Arthur Upfield - The Bone is Pointed

“And I’d sooner lose you as my chief than Bony,” flashed Superintendent Browne.

“That’s right! Argue!” shouted the Colonel. “Waste time arguing when that poor fellow’s out there in the back of beyond dying. By gad, Browne, it’s terrible. Let me see! Yes, you send Sergeant- No, that won’t do. Ah-what about you going out to Opal Town? You could bring Bony back, arrest him if necessary. Trip would do you good. Buck you up. You’re getting too easy with the men. Charter a plane. Go on, do something instead of gawking at me like that.”

A snort. Browne was on his feet. The Colonel pushed his chair back so forcibly that it turned over.

“Money! You ring up the aerodrome about the plane. I’ll see to the money.”

As Browne and his chief moved towards the door, Colonel Spendor bawled for Lowther. Lowther opened the door before Browne could do so.

“You called, sir?”

“Called, Lowther? No, I was singing a tune. You sit down and write a draft letter to the Chief Secretary saying that our advice about the termination of Bonaparte’s appointment was based on wrong premises. You know, much regret and all that foolishness.”

“It’s not necessary, sir. The letter referring to Inspector Bonaparte’s appointment was never sent.”

“Never sent! Why?”

“I forgot to send it, sir.”

Lowther was standing erect, his face a mask.

Slowly the grim expression of the Colonel’s brick-red face faded, and slowly into the dark-grey eyes crept a furtive gleam like sunshine seen through falling rain. Out went one plump hand to grasp Lowther’s forearm and squeeze it. Colonel Spendor knew that his secretary never forgot anything.

Facets

ON the morning of the first of November Sergeant Blake received this telegram:

Superintendent Browne leaving by plane to-day for Opal Town. Try to obtain Inspector Bonaparte’s consent to camp with him. Do all possible assist valued officer of the Department. Your action commended. Spendor.

Mrs Blake read this message twice before looking up to encounter her husband’s eyes.

“I said you would be doing the right thing by writing to Harry,” she said, very much the woman. “ ‘Your action commended.’ It might mean a transfer east, or even promotion. Anyway, you’re relieved of responsibility, or very soon will be. Harry ought to be here when?”

“Late this evening. That’s if he leaves early to-day. Don’t think he will, though, otherwise I wouldn’t have been urged to get Bony’s consent to camp with him.”

“When are you leaving for his camp?”

“About eleven,” Blake replied. “I’ve a few jobs to do in the office.”

“Well, I’m sending out a billy of fresh milk and some coffee. You try to persuade Bony to drink some. It’ll be better than only the brandy and water. Thank the good God that Harry is coming west to take him away. Such a nice man, too, in spite of his birth. What about taking a mattress and blankets in case Bony consents-?”

“It’d be no use. He won’t let me stay with him.”

Blake hurried back to the office to answer a telephone summons. He stepped smartly, for the load that had ridden him since he had written his letter to Superintendent Browne was now lifted. “Your action commended” sounded good. To his surprise he heard the voice of Old Lacy when he answered the call.

“Good day-ee, Sergeant. No, I’m not up. The leg is still ironed in plaster and the women won’t leave me alone. The lad has put an extension of the phone through to my bedroomso’s I can talk to the hands and shake ’emup. How’s Bony?”

“No better, Mr Lacy. He’s becoming very weak.”

“Has he still got the pains in his kidneys and where his liver ought to be?”

“Yes, gets them bad at night. He can’t sleep, and then when day comes he won’t, saying he mustn’t let up on his work.”

“Humph! Well, he’s got plenty of guts, that feller, I must say. I’ve been thinking about him a lot, and I’m getting damned worried. You remember when you came out here and I told you that a man suffering from the Barcoo sickness wouldn’t get pains where he’s got ’em?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as I said, I’ve been thinking and worrying a lot about Bony. I don’t believe he’s got the Barcoo sickness. I think he’s been boned by some of those Kalchut blacks. Stands to reason that having killed Jeff Anderson, as I’ve always thought, they would try to prevent anyone from sheeting the crime home to them. Bony being a half-caste gives them a pull.”

Blake raised the old argument of the triumph of education over such superstition.

“Education makes no difference, except that the boning takes longer to accomplish, Sergeant. Either he’s being boned or he’s being poisoned. The blacks would even do that, even poison the water when he was away from camp. I’m voting for the boning, anyway. He will have to clear out. There’s nothing else for it. If he doesn’t the bone will finish him. You’d better report his condition and advise his removal if he won’t go.”

“Yes, I suppose that is what had better be done,” agreed Blake, and added: “Miss Lacy been talking it over with you?”

“Well, yes, she mentioned that one day she met Bony and he told her his condition was something like the effects of being boned. She’s a bit worried, too. Now, look here. You being under Bony in rank, and probably not wanting to interfere, what if I write to Brisbane and tell ’emwhat we suspect?”

“Might be a good idea,” conceded Blake, thoughtfully.

“All right! I’ll write to-day, now. The lad is flying to town this afternoon with the mail. I’m sorry to have to do it, but we can’t let Bony die in trying to clear up what most likely will never be known. So long!”

“How’s the old leg?” Blake managed to get in before Old Lacy could hang up.

“What’s that? Oh, the leg! Gives me jip. They’ve got it hoisted to the roof, and the women won’t let me move. Linden says I’ll be here for weeks yet.” There was a throaty chuckle. “The quack wanted me to go to the hospital where he’d have me under his eyes, but I’m nothavin ’ any. When a man’s got to leave his home he can leave it in a box. I’m staying hereso’s I can keep a tally on things. I’m a long way from being dead or disinterested in my job.”

“There’s nothing like keeping cheerful to live long,” Blake said, himself cheerful.

He arrived at the Karwir boundary gate a few minutes before twelve o’clock. This place of meeting had had to be abandoned because of Bony’s increasing physical weakness. Blake drove on towards Karwir another mile and took the branch track to Green Swamp. Three miles from, the main road he came to the southern edge of the southernmost depression on which stood the corner post where the netted barrier ran north for two miles to turn east again opposite Bony’s tent camp. By now Sergeant Blake’s car had laid a trail over the several depressions and the narrow sand-banks separating them, and to-day when he sent the machine across each depression it was not unlike driving through lakes of water, so heavy was the mirage. The car’s tracks on the wide, flat depressions were barely discernible, but they could be seen crossing the sandbanks that appeared like a distant shore.

When he had crossed the northernmost of the depressions and was moving over the flat land towards the towering dunes of sand at the edge of which smoked Bony’s fire before the white tent, two dogs came racing to welcome him. They barked frantically about the car until it stopped a little distance from the fire.

Detective-Inspector Bonaparte was sitting on an empty petrol case in the shade of one of the two cabbage-trees. As Blake alighted from the machine, he rose to his feet, drew water from the nearby iron tank, and carried the billy to the fire. Bony looked an aged man. His body was bent. His face was a travesty, the cheeks being sunken, the eyes lustreless, the mouth a fixed grin. Only the voice was unaltered.