Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

“Sometimes he gets a neck-ache tipping bottles,” Alice now assisted. “Still, I’ll be knocked flat if you ever reach his age. You needn’t worry about uncle, and when he’s sick I’ll send for you fast enough. He’s in bed this afternoon. Got a cold. I sent him there, and there he stays. From what he’s been telling me, it’s time I turned up. What with people, pounding on his door at all hours, and others threatening to put him in an old men’s home. Drive anyone screwy. I’d like to hear anyone threaten to put me in an old men’s home!’ Alice’s voice became shrill. “So you live in that great stable of a place on the hill! Well, stay there, and don’t come poking your nose into other people’s affairs.”

“My dear young lady…” protested Maltby. But it wasn’t any use. She shrilled him to silence, and slammed the door in his face.

Seated at the table with Bony in the living-room, Mr. Luton was startled, until he recalled that Bony had directed Alice to ‘receive’ Dr. Maltby when he had seen him leave the car. Alice came in from the front room, smiled at Bony’s expression of approval, and sat with them. Mr. Luton was asked to step outside to ascertain if the doctor was making for town.

Mr. Luton’s hearing wasn’t defective. He heard the car crossing the bridge.

“The next caller could be the policeman or the doctor’s wife,” Bony said, adding gravely: “The latter will extend you, Alice.”

“Think so?” she challenged, smiling at him, and making them both oblivious of her chin. “What are they really after?”

“Ben Wickham’s will and Ben Wickham’s weather secrets. Their immediate interest undoubtedly will be you. I am overwhelmed by the manner in which you repulsed Dr. Maltby.”

“Want me todefongerate anyone else?”

“Er… yes. And with the hard pedal this time on the rights supposedly remaining to the ordinary citizen from Magna Charta. Should Mrs. Maltby come, you will have to out-talk her, and you could suggest that no one is going to cremate your uncle to get away with any nasty work.”

“What if the parson comes?” musingly asked Mr. Luton.

“Alice could deal with the Reverend Weston,” replied Bony, “on the lines that she doesn’t require any assistance from him in the reclamation of a drunken sot.” The light in Bony’s eyes blotted out any intended offence, even had Mr. Luton not understood that these counters were applicable only to each of those persons who had troubled him.

The man who called was neither the parson nor the doctor. Only the dogs gave warning, for he came on foot, and shouted from the outside of the picket fence. From between the hem of the lowered blind and the sill of the window, Bony surveyed him. He had not before seen this character. He was short, and dapper in appearance. He sported a thin dark moustache, and he carried a small suitcase.

Alice went out to the veranda and asked what he wanted, in words meaning the same. The man said he had soaps, lotions, and things for sale. She asked him who he travelled for, and he mentioned a well-known firm. The dogs growled and barked, and Alice raised her voice to a scream, demanding to know where he had come from, how long had he been working for his firm, and so on, until the man was clinging to the fence as though his body was drained of strength. Unable to gain ground, he departed, leaving Bony undecided about him.

The policeman came about four. He had in his car a small terrier that at once infuriated Mr. Luton’s dogs. He was, to use a colloquialism, ‘right up Alice’s alley’. When she opened the door to him, he stepped back at sight of her ruffled hair, the flour on her nose and arms, and the glint in her eyes. As usual he was in civilian clothes. His opening revealed contact with Doctor Maltby.

“Day-ee, Miss. I’m Senior Constable Gibley. Mr. Luton in?”

“Well, he is, and he isn’t. What’s he done now?” Alice asked, with delightfully assumed concern.

“He hasn’t done anything, so far, miss. Who might you be?”

“That’s telling. Any reason for knowing?”

“Well, could be. Me and Luton’s known each other some time. Him living alone, I call in now and then to see how he’s shaping.”

“You do, do you!” snapped Alice. “So that’s why he’s been getting a bad name. The policeman always on his doorstep, they say. Questioning him about robberies and hold-ups, and things. Serving summonses on him for alimony and such. Well, I don’t like it, Constable.”

“So you don’t like it! Who are you, if you don’t mind me asking, miss?” lunged Gibley with sarcasm.

“I’m his niece, and the name’s McGorr. And I’m not telling me age or giving you me fingerprints.” Up rose the voice. “And I may as well tell you now as later that I’ve come to this outlandish place for two things, see? To keep me uncle off the sherry and to keep you from dragging thefambly name in the mud. I know all about you and them who’d send him to a home or something. And if you want to barge in here, show us the search warrant, and if youain’t got a search warrant, get going.”

“Now look here, miss…” Gibley started.

“I’m not lookingnowhere I can’t see,” she shouted at him. “And I’d like to see you try to drag me to the lock-up. Go on, have a go if you think you can use yourself. No? Right! Then what did you come for?”

Gibley was furious, and somewhat daunted.

“All I come for was to ask after Mr. Luton,” he replied with exaggerated courtesy.

“And all I been telling you is that uncle is not stinko, is going to stay that way, and he won’t be going to any old men’s home. And I’m kept busy feeding him. Anything else you want to know?”

“Yair. I want to see Mr. Luton.”

“Not a hope. He’s abed with a bit of a cold, and I’ve hid his clothes.”

Senior Constable Gibley shrugged with desperation and strode to the gate. He appeared ringed by dogs, and he drove away with his terrier yapping defiance of the larger dogs, who kept beside the car all the way to the bridge.

And Mr. Luton was roaring with laughter in the room behind Alice, and the smiling Bony standing with him. Abruptly their laughter was stilled. Someone was knocking at the back door.

Bony nodded to Alice. She passed to the living-room, Mr. Luton at her heels and Bony remaining in the sitting-room, behind the fractionally closed door. Mr. Luton crossed to his bedroom, Alice waiting to see him enter it before she opened the kitchen door.

Bony saw her stiffen a moment before she backed rigidly into the room, and then appeared an automatic, followed by the arm of the hand which held it, then the little man with the dark moustache.

The intruder dropped his suitcase to the floor, but not for an instant did his eyes leave Alice, or his automatic waver. At close distance, there was nothing hesitant about him. Reaching behind, he pushed the door shut.

“Move away,” he ordered.“Back! Now stop. So! Luton is where?”

“In bed,” replied Alice, stiff as a board, but poised on her toes. Mr. Luton made no move, and Bony was thankful that the old man had sense enough to realise that to make a move would certainly discharge the automatic at Alice.

“The policeman coming and going suited me most well,” the man said in the precise way which reminded Bony a little of Dr. Linke.“Luton! Come from your room, your hands up.”

Bony’s case was in Mr. Luton’s room. His automatic was in the case, and he didn’t blame himself for this situation. Now that Mr. Luton was being cautious, he had no fear for Alice McGorr. Only a slight unease for the gunman.

Mr. Luton did not appear. Alice began to sway on her toes, her head to jerk. Her knees were giving way, and suddenly she slumped to the floor.