Arthur Upfield - The Mountains have a Secret

The light was strong enough to observe a running man, strong enough for Benson to dispense with his torch. Out here beyond the garden were no trees to retain the darkness, and Bony had to pass the bearers to get at the plane. The range beyond the valley curled its crests to greet the dawning, but the beauty of it was not registered on the mind of a man seeking for cover in which he could pass the bearers. There was no cover other than the white-painted post-and-rail fence erected to keep stock back from the swirling creek.

Without sound Bony raced to the fence, intending to run along its far side to the machine waiting quite close to it. The fence appeared strong. Lady Luck struck cruelly. The rail gave beneath his weight as he vaulted it, splintering with noise.

“Go on,” shouted Benson. “Wait for nothing. I’ll keep this fellow pinned.”

Bony had heard the snap of the bone in his left arm, but he felt no pain as he rolled over upon his chest to see Benson emerge at the rear of the bearers and begin to run towards him. Benson dropped, sprawled forward, opened fire, sent a bullet into the post behind which Bony had instinctively taken cover.

Again Benson fired and again the bullet thudded into the fence post, and the post was only five inches in diameter. Bony tried to shrink his body, and he wanted to yell when a giant’s stick lashed his side. The pain passed and his body felt numb. Another pain tore upward the length of his broken arm, and with all his will power he thrust aside that pain to concentrate on aiming at Benson.

Benson was inching towards him. Beyond Benson a great area of tenuous mist about the electrically-controlled gate was flooded with the lights of Mulligan’s cars. Benson fired again, and Bony heard the sound of the pistol and felt the wind made by the bullet as it passed through the inch-wide corridor between his face and the post.

The plane’s engines burst into louder song, but he dared not look at it. Benson was less than forty feet away, calm, cold, fearless, aiming with dreadful precision, and Bony had to roll himself away from the post to rest on the good right arm that he might aim at Benson.

Benson’s next bullet entered his left leg above the knee, and it felt as though the leg had been neatly torn away. He saw Benson’s white face and steadied himself, held his breathing and fired. He wanted to shout his exultation when Benson sank into the grass and did not move. For four seconds Bony watched him and knew Benson would never move again.

The exultation passed as swiftly as it had seized him. The bearers were passing the casket up a short ladder to those in the plane. A man was crouched before one of the landing wheels. The spinning propellers were like a flight of dragon-flies at the level of the eastern range crests. There was still time to reach the machine and fire into those revolving discs.

Despite the one broken arm and the one useless leg, he managed to drag himself up the post to the rail and then half lie over it. The ground was shuddering. It was all passing from him: valley, aeroplane, men, homestead. That wretched rail on the far side of the post had beaten him, robbed him of most of the glory. If only he could move nearer to the machine. He might… He tried to slide his body along the railing. The police would get the casket. Mulligan would have every policeman south of Baden Park on the look-out for the aeroplane. It would have to land somewhere-near Portland, Benson had said. The police would stop the van before it reached Portland, stop them from transferring the casket to the boat. The police at Portland would be waiting for the van, warned, instructed by telephone.

But, to use Benson’s words, not to him would be the honour of presenting the casket and its contents to the world through Mulligan; of saying to Mulligan and his men: “This was the motive for the abduction of two young women, of the murder of Detective Price, of the murder of Yardman O’Brien. This…” and raising the lid of the casket to let them see who rested under the glass.

His left arm was a great weight, almost more than he could continue lifting with his shoulder. The leg wasn’t so bad, but a man couldn’t do much with only one leg, in addition to only one hand and arm. His clothes on the left side of him must be on fire and were scorching him. How far away was that plane? Eighty yards! Perhaps he could put a bullet into it from eighty yards. He must try that. The men with the casket had disappeared, had passed up the ladder. A man was removing the wheel chocks. Then he was running to the ladder. Now he was going up the ladder. He kicked the ladder away and it fell to the ground. The aeroplane was alive. The ground was shuddering and it rocked the fence railing. The noise was terrific. The range was blotted out by wings. Only the sky was still. And in the sky was the aeroplane, flying over the house, turning away from it to head towards the range whose mighty wave crests were on fire. Smaller and smaller and turning from silver to gold, the machine dwindled to the size of a bee, which appeared to hover for a long time between the gilded teeth of the distant range. A cavern of the clouds received it.

Then Shannon was standing beside him, and the American’s strong fingers were taking the automatic from his hand.

“Fetch Mulligan,” Bony said tonelessly.

“Mulligan’s on the job,” Shannon told him. “You’re in a bad way, pal. Better come off the fence and lie down. Where did you get it?”

“Never mind me, Shannon. Bring Mulligan-quick.”

“Don’t worry, Bony, old pal. Mulligan’s headed this way. There’s cops all over the scenery. I’ll lower you down. Smashed leg, eh! Clothes full of blood, too. Busted arm as well. Just take her easy. Wish’t I’d come sooner. Me and the girls followed Simpson on the bike, but what a hope of catching up with his Buick. Left the girl friends getting a little of their own back on the Benson woman. Aimed a gun at us, and I knocked it out of her hand with a throat slitter. Then Mavis grabbed the gun. Left her itching to pull the trigger, and the other one urging the Benson woman to do something to give an excuse. Let’s get your coat off and find out what’s doing.”

The sun had set and it was growing dark. He heard Mulligan’s voice and he struggled against a yielding something which held him close. He must tell Mulligan-about the casket, where they were taking it. He heard Mulligan say:

“What’s this? Inspector Bonaparte? Is he dead?”

He tried to tell Mulligan, but no one heeded. He could not see Mulligan or Shannon, and he wished Shannon would shut up and let him speak. He must tell Mulligan about the casket before-before…

Shannon’s voice seemed far away:

“No, I guess heain’t dead yet. He’s a real guy. Hit three times and still shooting at aeroplanes. What a guy! What a pal! There’s twenty million cops in the world, and of the lot he’s the only pal of theShannons of Texas.”

He dreamed much and often. Faces appeared in his dreams. Many he did not recognise, but among them were the faces of Superintendent Bolt, Inspector Mulligan, Glen Shannon, and one girl who had glorious auburn hair and another whose face was very beautiful.

When he awoke from his dreams the first thing of which he was conscious was of being in bed. Well, there was nothing so remarkable in that, because beds were invented to sleep in. Then into the white ceiling swam a face in which were two of the bluest eyes he had ever looked into, a face crowned with a nurse’s veil.

She smiled down at him and he tried to smile at her. Then he went to sleep, and the next time he awoke there was another nursing sister who came to bend over him, and her eyes were large and grey.

“What is the date, Sister?” he asked.

“Don’t bother your head about dates. Don’t talk-not yet.”