Arthur Upfield - The Barrakee Mystery

Dear Mr Thornton,

The case of the recent murder near your house presents a problem, now no nearer solution. Murders of, or by, aboriginals generally are difficult to investigate, for as you well know the mind of the aboriginal baffles the intelligence of the white.

The baptismal names of the bearer are Napoleon Bonaparte, but he may be persuaded to adopt a nom de plume. In any case, he is entitled to admiration for his powers of observation and deduction, as proved by many past successes in the solving of mysteries concerning aboriginals. In short, he is the finest bush detective in the Commonwealth.

HQ have loaned his services from Queensland, and I have been instructed to ask the favour of your assistance, which is necessary. He himself suggests that you give him employment about the homestead, such as painting your two boats, which I observed required paint. Although he stands much higher in the Force than I do, he will want to dine and live with your hands.

The letter was signed by Sergeant Knowles, and was marked “Strictly Confidential”. Thornton glanced up and regarded his visitor with interest.

“Sit down, Mr Bonaparte,” he said, indicating the chair on the far side of his desk.

The man smiled, revealing gleaming teeth. Hisblue eyes-the only other indication of the white in him-were twinkling when he said:

“My name, Mr Thornton, is Bony, without any ‘Mister’. Everyone calls me Bony, from my chief to my wife and children in Brisbane.”

“Then I, too, will call you Bony,” agreed the station-owner pleasantly. “How did you come by your startling name?”

“I can assure you it was no wish of mine to insult the illustrious Emperor,” explained the stranger. He accepted a cigarette with grace, and lighting it, went on, “I was discovered at the tender age of two weeks with my dead mother under a sandalwood tree in the far north of Queensland, and I was taken to the nearest mission station. There, a little later, the necessity for a name arose; and, whilst various names occupied the mind of the respected matron, she observed me trying to eat a copy of Abbott’sLife of Napoleon Bonaparte. I have concluded since that the matron was a humorous soul.”

“Sergeant Knowles says here that you have obtained not a little renown in the detection of crime. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you.”

“I am glad to hear that, Mr Thornton.” Bony blew a series of perfect smoke-rings. Then, calmly giving expression to an astounding vanity, he added: “If everyone had heard of me there would be no murders. My occupation would be gone, and I would be a most unhappy man.”

“The sergeant says you want me to give you a job here,” Thornton said.

“Yes. I thought I might allay suspicion by painting your boats. That occupation will give me opportunity to examine the scene of the murder. I will live with the men. Is Clair still here?”

“Yes. But I am thinking of sending him out to the back of the run. Will you want him?”

“Not just now. Are the blacks-Pontius Pilate’s crowd-still camped up the river?”

“They are.”

“Good! I may want them. Treat them with all kindness, Mr Thornton, for, as I said, I may want them. Should they suddenly decide to go for a walkabout, I might ask you to give them rations to keep them.”

“Yes, all right. Have you formed any theories regarding the murder?”

“Plenty. However, it’s certain that the crime was the conclusion of a feud lasting many years. Did you know King Henry? Did he ever work here, as Pontius Pilate stated?”

“Although at the time I did not remember him, I found on looking up my business diaries that he was employed here some twenty years ago for a period of ten weeks.”

“Ah! And Clair?”

“Clair has never worked here before.”

For a little while they stared at each other. Then:

“Clair’s past is a mystery,” Bony said thoughtfully. “However, I do not suspect Clair above others. D’youknow if Clair can throw a boomerang?”

“As far as I am aware, he cannot. Why?”

Bony ignored the question.

“Have you seen at any time any of Pontius Pilate’s crowd throwing a boomerang?” he asked.

“No. Why these questions?”

“If you answer my next question in the affirmative I will tell you. Sergeant Knowles informs me that there are several gum-trees about the place where King Henry was found dead. At the time of the murder, or since, you have not by any chance observed a wound on the trunk of one of them, such as would be made by being sharply struck by a sharp-edged piece of iron?”

Instantly Mr Thornton was taken back to the day following the crime. Again he saw the two policemen quartering the ground looking for clues, and the trunk of the giant gum bearing just such a wound as Bony described.

“Yes,” he said, and gave the details.

“Good!” Bony announced with satisfaction. “We now know that if King Henry was not actually murdered by a boomerang one was thrown at him. How do we know? In his statement Frank Dugdale said that he heard a sound like the whirring of ducks, followed by a sharp report similar to a paling being struck by a stick. That was the flight of a boomerang and its impact against a tree. You see how sensible were the officials of New South Wales to loan from Queensland poor old Bony.”

Bony on Boomerangs

“AH!” BONY and the squatter were standing before the great gum-tree bearing the strange wound. The clean-cut fresh injury was now distorted by gummy exudations, light amber in colour and crystal clear. After a minute inspection at a distance of two yards, the half-caste placed the packing-case he had brought against the tree and, stepping on it, proceeded to remove the gum crystals with a clasp-knife.

It was the morning following his appearance at Barrakee. Bony had been with the men at nine o’clock when they gathered outside the office to receive their orders and, taking care that he was heard, he had asked the squatter for work.

Thornton had appeared to cogitate, and then stated that the applicant could start right away and paint the two boats.

One of the boats had been hauled up on the riverbank, and lay there bottom-up on low trestles. A blow-lamp to remove the old paint and several triangular scrapers were in evidence.

No one recognized Bony, or guessed his profession, but one man. The instant he saw him, Clair’s eyes narrowed; for, while the half-caste never remembered having seen the gaunt man before, Clair remembered the black trackers who had at one time left Longreach with the police to hunt down a madman. And when, from behind the pumping-engine, Clair saw the two by the gum-tree, he was sure that the newcomer was there to investigate. He wondered what Bony was doing to the bark of the tree.

It had been urgently impressed on Thornton that the ultimate success of Bony’s activities depended on everyone on the station, including the women, being kept in ignorance of his profession. The squatter had given his word to remain silent on that point.

At the end of ten minutes the strange detective stepped down from the case and shut his knife.

“The examination and study of boomerangs, Mr Thornton, is of absorbing interest,” he remarked.

“It must be,” the other agreed, inwardly agreeing also that the study of this educated and refined half-caste, a foundling picked up from the shade of a sandalwood tree in Northern Queensland, was also of absorbing interest.

“Having always been interested in lethal weapons, my knowledge of the boomerang is unsurpassed,” Bony stated, with unconscious but superb conceit. “There are three kinds of boomerang,” he went on. “The Wongium, which returns in its flight to the thrower; the Kirras, which does not return; and the very heavy Murrawirrie. The Yarra blacks, now unhappily wiped out by you gentle white people, used only the first two-the Wongium for killing birds, and the Kirras as a war weapon.