Arthur Upfield - The Devil_s Steps

“Marcus!” Bolt regarded Bony steadily. Then he said, almost shouting: “Whatd’youknow?”

“I must confess, Super, not very much, not enough to feel warm. Let’s get back to this Mick the Tickler. Have you a photo of him in Records?”

“Don’t know. Ought to have.” Bolt’s exasperation changed to a period of calm grimness. “Now look here, Bony, I’m talking to you as one pal to another. Marcus is dynamite. If you are playing around with him, you’re playing with dynamite. He’s just a ferocious wild tiger. If he gets the slightest suspicion that you’re onto him, he’ll blast out your life-as quick as he did poor Rice.”

Bony rose to his feet. He stood regarding the top of the great domed cranium before permitting his gaze to sink to meet small and unwinking brown eyes.

“Thanks, Super,” he said levelly. “I’m not quite ready to complete this investigation, but the end is not far off. Now be a sport and leave me to it for a few more days. Meanwhile, get onto Banks’s pal, whom we will assume isMick the Tickler. Get hold of Banks too. He must have removed Grumman’s luggage to the lumber room, and he or his pal must have carried the body down to the ditch when wearing a pair of Bagshott’s shoes. Why, we may learn when the fish are netted. Those two men were responsible for Grumman’s death. If you do have a picture of Mick the Tickler, see if Mrs. Bagshott can identify it. Leave it here for me to pick up tomorrow night. I want to show it to a man who has seen this Mick. But no policemen at the Chalet, yet.”

Bolt relaxed and sighed tremendously.

“I’ve a damned good mind to arrest you, Bony, and put you away into safety,” he growled. “I know all about you, your record, and I know that this slick, grease-quick gangster type of criminal is outside your experience.”

“That’s what makes the work all the more interesting,” Bony countered. “Did you get anything on that William Jackson, the owner of the Studebaker?”

Bolt glared at Mason, and the Sub-Inspector produced a flimsy.

“Nothing known against Jackson,” he read. “Paint manufacturer. Office in Flinders Lane. Works at East Richmond.”

“Does the report not state if he owns a house here?” enquired Bony.

“No. But-I’ve got a list of every house owner on the Mount.”

“Have a look for William Jackson.”

Mason became busy with a file, running his finger-tip down the columns of names. Then:

“Ah! Yes! William Jackson owns a place named Ridge House. I know it. It’s about two miles down the highway.”

“Strikes the bell, looks like,” growled Bolt on observing the mirthless grin which flashed into Bony’s blue eyes.“By crikey! I’ve an even better mind to put you away for safety sake.”

“Super-if you make a move off the wrong foot you’ll lose your dear friend, Marcus,” Bony told him. To Mason, he said:

“On a road leading from Wideview Chalet, which then turns left, there is a house standing behind a line of fir trees. Who lives there?”

Mason’s mind raced.

“A woman named Mrs. Eldridge and her daughter. The daughter is a confirmed invalid.”

“Thank you, Mason. And you, too, Super.” Bony put on his hat. “I’ll be getting along. I’ll call again tomorrow evening at this time. Cheerio!”

“One minute,” snapped Bolt. He also stood up. “Will you let us plant one of our fellers in that Chalet, just to keep an eye on you when your back is turned to prevent a bullet? Got a man who cando the play-boy act very well.”

Bony shook his head. He smiled into Bolt’s worried eyes.

“I’ll be all right, Super. Tomorrow night, perhaps I will be able to give you the hammer to strike the gong.”

Mick the Tickler’s Story

THE FOLLOWING evening, when towards eleven o’clock Superintendent Bolt and Sub-Inspector Mason had decided that Bony would not be calling at the Mount Chalmers PoliceStation, they heard his voice assuring the wife of the Senior Constable that he could find his way to the office.

“Must have come in by the back door,” observed Mason.

“He can come down the chimney so long as he does come,” growled Bolt. He gave vent to one of his tremendous sighs and then added: “I was becoming fed up. Now you keep quiet and listen. He might make a remark indicating who he thinks is Marcus.”

The door was opened and Bony came in, glanced at the cheap clock over the fireplace and beamed at the seated men who had been impatiently waiting for him for more than two hours. Mason regarded him with an impassive face; the big man glared. Bony said:

“Sorry I’m late, but I was persuaded to play a game of draughts with one of the guests. He proved to be a very good player and I wasn’t able to bring the game to an end until half-past ten.”

“Interesting game, eh?”

“Very,” Bony assented, seating himself opposite the Superintendent at the desk. “My opponent was clever with his kings. You would like to know him, I am sure. I’ll introduce him to you one day. He would be certain to enjoy a game or two with you.”

“I’m not much interested in draughts-just now,” Bolt said, rudely.

“You ought to be interested in draughts at any time, day or night,” Bony said, as he rolled a cigarette. “Great brain exerciser and also it sharpens one’s interest in one’s fellow men. Wellwell! What have you got for me tonight?”

“One of your friends in the bag, and another of your pals in the mortuary.”

“H’m! A little progress, eh? I hope you don’t think you’ve got friend Marcus in the mortuary.”

“A milkman, when on his rounds this morning, found the body of a man lying just inside the front gate of a house in Coburg. The occupants of the house state that they heard a car stop in the street at something to three o’clock this morning, and as they state that they don’t know the dead man, it is assumed that he was carried from the car to the place where the body was found. The gate, by the way, is midway between two street lights. The body is that of your friend George Banks.”

Whilst Bolt had been speaking, Bony regarded him with brows slightly raised, and if the Superintendent expected to see astonishment lower those fine brows he must have been disappointed. When Bony made no comment, he went on:

“In the pockets were employment references in favour of George Banks. There were two letters from Mick making appointments for past dates. There was a pair of thin rubber gloves and a wallet containing Treasury notes to the value of fifty-three pounds. Besides a few silver coins, there was a heavy solid-gold cigarette case with the initials ‘B. G.’ engraved on it.”

“No pistols, of course?” Bony commented.

“No pistols.”

“And death was due to…?”

“A bullet in the brain-following a bashing.”

“Dear me!”

The small brown eyes of the Superintendent bored into the wide blue eyes of Inspector Bonaparte. He said:

“The obvious assumption for the bashing was the need for information.”

Bony nodded his head in agreement.

“Either desperate need or iron determination to get it,” he said. “The gold cigarette case bearing Grumman’s initials is an interesting item. The rubber gloves are still another. Who of my friends have you arrested?”

“Mick the Tickler. We located him on a Black Funnel liner now in port. Ship was due to sail tomorrow. We took him to view the body. After that, he broke down and gave us a statement. Here is a copy of it.”

Bony accepted the sheets without speaking, lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair to read:

My full name is Michael Francis O’Leary and I was born in Sydney in the year 1907. My father was Irish and my mother English. I had one brother, Daniel, who was born in London in 1911.