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me,” the old man said. “Seems they can’t begin where Ben left off, up at the Mount. It’s got ’em stonkered. Quack said Ben hadn’t confided fully in Dr. Linke. Then he asked me who you were. Like you said if he did, I told him. What d’you think? He come to find out about the papers or to find out about you, having heard the furphy published by Knocker Harris?”

      “Perhaps both with equal intent. What else did he say?”

      “Only jawed me about the drink. Said he was glad to see I looked sober and healthy. Advised me to stay that way. Seemed a bit friendly this time. Funny how people can be friendly when they want. It’s after three. What about a mug of tea? Shall I bring the billy out here?”

      They had their tea on the veranda, and Bony went back to his fishing. He had been sitting on the log half an hour when there came up-river a smart motor-cruiser and, as it passed, Knocker Harris waved vigorously and yelled a “Good-dayee”. After that the shadows spread over the water, and the kookaburras gained strength enough to chortle and chuckle. Near sundown, a second car came from the bridge and stopped at the wicket gate.

      The gate slammed, and when Bony glanced back he saw a large man standing at the foot of the veranda steps talking to Mr. Luton. A minute passed, when the gate slammed again, and fifteen seconds after that noise Bony heard a heavy tread and a deep voice saying:

      “Good-dayee!”

      “Good-day!” replied Bony, glancing at the big man’s thick legs and heavy boots. “It’s been a nice day.”

      “Yair! One out of the mitt.” The man sat on the end of the log and rolled a cigarette, and Bony slyly watched the thick and capable fingers. “I’m Senior Constable Ralph Gibley. That right you’re down from the C.I.B.? Heard that you are. Could be wrong.”

      “Yes, I am staying for a few days with Mr. Luton. I am Inspector Bonaparte.”

      “Inspect ... Did you say Inspector Bonaparte?”

      “If my memory isn’t faulty, I did. Why?”

      “Ah!” The exclamation held a hint of satisfaction. “You wouldn’t be imagining things, would you, er, Inspector?”

      “Imagining what things?” mildly asked Bony.

      “Imagining that you’re an inspector in the Police Department. It happens that I know there’s no Inspector Bonaparte in the South Australian Police Department. I know for sure the name of every officer, and would take a chance on knowing the name of every man. What d’you say to that?”

      “Nothing of importance.” The rod was placed on the ground, and then Constable Gibley was swiftly caught in the net of two startlingly blue eyes which seemed to grow large and larger and give him the feeling that his mind was being prised open to admit them.

      “A caste, too,” he managed to say. “What a yarn to put over!”

      The eyes vanished, and he felt relief as though from physical pressure. Then he was looking at a police badge. Then he was gazing with mounting perturbation at a wallet open to show an identity card. He looked up and again encountered the eyes, and wished they were not there.

      “Perhaps you would like to check by sending a telegram to your Divisional Headquarters? I understand that your D.H. is at Mount Gambier. I was talking to Senior Sergeant Maskell the day before yesterday.”

      “Yes, sir. My mistake, perhaps. But ... how was I to know?”

      “Merely by asking. D’you fish?”

      “Fish! Yes, sometimes.”

      “I’m fishing for kingfish, and baiting for bream. Could I do better?”

      “Don’t think so, sir.”

      “I am, too, on a sort of vacation, so please omit the ‘sir’. Your inaccurate summing-up of me, based on my birth, no doubt, is pardonable in view of the fact that only in the Queensland Department are brains recognised and encouraged. How many cases of homicide unsolved in South Australia these last ten years?”

      “I don’t rightly know,” admitted the policeman, still jittery.

      “There are eleven murder cases still to be terminated,” went on Bony. “There are two in Queensland where I belong. I was prevented from concentrating on those.”

      The policeman obviously saw something beyond Bony, for he stood hastily, apology plain on his large and weather-beaten face. As the doctor had, so he now said:

      “See you again sometime, Inspector. I must be on my way back to town. The parson’s coming. Sort of character I can’t stand at any price. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

      He left abruptly, and hurried to his car, which he turned and drove towards the bridge and the highway. Approaching from the direction of Knocker Harris’s camp was a tall figure wrapped in an overcoat and wearing a shabby grey hat. He walked with ungainly gait, and he rested on one shoulder a long, stout fishing-rod, and carried slung from the other a fisherman’s creel. He watched the river he was following, and appeared to start with surprise when encountering the still seated Bony.

      “How d’you do!” he greeted, and came to stand before the fisherman who had caught nothing all day. “Any luck?”

      “None, so far.”

      “Mind me casting here for a minute or two?”

      “Not at all.”

      “Thank you, thank you.” He baited his hook and prepared to cast. “I suppose that policeman told you I’m a blasted parson, eh?”

      “He did so allude to you,” smiled Bony, and the man chuckled to remind Bony of the kookaburras.

      “He would. Mr. Gibley and I fail to get along together. I regret that his soul is helpless and hopeless. I’m the Reverend Weston, you know, of Mount Mario. Could you reciprocate? I like meeting people.”

      He made the cast.

      “I am Ins . . .” began Bony, when the parson hooked a whopper.

      Chapter Six

      The Ball Roller

      They stood with the fish dying at their feet, and when their gaze clashed, the small light-grey eyes of the Reverend Weston were impishly triumphant.

      “A nice fish,” he said. “A seven-pounder, eh?”

      “Something like that,” Bony agreed.

      “Well, well! I was hoping for luck as we have had no fish for a week. Where are you staying?”

      “With Mr. Luton.”

      “Luton, eh! Pliable ... when he consents to remain sober. I trust you are not a slave to John Barleycorn.”

      The reverend gentleman knelt to fit the fish into his creel.

      “Mr. Luton conforms to type,” Bony said. “He’s a relic from the old days when men worked hard and suffered Spartan conditioning, and broke wide open under grog after long self-imposed abstinence. At present Mr. Luton does not look like an addict.”

      “I’m glad to hear it. He is often a sot. Ah, why do men indulge like brute beasts? Why cannot they use God’s gifts with respect? I like a glass of wine occasionally, and I think I am tolerant. Moderation in all things, yes. Immoderate drinking is as bad as immoderate preaching, and I know many such sinners. Now you will say I live in a glass house. I am, however, perturbed by Luton’s outbreaks. My dear friend, the late Ben Wickham, was Luton’s crony. He died over there in the house, in delirium tremens. I fear that Luton will go the same way.”

      “Not while I am with him,” Bony assured the parson.

      “Good man!” came approvingly. “Staying long?”

      “A week or ten days, perhaps.”

      “From Adelaide?”

      “Actually

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