LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

interrupted Harry Lawton. “He knows more about ’em than the perfessors and them sort of blokes.”

      “He could have done, too, if he’d had any education,” agreed Harte. “Well, that’s how it is with Ole Fren Yorky. You heard how he got the name?”

      “Yes. And what you have said supports what I already know of him,” replied Bony, and bending over the desk he jotted a note on a slip of paper. “It does seem that Yorky must have lost his balance through the booze to have shot Mrs Bell. Could you say he tended to be mentally childish?”

      “No,” said Arnold with conviction. “Yet he wasn’t ... I don’t know how to put it. He reminds me of a nephew of mine down in Adelaide. Used to moon about when other kids were playing or larking. Got so when he grew older that he went around dreaming. But he had brains. Ended by being a first class commercial artist with a publishing firm in Sydney. No, Yorky was never wonky. The way he plays poker proves that.”

      “He had what I’d call low cunning,” commented Lawton. “You could never tell what cards he held.”

      “So that all of you actually find it hard to believe that Ole Fren Yorky did shoot Mrs Bell?” asked Bony.

      “That’s about it,” agreed Arnold, and the others nodded agreement. “There’s times when I won’t believe it.”

      “You are sure those were his tracks you picked out?”

      “Too right! Couldn’t mistake ’em,” replied Harte.

      Bony presented his note to Arnold, and said:

      “When I locate Yorky, we shall know all about it. The motive will be interesting; the way of his escape will be interesting too.”

      Arnold nodded to Harte, and they left the office. The others watched them leave, knowing they did so at the behest of Bony’s note. Wootton cleared his throat preparatory to saying something, and was stopped by a screech from without.

      Struggling figures appeared in the doorway, and the men brought in a furious lubra.

      Chapter Six

      The Art of Reasoning

      “Lemme go, you Arnold Bray. Lemme go, I say,” shouted Sarah, and, having inserted the large woman into the office, Arnold and Harte freed her arms and blocked the doorway. Either Sarah was in excellent form, or the struggle hadn’t lasted long, but she now stood with fists balled into her hips, a glare in her eyes, and requiring only a broomstick or a rolling-pin to ape her white counterpart.

      “She was round at the back wall with her ear to a crack,” announced Arnold. “Just listening in.”

      “I was only sittin’ in the shade outside that hot ole kitchen,” shouted Sarah, and Wootton would have spoken had not Bony said, placatingly:

      “Well, there’s no harm in that, Sarah. It’s deep shade here, and you are entitled to it. Still, there’s house shade outside the kitchen door, and I saw only an hour ago a nice chair. You go there and sit in that easy chair, or even better, what about morning tea?” Again Wootton attempted to speak, but Bony waved him to silence. The lubra’s black eyes encountered the blue eyes of the slim Napoleon Bonaparte, blue eyes hinting at laughter, friendliness, and abruptly she smiled:

      “Mornin’ tea! Crikey! I forgot about it. That Meena! She should of told me.”

      Nodding to Bony, she turned about, scowled at the men and went out like a cork down a drain.

      “Well, what d’you make of that?” demanded Wootton, his face flushed. “Eavesdropping for sure. You should have made her tell us why she was doing that, Inspector!”

      “You cannot make those people do anything they don’t wish to do,” Bony said, coldly. “That she was listening is a point, but only that. We have to remember that she and Yorky were friends, and that she must be interested in his fate, as we are. I think you men may leave. Perhaps this afternoon or this evening we could get together again and talk. All right with you?” They assented: then as they were about to go, young Lawton asked:

      “Mind telling why you wanted us to mark that map with where we were that day Mrs Bell was murdered?”

      “Not at all. It was mere police routine. You see, any one of you four men could have returned after Mr Wootton left that day, then shot Mrs Bell and taken the child away and killed her. Even you, Mr Wootton, could have done just that.”

      “But what about Yorky? Yorky was known to come here that morning,” pressed Lawton, and the others nodded quick agreement.

      “As I told you, it is merely police routine to establish the whereabouts of everyone at the assumed time the crime was committed. In fact I think Constable Pierce asked for that information, and that it is recorded in his report.”

      “He did make a song and dance about it,” admitted young Lawton. “Looks like we’re all sort of suspect, don’t it?”

      “Pierce acted rightly,” patiently continued Bony. “Look at it this way. Not one of you is supported by a witness as to what you did between the time you left the homestead and the time you returned. No one saw Yorky at the blacks’ camp other than Mr Wootton. To be sure, Bill Harte found Yorky’s tracks back of the meat-house, and showed them to Arnold Bray, who agreed they were his. To be sure, Yorky’s tracks were found at the homestead gate. Pierce took plaster casts of those tracks. Before Yorky is put on trial, if he is, the casts must prove that he actually made those tracks, that he was, in fact, at this homestead on that morning. A good policeman, and Pierce is a good policeman, leaves nothing to chance.”

      “Fair enough,” supported Wootton. “All right, you men can take the day off, and if you think of anything, I’m sure the Inspector will be happy to talk it over.”

      They were drifting across the square to the quarters when the morning tea gong was beaten, and they about-turned and went back to the meal annexe. Tea and buttered scones were served by Meena to Bony and his host on the house veranda, and when she had withdrawn, Bony questioned about her.

      He learned that a religious body conducted a Mission Church and school a few miles out from Loaders Springs. Aborigines, both adults and children, were warmly welcomed. A large number of children chose to live at the Mission, chose to because there was no compulsion. They were taught the elementary subjects—drawing and painting, basketwork, needlework, woodwork, and in return assisted the pastor and his wife with the stock and the garden.

      “I visited the place one afternoon,” Wootton said. “Surprised me, the work the children were doing in class. And how they sang, too! I had only just come here, was still raw to the country, and I asked the pastor what happened to the children when they left. He said: ‘Oh, the lads become stockmen, and the girls do domestic service round about. That’s when it suits them. We do our best, as we hope you can see, but after they leave us, the old ones get them back.’”

      “I can understand that,” Bony agreed with the pastor. “Meena, though, seems to be an excellent maid.”

      “I think so. Yes, she’s good in a house. But then neither she nor Sarah will stay here overnight, and there’s no telling that they’ll turn up in the morning, or go off with the others on a walkabout. That girl can sew and mend as good as Mrs Bell could. And Charlie—you saw him this morning—is a damn fine wood carver.”

      Wootton stretched his thin, short legs and lit his pipe.

      “You ought to see the dolls he carved for little Linda Bell. One is the dead spit of Ole Fren Yorky, and there’s another you’d say was my image. The one supposed to be Mrs Bell isn’t so good, but another one, of Meena, to my mind, is the best of the lot. We’ll go and see them if you like. They’re over in the playhouse.”

      “Yes, I’d like to see them. I understand that the men built the playhouse. Which reminds me: did Linda spend much of her days there?”

      “A good deal, Inspector,” replied the cattleman reflectively.

Скачать книгу