Arthur Upfield - The Mountains have a Secret

“No, but I think things.”

“What things?”

“He wants the coast clear to do something or other. Him and Carl Benson. That Carl Benson has made Jim what he is, with his flash cars and flash visitors, and all his brass. Too high and mighty to call in to pass the time of day with me and the old woman. Not like his father. Hey! What about getting a coupler bottles from the spirit store? I got a key. Let’s drink and drink, eh?”

“Plenty in this bottle. Did Jim take the women all the way to Melbourne?”

“Took ’emto the railway at Stawell. I heard ’emarguing about not going. They didn’t want to go. He made ’em. He makes all of us do what he wants-like he’s a sort of officer or something. Gets it from Carl Benson, I says. And from theflashies he takes over to Baden Park at times.”

“Rich men, I suppose?”

“Might be. Come here in good cars. Sleeps here most times. Funny about them?”

“What’s funny about them?”

“Can’t hardly tell. They’re different from the ordinary run, what comes to spend the Christmas and Easter. Some of ’emare foreigners too. Cocky lot. Throws out their chests as though they own the Grampians.”

“And Jim takes them over to Baden Park. How often do these parties arrive?”

“Not often, but often enough for me. You find out anything about Ted O’Brien?”

“No. D’you think he ever left here?”

The old man caught his breath and then snarled:

“What youwanta ask me that for? How do I know that one?”

“Now don’t get off your horse,” Bony commanded. “Have another sip. Remember telling me about a man named Bertram, who played the fiddle, with Jim on the organ?”

“Yes. Been here lots of times.”

“Did Jim ever take him over to Baden Park?”

“Every time he come. Went over there to play the fiddle to ’em, I suppose. But what’s all this got to do with Ted O’Brien?

“Ted O’Brien may have gone over there to work.”

“Eh!” exclaimed the old man, and fell silent. Then: “No. No, he wouldn’t have gone to Baden Park. Didn’t like the present man. But he might have. Cora Benson was always singing out for kitchen help. Servants wouldn’t stay account of being too far from the pitcher shows and things.”

The invalid fell silent again, and presently Bony asked:

“Is this the only road to Baden Park?”

“The only road now,” replied Simpson. “The present man’s father drove a track out to the south. Linked up with a track fromMoorella to Dunkeld, but avalanches kept blocking it. The present Benson made the road out through here. Spent a lot of money on it too. Done it all back in ’45-same year he built that vermin-proof fence.”

“Built the road to run that expensive Rolls-Royce on it, eh?”

“No, he did not. He brought that motor-car back with him when they went to Europe end of ’38. Bought them two organs as well, that time, he did. Thousand pounds each he give for ’em. Kurt died in ’22, and-”

“Kurt! Who was Kurt?”

“The present man’s father, of course. When he died it was found he wasn’t as rich as people thought. The present man got going and he made money enough to get himself through the depression, and after that he made it pretty fast. Him and his sister went to Europe in-lemmesee-yes, in ’35. Then again in ’38. Got back just in time to escape the war. Crikey! Him and his sistermusta spent a power of brass on traipsing around. Ah! Thanks, my boy. Goo’ luck!”

Bony said nothing to interrupt the flow of memory.

“Then the war come and they went quiet. Went on improving the strain of their sheep. After the war they had that there fence put round Baden Park. Ain’t never seen it, but I’m told it ’udkeep everything out from an ant to an elephant. They lived quiet, exceptin ’ for them parties of visitors from the city. Flashies, that’s what I say they are. And Jim’s like ’emtoo. Old Kurt Benson was all right. Nothin ’ flash about him.”

“Good friend to you when you first came here, wasn’t he?”

“Terrible good, he was. Hadn’t been long in Victoria, either.”

“When did he settle in Baden Park?”

“Five years afore me. In ’07. Come down from New South Wales. Inherited from his father. His father was a vintner, as well as a vineyardist. Name of Schoor.”

“Oh! He changed his name, did he?”

“No, his son did-the present man’s father changed it to Benson. Old Schoor was a foreigner, if you get me. Swiss or Austrian, I don’t know which.”

“The present man didn’t marry, eh?”

“No, he never married. Neither did his sister, Cora. Got no time for her, John, no ruddy time at all. Times have changed and the new generation’s got highfalutin ideas. All they thinks on is getting brass without working for it. What about a drink?”

“There’s just one more in the bottle. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, John-oh, fine. Me pains have gone away.”

“Think you will sleep now?”

“Why? Youleavin ’ me? Youain’t leaving me-not now, are you?”

“Well, I want to have some shut-eye, too, you know.”

“But-Jim-he might come back afore daylight.”

“If he doesn’t he should do,” Bony argued. “Now you have this last drink and settle down to sleep.”

“Where yougoin ’ to sleep?”

There was wild urgency in his voice, and Bony told him he had made camp in the scrub off the clearing and everything would be all right. That old Simpson was fearful of his son was pathetically evident.

“You bide there, John, just for a little while,” pleaded the old man. “Bide there till I sleeps. Iain’t feared when you’re sitting there in the dark.”

“Settle down,” Bony said softly. “I’ll stay with you.”

The invalid sighed, and presently his breathing told of peace. The ethics of giving him drink was not debated by the man who continued to sit on his bed, who sat there until the sound of the Buick reached him. Even then he withdrew only to the fruit trees beyond the veranda, waiting there until assured that James Simpson had gone to his own room.

Shannon’s Private War

THERE were, of course, several methods by which to effect entry into Baden Park. One could go through the fence, following the employment of wire-cutters, which Bony did not have with him; one could dig under the fence with a pick and shovel, neither of which tools Bony could carry around; and it was possible to enter by the gate by clinging to the back of Simpson’s car when the night was dark. All these methods, however, lacked finesse, and each one would place a limit to visiting the home of Carl Benson, when several visits might be essential.

Bony moved his base of operations to the concealment afforded by seven great boulders closely hemmed in by scrub. Quite close ran a trickling stream and along its borders grass grew green and luscious and much favoured by rabbits, which in turn were favoured by Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte at this particular period.

Less than a hundred yards distant from the boulders ran the great fence, seemingly easily scalable to one who, like Bony, was this evening lying in a declivity near the summit of the tallest boulder. The golden sunlight fell obliquely upon the flat and brilliantly green valley, upon the homestead with its sentinels of trees, the near-by observatory, and upon the ribbon of white road lying straight across the green.

The day was departing when Bony watched Simpson’s car speed along the white road and disappear among the homestead trees, and it was gone when with a fire-hardened stick and his hands he began to tunnel under the fence.

To tunnel under the fence was the only way, were he to enter and leave Baden Park when he wished, and the site he chose was where bush debris lay against the barrier and thus offered concealment for both ends of his tunnel. He was compelled to excavate to a depth of three feet and adequately to conceal the earth he removed. When he completed the work day was breaking and his back was breaking, and his hands were torn and painful.