we’d both go back over the years and talk about old times.”

“I suppose that when he became sufficiently sober to return to his house, he was feeling despondent?”

“No. He used to tell me we’d had a hell of a fine time and that he felt he’d had a brain wash and was ready to get on with his job.”

“Did he express an opinion of Dr. Linke?”

“Seemed to like him. Said he was first-rate and keen. Never said anything against him, excepting…”

“Excepting?”

“Excepting that Linke sometimesjawed him for coming here for a bender.”

“He was bitter about the Government persistently refusing to take his work seriously, wasn’t he?”

“Too true he was.” Mr. Luton’s eyes widened and blazed. “While our people are jeering at him, and our weather men are calling him an outsider, the Russians step in. They did, didn’t they? The Hungarians are Russians, aren’t they?”

As Mr. Luton demanded agreement, Bony conceded the thought. Other thoughts he did not express. He said, instead:

“Have you ever seen a man die in delirium tremens?”

“No. But I’ve seen a man who died of the hoo-jahs.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It was a terrible long time back. I mustof been about twenty or so, and I was working up in Queensland, droving cattle. Open country, you understand. The year was bad, and my job was to ride ahead and scout for water for the cattle.

“The Government had just sunk a bore called Number Eight, and I met a couple of prospectors who told me it was gushinggood and that the water was drinkable. They said an old bloke was in charge of the plant which hadn’t been moved on, and they reckoned by this time he’d have gone bush as he’d been on the booze and was raging around when they left.

“Anyway, I went on to take a look at this bore, and see what feed there was for the cattle. I found it all right. Anda bit of a shed near the dismantled gear. I knew what had happened before I went inside. The old feller was dead in a corner, and I’m game to bet there was fifty empty Pink-Eye brandy bottles. He hadn’t been dead long. The day before, I reckoned. Looked bloody awful.”

“Describe him, please.”

“Hell! What for? He was dead of the hoo-jahs. Lying on the floor, and the place stinking of Pink-Eye. Part of a bottle still in his hand. Had it by the neck and back a bit like he was fighting the demons off.”

“Do you remember the expression on the dead man’s face?”persisted Bony.

“I won’t ever forget it, Inspector. Never madeno difference to me, though. Still, I sort of knew when to stop. He didn’t.”

“Describe the expression on the dead man’s face,” Bony continued to persist.

“His mouth was open like he was yelling when he perished. Blood had poured from it. He’d been chased round and round the shed, for you could see his tracks what made a road all round. And he’d run inside towards the end, to escape the things that were chasing him, and they caught up with him in the corner. He was looking at them, seeing them when he died.”