Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

“May I say something?” the girl asked, breathlessly.

“By all means. I am all attention.”

“You are hurrying too fast. And talking too much. And not telling the truth.”

“My apologies, Jessica. Permit me to ease your mind. Dr. Linke will be all right; he will be allowed to return to his work here, and to you, even if I have to blackmail the Prime Minister.”

At the fence skirting the highway, Bony bade no talking while he listened. Across the road stood the open gateway to Mount Mario. The only sound was the wind in the pine trees. No footsteps on the road. Only the ruddy glare of the fire down by the bridge.

They sped across the road to the open gates and walked along the daffodil-bordered driveway.

“Please tell me about the fire, Bony.”

Believing that the girl would worry unduly, he said:

“A secret. Between us. Those men you saw were waiting for you to leave Mr. Luton’s cottage. They intended to frighten you with threats to force you to give information. So while you were waiting with Mr. Luton, I fired their car to create a diversion while I was being honoured as your escort. Will you accept an order from me?”

“Yes.”

“I order you not to leave Mount Mario at any time alone, until I say so. In the morning, as early as possible, I want you to send a phonogram. You can use the office phone? Without being overheard?”

“I’ll manage that.”

“Here is the message, addressed to a young lady in Melbourne, to ask her to contact you at the earliest possible moment. When she does, be very guarded. Say that I am in urgent need of her assistance at Mr. Luton’s cottage, near Cowdry. Refer to me only as her Murray River friend. Clear?”

“Quite,” replied Jessica, accepting the written message and slipping it into a coat pocket. Impulsively, she squeezed Bony’s arm. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You will do your best about Carl, won’t you?”

“I have said so, Jessica. Now you run for the door. I’ll watch.”

He waited until he saw the door close behind her, then raced back to Mr. Luton.

Bony Listens to Radio Play

“DIDthe dogs bark?” Bony asked when Mr. Luton had admitted him and they were again in the sitting-room.

“No, exceptin ’ once when one of ’emyapped as if a flea bit him without knocking.”

Bony related the incidents of the evening, believing Mr. Luton should be prepared for possible future developments, and the old man frowned at the story of Knocker Harris’s visitor, and chuckled when hearing of the ‘accident’ to the car.

“First,” Bony went on, “nothing of our knowledge to Harris when he comes again. You must wait for what he gives or won’t give about that car driver. Ostensibly, the man went to Harris to arrange for the delivery of fishing bait tomorrow, but actually to obtain information about your relationship with Ben Wickham. Which indicates that the centre of interest in Wickham’s papers has moved to this house of yours. Those two foreigners were first to make that move: these last two fellows are coming round to it. We may assume that the last two are not associated with the first two.”

“The two to-night? They foreigners?”Mr. Luton put forward.

“Not from their accent. The driver of the car need not be the owner, but the owner’s name is Marsh. The garage account is for general servicing, not repairs. Now to see what is in the notebook.”

Study of the notebook occupied five minutes.

“The driver, if not the actual owner, could be a commercial traveller,” Bony said, slowly. “This is a record, almost in diary form, of expenditure on petrol and oil, hotel expenses, meals, roughly jotted down, possibly for transference to a swindle sheet at the end of the day. It begins in April, 1953, continues through to four days ago, when petrol was purchased in Cowdry. Between dates, the driver visited Adelaide, Melbourne, where he probably lives, then Canberra, back to Melbourne, Sydney, and so on. If he is a commercial traveller, then his territory covers three States and the Australian Capital Territory. The car being a Buick, his firm must be a wealthy one, or he could be the head of a small but prosperous firm. He could be a Government servant. Getting in deep, are we not?”

“We’re left with some dark horses, eh?”

“No show, Mr. Luton, if we adopt the racecourse for the sea. Time is my bet. I am ever an admirer of Time, for Time has been my greatest ally. Now, there is another matter. Those records and the green notebook in the chest could be located I am uneasy, and we should do something about it. Have you any suggestions for a better hiding-place?”

“Don’t know. Have to think. The pub’s secret enough, isn’t it?”

“I fear not,” Bony said. “If the house was searched by experts, they would quickly find the trap-door. We must use imagination. Let us assume that you arean habitual drunk. That you were married to a very suspicious woman who does not approve of the cursed drink, and will, on sight of a bottle, empty it down the sink. Where would you plant your bottle?”

“In a hole under the perches in the fowl-house,” promptly answered Mr. Luton.

“I anticipated your selection,” Bony said smilingly. “Your hiding-place would not be a hundred per cent proof against a suspicious wife, but it ought to trick a change-daily boy. We’ll do the job right now.”

Mr. Luton was ready and eager. It occupied them almost an hour, for work had to be done without light, without disturbing the hens and their lord roosting on the perches, and replacing the over-lay exactly as formerly. The hole was not large, because Bony finally decided to leave the annual records in the chest, burying only the notebook, the will, the smaller book taken from the car, inside a biscuit tin.

Afterwards they ate a light supper, drank a hot toddy and retired, all doors locked and windows bolted, the loaded shotgun on Mr. Luton’s bedside table, and the furniture and floor-covering in the kitchen-living-room so arranged as to permit Bony easy egress if essential.

Both slept in undisturbed peace.

At nine o’clock Mr. Luton took a breakfast tray down to his guest, who planned to spend the day on further study of the records in the chest. He then proceeded with the chores of the day: freeing the dogs, tidying the house, doing a little digging and sowing peas and transplanting early cabbage.

Shortly after ten, Senior Constable Gibley called, knocking on the front door, when Bony mounted the brandy steps.

“What! You again!” Mr. Luton said sharply.

“Me again, Luton,” agreed the policeman. “How’s the kettle? Boiling?”

“Damnation!” roared the old man. “You think I can supply the whole ruddy police force with cups of tea, and tea the price it is?”

“No. Actually, I brought you a pound of tea. Sergeant Maskell gave me the doings to buy it for you. Sends it with his compliments and thanks for the fish you gave him. Nowyougoin ’ to ask me in?”

“I’ve never yet refused a man a drink of tea or a bite to eat. Come on through. S’long as you don’t ask fool questions, or make silly threats, you’re welcome. Whatd’youcome for?”

“I just told you,” replied Gibley, easing himself into a kitchen chair.

“Now, now! That’s only the jemmy that edges open the bank safe. Better, let it out, or you won’t enjoy the cakes I baked a couple of hours back.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I came to ask if you happened to fire the car down at the bridge.”

Mr. Luton looked stunned, and waited.

“Seems that two men who’ve rented a holiday shack in Cowdry left their car at the bridge to do some nightfishin ’. Went down-river a bit, and while waiting for a bite, the glare told ’emabout the cargoin ’ up. What do you know?”