Arthur Upfield - Wings above the Diamantina

“What you do now, Bony?” he asked softly.

“Throw a seven if you don’t eat your breakfast, Bony, that’s what you’ll be doing,” warned Bill Sikes. “You smoke and smoke and not eat. That no good.”

Bony looked at them. They were squatting over the small fire eating ajohnny -cake held in one hand and a wedge of grilled steak held in the other. His meat and johnnycake they had placed on a plate together with a knife and fork, and into a tin pannikin had been poured strong tea.

“You are a pair of good lads,” he told them smilingly, and at once their faces brightened. “This day will determine whether I go back to Brisbane as a senior police officer, or I wire to Marie, my wife, to join me and go bush for ever. First we will go to Gurner’s Hotel. Then we will call in at Tintanoo.”

It was a few minutes after six when they set off for the main road and Gurner’s Hotel. They were bogged four times before getting off the little-used track beside which they had made camp, and it was, therefore, nearly eleven when Bony pulled up outside the wayside hostelry.

“You two come with me,” directed Bony. “I want you to do just what I tell you, and do it without asking questions.”

Within the bar they found Gurner alone. He was seated behind the counter, engaged by a newspaper.

“Hullo, Inspector! Found that nig yet?” Gurner demanded with sarcasm in his throaty voice.

“Not yet, Mr Gurner. I wish to use your telephone. May I?”

Mr Gurner slipped off his high-legged chair to raise a counter flap, permitting Bony to reach the wall telephone at that end of the bar.

“Serve each of my friends with a bottle of lemonade, and draw me a glass of beer,” Bony ordered.

“It’s against the law to serve aborigines here. Still-lemonade’s all right, I suppose.”

“I am not respecting the law to-day,” said Bony. “It may be that after to-day you may not be troubled to serve aborigines with anything, Mr Gurner.”

“What’s that?”

“One moment, please.” Bony rang, and Miss Saunders’s cool voice replied.

“Kindly put me through to the police-station,” requested the detective, watching Gurner attending to the drinks. Then, with a palm pressed against the mouthpiece, he said to Bill Sikes: “Go out and bring Jack Johnson here.”

Wordlessly the aboriginal obeyed. Mr Gurner stared at Bony. Miss Saunders said: “Here you are,” and then Mrs Cox spoke.

“He is up the street somewhere,” she said in reply to Bony’s inquiry after her husband. “Is it important? Who is speaking?”

Bony informed her and stressed his wish to speak with the sergeant, whereupon Mrs Cox volunteered to go after him.

Replacing the telephone receiver, the detective passed to the front of the counter and picked up the glass of beer after pushing lemonade towards Shuteye. Mr Gurner pretended to be interested in his paper-until Bill Sikes returned pushing a reluctant blackfellow before him.

“You Jack Johnson?” sharply demanded Bony.

“Toori ’!” assented the yardman. Bony went on:

“I wanted to tell you a little story, Jack Johnson. There was, not far way, a station homestead where the cat always was having a rough time. It appeared that when the missus nagged the boss he roared at the boss stockman, and the boss stockman snarled at the stockmen, and the stockmen kicked their dogs, and the dogs chased the unfortunate cat. As there was a drought, the cat could not stalk the birds; and take it out of them. Now, Jack Johnson, you are the cat. You are going to get all the kicks and no ha’-pence. I am going to arrest you and take you off to jail.”

“Whaffor! Whaffor, Bony, boss, Mister Bonaparte? Me donenuthin ’. Whafforme go jail?”

“Because you are a bad-feller blackfeller,” Bony said mercilessly. “You are the cat, remember. In jail all blackfeller get one big walloping. Do you want me to arrest you and take you to jail?”

“No, no! Me no wantum!” cried poor Jack Johnson.

“All right, then. Now you tell me where that blackfeller chief, Illawalli, is.”

“How in hell does he know that?” interposed Mr Gurner.

“You are one of the dogs that chased the cat,” Bony told him. “Kindly be silent. Now, Jack Johnson!”

“He doesn’t know where-”

“Yes, I do Mister Bony Bonaparte,” yelled Jack Johnson. “I no go jail. I tell you. Ole Illawalli, him down in store cellar.”

The telephone bell rang sharply.

“He-he’slying,” shouted Gurner, pointing at the quaking yardman. “The missing nigger isn’t on my premises, I tell you. If he is, then that black devil sneaked him into my cellar.”

“Quiet, Mr Gurner. One moment, please,” entreated the detective. “Ah! That you, Sergeant? You know who is speaking? Right! The time has come to act. I want you to go along to the post office and request Mr Watts immediately to relieve Miss Saunders from duty. I understand that Mrs Watts was at one time a telephone operator, so she may be prevailed to take over from Miss Saunders. Please do that. I want Miss Saunders out of that post office in ten minutes. Ring me when she has been relieved.”

Turning away from the instrument, Bony regarded Gurner with gleaming eyes peering beneath knit brows. Gurner looked most uncomfortable. It was evident that he had no idea why Bony was demanding the removal of the telephone operator at Golden Dawn. Then Bony said softly:

“You, Bill Sikes, take Shuteye and make Jack Johnson show you where Illawalli is. Bring him here.”

“I won’t have it,” shouted Mr Gurner violently. “Where’s your warrant?”

“Permit me to remind you, Mr Gurner, that your premises are open to the police at any time. Permit me also to remind you that your best future policy is to confess all you know about the kidnapping of Illawalli, and of several other matters about which I intend to ask you.”

The discovery of Illawalli now spurred Bony to the edge of recklessness. In the bar Gurner’s breathing was the only sound. The publican was watching Bony with his little eyes. The detective could see the man’s brain working at high pressure. To them presently came the sound of shuffling feet approaching the bar along the house passage, and then into the bar came Shuteye and Bill Sikes carrying by feet and shoulders the inert figure of an ancient, white-haired aboriginal, who still wore on his head an airman’s flying helmet.

It was Illawalli.

“Is he dead?” inquired Bony with icy calm.

Shuteye laughed. “Ole Illawalli, him drunk.”

“He was down there in the booze cellar all free to drink what he liked,” supplemented Bill Sikes. “And he liked, too right!”

“I know nothing about him!” shouted Gurner, springing off his chair to peer over the counter at the figure now lying on the bar-room floor.

“Jack Johnson, he says Gurner and Mr Kane took old Illawalli down into the cellar,” Sikes explained. “Jack Johnsonsay Mr Kane brought Illawalli in his car. They took Illawalli down the cellar, and Mr Kane himselfsay to drink up and stay there before Bony come for him.”

“Lies! All lies!” cried Gurner violently. “If itain’t lies-if Mr Kane did put him down my cellar-then he’ll pay for all the grog that nig has swamped! I didn’t know he was down there. Iain’t been there for a week.”

“Jack Johnson says you and Mr Kane took tucker down to ole Illawalli, andlas ’ night when ole Illawalli wanted to come up you took him a few Pink-eye gins to keep him drunk,” Bill Sikes continued. “Ain’tthat all correct, Jack Johnson?”

The yardman admitted it with surprising cheerfulness.

Again the telephone bell rang shrilly.

“Cox here, Bony. Mr Watts wants to speak.”

“Very well.”

“Ah, Mr Bonaparte! W-what’s all this regarding Miss Saunders?” stuttered the postmaster. “Sergeant Cox asks me to suspend from duty the telephone exchange operator, Miss Saunders, but he gives me no grounds for such action. I don’t understand it. Without grounds for action I could not do that. Miss Saunders has always given me satisfaction.”