Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

“I am, of course, Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.” The faint bow which accompanied this statement appeared to pass unnoticed by Mr. Luton, who said warmly:

“Glad to meet you. Come on in and we’ll boil the billy.”

The dogs stood aside to permit Bony to step directly into the front room. It was an ordinary room, obviously devoted to comfort during winter evenings, the only objects of note being several photographic enlargements of bullock teams attached to table-top wagons loaded with mountains of wool, and two great bullock whips arranged like crossed swords against one wall. Above the small radio on the mantel was suspended, of all things, a bullock yoke.

Bonaparte was conducted to the kitchen-living-room beyond, where Mr. Luton filled a jug from the bench tap and switched on the current. From the cold stove he took a teapot to the back door, tossing the leaves outside and narrowly missing a huge black-and-white cat. The cat came in, the fur on its back standing upright. It was more hostile to the visitor than the dogs had been.

“You got my letter,” remarked Mr. Luton, spooning tea into the pot.

“How did you know I was in Adelaide?” Bony asked.

“Seen your name in the paper. It said youwas mixed up with the investigation into a smuggling racket. Glad you came, Inspector. I beenmore’n a bit worried over Ben Wickham, as I wrote. He was a fine feller. They don’t breed ’emlike him these days.”

Mr. Luton was standing with his back to the stove, seeming to tower over the seated Bonaparte, who was rolling a cigarette.

“Excuse the question,” Bony said, “but how old are you?”

“Me? Eighty-four. Nothing namby-pamby about meWasn’t with Ben Wickham, either, and he was seventy-five. Heart failure, the quack said he died of, due to alcoholic poisoning. Alcoholic poisoning! You ever had the hoo-jahs?”

The hazel eyes regarded Bony with interest and anticipation. They were the eyes of the voyager by land or sea, eyes accustomed to searching beyond horizons, and the years had not come between. The impressions they were now receiving were not indicated by the weathered features, but the alert mind was summing up the visitor-his light-brown face, his blue eyes, the straight nose and slim nostrils, the level brows, the sleek-straight, black hair. Even by European standards, the female partner in this unusual creation must have been a fine-looking woman. When Mr. Luton was obliged to switch off the electric jug, D.-I. Bonaparte said:

“My varied experience does not include delirium tremens. Your letter indicates that you have studied the subject.”

“How many times I’ve had the hoo-jahs, Inspector, I’m not admitting, being a humble man. I could fill a book about the hoo-jahs, all sorts of ’em, and their effects.” Mr. Luton vigorously shook the teapot to induce the leaves to settle. “I might find it a bit hard to prove it, but I will.”

“You do not look an alcoholic.”

“Not at the moment, Inspector.” Mr. Luton smiled and away sped fifty years. “You wouldn’t deny me my claims if you happened along when I was on a bender.”

The tea was poured and a plate of sweet scones placed within reach of the visitor.

“I’ve a troublesome corn on a big toe, Inspector. That’s all that’s wrong with me. I can read the papers without glasses, and I can hear the wireless without it loud. I can drink myself into the hoo-jahs when I like, and I can ride the water-cart when it suits me. I can take only one night-cap, and I can work up for three bottles of grog a day-after a bit of practice.

“My old friend, Ben Wickham, was as good as me on allthem points. All that was wrong with him, when he died of something give to him, was a touch of lumbago. They said he died in the hoo-jahs of alcoholic poisoning. He was having the hoo-jahs all right. We both were at the same time. But he didn’t die of ’em. I told the quack that. And the policeman. And all I got for me trouble was a threat to have me put away in an old men’s home in Adelaide.”

“You think you might convince me?”

“Yes. I’m betting on it.”

“On what grounds?”

“You being abushman, like me. That covers a lot, Inspector. Ben wasn’t exactly a bushman, but near enough. I’m asking you to believe I’m not shouting down a rabbit hole. Do I look like a ruddy lunatic?”

“On the contrary. It was not your thesis on alcoholism which induced me to apply for ten days’ leave. The doctor’s reputation is high in those quarters able to assess it. The policeman’s record is without blemish. But your reputation, Mr. Luton, is-shall we agree?-just faintly tarnished.”

“I’ve never robbed a man,” shouted Mr. Luton, eyes blazing. “I owe no man anything. I’ve always…”

The arched brows, the coldly analytical blue eyes, which only a moment before were warm and friendly, stopped Mr. Luton’s outburst. He sat opposite his guest, applied a match to his pipe, and admitted calmly:

“You’re about right, Inspector. I’m not much account locally. Still, I done no man wrong, not even Ben. I know what Iknow, and what I know no one will believe…exceptin ’ perhaps a bushman. A bushman can understand otherbushmen and their ways. So I’m still hoping.”

“You will, at least, find me sympathetic, Mr. Luton.” And Mr. Luton remembered how astonished he had been at what he had seen in those deep blue eyes, and was relieved that those same eyes were again expressing warmth.

The cat had subsided on the hearth before the cold stove. The two dogs were squatting that they could watch both their master and the visitor. Bony struck a match, lit a cigarette, puffed out the flame and balanced the stick on the heeler’s nose. The dog played along, moving only his tail.

“You got a way with dogs,” observed the old man, faintly impatient. “I hope you will bestayin ’.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Luton. Even the coach driver assured me that the fishing was good. Ah! Someone coming.”

Hoo-Jahs

BEYONDthe door appeared a man, who called:

“Hey, there, John! You around?”

The frame of the door darkened and there stepped into the kitchen a man tall and lean and weather-bashed. He was wearing a suit of dungarees so often boiled that the colour was like blue-veined stone. Smiling, obviously embarrassed, he sat on a chair near the door and fondled the dogs.

“That,” remarked Mr. Luton, pointing the stem of his pipe at the caller, “that is my neighbour up-river a bit. Name is Knocker Harris. He believes in no one and nothing. It was him who recommended I write the letter to you, Inspector.”

“That’s me, Inspector,” agreed Knocker Harris. “Pleased to meetcher. Me nephew, Frank Lord, you put away for his natural, always said you’re a top detective, and if he hadn’t sort of accidentally shot that prospector in the bush, you wouldn’t have been on tothe job and he wouldn’t have been nabbed like. So we reckoned you are the man to understand John’s ideas about the jerks. Not that Ben wasn’t murdered. Got too dangerous for the politicians, he did. I told himmore’n once to go easy, but he would never listen.”

“You talk too much,” Mr. Luton asserted severely.

“That’s me,” ruefully agreed Mr. Harris.

“Knocker is given to making wild statements,” Mr. Luton said, accusingly. “I like to keep to a bit of reason, because people might say we’re old and mentally wonky. You heard Knocker say the Government murdered Ben. Then again the Commos could have done it, hoping to get what he’d worked out. Ben wasn’t just an ordinary bloke, like us.”

The fishing was slipping from Bony’s mind. He said:

“Mr. Wickham told you something of his work, it would seem.”