Arthur Upfield - The Devil_s Steps

The Senior Constable opened a desk drawer and took out a slip of paper. He said:

“You wanted to know the name of the owner of a certain Studebaker car, sir. NumberNX 052 B. The owner is Mr. William Jackson, Number 17 Myall Road, Southeast Camberwell.”

“Ah! Yes, thanks.” Bony paused, then added: “After I have left here-wait an hour-contact Superintendent Bolt and ask him to let me have all possible information about this William Jackson. Say, too, that I will communicate with him, the Super, about nine o’clock tonight. Also inform Sub-Inspector Mason that I will be here again round about nine this evening, and that meanwhile I am having quite a nice holiday and do not wish to be disturbed.”

In a thoughtful frame of mind, Bony left the Police Station and walked down along the highway, calling a cheerful “Good day” to the proprietor of the fruit stall as he passed. He arrived at the Chalet in time to hear the luncheon gong.

Downes had not returned. Lee and Leslie had told Miss Jade that they would be lunching away somewhere. In consequence Bony and Sleeman lunched alone at their table, a neighbouring table being occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Phelps who had arrived by the early bus. More guests were to arrive during the afternoon.

“Miss Jade’s in a bit of a temper, I fancy,” Sleeman remarked softly to Bony. “George isn’t back yet, and there are tons of new people coming today and tomorrow. He promised her faithfully that he’d be back this morning. You been out for a walk?”

“Yes. I strolled up the highway for a mile or two. Beautiful road and beautiful surroundings, don’t you think?”

Sleeman nodded.

“Charming,” he agreed. “I may go out this afternoon. Care to come along?”

Bony smilingly expressed regret and said it was his intention to relax and read a novel. The conversation became desultory, Sleeman evidently a little uncomfortable at being alone with Bony, and Bony being a little tired following the all-night work.

Later, wearing an overcoat and with a rug about his legs, Bony reclined in a chair on the veranda and thought about Sleeman. Had it been Sleeman who had examined his possessions during that night he had spent taking the contents of the fountain pens to Colonel Blythe? He was inclined to doubt it because the person who had gone through his things had been an expert, whilst the work done by Sleeman in George’s room was that of an amateur. But wait! If Sleeman knew that George was not returning to the Chalet, there would then be no need for him to be meticulously careful in replacing everything.

Well! Well! Why worry? Time would tell. Time would uncover all things for Bony to know. Meanwhile there were two hours until afternoon-tea time. In the cool and pure air of Mount Chalmers Bony slept the sleep of the just.

The chatter of newly arrived guests awoke him. Ten or a dozen strangers were standing at the balustrade of the veranda admiring the view. He felt refreshed and again mentally alert. What was it he had been thinking about Sleeman? Ah yes! Did Sleeman know last night that George would not be returning to the Chalet?

The possibility occupied his mind even whilst he was being presented to the new guests by Miss Jade at afternoon tea. Afterwards he sought out Bisker.

“Seen anything of George?” he asked.

Bisker shook his head, and then said:

“Mr. Downes isn’t back, either.”

“You didn’t receive from George any impression that he might not be returning, did you?”

“No. ’E seemed all set to come back first thing this morning,” Bisker replied. “Wonder what’s happened to ’im?”

“So doI. Still, we must be patient.”

Guests sat at nearly every table in Miss Jade’s dining room that evening. Downes had returned about five o’clock and shortly after that the artist and Lee had come in: The Way of a Thousand Steps and the beauties they had seen formed the major part of the conversation that night, both Downes and Bony being entertained by the artist, who had also the gift of word painting. Sleeman evinced more interest in Wanaaring.

A little after eight, Bony slipped away and walked up to the Police Station, where he found Bolt waiting for him with Sub-Inspector Mason.

“What’s all this about?” the huge Superintendent demanded without any preamble.

“Ah-good evening, Super,” countered Bony, smiling naively into the hard eyes. “Good evening, Mason. Nice and warm in here. Well, now, have you located our friend?”

“No,” snapped Bolt. “Not back at the Chalet?”

“No, he hasn’t returned.”

Bolt stared at the little half-caste who, with irritating calm, was rolling one of his fearful cigarettes. Then he burst out:

“Whatd’youknow of this George Banks? Come on, Bony, out with it!”

“Can you recall a man answering to the name of Mick? About eleven stone in weight, medium height and having dark eyes and speaking with a faint Irish brogue?” inquired Bony.

Bolt shook his great head. Then he exclaimed:

“Wait! That might fit Mick the Tickler. But then he left the country about the time the war broke out and was reported to us as being in London in, I think, ’forty-three.”

“What was his speciality?” Bony asked.

“Tickling military secrets from the wives of Service officers comes first. A close second was blackmail. What of him?”

“Merely that your Mick the Tickler might be the man who is friendly with our George Banks. If you get in touch with Colonel Blythe he might be able to tell us more concerning this Mick the Tickler.”

“Oh all right!” snapped Bolt. “But start at the beginning and let’s have it. What about Grumman’s luggage? Where is it? Whatd’youknow about this George Banks?”

“You become more like Colonel Spendor every time I see you, Super ,” Bony complained. “One doesn’t get anywhere by being impatient. Bad for the blood pressure, too. Now listen, calmly. This Mick-he may be your Mick the Tickler-called on Mrs. Bagshott, alleging that he was a representative of a clothes-and-boots-gathering organisation, and she gave him several pairs of shoes, including a pair of her husband’s shoes.

“I’ve been much interested in the tracks made about Wideview Chalet. The size of the shoes that made them is twelve. Those shoes made what are known as the Devil’s Steps on Miss Jade’s lawn. I was telling you of them the last time you were here. You will remember that I was doubtful if Bagshott’s feet were in his shoes when those tracks were made. The shoes which were given away by Mrs. Bagshott, and which made the tracks about the Chalet and on the lawn, are now in a chest in a lumber room at the Chalet. In that same lumber room is Grumman’s luggage. In George’s trunk in his bedroom is a blue suit which might have been worn by the man wearing a mask and carrying a pistol, and who stuck up Bisker and myself in Bisker’s hut and robbed me of two fountain pens.”

“Robbed you of two fountain pens!” barked Superintendent Bolt.

“Yes. Good pens, too. I want them back. They are mine. I promised one to my wife and the other to my eldest son, Charles.”

Bolt regarded Mason with desperation in his eyes.

“Give us a fag, Mason,” he grunted. Then to Bony, he said:

“Go on. Me and Mason can easily sort it all out-I don’t think.”

“Excellent! I thought you could,” murmured the smiling Bony. “However, I find it all a little vague at present. The evidence is strong against Banks, and it is by no means complete. It is sufficient for his arrest, but I am not yet quite ready to make you a report. That is why I suggested that you charge him with being in possession of another man’s references, anything to hold him quietly for a day or two. There are many matters still outstanding, your friend Marcus being one of them.”