Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

“The subject of your memo wouldn’t be the death of Ben Wickham?”

“How could it be?” Bony mildly enquired. “I understand that you permitted the body to be cremated and the ashes scattered over the dead man’s estate.”

“True enough. Had to. Couldn’t allow the body to explode with booze fumes after it was buried deep in a respectable cemetery.”

“Then why mention Ben Wickham?”

“Interesting bloke, that’s all.” Boase again smiled only with the corners of his mouth. “I suppose the real truth is that you were playing the wag and enjoying a nice spot of sport with the kingfish. I’ve done it myself. Sometimes itdon’t come off, and then you have to run around your pals to find out who the blasted pimp is. If you ever do find the darling who put you away, let me know. I’ll fix him. We policemen have to stick together.”

“Which is why I came to you.”

“Wise guy. You might do the same for me one day.”

“I would not miss the opportunity.” Bony rose to go. “Thank you, Boase. See you again sometime.”

They shook hands, both satisfied, both aware he was not believed by the other. Almost casually, Superintendent Boase asked:

“When will you be leaving Adelaide?”

“By to-night’s express. I’ll fly north from Melbourne. I’ll let you know who pimped on me, and you might arrange something one dark night.”

“You come up all the way by road coach?” asked Boase, idly fingering a document.

“Yes. On arrival in the city, I parked my case and found a cafe where I loitered over a pot of tea and a newspaper. After leaving the cafe, I strolled up King William Street and…”

“Cut. No point,” interrupted Boase.“Asked because I wasthinkin ’ of something else. What about dinner at the Railway Dining Rooms before your train leaves? Meet you there in an hour.”

Bony gladly agreed, and they were given an alcove table where they could talk. After the entree, Boase said:

“You know, Bony, you’re not hard to work with, although you never work to the book. There have been times when I envy you your independence. I am not alone in that, either. You got more pals here than you think. Sinclair’s one of them. Being private secretary to our Chief Commissioner, he’s as near the hub as anyone can be. Yet he knows nothing outside that communication from your own Chief, and he told me he feels there’s a lot he could be told by his own boss.”

“Did his boss issue the instruction to Mount Gambier that made Gibley call on me?”

“Yes.”

“D’youknowSenior Constable Gibley?” asked Bony.

“Met him a couple of times. Bit of a stay-put, apparently.”

“Clean slate?”

“Far as I know. Come off it, Bony. What are you up to down there?”

“I’ll tell you. I went there for the fishing. I stayed with an old character named John Luton. He interested me in the various effects of alcohol on the human brain. In modern parlance, I think he has something. Have you heard anything about that?”

“No. Tell.”

Bony related Mr. Luton’s convictions, which included that covering his belief in the cause of Ben Wickham’s death. When done, Boase was thoughtful. He asked:

“You do much digging?”

“No.”

“Couldn’t have been in Gibley’s report to Mount Gambier. Would have come through to us, otherwise. Still, kind of cranky idea I’d hesitate to pass on when I was a constable. What gives it significance is the possibility that from Luton’s ideas on grog and your interest in his ideas sprang that something which brought about your recall to Brisbane. Must be someone down there so important that if you don’t get back to Brisbane like a bat out of a Nullarbor Cave, you’ll be chucked out of the Department with not the faintest hope of being reinstated.”

“It does seem that someone at Cowdry fears… me.”

“Sure enough,” agreed Boase. “I’ll keep it in mind. Let me know if you should find out what it’s all about, will you?”

Bony concurred.

“These are funny times, as you’ll agree,” Boase said, seriously. “Sort of complex to what they were before the war. They talk about the cold war as though it is something going on millions of miles away. I know of at least two cold wars going on here in Adelaide, and not between the Russians and us, either. Yes, I’ll keep this Cowdry business in mind. Time to go. I have an order about you. Have to see you off the State premises.”

“Indeed!” politely murmured Bony.

“Yes. Nothing personal. I asked for a good companion. Nice-looking and smart. She’ll accompany you as far as Serviceton.”

The policewoman was all that Boase said of her. She was wearing a tailored suit, and Bony was presented to her on the platform. They sat together in the first-class compartment, and at Serviceton she expressed regret that she had to leave the train and catch the incoming express back to Adelaide. Serviceton is just outside the South Australian border, and the Melbourne-Adelaide expresses pass a few miles beyond this point.

Mr. Luton’s Panacea

IThad been a hard day for Mr. Luton. For him the bottom of the craft of life had been badly holed, and the buoyancy of the previous days was gone. He had come to place strong faith in D.-I. Bonaparte, faith based on personal liking and respect for superior intelligence. Not by the flicker of an eyelash had he betrayed the blow to his faith given by Bony’s defection following the boasts bearing up what had appeared to be superb independence of the Boss.

If you lose faith in someone, you find faith in yourself badly shaken, and that was the feeling from which Mr. Luton suffered during this hard day of Bony’s departure.

Knocker Harris failed to cheer him. In fact, Knocker Harris was this day a little boring because he was inclined to condemn D.-I. Bonaparte merely through feeling that Mr. Luton was condemning him. When Knocker Harris broached the subject of Mr. Luton’s loneliness, Mr. Luton snapped him short, knowing the suggestion which would be bound to follow. Knocker’s affection for Mr. Luton was that of the weak for the strong, and sometimes the strong is wearied by the ingredient of adulation.

What irritated Mr. Luton more was Knocker’s opposition to the occasional benders. The opposition wasn’t expressed in plain words, and the excuse was Knocker’s ulcers, which forbade him to join in the riot, when actually it was just plainwowserism, in the view of Mr. Luton.

Hang it, if a man can’t have a drink without being criticised, it was just too bad. Mr. Luton stared savagely at Knocker Harris and told him he didn’t need nursing, that he was still able to feed himself, and quite capable of telling people like Knocker Harris to get to hell out of it.

That was the way it went this afternoon of the day Bony left for Adelaide. Mr. Luton took from the cupboard the part-filled bottle of whisky, poured half a tumbler of the spirit and drank it neat, right in front of Knocker Harris.

Knocker looked solemn and sighed loudly. He produced a cigarette and popped it into his mouth, paper and all, and the manner in which his jaws chewed further irritated Mr. Luton.

“You had better get back to your own camp,” growled Mr. Luton. “Be dark in an hour, and I got chores to do.”

Knocker accepted the hint, gazed disapprovingly at the bottle, and departed. Mr. Luton thereupon had a real snort, which emptied the bottle. He walked without a trace of faltering to the sitting-room, and proceeded to dismantle the stretcher used by D.-I. Bonaparte, placing the blankets in a cupboard, the sheets in the wash-tub in the adjacent laundry, and the stretcher on a wall-rack in his own room. Then he re-laid the fire on the open hearth, took wheat to the penned fowls, and fed and chained the dogs to their abodes at the bottom of the garden.