Arthur Upfield - The Devil_s Steps

Bony looked steadily at the big man, pinching his nether lip between forefinger and thumb.

“Thanks, Super,” he said. “Now, Mason, what did you get from the curators?”

“Chiefly support for your own theory,” answered the Sub-Inspector. “The mixture of grass put down in that lawn is quite suitable for the locality. The two experts I interviewed both agree that the marks were caused by abnormal weight when the grass was stiffly brittle with frost. The abnormal weight crushed the grass stems and the surface roots, and then the action of the sunlight during the subsequent sharp thaw burned the bruised grass, which was not able to withstand the effect of frost as the uninjured grass did.”

“What’s the strength ofall these Devil’s foot-marks?” interposed Bolt. “Mason told me what you told him, but what’s it all about?”

“Well, you see, it turned out like this,” Bony began in explanation. “That night Grumman was poisoned, his body was carried from his room down over the lawn to the wicket gate at the bottom and then to the road and into the ditch where it was found. Grumman’s weight was eleven stone and some odd pounds. If the weight of the man who transported the body to the ditch was ten stone, there was a combined weight of more than twenty-one stone, or three hundred pounds, or a little more than two and one half hundred-weights, concentrated into the area of a man’s shoe sole. When the killer of Grumman walked down that lawn with the body, he left shoe-tracks as plain as though he had walked on sand, the tracks branded upon the grass as though the shoes were red hot.”

“Ah!” Bolt breathed. “And you are an expert on tracks, aren’t you?”

“I have done a little,” Bony modestly admitted.

“Then you know the size of the shoes, eh?”

“Oh, yes! They are size twelve.”

“Size twelve! Same boots, or shoes, you saw on the ramp that night Grumman was corpsed.”

“I know the man whose shoes most likely made those marks.”

“Eh!” exclaimed Bolt. “You know the man who made those foot-marks?”

“Pardon me, but I did not say that. I said that I know the man whose shoes most likely had made those marks.”

Two pairs of eyes bored into Bony’s eyes. Bony fell silent.

“Well, go on, man!” urged the Superintendent. “Who is he?”

“It would be unfair of me to state the name of the man whose shoes most likely made the marks on Miss Jade’s lawn,” Bony told them firmly. “When I know the name of the man whose feet were in the shoes belonging to the man who most likely owns the shoes, I shall suggest that you order his apprehension.”

“Then you think that the shoes which made the marks had been stolen and used for the occasion?” enquired Bolt.

“That may have been possible. I am not sure of anything. Tomorrow, Mason, I’d be obliged if you called on theBagshotts and told them that a man alleging himself to be a collector of clothes and foot-wear for the war victims of Europe has been operating in the district. He is known to be a person of ill repute, and the police would like to know if he called on theBagshotts and if they gave him any old clothes and shoes. Will you do that?”

“Certainly.”

“Why put that over on theBagshotts?” demanded Bolt.

“Because the imprints on Miss Jade’s lawn were made by shoes or boots sizetwelve, and because Bagshott wears shoes of that size.”

“O-oh!” breathed the Superintendent.

“My contention is that because a man’s shoes have made certain imprints it doesn’t follow that that man’s feet were inside the shoes when the imprints were made by them.”

“And you have reason to think that Bagshott’s feet weren’t in his shoes when his shoes made the marks on Miss Jade’s lawn?”

“That, Super, sums up the situation. Now, let me have a few minutes with the bust of our dear friend Marcus.”

Mason went to work unpacking a common butter box.

“Professor Phisgig insists that the result is only a rough approximation,” Bolt pointed out. “The face is a remarkable likeness to the photographs; it’s the shape of the head which the Professor insists is not accurate.”

Mason placed on the table a plaster bust. It was the normal size of a man’s head. It might well have been a copy of a piece of Grecian sculpture. The features possessed classical symmetry.

Bony gazed at it for a full minute. For almost that period he looked at it in profile, and then for three minutes he gazed at the back of the head. Eventually he placed it on the floor and looked at it from the back and from a higher level. Bolt stolidly smoked. Mason did nothing but stare at the bust, saying nothing.

“If Lombroso were living today and could study that head, and then was asked to outline the character of the original, he would say that Marcus was the good boy of an upper-middle-class family,” Bony observed.

“Instead of which he is the bad boy of an aristocratic family,” Bolt contributed. “The Italian criminologist was a bit out-here and there.”

“I agree with him, however, that genius is a form of degeneracy,” argued Bony.“Further than that I will not accompany him. However, there are exceptions to every rule, and the rule is that evil within the mind is stamped upon the features. Marcus is an exception. By the way, do I remember correctly from your records of Marcus that he was known to be in Victoria in 1937?”

“Yes. He killed a man named Langdon in June of that year.”

“And he was not apprehended?”

Bolt shook his head. Bony rose to his feet.

“I’ll be getting along,” he said. “Thanks, gentlemen and comrades, for your co-operation. I have an intuition that Marcus is not as far away from us as the facts and assumptions indicate.”

ShadowsAgainst the Sky

IT WAS fifteen minutes to ten when Bony again entered the lounge at Wideview Chalet, finding it occupied by Sleeman, Downes and Lee. Sleeman was asleep, Lee was reading, and Downes was seated at a table writing letters. The last named said:

“Blowing up for rain, d’youthink?”

“Looks much like it,” replied Bony. “Wind’s in the north and the only stars are those to the east. Won’t get that fog-cloud over the valley tomorrow. Worth looking at, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, very fine. Care about a drink?”

Sleeman roused sufficiently to mumble something, and Downes regarded him with faint contempt. Bony shook his head, smiled, picked up a magazine and settled into a chair. Downes went on with his writing.

Miss Jade did not appear, and Bony wondered where she was, as the office was in darkness when he passed through the reception hall. Presently Lee rose and came to sit beside him. The big man moved with a minimum of effort.

“How’s your place off for rain?” he said, opening the conversation.

Mr. Bonaparte, passing as the squatter whose station was in Western Queensland, was able to answer the question with a fair degree of accuracy, having studied the weather reports over the last six months just in case.

“We had a good rain at the end of July, and another in the third week of August,” he said. “Thestock are fair-conditioned. I suppose you would like to have more rain on your place.”

They discussed pastoral problems and conditions until Downes pocketed his letters and joined them.

“What about a drink-before Sleeman wakes up?” he suggested. “I’d like just one as a night-cap.”

“I’ll be with you,” Lee agreed.

“So will I, but I insist that it’s my call, and like you, one will be sufficient,” added Bony.

Lee, however, voiced a protest. Downes regarded him with his steady eyes, on his face a cold smile.

“If you really want to indulge in an orgy,” he murmured, “I offer the suggestion that after Bonaparte and I have had our little night-cap with you, you might awaken Sleeman. Still, as Bonaparte has insisted that it is his call, and as I broached the subject, we will make it two drinks with my call added.”