Arthur Upfield - The New Shoe

There had been time for the girl and her rescuer to leave the headland by passing between the government buildings and down the opposite slope where several summer cottages were set within their hedges oflambertinna. As it would be useless to search among the bush and scrub, Bony turned back from the cliff… to see a man standing a dozen yards away and calmly watching him.

He was stockily built. His face was square, and his greying hair was short and straight. He was, obviously, a permanent resident.

“Good day!” Bony said, on advancing to the motionless figure.

The watcher merely nodded.

“Have you seen a young woman and a man within the last fifteen minutes?”

The man shook his head.

“How long have you been up here?” pressedBony.

“Half an hour. Per’apslonger.”

“And you’ve seen no one?”

“No. And if I have, what’s your business with ’em?”

The box-red face was blank, but the grey eyes were hard. Bony’s voice was soft.

“I was down on the beach and thought I saw a man struggling with a young woman. Were you the man?”

“No. I don’t struggle with women. Good day-eeto you, Mister.”

It was Bony’s turn to watch as the man strode to the low crest of the headland, finally disappearing between two clumps of tea-tree. He memorized those bushes, and proceeded to examine the ground.

The surface was grey and comparatively hard, but yet retained the woman’sheelprints. The man’s tracks were less in evidence, but he wore a boot size seven, and they were down at heel. The taciturn man was wearing well-conditioned boots size eight. Bony had automatically noted that.

Thus early, he found himself at a slight disadvantage, for he was here as a visitor on holiday and not as an expert bush tracker. To remain in character, he must decidedly not behave as a tracker, and with casual mien he walked back to the crest and passed between the memorized bushes. Here the ground was softer. Here the ground plainly retained the tracks of boots number eight, and also boots number seven and a woman’s shoe size six. All three persons were proceeding away from the cliff.

Strangers are Suspect

LESS THAN EIGHTY miles from Melbourne, Split Point is situated between the holiday resorts of Anglesea and Lorne. Behind the Point lies the Inlet and back of the Inlet one can be a thousand miles from the city.

During the winter months visitors are rare at SplitPoint, and at the Inlet Hotel Bony learned he was the only guest until the next day, when a Navigation Department man was expected. However, on entering the small bar he found several men who were obviously locals… soft-speaking and reserved. Their conversation ceased on his entry, and eyes examined him with an apparent lack of interest.

The licensee was large, round, bald and beery, an incarnation of the innkeepers of Dickens’ novels. His dark eyes were like those of a kookaburra, his nose a wondrous blob of blue-veined red marble.

“Go down to the beach?” he asked, drawing a glass of beer for Bony.

“Yes, Mr Washfold. A wildafternoon, and cold. Pretty place, though. I’m going to like it.”

“Looks prettier when the sun shines,” returnedWashfold. “Been around a bit myself, and liked no place better. You can haveMelbun, all of itincludin ’ the pubs. A shilling’s my price for that hole any day.”

The licensee shot a glance at the other men, received their tacit approval, and waited for opposition from this guest.

“No one living in those houses down from the Lighthouse?”Bony questioned.

“Don’t think. Summer houses they are. You been up there?”

“Walked up to see the Lighthouse, yes.”

Bony was conscious of the silence, and the licensee moved along the short bar counter to re-fill glasses. Then one man asked another if he had sighted the hardwood boards on order, and yet another admitted he had obtained roof guttering without much trouble. Washfold returned to Bony.

“Haven’t put you down in the Lodgers’ Book yet,” he said. “Taking a longish spell, Mr…er…?”

“The name is Rawlings,” Bony replied. “Yes, I always have a good holiday when I get my wool cheque. The wife goes to Melbourne. I clear out on my own. Good for domestic bliss, you know.”

Washfold’s hairless brows rose a fraction, and for the first time his beady eyes were friendly.

“In sheep, eh! My bit of wool’s being sold next week. Whatd’you reckon? Prices hold up?”

“I think it’s likely,” replied Bony, pushing his glass forward. “Almost sure to now that the reserve stocks in America are low.”

“That’s what I was saying the other day,” agreed the licensee, and Bony felt he was now beginning to be accepted. “Sheep is wool these days, Mr Rawlings. Myclip’ll go into one bale. How many sheep you got?”

“Five thousand,” Bony smiled. “I’ve five thousand sheep and no hotel, and you have a hotel and a few sheep. You’re better off.”

A wide grin overspread the full round face. What the licensee would have said was prevented by the house gong announcing six o’clock and that dinner was ready.

“A drink on the house for the road,” the licensee offered, and seized upon the glasses. The last drink was downed quickly, and the company filed out, Bony through the rear doorway to make for his room.

The solitary diner was waited on by the licensee’s wife. Mrs Washfold was also large and round, but her hair was thick and grey and her eyes were large and brown. She was friendly at once, giving Bony a choice of soup and main dish. Her culinary gifts were quickly established, and her curiosity well controlled.

Bony was glad he hadn’t to make politeconversation, and his mind passed over the scene in the bar and the quiet orderliness of men having a few drinks at the close of a day’s work. Neither they nor the licensee evinced suspicion of him, behaving normally as men in isolated places towards the stranger.

The voice of Superintendent Bolt entered the silent dining room.

“You’ll find the place almost deserted. No holiday people. Few men down there on house building and other contract work. Round about, and at the back of the Inlet, are several farms. Prosperous farms. Wish I could park at that hotel for a fortnight. Do me. Bit of fishing… if you know where to go and when. Goodtucker, and the sea air adds relish to the beer.”

The “tucker” was certainly high above average. When Mrs Washfold had left for her kitchen, the Superintendent’s voice came in: heavy, easy, pleasing.

“You won’t see Split Point as it was on March the First when the nude body was found in the Lighthouse. On that date the place was full of visitors… people staying at their own seaside shacks, renting houses, or merely spending the day. There were twenty-seven people at the only guest house, and fourteen at the only pub. In addition to the visitors, there were the locals.

“I’d say that on March One there were three hundred people within two miles of that Lighthouse, and today there would be a bare fifty. The trail is two months cold, and we can give you nothing to start with. Even now we can’t establish the identity of the dead man. We don’t know whether he was shot inside or outside the Lighthouse. We haven’t been able to find his clothes, and no one will own him although his picture must now be familiar to tens of thousands.

“Theories, of course, we do have. Like the armchair cops, we like to theorize. We think the dead man was a member of a gang down there for a rest, probably living in a rented house, and that a rival smoked him out and plonked him one. Right up your alley, Bony. Busman’s holiday.”

The Official Summary, a skeleton of a thing, was now in his suitcase. As yet he had had no opportunity to go through it and, if Bolt’s assessment was correct, there was nothing much of value in it, anyway. Crafty Bolt! He knew the case Bony could never resist. And he knew, too, the fate destined for Napoleon Bonaparte should he fail to finalize this one which he, with all his experts, all his scientists, could not crack.