Arthur Upfield: No footprints in the bush

“None for four hundred and fifty miles. Beyond my western boundary the country is unfenced, virgin. It’s allpoorish country, able to carry stock only after a winter like we’ve had this year. It’s inhabited only by those Illprinka blacks, and they have caused the trouble here in recent years.”

“Well it’s most curious,” Bony said, lighting yet another cigarette and dropping the burned match into the emu-shell tray. “You know, of course, those cabbage-trees growing beside the road on those hills yonder?”

McPherson nodded.

“I was camped in their shade at noon today eating my lunch, and this is what happened.”

Slowly, precisely, Bonaparte related the extraordinary incidents culminating in his meeting with Chief Burning Water. He spoke like an expert police witness although he had never entered a witness-stand since he had risen to the rank of inspector. But while he was speaking he watched the reactions of the man listening to him. These neither pleased nor disappointed; they were the normal reactions of any decent man to a story so terrible.

“So you see,” Bony concluded, “while you have a right to regard the theft of your cattle as an annoyance, and, considering the circumstances of your isolation here, can even be permitted to regard the murder of two of your aboriginal stockmen as a matter for your personal attention, this murder of Sergeant Errey falls into a much more serious category, one which rightfully requires the services of a detective-inspector. Who do you think, mightbe flying that machine?”

Bony fancied that McPherson’s lips were less coloured with blood, a little grey; but the grey eyes were steady and hard and the voice was brittle.

“I don’t know whomight own such an aeroplane, and if I thought of any whomight own an aeroplane I would not name him. It would not be just.”

Bony bowed his head, and he said:

“I deserve that reproof, Mr McPherson. To resume. Two points regarding the murderous attack on Sergeant Errey are obvious. First: the pilot knew that Errey was leaving today for Shaw’s Lagoon. Second: he was sufficiently well practised in dropping bombs to hit two targets in succession-the trees beneath which I was camped, and Errey’s car which was moving. There are, too, excellent grounds for a supposition.”

Here Bony swiftly related the arrival of the Illprinka men and their subsequent attack on him and Burning Water.

“It looks as though those Illprinka men were purposely camped not far from the gully into which the burning car rolled; that they were detailed, as it were, to be in readiness to remove anything which escaped destruction. The leader betrayed as much when he insisted that I gave him Errey’s attache case. If this is all true, then the pilot is in league with the Illprinka tribe. Do you know of any white man living away out in that open country?”

“No, I do not,” instantlycame the reply, and Bony was satisfied. “Those blacks are getting beyond endurance. Did my people capture any of them?”

“One, I think. I clubbed him with my pistol. Another, theleader, was killed, if memory serves me. He was an evil fellow, anyway, and he tried hard to kill me.”

A gong at the rear of the house was struck, evidently announcing dinner. McPherson rose to his feet as though he had been impatiently waiting to hear it. He stood staring down at the still-seated Bonaparte who again observed that occasionally the squatter could not mask his thinking. His problem was how to place as a guest a half-caste detective-inspector-accept him into his house, or have him conducted to the men’s quarters. Quite clearly Bony saw it: saw, too, the decision when it was made.

McPherson on his feet was less physically imposing. His legs were short and bowed by much riding. He said briskly:

“You had better come and be introduced to my niece who has run the place since my mother died. Where did you leave your swag?”

“Out at the back of the office.”

“It’ll be all right there. I’ll have it taken to your room later on. Any luggage at Shaw’s Lagoon?”

“Two suitcases. I left them at the police-station. I see you have a telephone, but I saw no line along the road. Are you in touch with Shaw’s Lagoon?”

“Yes, the wire is laid more direct. Want to ring now?”

“Please, I must communicate with the police-station.”

The McPherson’s Justice

McPHERSONconducted Bony from the office to the south veranda of the big bungalow-style house, and through what evidently was the main door into the hall. This hall amazed Bonaparte. Never in any station homesteads had he seen a hall so richly furnished-not even in those mansions, designated homesteads, he had visited on the sheep farms near Sydney and Melbourne. Tapestries illustrating Scottish battles hung from the walls. A grandfather clocklorded it in a corner. Broadswords and claymores rested on the arms of a teak rack. Jacobean settees and chairs and small tables flanked the gleaming parquet floor of darkened mulga.

From a passage at the end of the hall appeared a girl whose coiled hair was as black as his own, whose eyes were as blue as his own, whose skin was the texture of the white roses decorating the lawn outside. She was of medium height, under thirty years old, and wore a plain black dress the severe cut of which appeared to enhance her striking charm of face and figure. A further surprise was given by McPherson:

“Flora, allow me to present to you Detective-Inspector Bonaparte. Inspector, my niece, Miss McPherson.”

Bony bowed in grand manner. The somewhat stilted form of introduction was made quite naturally, and his mind remarked it.

“I ask your pardon for my somewhat war-worn appearance, Miss McPherson,” he said, gravely, but with a distinct twinkle in his eyes. “I left Shaw’s Lagoon as a stockman seeking employment. Circumstances, and the kindness of your uncle, have transformed me to a senior police officer. I possess a braided uniform, a pair of beautiful gloves, a walking stick, and a peaked hat; but alas, my wife has never permitted the regalia to leave the tissue paper in which it was received from the tailors and outfitters.”

He was not sure, but he suspected a responding twinkle in her eyes. She did not smile when she said:

“I am happy to meet you, Inspector Bonaparte. I saw you arrive with Burning Water. Your coming has caused much excitement.”

“I was almost overwhelmed by the welcome extended to me,” Bony stated, the twinkle still evident to her.

Now she smiled, saying:

“The blacks are like children-in many things.”

“The Inspector will be staying for a few days, dear,” McPherson cut in. “His luggage is being brought in by Price who is leaving at once. Should be here by half-past eight. I suggest that dinner be delayed.”

“As you wish, uncle. I will see that Ella prepares the room next the bathroom for Mr Bonaparte. Oh, and perhaps, Mr Bonaparte you would like a cup of tea?”

“It would be a really valuable gift-after a shower.”

“Of course, and a drink before the shower would be another,” she said, laughing at him. “Uncle, attend to our guest and beyourcharmingest. We have so few guests, MrBonaparte, that we cannot afford to neglect them.”

Bony bowed again, less grandly, and McPherson led the way to the dining-room, and yet again Bony was astonished and betrayed it only with a narrowing of the eyelids.

He followed his host to a massive Jacobean sideboard which must have weighed a ton. Only with effort did he prevent his interest becoming vulgar. The long table was set fortwo, tall hard-wax candles set in silver sconces were ready to shed soft light on silver and cut glass. Full-length portraits in oils of men dressed in tartan and kilt were suspended from the walls, iron-faced men with prominent jaws and small blue or grey eyes, men with faces reddened, not by the sun of Central Australia, but by the keen winds of the Scottish Highlands.