The Battling Prophet. Arthur W. Upfield
Читать онлайн книгу.
appeared to fall into the trap.
“I was on a case in New South Wales at the time, and since then Mr. Luton and I have occasionally corresponded. Having been seconded to the Adelaide Department, and having terminated my work, I accepted a long-standing invitation from Mr. Luton.”
“Oh! Ah! To be sure!” The small grey eyes probed, betraying the hardness behind the high and narrow forehead. “What do you do?” was the well-timed question.
“I’m a police officer. I was about to tell you my name when you hooked the fish. Detective-Inspector Bonaparte.”
“Oh! I’m happy to have met you, Inspector. Well, I hope you have a restful holiday and good fishing. Patience, you know. You must call on us one afternoon before you leave. I’m sure poor Ben’s sister would be delighted to receive you. Now I must be going. Remember me to Luton, won’t you. And do warn him against over-indulgence, and remind him of his years. I’m sure you could do much in that direction. Bye-bye! I hope we meet again.”
The Reverend Weston took up his creel, shouldered his rod, smiled at Bony and departed, and, when slowly winding in his line, Bony watched the ungainly figure grow small as it, passed under the trees towards the distant bridge.
“Quite a day,” remarked Mr. Luton when Bony entered the kitchen to find him trimming lamb chops for grilling. “Any bites?”
“Yes, a bite by a fish under water. And several bites by fish out of water.”
“Three of ’em,” stated Mr. Luton. “A doctor. A policeman. A parson. Old Knocker Harris did his job all right, didn’t he. A whisper down these parts is as good as a radio during a race meeting.”
“I have been instructed to warn you against overindulgence in the cursed drink. And, moreover, I have been requested to remind you of your years.”
“Is that all?” exclaimed Mr. Luton. “Didn’t he call me a sot?”
“I believe he did.”
“Then why didn’t you back me up by knocking him down?”
“Recalling how well you look, I accepted the charge as being amusing.”
“And he caught a fish?”
“Yes. Made his cast within a yard of my bait.”
“Parson’s luck,” snorted the old man. “You can’t win.”
“I shall, next time. Can I do anything?”
“If you like. Fetch some back logs for the fire tonight. There’s plenty on the wood-heap. Leave ’em on the edge of the veranda till we want ’em. How d’you like your chops?”
“Lightly grilled.”
Mr. Luton was about to serve dinner when Knocker Harris appeared at the back door and was invited to sit at table. Instead of the old dungarees, he was wearing a go-to-town reach-me-down suit badly in need of pressing. His brown eyes were twinkling, and he chewed energetically that he might swallow quickly the tobacco he had cupped into his mouth on arrival.
“Had a good day?” enquired Mr. Luton.
“Not so bad, like,” replied Knocker Harris. “Did a bit of business. Said a few words here and there.”
“Who did you see in town?”
“Oh, this one and that.”
Mr. Luton chuckled, placed a plate of chops and mashed potatoes before his guests, and himself sat at the head of the table, stiff and proper as any proud patriarch. On his either side squatted a dog, and on the hearth sat the purring cat.
“Any luck?” asked Knocker Harris, gripping a chop bone in a knuckly hand to enjoy the last of the meat.
“A good bite,” replied Bony. “Got away. I was half asleep and missed the strike.”
“You gets that way sometimes, waiting. J’u have any callers?”
“Three.”
“Ah!”
“The quack, the parson, and the policeman,” interjected Mr. Luton.
“Is that so!” Knocker Harris was immensely pleased. “Well, I expected something, like. Soon’s as I got to town, I seen the quack’s car outside his surgery, and I says ‘How d’you do’ to the chemist standing in his doorway. Then I had a chinwag with a couple of old ’uns on the seat outside the pub, and I sorta mentions we has a famous visitor out our way who knew Ben and seems to want to know a bit more, like. Then I went across the street and bought some pills off the chemist. I lets it drop to him about the visitor out here. Then in comes the quack to get something, and I leaves him being told about the visitor by the chemist. Seemed very interested by the noos.
“When I got back to the seat outside the pub, the old ’uns have gone in for their snifter, so I sits on the seat pretending to count me change, like. It happened that the newspaper bloke came out of the bar and, seeing me, he sits down and starts a yabber. ‘How’s the fish biting?’ ‘How’s the country lookin’?’ So I told him we had a famous visitor what knew poor Ben and seemed like grieving ’cos he’d died so quick, like.”
“Did you mention my name?” Bony asked, and Knocker Harris looked hurt.
“ ’Course not. You told me not to. I said what you told me. Said that our visitor was a detective. The paper bloke wanted to know your name, and I told him I just missed hearing John tell it. Anyway, he went off back to his paper to write it out, and I went for a dram of rum and had a word with the barman, like. He told me that Jukes would be leaving in his launch for his up-river house-boat, so I hunted a bit for Jukes and he said he’d be leavin’ about three and I could take a ride with him.
“After that I mucked about talkin’ to people. Trade’s pretty bad and they ain’t got much to do, like. Then I ambled down to the jetty and boarded Jukes’s launch to wait for him to turn up. The policeman turned up ’fore he did, and he wanted to know about our visitor, what his name was and all that, like.”
Knocker Harris returned his interest to the grilled chops, and Mr. Luton waited before saying:
“What d’you mean ... all that?”
“Oh! Wanted to know why we had our visitor. He wanted to know what he’d come for, like. Wanted to know if he was a relation of yours. You know, all them kind of questions, and I’m dumber than usual. What time did he get out?”
“About four.”
“Didn’t waste much time, did he.”
They ate in silence until Mr. Luton served baked apples with custard sauce. Then Knocker Harris said:
“The policeman would come in his car from the bridge. So would the quack. Which way did the parson come?”
“Down-river, following the path,” replied Bony.
“Ah!”
Another period of silence before Mr. Luton asked:
“Something on your mind?”
“Yair,” admitted Knocker Harris. “Been wonderin’ who’d been poking around me camp, that’s all. That ruddy nosey parson musta. Like his cheek. If I was to go mucking around up at the big house, they’d yell for the police, but they don’t mind rooting through my camp when me back’s turned, like. A quid for the rich and a kick in the stern for the poor. That’s it all over. Wait till the local politician comes asking for me vote. I’ll tell him. ”
“How do you know that the parson visited your camp?” interrupted Bony.
“Me dog told me when I got home. There isn’t much to that dog, but he can talk. To me, anyhow. First off, he told me someone had been mooching around the joint.”
Immediately the meal was over, Knocker Harris remembered he had to re-set his belled fish-line, and Mr. Luton told Bony it