Arthur Upfield - The Mountains have a Secret

Bony leaned forward, saying:

“Who else have you asked to find O’Brien?”

That gave the old man a shock. The thin, warped hands clasped and unclasped. The expression in the watery blue eyes became cunning, and the answer in the negative was forceful.

“Did O’Brien do any prospecting about here?” Bony persisted.

“Yes, sometimes.”

“I suppose he used to cart in the firewood?”

“Course. That’s the yardman’s job. What’s firewood got to do withprospectin ’?”

“Did he use the horse and dray for prospecting?”

“No, nor did he useairyplanes. He had two good legs, didn’t he?”

“How far would he go out for firewood? Two miles?”

“Nuthin’ like it. There’s enough good wood within half a mile of the place.” The voice became petulant. “Youtryin ’ to lead me around?”

Bony nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m wondering why you are so anxious to find out what happened to Ted O’Brien.”

“I told you. Me and Ted were friends. Jim hadn’t no right to sack him just because he got into the spirit store.”

“Where there was a body all cold and stiff, eh?”

The old man tittered, gasped, and glared at the laughing Bonaparte. Bony stood up and stretched and yawned; then, gazing down upon the wreck, he said softly:

“Would you like a little drink tonight?”

“Would a man dying of thirst like snow water? You-you bring me in a little nip tonight, eh?”

“I might.”

The sunken mouth writhed and a shaking hand was lifted to still the tremor. Bony studied the watering eyes, observed the struggle going on. Desire, cupidity, mental instability seemed enthroned at the one time. Old Simpson was far from satisfied that the old yardman had actually left the hotel, and he had stated his unbelief in the excuse put forward for the man’s discharge.

“You keep a secret?” Bony asked.

“I’m full of secrets,” was the reply.

“All right. I’ll let you in on a secret later tonight. What time does your son usually return home from Baden Park?”

“About-any time between three in the morning and daybreak.”

“I’ll come in and have a chat with you about midnight.”

“You’ll fetch a nip?”

Nodding, Bony left the old man to stand for a moment or two before the bird’s cage and then to saunter down the steps and cross to the bridge spanning the little creek. The Buick was parked outside the garage. The sun was setting, and the face of the mountain was like the face of an Eastern woman-partially hidden by the yashmak of purple silk.

Abruptly the wanderlust was upon him. He wondered what lay beyond the mountain, and through him swept the urge to climb it and look. Without doubt, beyond the mountain would lie another valley, and beyond that another mountain range, poised, restrained from crashing forward; but up there upon the crest he would stand in colour, be bathed by it, gaze into the flaming sunset, and have nothing of desire save wings with which to fly into greater freedom.

Down in the hotel clearing, standing on the bridge and listening to the water music and the whispering voice of the sleepy birds, he felt as adungeoned prisoner must feel on gazing upward through the wall slit at the open sky. He was not happy, for the week had been filled with frustrations. Then he remembered the ruby-red brilliant and the tracks of the hotel dray which made a record for two miles through the scrub to a huge pile of rock rubble fallen from the mountain face.

When the dusk was deep Jim Simpson issued from the side door of the hotel and slid backward into the driving seat of his car. He drove away past the building, past the paddock at its rear, along the track skirting the creek, and onward to Baden Park Station. The engine purr dwindled to become the song of a drowsy bee, and when the bee alighted Bony knew that the machine was halted before the locked gates on what Simpson had said was Baden Park boundary.

With his ears he could trace the progress of the car up the incline beyond the gates. So quiet and soft was the falling night, despite all the aids to subdue its sound, the humming of the “bee” continued to pour inward from the outer silence. He heard Simpson change to second gear, and then he saw the car’s headlights, a golden sword pointing to the evening star, wavering, swerving to the left, and illuminating a cliff of granite. A moment later he watched a mountain gorge open to receive the sword into its heart and the car into its iron embrace.

Someone switched on the veranda light, and Bony left the bridge and sauntered past the garage to see the yardman standing between it and the hotel, standing on the track taken by the Buick and listening as Bony had been doing. In its ill-fitting clothes, the figure appeared like a fire-blackened tree-stump, for Shannon did not move as Bony went on to the veranda, walking silently as only his progenitors knew how to move.

“Been out for a walk?” asked Ferris Simpson, who was seated beside her father.

“Oh, just over to the bridge,” Bony replied. “I’ve been watching the sunset colours on the mountain. I think I’ll do a little exploring tomorrow. You know, find a way to the top. I could go by the road, only the gates are kept locked.”

“Don’t you go into Baden Park country,” ordered old Simpson. “They don’t like trespassers. Too many valuable sheep over there. You stay this side of them gates. And don’t you go climbing that mountain, either. Bits of it is liable to come away any time.”

The girl vented a peculiarly nervous laugh. Her face was in shadow, and when she stood up it was still so.

“Please don’t attempt to climb up, Mr. Parkes,” she said. “As Father says, it’s very dangerous. And-and we don’t want any more trouble.”

“Trouble, Miss Simpson?”

“Yes, trouble,” snorted the old man. “What with people getting bushed and others getting shot to death and others going away without saying a howd’y’do to anyone, we’ve had enough trouble without you breaking your neck climbing that ruddy mountain.”

“Father! Don’t speak to Mr. Parkes like that!” exclaimed the girl.

“I’ll speak to him how I like and when I like.”

“You’ll go to bed, that’s what you’ll do. Just see what comes of letting you stay up too late. Don’t you take any notice of him, Mr. Parkes.”

“Go climbing mountains!” shouted the old man. “So you’d push me off to bed, would you, me girl? Well, you just wait. You wait till I’m dead. Then you’ll see.” He was whirled away along the veranda and round the corner, shouting and threatening, and Bony sank into a chair and wanted to chuckle, for only he had observed the red eyelid close in a wink.

Questions in the Dark

IT was midnight when Bony, wearing pyjamas and dressing-gown, slid over the sill of his bedroom window. The night was soft and silent. His feet bare, he stole along the veranda and round the house corner to thefrench windows of old Simpson’s room. This was situated on the side of the house opposite the bar and the garage beyond it, but Bony was confident that even there he would be able to hear the Buick returning. Thefrench windows were wide and, when inside the room, he switched on his flashlight to make sure that the furniture had not been moved since that night he had given the old man his sleeping-tablet.

There was a table beside the three-quarter bed, and Bony sat on the floor so that one leg of it should be a back-rest. Beyond the foot of the bed the windows presented an oblong of steel grey, the door being on the far side of the bed. Fingertips touched his head, and on the bed there was movement. Then old Simpson said:

“Did you bring a drink along with you?”