Arthur Upfield - The Mountains have a Secret

“What a guy. I ought to arrest you and conduct you to the lock-up at Dunkeld and charge you with being a walking arsenal. I have listened to your threats to disturb the peace and, too, interfere with a police officer in the execution of his duty. Candidly, I’d like you to work with me, but in accordance with my over-all instructions. Mine is the responsibility to the constituted authority.”

Shannon said sleepily:

“I’ll think it over, buddy. You’re a good guy, even though you are a cop. What’s your real name?”

“You may call me Bony.”

“Bony what?”

“Just Bony.”

“Bony it is. We’ll rub along O.K. Pleasure to work with a guy who sets a good example to the CanadianMounties.”

Silence for thirty seconds, and then the low and regular snoring of an American “character”, the like of whom Bony had never met. The red embers of the fire stained the walls of Edward O’Brien’s vault with the colour of the blood which doubtless seeped from him. In the short passage between the chamber of death and that leading to the good clean air, Bony and his companion lay in darkness.

Bony was exceedingly tired. His body ached. Again and again he almost fell asleep, only to flash back into keen wakefulness as the items of information given by Shannon marshalled themselves for re-examination.

When the American stirred and ceased to snore the silence worried the wakeful man, the silence and that instinctive fear of the dead lying within a dozen feet of him. Once repose was beaten off by the thought that Shannon could have mastered him physically on several occasions, and then he came wide awake to find himself compelled to look at the picture of Shannon scooping with his hands and a stick in the sand.

Because he could not see the stars, he could not see the time. The red walls and the roof of the rock chamber imperceptibly faded into the colour of a pall, leaving the darkness to press heavily on him. Twice he sat up and blindly rolled a cigarette, and with the flame of the matches assured himself that Shannon was still there. He decided the dawn must be at hand and was thinking of going out to see if his snares had trapped a rabbit, when he heard an exterior noise which froze his body.

The silence crowded back upon him, and he raised himself to lean upon an elbow. Then he heard it again, the distant creaking of dray wheels. He reached for Shannon, and the American said:

“Bit early to come for a load of firewood.”

Fear of the Dead

SHANNON must have glanced at his wrist-watch, for he said:

“Ten past four. Wonder what’s on the ice.”

“Pack your kit,” Bony commanded. “We may have to move in a hurry.” The American uttered a “But-” and was faintly surprised by the brittleness of Bony’s voice, a note absent even when he was bailed up at pistol-point. “Don’t talk. Pack.”

In the pitch blackness they worked on their gear to the accompaniment of the increasing noise of the dray. They heard the hotel licensee curse the horse.

“Simpson!” Shannon said with soft sibilance.

“Your quart-pot,” snapped Bony, pushing the utensil against him. “A few yards along the passage, on your right, there’s a space between the rocks. Take the swags and leave them there. Then go to the entrance and watch Simpson.”

Shannon departed, dragging the swags with him, impressed by Bony’s abruptly assumed authority. Without light Bony entered the chamber on his hands and knees and made his way to the site of the now cold fire. Feeling for it with his hands and finding it, he scooped a hole in the sand, dragged into the hole the ashes and the semi-burned wood, then, covering the hole, threw handfuls of sand upon the site.

The necessity for speed blunted the horror Shannon had created with words and, still on hands and knees, he worked smoothing out the tracks on the sandy floor and giving a final touch by flicking a towel over the surface. Having done all possible within the chamber and withdrawing from it legs first, he worked back along the short passage to its junction with the main passage, the floor of which was covered with granite chips. There he paused swiftly to survey mentally what he had done that nothing should be left undone to betray Shannon and himself.

He joined the American, who was standing just inside the “front entrance”. Simpson had made a fire by the creek, and the light enabled them to see him bring from the creek a kerosene tin filled with water. The horse was still harnessed to the dray near-by. Tiny electrical impulses flashed up and down at the back of Bony’s neck as Simpson set the tin of water against the fire and then took from the dray an enamel basin, a towel, and a cake of soap.

“Shall I start in on him?” whispered Shannon.

“Certainly not. What did you do when you came out after filling in the grave?”

“Washed my-” Breath hissed between the American’s teeth. “You reckon he’s come to transplant the body?”

“It’s probable. Do nothing to stop him. If he comes this way I’ll go in ahead of him. You lie low-where you are. Look!”

Simpson lifted from the dray a hurricane lamp and a shovel and came towards the mountain of rocks. The American melted into the void between two boulders, and Bony backed silently down the passage and waited at the first bend. He saw Simpson appear at the entrance, silhouetted by his fire, and there the licensee dropped the shovel and lit the lamp. He was wearing old and tattered slacks, a grey flannel under-vest, and a pair of old shoes. His hair was roughed and his cold grey eyes were small.

The hand which had held the match to the lamp was shaking, and the lamp itself trembled in the other. He came two paces inside and then uttered an expletive and set the lamp down so violently it was almost extinguished. He went out again and Bony waited. On returning, he was carrying a partly filled sack.

The sack, in addition to the shovel and the lamp, was quite a load to manoeuvre through the passage, and as the licensee progressed, Bony went backwards before him, never once moving a betraying stone until, arriving at the space where Shannon had placed the swags, he slewed into it and laid himself flat. Simpson passed him on his way to the chamber, and instantly Bony rose and stole after him, gambling on the man’s nervous tension preventing him from seeing the necessarily rough efforts to clean the sandy floor.

It was a sure thing that the man would not spend time on anything save the main objective, and with all haste governed by natural caution, Bony reached the short passage to the chamber, edged his face round a corner of granite, and became one with the rock.

The lamp was set on a low ledge, and the shovel was lying on the place where Bony had sat with his back against his swag. Against the creviced roof and the broken walls a monstrous shadow writhed like something on a gridiron over a Dante’s hell. From the sack Simpson was withdrawing a roll of light canvas, and this he spread upon the ground between the grave and the entrance. Also from the sack he drew a waterproof sheet, which he arranged on the canvas, and a quantity of heavy twine rolled round a short length of board.

Bony had never before seen a man’s face so tortured. Simpson stood with his back to the site of Bony’s fire, his eyes wide and brilliant as they surveyed the preparations. He was not quite satisfied with the waterproof sheet upon the canvas, and his eyes moved rapidly to find something with which to overcome a difficulty. Then, when he lifted a heavy stone and dropped it upon one corner of the square of canvas and sheet, and another stone on the second corner nearer the scene of the intended operation, Bony knew the difficulty and the necessity to overcome it.