Arthur Upfield - The New Shoe

“And I,” added the other, giving that slow smile, “I’d go with you and hold your feet up. For a thousand quid I’d do anything. Luck!”

They drank. Bony would have “shouted” again but for the quiet air of independence of these men, the taller of whom asked:

“Didn’t see a body in that locker, I suppose?”

“No,” Bony answered. “I went up to see the Light. In its way a beautiful setting. I read about the murder, of course, but I was much more interested in the Lighthouse.”

“That murder was a funny business,” stated the tall man, and his companion looked at him, smiling as though waiting for a joke. “Neat, that’s what it was. I must say I like a good murder.”

Thesmile on the face of his mate broadened, seemingly created more by affection than humour. Mrs Washfold’s voice was acid.

“I don’t, Moss, and I’m sure Mr Rawlingsdon’t, either.”

“It’s certainly remarkable that no one can identify the victim,” Bony said, soothingly. “He must have been a casual visitor. A local man would have been missed.”

“Yair,” the short man agreed, and to Mrs Washfold: “Eric told me thathim and all the other drivers was taken up to Mel-bun to have a deck at the corpse. None of ’emcould remember seeing the bloke on their run.”

“Eric! Who’s he?” casually asked Bony.

“Drives one of the buses between Lorne and Geelong.”

“You must have been busy at that time, Mrs Washfold,” Bony said, and the woman in black thrust out her chin.

“Fourteen guests and half a dozen or more detectives. The Chief of the CIB was one, and Inspector Snook another. Didn’t have no time for the Inspector, but the Superintendent was a real gent. Theymusta been disappointed at getting nowhere.”

“Aw, don’t be too sure they’re getting nowhere,” objected the tall man. “They don’t let out all they know, and they never let up, neither. Remember the Pyjama Girl case. Went on for years, and then a cop.”

“Yes, and then what?” snapped Mrs Washfold. “Found him guilty and gave him a year or two in gaol, and then worked him out of the country and back to his own. Paid his fare, too.”

The rear door opened and the licensee appeared. He paused to take in the empty glasses, forgotten by the absorbed Mrs Washfold and the men interested in her words. When he joined his wife, there wasn’t turning room behind the counter.

“Dry argument,” he snorted. “What are wewaitin ’ for?” Pouncing on the glasses, he filled them.

“I wassayin ’,”remarked the tall man, “that thepolice’ll get the bloke what done this Lighthouse murder…tomorrer, the next day, sometime. Betcher.”

“Zac,” offered his mate, and smiled at Bony. “What’s the worry, any’ow. ”

“Betchera quid, the police finds the murderer,”persisted the other.

“A fiver,” raised the short man, and dragged a roll from his hip pocket.

“A fiver! All right, a fiver,” agreed the other, and also produced a roll.

“Cobbers’ agreement,” said the short man, and shoved the roll back into his pocket.

“Cobbers’ agreement it is,” said the tall man, doing likewise.

Washfold leaned over the counter towards Bony:

“Plenty of money, eh?” he remarked loudly.“The downtrodden working men. The capitalist-starved working men. And you and me, Mr Rawlings, has to slave our hearts out to support big, loafin ’, hungry wives what’ll let the dinner spoil sooner than tend to it. All right, Dick Lake, you can shout. And then, Moss, you next.”

“Suits me,” replied the short man, again smiling. The old felt hat was perched at the back of his fair head, and the smile had become a fixture. Mrs Washfold edged herself through the counter flap to reach the rear door, and Dick Lake caught her arm, saying: “Stay here with us, and we’ll make the old man sweat pulling the beer. Bet I can drink more beer than you.”

“I’m nottakin ’ you on, Dick Lake,” replied the woman, both pleasure and indignation in her voice.

“Aw, have a heart, Mrs Washfold. Be a sport. About a couple more and I’ll be flat out.”

“I’ll have one drink with you boys, and no more. I’ve the dinner to serve up.”

“Worst pub I ever been in. No friendliness. No sport. Make it a long one, Bert.”

The other man, addressed as Moss Way, joined Bony.

“Didn’t you look into that locker?” he asked, hopefully.

“Well, the engineer did show it to me,” conceded Bony. “But I really didn’t want to look into it, you know.”

“Cripes, you lost a chance. Hey, Dick. What’s that locker like? You worked with the Repair Gang when theywas down before Christmas. Howbig’s it?”

Lake turned from talking to Mrs Washfold.

“Just a hole in the ruddy wall. Bit above the firstlandin ’. There was a winder, and they used to put the danger lamp there. The foreman cemented the winder and fixed a door to make her a cupboard for spare parts.”

“How big?” pressed the tall man.

“Four be four be four. Big enough to take a naked man, anyhow.”

“You were in the Navigation Department?” remarked Bony.

“Me? Never. I wastook on as a casual hand when the Gang was here. Good job. Good wages. Funny thing was that I got six andtenpence a weekmore’n the tradesmen, and they had to do all the high climbing. They reckon a wharf labourer gets more than a university professor, and they’re about right.”

“Any other casuals beside you?”

“Nope. Only me. I’m enough. Youstayin ’ here for a spell?”

“Staying here for several weeks,” interjected Mrs Washfold.

“What we’re not doing,” declared the tall man, and the short one smiled at Bony, and at Mrs Washfold, and suffered himself to be led out to the truck.

Mrs Washfold slipped away to the kitchen. Her husband proceeded to tell Bony that Dick Lake and Moss Waywere a couple of characters and were partners in a wood-carting-general-carrier business. Bony listened with one ear. No mention was made in the Summary of any casual hand employed in the Repair Gang.

Fisher appeared with three of the house builders, and there was time for a round of drinks before Mrs Washfold beat the dinner gong and her husband shouted: “Six o’clock, gents!”

At dinner, Bony told Fisher he could return to Melbourne, leaving the keys of the Lighthouse with him.

Caskets on Offer

AT THE CLOSE of his first week at Split Point, Bonywas liking the place with the quiet satisfaction of the man who prefers a seascape to a surrealist nightmare, Dickens to Superman. In Melbourne, Superintendent Bolt wondered how he was making out, and away up in Brisbane the Queensland Chief Commissioner, Colonel Spender, was demanding to know-one, what the hell did that damned Bonaparte think he was doing by mooning around Victoria and, two, why the hell did he ever agree to the seconding of his pet officer to another State.

Bony was unconscious of Time and the necessity of Results. He sat on a bench and watched old Penwarden working with cheap wood on coffins to be sent to undertakers in Melbourne. It seemed certain that the old man would live and be active for another thirty years and that Bony himself was destined to reach the century. These two ignored Time. Ever had they refused to be bustled, to be annoyed by Authority, to be daunted byLife. Bony found affinity with Penwarden, who had lived from one age into another, and refused to permit the last to erase the influences of the first.

At his third visit to the old wheelwright-cum-coffinmaker, Bony asked permission to look again upon the casket built for Mrs Tom Owen, and, permission being granted, he retired to the small annexe and lifted the cloth and stood enraptured by the loveliness of man’s handicraft. When the old man joined him, he had raised the cover and was standing a little back from it to observe how the light appeared to penetrate deep below the surface, and quietly the old man said: