Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

“Still controlled by this mood of abandonment, he came to the end of a dark street, when a woman appeared and said: ‘Hiya, sailor! Looking for a sweetheart?’ Now the famous king had never before been addressed with such democratic forthrightness, but this he minded less than being asked if he were looking for a sweetheart. Not since the age of two, when his nurse had asked him what he was looking for under the bed, had he had to look for anything such as a pair of socks, a two-shilling piece, or a sweetheart.

“He drew himself up to his full majestic height and told her all this, but all she said was ‘Your sort couldn’t find anything.’

“For the first time in his life, he forgot he was a king who could do no wrong-and did it. He took the woman’s scrawny, unwashed neck into his hands, and strangled her. And he was still at it, when young Constable Napoleon Bonaparte chipped in with: ‘What’sall this?’

“Hearing this gruff voice, the great and famous king thought he would have a try at anotherneck, and, for the first time in his life, didn’t get what he asked for… or did he? When he recovered from his astonishment, he found himself in the local police station. The Chief Commissioner was bathing his bruises, a superintendent was replacing a broken shoe-lace, and five inspectors were offering him sweetmeats. Only Constable Napoleon Bonaparte was chewing his finger-nails. With brilliant secrecy, attended by the entire police force excepting Constable N. B., the great and famous king was returned safely to the bosoms of the stuffed shirts.

“ ‘Howdare you assault His Majesty?’ demanded the Chief Commissioner. ‘Had to, sir, to make him loose his fingers from the dead woman’s throat.’The Chief Commissioner was crying, such was his horror at this act oflese-majeste, and as all his under-strappers waited for him to pronounce a hundred years’ hard labour for the offender, up spoke Constable N. B., saying: ‘I’ve made out the charge sheet, sir, naming His Majesty, and indicting him of having feloniously slain one, to wit, May Jones, of Albion Mews, a known street-walker aged forty years and five months.’

“The Chief Commissioner fainted. The superintendent rushed for the whisky, and all the inspectors rushed Constable N. B. to the nearest cell, the cell next to the morgue, where, on a cosy slab, lay the remains of the tragic victim of royal disdain.

“Next day the unfortunate constable was taken from durance vile to the presence of the Chief Secretary, who said: ‘Now, my man, listen-or else! When on duty last night, you came on two men attacking a third man. You rescued the third man from the thugs and took him to the police station for medical examination, and there it was discovered that the victim of assault was none other than His Majesty, King Wonky ofMartonia. It happened that His Majesty, feeling slightly depressed after his uproarious welcome by the populace, decided to leave Mansion House and take a stroll. His Majesty now wishes to bestow on you the Order of Mug-Wumps, twenty-fourthgrade. And, Constable Bonaparte, the Australian Government has decided to relieve you of paying income taxes for ten years. O.K.?’

“Now, the young constable, being altruistic, reminded the Chief Secretary that a corpse lay on the cute slab in the morgue, and no matter what expert morticians could do to it, the proof was plain that the woman had been properly strangled. The Chief Secretary said: ‘Sowhat?’ The Chief Commissioner said: ‘Sowhat?’So said the superintendent and all the inspectors. And they said ‘Sowhat?’ so often that the promising young constable retired from the Police Department and set up as a ‘private eye’. And everyone lived happily ever after… Why worry about a mere corpse?”

Mr. Luton pondered for precisely two and a half seconds, and then burst out with:

“So what?”

“Ah! There you have it, Mr. Luton. I will interpret the facts. Constable Bonaparte was prevented from doing his full duty. Inspector Bonaparte must be prevented from doing his duty here in the vicinity of Mount Mario.”

One of the charming attributes of the aged is that they are neither avidly curious nor impatient to ask questions. Mr. Luton remained passively interested. He had seen the broadly outlined picture Bony had painted and knew that Bony would complete the picture soon, for Bony was pensive, and the cigarette threatening to burn his fingers was proof of it.

They were both startled in like manner by the abrupt barking of the dogs. Against the inner stillness of the mind beat the wind about the eaves and the branches of the trees. The clock in the adjacent room whirred, struck nine deep notes, and when the last note was softly fleeing there came the rush of feet up the steps and across the veranda, and urgent knocking on the door. The men rose; Bony to move into the dark interior of the living-room, Mr. Luton to deal with the caller.

“Mr. Luton!” cried Jessica Lawrence. “I…”

“Why, Sunset! Come in! Come in!” The girl almost ran into this haven. She was wearing a light coat buttoned to the chin, a beret charmingly counteracting the wide eyes and panting breath.

“Anyone with you?” asked Mr. Luton, holding the door a fraction from closing.

“No. No, I came alone. Dr. Linke… Carl… has gone away. I… I’ve been running. I was being followed.”

“Sit you down, Sunset.” Mr. Luton closed the door and shot the inside bolt. Bony entered, and the girl went to him and gripped him by the arms.

“You here, Inspector! I heard you had left, gone back to Brisbane.”

“Rumour is often humour, Miss Lawrence.” He pushed her gently into a fireside chair. “Take it easy. All my friends call me ‘Bony’. I hope you will so honour me. Never believe that Bony deserts his friends.”

“Cup of tea, Sunset? Coffee if you like. Brandy in the coffee, too,” suggested Mr. Luton.

“Whatever… Thank you.”

The old man hurried to the stove and the dresser for cups and saucers. As the girl seemed unable to decide, he chose coffee, with brandy, for all three.

“Cigarette?” offered Bony. “Shall I make one for you? I’m not an expert, but…”

“Thank you. I have some here. Oh! I’m so glad to see you.”

“Nice of you. Dr. Linke… you said he went away. Where has he gone?”

“I don’t know. They came for him this afternoon.”

“Your cigarette is out. Relax!” Bony smiled at her, and that helped defeat hysteria. “Mr. Luton won’t be long with the… I’ll wager it’ll be coffee with a kick in it.”

Mr. Luton came in a few minutes later to find the girl less agitated and Bony studiously not looking at her. There was no doubt about that coffee.

“Coffee,” remarked Mr. Luton, accepting his cue, “is never worth drinking if there is only a drop or two of brandy in it.”

“So!” murmured Bony. “You don’t just drip the brandy into it?”

“You insult coffee and brandy by mating them too carelessly,” observed Mr. Luton, and then flushed because he might have drawn the wrong analogy. “You pour brandy into coffee. Dropsreminds me of medicine.”

“Thank you, Bony, and you, Mr. Luton. I’m better now.” Jessica Lawrence spoke firmly. “But I was followed, and I did run in a panic.”

“Tell us about that first, Jessica.”

“I decided I must contact you somehow, and I thought Mr. Luton would tell me how. About Carl. So I left the house without telling anyone. The moon is bright, but the clouds are racing and there’s plenty of moon shadow. I came to the highway all right and chose it down to the bridge, instead of taking the path across the paddocks, because it’s a good night for walking. Then, when half-way to the bridge, I had a sort of feeling, and I looked back and saw a man on the road.