Arthur Upfield - The Mountains have a Secret

He found, too, fresh tracks of both Simpson and the American. He had twice visited this locality, and these fresh foot tracks provided the evidence that when last he had been this way he had been kept under observation. It was proof of what he had “felt”, of what the birds had indicated to him. The behaviour of the licensee and his yardman in keeping a guest under observation when that guest was merely taking the air, was surely motivated by something much at variance with the fear that the guest would lose himself in the scrub.

The little mountain of rocks was surrounded by a clear space, and several months back the hotel dray had been driven almost to the edge of the clearing. From both old Simpson and the yardman, Bony had learned that the dray was used only for carting firewood, and that ample supplies of wood were to be had within a mile of the premises. The place was two miles from the hotel, and the dray tracks were old enough to coincide with the dismissal of Ted O’Brien.

On the first of his previous visits Bony had circled the little mountain of rocks and found a natural passageway winding into its heart and ending at an open space as large as a small-house-room. He had this place in mind as a base for future operations, and he did not on this occasion approach the rock mountain, in case Glen Shannon was observing him.

Bony could not fit the American into this picture. Shannon had entered Simpson’s service long after Detective Price had stayed at the hotel. However, enquiries concerning him would have to be made: when he had entered the country, his former employers in Australia, if any, and so on. It was not uncommon for American ex-servicemen who had visited Australia during the war to return. Many were coming back to seize the opportunities they thought awaited them, or to renew wartime friendships.

As it had promised, the wind lay down before sunset; and, having dined, Bony was occupying the front veranda with only the cockatoo for company, when he heard a car approaching from Dunkeld. He expected it to be Simpson’s Buick. It was a well-conditioned tourer containing three men.

By parting the veranda creeper he watched them leave the car to stand for a moment looking over the hotel front. The cockatoo told them to “get to hell out of it”, and they came up the veranda steps to greet the bird, whilst one knocked upon the fly-wire door.

Ferris Simpson answered the summons. The man who had knocked asked for dinner and accommodation for the night, and the girl invited them inside.

The surface of the pool of memory was stirred by a thought-fish deep in Bony’s mind. It was only for an instant, because he began to wonder not who they were, but what they were. He was thus speculating when old Simpson called from his bedroom.

“Who was that?” demanded the old man.

“New guests,” Bony replied, when standing beside the bed.

“New guests, eh? How many?”

“Three. Three men.”

“What kind of men? What do they look like?”

“One could be a university lecturer. Another could be a gentleman pirate disguised in a lounge suit. The third could be Superman. I think they’re staying for the night.”

The watery eyes blinked, were hard, cunning. The old man said:

“I heard Ferris at the front door. Did she know any of them?”

“I don’t think so. Are you expecting people you know?”

“Expectin’ people! We can always expect ’em. From what you said, these don’t sound like hard doers. Still, you keep your eye on ’em. And bring me in a drink later on. I wonder. Yes, I’mthinkin ’… Beenwonderin ’ why I was put to bed so early. Wasn’t no reason I could tell of.”

Bony had reached thefrench window when the invalid called him back.

“Did you hear what I said aboutbringin ’ me a drink?”

“Yes, I heard,” Bony answered. “It will depend on circumstances. Your son might arrive home at any minute. However, we’ll see.”

“Good for you, young Parkes. I hope you find out about your uncle.”

Again old Simpson called when Bony had reached the windows. “Tell you what,” he said, his upper lip lifted in a leer, revealing a toothless gum. “You promise me, and in return I’ll tell you something you don’t know.”

“Promise what?”

“Promise you’ll bring me in a drink. You’ll be able to keep it.”

“Very well, I promise. Now what?”

“Jim won’t be back till early tomorrow. He’s gone farther than Dunkeld. He’s gone to Portland, and that’s a hundred miles away.”

“Oh! What for?”

“That’s all I’m telling. You promised that drink, mind.”

Bony attempted to probe, but won nothing. In flashes the old man was cunning, concerned, loyal to his clan, fearful for himself, uneasy for Bony. It was difficult to winnow the wheat from the chaff: how much of what he said and suggested could be accepted and how much rejected. For Bony there was only the one weapon. He used it now.

“Tell me why your son has gone to Portland and I’ll bring you a double drink.”

“That’s a deal. I don’t know exactly why. I don’t think Ferris or the old woman knows why. I heard ’emtalking about Jim having to go to Portland to fix up about March twenty-eight. Seems like that day’s important for something or other. I’d tell you if I knew what about. Don’t you forget that double drink you promised. And you-”

The voice broke away into silence, and presently Bony said:

“Well-go on.”

“You promise me you’ll come and say good-bye to me afore you leave. Then I’ll know the rights of it.”

“That’ll be easy to promise.”

From the dusk-draped bed came a soft chuckle.

“Mightn’t be so easy. No, you mightn’t find it so easy if you’re lying all cold and stiff in the spirit store. Anyways, if you don’t come and say good-bye I’ll bethinkin ’ things about you.”

Probing again without result, Bony left the invalid and the hotel to saunter, along the track to Dunkeld, his mind being teased by the possibility of any significance of March twenty-eighth and the visit of James Simpson to Portland this night. He might establish the significance, if any, by running down to Portland or getting Superintendent Bolt to send one of his men to make enquiries. He was feeling that the line of the investigation he was at present following should be altered and the case attacked from a different angle. The murder of Price and the suspicions of old Simpson concerning the dismissal of O’Brien were becoming red herrings, annoying to one who still wanted to concentrate on the disappearance of the two young women.

On his return to the hotel he found the three new guests at ease under the veranda light. Coming upon them suddenly when he had mounted the steps, his problem was pushed into the background by interest in these men.

“Been for a stroll?” asked the university lecturer, and, detecting unctuousness in the thin voice, Bony changed his guess for that of a parson. Of middle age, the man had the brow and the eyes of the intellectual.

Bony admitted he had been for a walk and sat down in the chair invitingly moved for him by the man with the long black moustache, whom he had dubbed a pirate. Of the three, Superman was the most expensively dressed.

“Been staying long?” enquired the pirate.

“A week,” was Bony’s reply, his face angled as he rolled a cigarette. Somewhere deep in his mind lurked memory of this man or another much like him. He asked with polite interest: “What are your plans?”

“Oh, we are going on tomorrow,” smoothly replied the parson. “There’s fishing at Lake George, so we understand. Have you been to Lake George?”

Bony took in the light blue eyes, the thin mouth, theuncreased features above the flare of the match held to the cigarette.