Arthur Upfield - The Devil_s Steps

Satan Takes a Walk

IT WAS ON Saturday morning that Bony met and spoke to Clarence B. Bagshott outside the latter’s front gate, and he arrived back at the Chalet to hear the luncheon gong as he was walking up from the highway. It was then one o’clock and Fred was returning from his lunch to his grass-cutting job. He had completed the section of lawn on the left of the path to the wicket gate, and now he prepared to cut the right-hand section. When Bony entered the famous dining room, the other guests were all seated.

“Been out on the tramp?” asked Raymond Leslie.

“Yes,” Bony replied.“A great morning for a walk. There’s no doubt about this mountain air making a man hungry. I think I’ve never seen airso clear as it is today. By the way, you’ve been up here some time. Ever met Clarence B. Bagshott?”

“I have not. The man’s an utter bounder.”

“Have you read any of his books?”persisted Bony.

Raymond Leslie sat bolt upright and the tip of his brown beard moved outward from his narrow chest in what he fondly thought was the Captain Kettle angle. To increase the effect, he set down his knife and fork, before saying:

“My dear Bonaparte, when I read literature, I read literature, not trash.”

He spoke so loudly and emphatically that the Watkins couple stopped their high-pitched chatter about trout fishing somewhere in Tasmania, and Bony observed Miss Jade intently listening. The artist had gained the attention of everyone in the room, and he desired to retain it.

“Educated people don’t read Bagshott’s stuff,” he went on. “No one knows him outside the readers of newspaper serials. Our glorious Australian literature has had too many obstacles to surmount in order to become established without having Bagshott’s tripe added to them. They call his booksAustralian, and people unfortunately read them and judge Australian literature by them.”

Leslie glared at Bony, who said, meekly:

“I asked merely if you had read his books. I haven’t because I have not happened to come across one. I asked, too, if you had met Bagshott, as you have been staying up here for some time.”

“I would not want to meet him, Bonaparte,” Leslie said rudely.

Thencame the quiet voice of Mr. Downes:

“As a matter of fact, I’ve read several of his books. I like them. You would not insinuate, Mr. Leslie, that I am not educated?”

Everyone at Bony’s table looked at Mr. Downes, whose face was now utterly devoid of expression. Leslie was about to say something when he looked into Mr. Downes’s eyes. For three long seconds he stared at Downes, into those dark eyes. He felt a chill down his neck, and he actually stuttered.

“Er-no-Downes, I wouldn’t say that of you,” he dribbled. “I was only speaking generally.”

“I am glad to hear that, Leslie,” Downes said, employing his knife and fork. “Naturally, I can quite understand your enthusiasm for the real Australian literature,” and Bony wanted to chuckle at the plain emphasis on the second personal pronoun.

“I met him this morning,” Bony said casually, and the strain vanished, leaving Leslie like a stranded fish. Out of the tail of his eye, Bony flashed a glance at Miss Jade, to see her hands still and her head bent in an attitude of concentrated effort to hear what was being said.“Happened to be passing his place when he backed his car out of the gate. I made some remark or other about the locality, and he appeared quite friendly and breezy. Said he had promised himself a month on a diet of beer up at Wanaaring.”

“Why go to Wanaaring-wherever that is?” asked the now more than interested Sleeman.

“Well, you see, Wanaaring had three pubs and about fifteen houses when I was last there,” Bony informed them all. “The inhabitants are very friendly and they can really drink beer, in some cases perhaps not too politely, but certainly with grand efficiency. The climate is either very hot or very dusty, and more often than not both at the same time. There are other advantages, too.”

When Bony paused, Sleeman prompted him.

“Well, you see, up in Wanaaring, which is a few hundred miles west of Bourke in New South Wales, one feels free of restrictions. For instance, a chap doesn’t bother about what his neighbours might think if he chooses to go without a collar. Then the police are both friendly and diplomatic. Should you be found crawling about on hands and knees, they order your friends to put you to bed or to carry you into the local lock-up to lie for a few hours till consciousness returns.”

“How do you get to Wan-that place you said?” Sleeman asked.

“Better stay put,” suggested Downes, and for the first time Bony witnessed a smile on the normally cold face.

“And Clarence B. Bagshott is thinking of going to Wan-that place?” persisted Sleeman. “Hang it! I’d like to go with him.”

Again Downes spoke, and again he smiled.

“I still say you’d better stay put, Sleeman. The police mightn’t be so tolerant if they saw two fellows going around on their hands and knees at the same time.”

“Meaning?”

“Bagshott and you,” replied Downes, disarmingly.

The idea, however, remained attractive to Mr. Sleeman, and he became avid for information concerning Wanaaring and the easiest way of getting there. Raymond Leslie maintained the silence which Downes had evidently imposed with his eyes. The meal which had been threatened by unpleasant boorishness eventually proved to be highly successful, and Bony retired to his chair at the far end of the veranda, feeling very well satisfied withhimself.

He was thankful that he did not have to push a lawn mower this quiet and restful afternoon, thankful that he was able to sit and smoke in the acme of comfort and watch the colours pouring against the slopes of the distant mountains as the sun began its descent from the zenith.

The noise of motor cars was more persistent this Saturday afternoon as they came humming up the highway bringing week-enders. Bony recalled the previous Sunday, when the Chalet seemed filled to capacity with guests, and when the road traffic was astonishing. The fruit-stall man had predicted a fine day on the morrow, and that the traffic would then be extra-heavy.

Bony dozed for a little while, but he could not properly sleep because Leslie’s enraged face would protrude into his consciousness, followed by the icy voice of Mr. Downes and his piercing eyes which had caused the artist to shut up like a man in a bar when his wife breaks in. Bony awakened long enough to change position in his chair, when he observed Fred still cutting the lawn, and was faintly irritated by the wireless in the lounge, a race description being given.

With eyes closed, he tried again to settle his mind, but this time it was Bagshott who persisted in intruding. He wondered how much of those stories about him were true, and decided he would confer with Miss Jade, who appeared to have a degree of nervousness of local gossip. Notwithstanding, there was the fact that Bagshott wore shoes size twelve, and that the imprints of a similar shoe were left on the ramp on the night Grumman was murdered, and all about Bisker’s hut on the following night.

Today, Bagshott had not been wearing the same shoes as those which had made the impressions for the position of the trademarks on the rubber soles was not identical. Still, Bagshott would have to be examined.

It appeared to the lethargic Bonaparte that he had been a long time staying at Wideview Chalet. He had not visited Colonel Blythe now for five days, and the Colonel was bound to have at least one letter from Colonel Spendor demanding in hectic language what he, Bony, was supposed to be doing all this time.

Regarding that query, Bony was not worrying. A man had been murdered with cyanide poison in this very house. His personal effects contained in heavy steamer trunks and suitcases had vanished. A local lad had “pinched” Grumman’s priceless secrets, and only by the favour of Dame Fortune had those secrets come into Bony’s possession. Well, after the excitement, there had followed this period of calm. It was strange how there were always periods of calm in an investigation, and how a period of calm inevitably gave place to another period of excitement and action. Crime is a most peculiar manifestation of human psychology. It never lies down for very long, especially the crime of homicide.