Arthur Upfield - The Mountains have a Secret

“I said I would,” Bony replied. “Don’t speak so loudly.”

“It’s all right. Ferris and the old woman sleep back of the house. Never mind if I want anything. Give the old bloke a pill that’ll put him to sleep and keep him quiet. He-he! I wouldn’t haveswallered that pill tonight for anything. Why, I might have been doped when you came. What you bring, eh?”

“Whisky. Like a spot?”

The fingers touched Bony’s hair, clenched, tugged. Bony removed the hand, shifted position, caught the hand again, and put into it the small glass. Simpson gulped, sighed, lowered the glass.

“Fill ’erup,” he whispered imploringly.

“Don’t be greedy,” Bony told him. “I’ve only the one glass. You’ll have your share, don’t worry. You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Well, you’re not the Prime Minister.”

“No-I’m not the P.M.-yet.”

“You never know. There’s been less likely-looking men than you. But you look out. There’s hard doers to be met with up in these mountains. There was a detective staying here some time back and he met some of ’emover by Hall’s Gap, and they done him in.”

“Who are they?”

“Who? How the hell do I know? Hall’s Gap is twenty-five miles from here. Did you come here for anything special?”

“To find Ted O’Brien. I’m his nephew.”

The old man did not speak for fully half a minute. Then he said:

“Ted’s nephew, eh! From Hamilton! So Ted never went away to see his sister?”

“Not so far. I thought I’d try and track him up, and so decided I would start at the beginning, start right here. You’re a little doubtful about him, aren’t you? When he was sacked, how much money would he have?”

The question required time to answer.

“Wouldn’t know for sure,” came the reply. “About a hundred and fifty quid, I suppose. Ted never spent much. He never went to Dunkeld. Told me he was tipped pretty good, too. He might of hadmore’n a hundred and fifty.”

“Who would be likely to rob him?”

“Rob him!” snorted the invalid. “No one here would rob him. Jim’s got plenty of money. He wouldn’t rob old Ted O’Brien.”

“Then why was my uncle killed?” demanded Bony, and when the old man spoke there was a nervous tremor in his voice.

“I think ’coshe got to know too much. I- What are you giving me? You make me say things what’s not in my mind. You-”

“Cut the cackle,” Bony said roughly. “Ted O’Brien’s my uncle and your old cobber, remember. When he was put off, or just before he was put off, were there any hard doers staying here or drinking here?”

“No.”

“What time of day was it when you saw him for the last time?”

“When he put me to bed that night.”

“He put you to bed!”

“Yes. The old woman and Ferris were having a bit of a spell down at Port Fairy, and Jim had gone over to Baden Park. Seems like that after having put me to bed, Ted went into the spirit store and got himself drunk. Jim found him on the floor the next morning and sobered him and then sacked him. Ted went away without coming in to say good-bye.”

“And when did Mrs. Simpson and Ferris return home?”

“Some time later. Two days. It might have been three. I don’t recall.”

“There was no one else here, no one doing the cooking?”

“No. Jim’s a good cook. There wasn’t no need of a cook.”

“Then what makes you think that something happened to my uncle?”

“ ’Cos he never came to say good-bye afore he left. What about a drink?”

“What makes you think that something happened to my uncle?” repeated Bony.

“I told you.” The voice broke. “Here’s mealying here for hours in the dark waiting for you, and now you won’t give me a taste. No one cares about me. I’m a lump of wood to be dragged up and pushed around and shoved into bed. But time’s a-coming. You wait. You wait till after I’m dead, and then you’ll see. They don’t know where me will is put. They don’t know that.”

Bony let him run down and then passed him a couple of swallows.

“D’youknow what I think about that uncle of mine?” he suggested, and when asked what, he went on: “I have the idea that my uncle found out something concerning those two young women who were lost near here. Did he tell you anything?”

“He said he didn’t believe they were bushed. That’s all.”

“He never told you why he didn’t believe they were bushed?”

“No, he never said. But he knew something about ’em.” The trembling hand in the dark came to touch Bony’s hair, clutch it. “Perhaps that’s why Ted went away and never come in to say good-bye. It might be that. I been thinking other things, but it might be that.”

Bony gently removed the fingers from his hair and eased his position on the floor.

“You remember the detective who stayed here? Did he talk to you much?”

“No. They wouldn’t let him. You just wait till after I’m-”

“How did they prevent him talking to you?”

“Kept me off the front veranda, like they always do when there’s a few guests,” replied the old man. “We had a chip a coupler times, that’s all. Price, his name was. He done a lot ofridin ’ around, but he never found anything. Them women were taken all right. After they left here they altered their minds about going to Lake George, I reckon. There’s a turn-off about a mile this side of Lake George. Runs away to the west. Could have taken it and met some hard doers with a truck.”

“Then how would Ted O’Brien find out about them-all that way from here?” countered Bony.

“How? I don’t know. Ted, he found out something. Told me he had.”

“Did you tell Price about Ted telling you that?”

“Never had the chance. Wouldn’t of if I had. Don’t want no ruddy policemen messing about here. Been a respectable hotel ever since the present Benson’s father got me the licence.”

“Did you mention the matter to your wife, or to Jim, that my uncle reckoned he’d found out something about those young women?”

“No fear,” came the swift reply. “I never tell them anything. They don’t ever tell me anything. They think I’m a lump of wood, but you wait. How’s the bottle?”

“That terrier doesn’t bark much at night, does he?”

“No. Only if a fox ishuntin ’ near the hen-houses.”

“Must be a fox about tonight. Jim often go to Baden Park?”

“Now and then. Been friends with Carl Benson since they was boys.”

“Why are those gates kept locked all the time?” Bony pressed, and when the old man asked what gates he referred to, he went on: “Those gates at the foot of the range-between the range and the creek.”

“That’s Baden Park boundary,” answered the old man. “How’s the bottle?”

“Might be the boundary-line, but the gates do not serve to keep anything in or keep anything out.”

“Don’t they, though,” chuckled the old man. “They keep curious strangers out. They keep the hotel guests out. People staying here like to walk up beside the crick, and then they come to the gates that are kept locked and they don’t go any farther. Benson don’t like strangers wandering on his property. Don’t blame him at all. Not with thousand-pound rams to be thieved.”

“I can well believe that. Did you talk much to those hiking girls who stayed here?”

“Yes, I did so. They was a coupler nice young women. The Bensons liked ’emtoo. Jim took ’emover to Baden Park the night afore they left. I did hear that Cora Benson wanted ’emto stay. Anyway, they had a good time. Ferris went too. Jim played the piano and the young women sang. Ferris said they sang pretty good.”

Something was clicking a warning in Bony’s mind. Was there any significance in the omission from the Official Summary and the statements of the visit to Baden Park Station of the two girls? Probably not. He poured a little whisky into the glass and placed it in the groping hand of the man on the bed. He heard the faint sound of swallowing and the gentle sigh of ecstasy and then he was on his knees and leaning over the old man and whispering with his mouth close to the whiskered cheek.