Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

A boy came shortly after eleven with a telegram for Bony, payment of a special rate having ensured its delivery. The Electricity Department’s meter reader came just after twelve, and Mr. Luton paid the account with a cheque. To Mr. Luton, long accustomed to a peaceful retreat, the morning was unusually crowded, and was lighted by the return of Bony, who suggested they split a bottle of beer.

The glasses were filled, when Mr. Luton remembered the telegram.

“Ah!” breathed Bony, gazing upon the flimsy, “I’ve been expecting that. It will be a message from my Chief at theC.I. B. in Brisbane instructing me to report at once. I have received many such telegrams, and most I have ignored. Then comes a follow-on message from the Chief Commissioner’s secretary ordering me to report at once, or else. This form of blackmail being unsuccessful, another telegram arrives, suspending me from duty, and unless I report by a certain date I shall be sacked.”

“That brings you to book,” smiled Mr. Luton.

“On the contrary. I report when it suits me, and it suits me only when I have finalised an investigation. So I discuss the situation with my Chief Commissioner, who damns and blasts my eyes and swears I’m not a policeman’s bootlace. I have to point out that, despite this relative position, I do bring home the bacon. So all is forgiven.”

“I can quite believe it,” Mr. Luton said, seriously.

Bony opened the telegram, and read aloud:

“FROM SUPERINTENDENT LINTON, C.I. B. BRISBANE. REPORT AT

Dropping the flimsy to the table, he drank while regarding his host over the glass, as he had done down below.

“Not the usual wording,” he said.“Slightly ambiguous, the ambiguity being the additional personal note from Linton. Good man, Linton. We all like him, though he isn’t prone to ‘additives’, a word now favoured by oil companies advertising petrol. Normally, ‘report back or be damned’; in this instance, ‘add my personal entreaty you comply without delay.’ And so, Mr. Luton, as someone once said: ‘The game’s afoot.’ ”

Mr. Luton could not, of course, understand the basis of his guest’s obvious satisfaction, and naturally could not grasp the real significance of that telegraphed order. He knew that Bony had applied for and had been granted ten days’ leave of absence from duty, but did not see the point that, the leave period being granted, only a reason vitally important would have dictated its cancellation.

He was not perturbed when Bony abruptly withdrew to the front veranda, there to meditate until called for lunch. During lunch Bony spoke but seldom, so preoccupied was he, and immediately after lunch he went out to the garden without offering assistance with the washing-up. It was three o’clock when Bony reappeared to say that the Reverend Weston was fishing from the bank, and that he had a score to settle with him. And:

“Afternoon, Padre. Any luck?”

Light grey eyes were turned upon Bony, and the quick smile did nothing to soften the ever-present hint of harsh intolerance.

“Ah! Good afternoon. No, they are not biting to-day.”

“Do you mind if I cast beside you?”

“Go right ahead. Let your neighbour do unto you what you did unto him.”

Old clothes and weathered boots failed to detract from this man’s grimly powerful personality. He examined Bony as the latter baited a hook with a bunch of garden worms. The long brown fingers fumbled with the task, and so the parson turned his attention to his own gear. That gave Bony the chance to bait with witchetty grubs.

Before those grubs had descended three feet they were devoured by a fast-moving kingfish. The water swirled. The tip of Bony’s rod flashed downward.

A kingfish is a different proposition from a gentlemanly trout. There are no ‘by your leaves’ in his make-up, and he has much in common with Australian politicians and Australian thugs, who invariably mix it, boots and all. Bony was determined to land this fish, and without damage to Mr. Luton’srod, and the Reverend Weston quickly admitted that he knew how to handle this ruthless fighter.

It occupied Bony eleven minutes to bring the fish to the gaff expertly wielded by Mr. Weston, whose sportsmanship was adequately proved. Afterwards they sat on the log seat and estimated the weight of the catch as being about fourteen pounds. That subject disposedof, it was time for a cigarette. Then they tried again, with worms, and nothing happened, and Mr. Weston said he really would have to employ someone or other to prepare the boat for trolling.

These two men found much in common. They were both insatiably curious. The minister was the less patient.

“Would you be offended if I asked you one or two candidly personal questions?” he asked.

“Not at all, provided they don’t touch my income-tax returns. I suggest that we trade a little. It could be that we stand either side a fence.”

“Agreed. We’ll trade. You open the negotiations.”

“What was the basis of Ben Wickham’s friendship with John Luton?”

“Alcohol. His father was a solid drinker, and he lived long. Ben took after his father, but he didn’t have his father’s rigid social code.” Weston smiled when he added: “Nor did he have his father’s capacity and staying power.”

“Thank you, Padre. I have two more,” Bony said.

“Good. Shoot them.”

“At whose instigation was Wickham’s body cremated?”

“Difficult. I think it was I who first suggested it. There is much to be argued in favour of cremation,?sthetically chiefly. I recall that the suggestion was opposed by Mrs. Parsloe, and supported by Dr. Maltby and his wife. Mrs. Parsloe surrendered when Maltby further suggested the dispersal of the ashes over Mount Mario, as a fitting gesture to a famous man.”

“Again, thank you. My third question: Is Dr. Maltby well off?”

“I can best answer that by saying that Maltby and his wife are worried by the non-location of Wickham’s will, under which, Wickham once told them, they were to receive substantial sums.”

“Would you permit a fourth question?”

“Certainly,”assented the Rev. Weston, brows uplifted to narrow forehead.

“When Luton asserted that Wickham died of a cause not due to alcohol, why was a post-mortem not insisted on:

Weston chuckled, and the humour in his eyes seemed to be genuine.

“It was obvious, even to Maltby, that the cause of Wickham’s death was the effect of too much alcohol on his weak heart. Luton could produce neither proof nor logic in support of his astonishing assertions. I think I see what you are driving at, Bonaparte. The feeble-minded might be led to indulge in a whispering campaign, but that couldn’t touch the family. Anything more?”

“No,” replied Bony, smiling. “It’s now your turn.”

“Very well. How did you manage to rise so high in your Police Department? I am not being impertinent, I do assure you. You must have met many obstacles, extraordinary hurdles, and I sense a story far more irresistible than that of errand boy to millionaire.”

“My beginning was subordinate to that of the errand boy,” replied Bony. “I was found beneath a sandalwood tree, found in the arms of my mother, who had been clubbed to death for breaking a law. Subsequently, the matron of the Mission Station to which I was taken and reared found me eating the pages of Abbotts’sLife of Napoleon Bonaparte. The matron possessed a peculiar sense of humour. The result-my name. Despite the humour, she was a great woman. Aware of the burden of birth I would always have to carry, she built for me the foundations of my career. My entry to the Queensland Police Department came about after I had won my M.A. at the Brisbane University, and my progress in the Department has been due to the fortunate fact that the Commissioner abhors failure in anyone, and has managed to evade dropping dead from rage-induced apoplexy long enough to ensure that I received just recognition. You see, I have never failed to finalise an investigation.”