Arthur Upfield - Murder Must Wait

She didn’t see Bony descend on the far side of the trunk, didn’t hear him until he called to her, and she found him smoothing the sand within the cavern, first with his hands and then by flicking his handkerchief. For the second time she verged on giggling, and again she was furious, this time made so by the thought that he was smoothing the sand so that Essen would never know they had been in there.

When nearing the southern hem of the depression, she looked back, seeing the tree as an aged giant not to be defied, a living monument erected when the world was young, and as they passed up the slope to gain the rose-red plain, she was sorry for it in its immense and terrible solitude.

The sun was dipping into an opaque haze above the horizon and three minutes later, when she looked again, its gold was tarnished. Sand dunes were crimson on the floor of grey saltbush, shadows beneath old-man saltbush were now purpling, and the shadows of the passing trees were purple splashes, too. The wind dried easily, gladly, and the sky beyond Bony was as bluely grey as oily smoke.

“Wind tomorrow,” predicted Bony.

Alice smiled, restful and content. A ’roo raced the car, small and brown with a white apron, a tiny patch of brown on the apron, and when the brown patch moved she saw the head of the baby outside the mother’s pouch. The ’roo swung away, and wherever its bounding feet touched the earth there arose scarlet puff-balls.

“Like a silver bow new bent in heaven,” quoted Bony, and Alice looked again at the sun, saw a slim crescent above it and said happily:

“The maiden moon in her mantle of… of rubies.”

The sun went down as they dipped into the green belt about Mitford, and abruptly the world darkened and all the glory of the uplands was only a picture in imperfect memory. Alice roused herself, sitting upright, bracing herself to return to the mundane world and keenly regretful that this day was ending.

“It’s been wonderful,” she told Bony. “I never dreamed the real Australia could be so lovely.” A flock of galahs wheeled above them, softly conversing, and the last rays of the sun were filtered to paint them with rainbow colours.

The dust of a car in front hung like smoke on a frosty evening, and thus they returned to Mitford. It was darkening fast as Bony swung into Main Street. It was time to switch on the lights when he turned to enter the Police Station yard.

Essen came from the Station office by the back door, reached Bony’s side as the engine was cut. He said, as though giving evidence:

“At about four-twenty-five this afternoon, sir, Mr Bulford committed suicide in the manager’s office at the Olympic Bank.”

Frantic Ants

BONYSATat the Sergeant’s desk, hands resting on blue papers, tapping fingers betraying his mood. With him were Alice McGorr and Essen.

“Everyone satisfied it was suicide?” he asked, when they were wondering why the silence.

“The bank was closed for the day, and the teller and the accounts officer were working late. Within three seconds of the shot they were in Bulford’s office. He was sprawled over his desk, the office revolver between his right hand and his head. He had cleared his desk of all papers as though knowing they would be ruined by his blood. The rear door of the bank chamber was ajar; the side door was locked.” Essen paused, to add with emphasis: “Suicide all right.”

The long dark-skinned fingers continued their slow tapping on the blue documents, and presently Alice said impatiently:

“Did you expect it, Bony?”

She was examined by blue eyes unusually blue, steady, cold, inscrutable. Memory of him that afternoon created regret for having spoken and she was glad that the fingers ceased their tapping to become busy with a cigarette.

“Yes, I did think suicide might be the road Mr Bulford would choose,” he admitted. “There was another road open to him which could have led him to the foot of the rainbow. We discussed that road. You see, Alice, Mr Bulford was unfortunately weak, but he had three shining attributes: honesty, loyalty and veneration. I am risking contradiction by events, yet believe my assessment is correct. Essen, where is Yoti?”

“Still at the bank when I left twenty minutes ago.”

“Contact him. Ask him to ascertain from the bank staff if either of the Cyril Martins interviewed Bulford today.”

“Either! But the young feller…”

“Is in Mitford.”

Essen stared, frowned, withdrew to the telephone on the wall of the outer office. Bony lit his cigarette, and Alice forgave his inattention to her. She heard Essen speaking, wanted to ask questions and instead obtained a cigarette from her handbag. When Essen returned, he was still frowning.

“The Sergeant says that young Cyril Martin interviewed Bulford shortly after two this afternoon.”

“H’m! I could be wrong in my assessment,” reflected Bony. “I don’t think so. I want to know when young Cyril Martin came to Mitford, and especially if he was in Mitford about the time Mrs Rockcliff was murdered. He must not be aware of the enquiry, and that is of extreme importance.”

“I’ll get going right away.”

“Wait. Have dinner first. Both of you go along now. And do please keep in mind that our baby investigation continues to take priority. Return after dinner. I’ve work for you both.”

He accompanied them to the outer office, and on looking back from the main doorway Alice saw him at the telephone.

Bony heard Essen’s car leave the yard before hearing the voice of Mr Beamer.

“Ah, Mr Beamer! Inspector Bonaparte! Have your people returned from walkabout?”

“Oh no, not yet, Inspector. They won’t come back for several days at least.”

“Sudden, wasn’t it? The Sergeant said something about them being afraid of a Kurdaitcha, or something equally silly.”

“Yes. I don’t believe it, of course. As Sergeant Yoti suggested later, it must have been one ofthemselves out for a joke. Making all those drawings on the ground and what not.”

“Seems obvious, Padre. The Chief didn’t go on walk-about?”

“No. Neither did his son, Fred, and half a dozen others. The hospital lubras wanted to clear out, but Chief Wilmot ordered them to remain as there are several patients as well as Marcus Clark. Now my wife has to keep them pacified, too.”

“When did they go on walkabout last time?” Bony asked.

“Oh, let me think. Not long ago. About a month.”

“And the time before that, d’youremember?”

Mr Beamer chuckled.

“I do. We were all set ready to be visited by the Premier, and they all cleared out the day before, that is, all except about a dozen. The Premier had to inspect an almost deserted Settlement.”

“You must find life amusing as well as crowded, Mr Beamer. Anyway, Mrs Beamer and you will be able to take it easy for a while.”

“I wish we could, Inspector,” ruefully replied the Superintendent. “There’s no chance of that; we’re always behind with our work. Er… it’s dreadful news about Mr Bulford.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve only just heard about it.”

“He must have been frightfully grieved about the baby. We liked him so much, my wife andI. We bank at the Olympic, you see, and came to know him really well.”

“I rather liked him, too,” Bony said. “He must have broken under the strain. Well… Thanks a lot, Mr Beamer. I’ll run out again to see you some time.”

“Yes, do.”

Bony rang off, and paused before the duty constable, who stood.

“When did you come on?”

“Four, sir.”

“D’youkeepa record of inward calls?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bony checked the sheet pinned to a board and bearing that day’s date. The Olympic Bank had called at 4.29 pm. Yoti at 4.41. Dr Nott at 4.44. The next call was made by Dr Nott at 5.14.”