Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

The old man had accepted rules against which, under normal circumstances, he would have rebelled. The dogs were not to be chained, night or day. The doors were to be kept locked, and he was to go outside the house only to obtain firewood, feed the hens andvisit the meat-safe.

That there would be developments Bony was sure. A pot over a fire of this kind must inevitably come to the boil, and his chief concern was that Mr. Luton should not be scalded. That should have been his main reason for slipping that train. Deep in his heart he knew it wasn’t the main reason, but the insatiable lust of the hunter inherited from his mother’s people.

He closed the last of the files and returned them to the chest, having gained nothing further from them save clearer pictures of Benjamin Wickham’s fight against orthodoxy and for recognition that came too late. The files showed that only in recent months had his completed work on long-range forecasting been rightly evaluated with special implications on international relations.

There were at least two groups most actively interested in locating Wickham’s recorded methods. Mr. Luton’s knees proved the interest of one of these groups, and it was fairly evident that this was the group that had approached Wickham on July 3, and that, normal negotiations beingfruitless, its normal bash-and-torture methods had been adopted.

All this appearing to be gangster warfare conducted on Government level was of itself outside Bony’s territory, save where it impinged on his professional interest in the death of Benjamin Wickham. He had no direct proof that the meteorologist had died of a cause other than that stated on the medical certificate. He would never find direct proof of murder now that the body no longer existed. It was, however, possible to gather sufficient circumstantial evidence to convince any reasonable authority that murder had been done. And while the possibility continued, he would not permit gangsters, foreign or not, to side-trackhim by pulling strings for his recall.

As he had told Mr. Luton, the opportunity for murdering Ben Wickham was wide open, and the motive for killing could be one of several to activate a number of people.

The night brought no disturbance. Even Knocker Harris did not call, probably continuing to be upset by Mr. Luton’s brusque treatment. The evening was spent playing poker, and only once during the night did the roaming dogs give voice to something or other far from the doorsteps.

It was eleven o’clock the next morning when Miss Alice McGorr arrived.

She had been associated with Bony in a case of mass infant abduction, and she hadn’t hesitated to act, following the telegraphed request to contact Jessica Lawrence. The car that brought her had stopped at the wicket gate. The driver had carried her heavy suitcase to the veranda, and had waited until the door had opened and Mr. Luton had admitted to his name.

Mr. Luton didn’t know what to make of her. There was something the matter with her appearance, but he could not decide what. He liked her brown eyes, and thought it a pity she had a receding chin. He knew at once that set against these negative points was physical and mental capacity beyond that of the average woman.

“You don’t know me, Mr. Luton, but I am your niece, Alice McGorr, all the way from Melbourne,” she told him, and before he could raise argument he found himself inside the house with her and her suitcase, and the door shut. Subsequently he was to remember the expression of her eyes when she demanded:

“Where is Inspector Bonaparte?”

A sepulchral voice moaned:

“Down among the dead men.”

“What is he to you?” asked Mr. Luton, regaining poise.

“Another uncle. Now lead me to him.”

Mr. Luton stalked into the sitting-room, Alice McGorr right on his heels. A motion of his hand halted her in the doorway. She watched him gravely move the table aside and, with growing interest, carefully roll the linoleum away from the trap-door. He lifted the trap, held it upright, and Bony emerged to flash a smile of welcome before stepping over the trap.

“Alice!” he said, and Mr. Luton didn’t fail to note the gladness. “I didn’t expect you, yet.”

“It happened that I was home when your friend’s telegram arrived,” she explained. “Are you all right? You look normal. What’s the big idea of being down there?”

“I reside there, Alice. A wonderful place! The finest bar in Australia. Mr. Luton, meet my very dear friend Policewoman Alice McGorr. Alice, I present another very dear friend.”

Mr. Luton dropped the trap-door and stepped over the rolled floor covering with hand extended. He was smiling, and again the years vanished from his face.

“Glad to meet you,” he said warmly. “Now I’ll roll back thelino and we’ll celebrate. Just as well I bakedthem cakes.”

“In case a visitor should call, remember that Alice is your niece from Melbourne who intends to stay with you a few days,” Bony reminded him. “And if I should disappear, Alice, say nothing and don’t worry.”

Mr. Luton departed to prepare the party, and Bony asked:

“How did you manage to get away so soon? Superintendent Bolt obviously co-operated.”

“Your telegram came just after twelve yesterday, and it took an hour to reach the girl who sent it. The Super was out, and just as well it was my day off duty. He didn’t come to his office till six. When I told him I had had word from you, he said: ‘Shut that door.’ Then he said: ‘Now, let’s have it.’

“I showed him the telegram and then repeated what the girl had said on the phone. The gist of it was that you were in a spot, and wanted me urgently.

“The Super said: ‘In a spot! Well stuck, I’ll say. All hell has spewed because he vanished off that train.’ He thought a bit, then said: ‘Look, Alice, that Bony feller has been prodding a stick into an out-size bull ants’ nest. Boase and his Adelaide boys kicked him out of South Aus. and now his Brisbane bosses are kicking a stink ’coshe didn’t get as far as Melbourne. So he went to Cowdry, did he? And now he’s yelling for help.’

“I said: ‘Pop, he’s not yelling. He’s asking.’ Pop said: ‘You win, he doesn’t yell. Like to go?’ When I told him I was going, with or without leave from the Department, he said: ‘Go on home, Alice, and pack a bag. I’ll work it out.’

“He came to my place about nine last night,” Alice McGorr continued. “I could see he was worried, and he said: ‘Look, Alice, I don’t like the background of this business. I can’t nail anything, although I’ve contacted both Adelaide and Brisbane. Someone’s dropped a shutter and no one’s game enough to raise it. That meansthe someone is mighty powerful. Now this is straight. If you barge in, you might lose your job.’

“I said: ‘I’d be losing only a bobby-pin, Pop, but you might lose a job worth to you about a hundred diamond watches.’ You know how he’d take that, Bony. He said: ‘I have a car outside. Old pal of mine driving. He’ll get you there sometime to-morrow morning. Take a gun in your kip. And an extra hat-pin. It might be tough. I managed to arrange a week’s leave of absence for you. You’re running up to Sydney to tend a sick grandmother, see?’ And here I am, sir.”

Bony nodded, essayed a smile, and left the room to stand facing Mr. Luton’s bullock yoke without seeing it. The strength of the Melbourne Superintendent’s friendship affected him, for it was no mean thing for a policeman in Bolt’s position to put a telescope to a blind eye, such being his faith in another man’s integrity. And it was no mean compliment to Bony of the mixed blood.

Great people! Alice McGorr, the daughter of a safe-breaker; the girl of fourteen who cared for her small brothers and a pair of twins when the father was in gaol and the mother dying in hospital. The then Sergeant Bolt had put the father in gaol, and Sergeant Bolt had taken the family under his wing, and given Alice opportunity to educate herself; had got her into the Department, where she became the best policewoman ever. Off duty, it was ‘Pop’ and ‘Alice’. And just ‘Bony’.