Arthur Upfield - The New Shoe

“I’m sure to.”

The plane was taken up and the blade was scrutinized and reset. Dropping the implement on the board was not normal to this craftsman to whom tools were extremely precious. The plane was again put to work, and a moment later a step sounded just beyond the wide door.

Bony turned to see Fred Ayling enter. Old Penwarden put down his plane. Ayling came forward, striding over the shaving-littered floor as though on a mission of dramatic import.

“Good day, Ed!” And to Bony: “Day!”

“Same to you, Fred!” chirped the old man. “Glad to belookin ’ at you.”

“An’ me you, Ed.” Ayling stood firmly balanced on his feet. His heavy brows were low to the dark eyes, and the eyes were small. “Thanks for doing a good job with Dick’s box. His old man was telling me about it. What’s it going to cost? I want to pay for it.”

“Iain’t worked her out yet, Fred. By and by, perhaps. You have much trouble getting across the Slide?”

“You could work out the cost now, couldn’t you?” persisted the axeman. “Dick andme were cobbers. You know that. I want to do something for Dick.”

Penwarden took down his pipe and fingered it. He appeared to ponder, and Ayling gave him half a minute.

“You work out the cost right now, and I’ll square the account.

“Well, I don’t know about that, Fred. You see, I wasthinkin ’ of making her a kind of present to poor Dick, havin ’know’d him since he were a baby, and smacked his bottom and boxed his earsmore’n once forcheekin ’ me.”

Ayling was insistent. His face was grim, and it seemed that the paramount emotion ruling him was anger, not grief.

“I want to pay, and I’m going to pay,” he announced slowly. “He was my cobber, not yours, Ed. You tot it up right now. How much?”

“Ha, well! I suppose if you want to you want to.” The old man returned the pipe to the shelf and put on a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. From a wall nail he lifted down a child’s school slate, cleaned it with spit and rag, and proceeded to draw figures. Ayling remained motionless, keeping his gaze directed to the coffin maker. The silence was oppressive.

“Here shebe, Fred,” came the old man’s soft voice. “Material and labour brings her up to twenty-five pound and ten shillings.”

Ayling produced a wallet, and counted the money in notes upon the bench, and it was so quiet that Bony heard the rustle of the paper.

“Send us a receipt sometime, Ed,” Ayling said, stepping backwards from the bench until Penwarden and Bony were to his front. His eyes were again small, and his voice clipped when he spoke to Bony.

“Funny thing you happened to be down at the beach that morning to find Dick dead and all broken up.”

“Chance,” Bony said. “The sea was raging that morning and I wanted to look at it. What is peculiar about my being there?”

“That all you found… the body?”

“Should I have found anything beside the body?”

“Don’t know. You wouldn’t be putting anything over?”

“I don’t understand you,” Bony countered.

“And I don’t understand you, Mister Rawlings. I may… one day. One day I may get to know why you’re nosing around down here… walking the roads after dark, asking questions about things and people what don’t concern any visitor. There’s some…”

“That’ll be enough from you, Fred, my boy,” interposed the old man. “You clear off and think things over, and give yourself a chance to calm down. Poor Dick’sdeath don’t only affect you, you know. He was your cobber, as you say. And he was my friend, same as you and Mr Rawlings. I’ll have no ill words said in my workshop.”

Without countering that firmly-spoken declaration, Fred Ayling strode to the door and passed from sight, and again the old man took down his pipe and stood merely fingering it. It became obvious that he waited for Ayling to withdraw from earshot.

“That’s Fred,” presently he said. “That’s Fred as he allus was. Goodfeller, and straight. Hot-tempered, generous, patient, true. Him and Dick were allus good cobbers. Don’t be put out, Mr Rawlings, sir. Fred’ll be good again tomorrow.”

“Without doubt,” agreed Bony. “Naturally he’s very upset, and probably made more so having been unable to be at the funeral. It was good of you to concede him the privilege of paying for the casket.”

“ ’Tain’tnuthin’.” The old man struck a match and lit his pipe to his satisfaction before adding: “When yougets old you learns wisdom how to deal with others.” A smile crept into the bright blue eyes. “I’ve learned when to give away, and how much. Don’t you saynuthin ’ to no one, Mr Rawlings, sir, but that coffin Dick Lake’ssleepin ’ in is worth a hundred pounds of anyone’s money.”

Dead Man’s Tracks

THERE WAS NEITHER a break in the leaden sky, nor a mark on the leaden sea, save where it surged against the claws of Split Point. The air was still and cold.

Amid the tea-tree on the headland was a bower overlooking the ocean, and there Bony sat on a magazine, and Stug uneasily squatted at his side. Together they had been tramping about the cliffs, and the dog had chased rabbits that had tossed their heels and defied him. Both man and dog had collected many burrs.

The problem occupying Bony’s mind was whether the time was come to declarehimself and question in an official capacity. Earlier this day he had driven to Lorne, where he had spoken with the Superintendent by telephone, and had learned that Waghorn had not been seen by Sydney’s underworld for many weeks, and that he had not been picked up by the police in any capital city.

Failure to find Waghorn irritated Bolt, and gave Bony satisfaction by strengthening conviction that Eldred Wessex had come to Split Point prior to the discovery of the body in the Lighthouse.

Moss Way had said that Lake went to Geelong to meet Eldred off the train, and had returned without him. Old Penwarden had inadvertently let slip the half-statement that Eldred had come home “that dark night”. The night of February 28th-March 1st was a dark night. The slip had confused the old man, of that there was no doubt.

“Yes, yes, Stug! Relax,” Bony urged the dog. “Leave my sock alone.”

What kind of a man was he who breakfasted with Jean Stebbings on the morning of her birthday, then walked out of the flat and never returned? Why, the latest edition of the youth who tried to work for Penwarden, attempted to help his father, dallied awhile at the Ford Motor Works, and elsewhere. He was impetuous, rash, restless, a liar, conceited, able to put forward a pseudo-charm, ruthless and cold and imaginative. He conformed to a type as easily recognizable as that of Dick Lake.

“I shall have to tackle Moss Way with greater determination,” Bony said to the dog, and Stug continued to worry a sock and with teeth bared delicately detached from the wool one of several burrs. “I must find out if Lake mentioned another man he expected to accompany Eldred Wessex. Perhaps, in view of all the circumstances Baker did accompany Eldred, and Dick Lake did meet them at the station and drive them to Split Point. Oh well, Stug! As Penwarden would say: ‘Good for good’. I now see that you want me to relieve you of a few uncomfortable burrs in exchange for the service youare doing me.”

Pulling burrs from the dog’s hair produced plain gratitude that the uneasiness had at last been understood, and Stug determinedly proceeded to bite away the remaining burrs clinging to socks and trouser cuffs.

“I don’t think you know Eldred Wessex,” Bony said. “Could have done, of course, for you must be ten years old. So what, Stug? Dick Lake must have gone to Geelong on February 27th or 28th and met Eldred, who either flew down to Melbourne or caught the night express. From Melbourne to Geelong by train would be only a little more than an hour. I can see Lake meeting his pal. But I cannot see how Baker entered the picture where he remained as a naked corpse.