The Battling Prophet. Arthur W. Upfield
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dogs were squatting that they could watch both their master and the visitor. Bony struck a match, lit a cigarette, puffed out the flame and balanced the stick on the heeler’s nose. The dog played along, moving only his tail.
“You got a way with dogs,” observed the old man, faintly impatient. “I hope you will be stayin’.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Luton. Even the coach driver assured me that the fishing was good. Ah! Someone coming.”
Chapter Two
Hoo-Jahs
Beyond the door appeared a man, who called: “Hey, there, John! You around?”
The frame of the door darkened and there stepped into the kitchen a man tall and lean and weather-bashed. He was wearing a suit of dungarees so often boiled that the colour was like blue-veined stone. Smiling, obviously embarrassed, he sat on a chair near the door and fondled the dogs.
“That,” remarked Mr. Luton, pointing the stem of his pipe at the caller, “that is my neighbour up-river a bit. Name is Knocker Harris. He believes in no one and nothing. It was him who recommended I write the letter to you, Inspector.”
“That’s me, Inspector,” agreed Knocker Harris. “Pleased to meet cher. Me nephew, Frank Lord, you put away for his natural, always said you’re a top detective, and if he hadn’t sort of accidentally shot that prospector in the bush, you wouldn’t have been on to the job and he wouldn’t have been nabbed like. So we reckoned you are the man to understand John’s ideas about the jerks. Not that Ben wasn’t murdered. Got too dangerous for the politicians, he did. I told him more’n once to go easy, but he would never listen.”
“You talk too much,” Mr. Luton asserted severely.
“That’s me,” ruefully agreed Mr. Harris.
“Knocker is given to making wild statements,” Mr. Luton said, accusingly. “I like to keep to a bit of reason, because people might say we’re old and mentally wonky. You heard Knocker say the Government murdered Ben. Then again the Commos could have done it, hoping to get what he’d worked out. Ben wasn’t just an ordinary bloke, like us.”
The fishing was slipping from Bony’s mind. He said:
“Mr. Wickham told you something of his work, it would seem.”
“During the past half-century or thereabouts,” replied Mr. Luton. “If you read the papers you’ll know that three years ago he made it public that, given fifty years of weather records, he could forecast for sure what the weather would be like four, five, six years ahead. No matter what part of Australia, no matter what part of the world, providing he had them fifty years’ records. Not what the weather was likely to be, but what the weather would be, any particular day or night. He predicted this drought, even the days when the rain threatened and didn’t come. You know what happened?”
“What did happen?” replied Bony.
“The farmers didn’t do any fallowing last summer and autumn. They didn’t sow crops this winter. So they didn’t buy any super-phosphate and other manures. They didn’t buy any machinery last year, and they won’t be buying any this year. They sold their stock and sacked their hands. And the graziers cut their stock down to barest, and put off their stockmen. And none of ’em, neither farmers nor graziers, lashed out a lot of money on work and wages and machinery just to watch it burned to dust by the sun. So none of ’em are in the hands of the banks and financial concerns. Instead of the drought bankrupting ’em, they’re all living comfortably on their fat.”
Mr. Luton regarded Bony with quiet confidence, and Knocker Harris said:
“And that’s why Ben was murdered.”
“Murdered because he assisted the farmers and graziers?” Bony expostulated.
“No, murdered because the finance companies, the big merchants and the banks couldn’t sell their stuff and lend money to the farmers and graziers and make ’em their slaves for years to come, like they always did following droughts.”
Knocker Harris again put in his oar.
“And the Gov’ment’s in it, too, Federal and State. ’Cos why? ’Cos the men on the land threw thousands of men on the labour market. The machinery makers have their yards a mile high with rustin’ iron, and the manure firms have mountains of super no one will take at any price, and the oil companies can’t sell tractor oil. Y’see, Inspector, knowing what the weather is going to be this day next year, like, and this day the year after, is no damn good to lots and lots of people with lots and lots of money to lend out to drought-stricken farmers. So they bumped off poor old Ben.”
Mr. Luton rose to knock his pipe against the stove. Bony slowly rolled yet another thing some persons might name a cigarette. The two men watched and waited as though for his verdict.
“The newspapers told me,” he said, “that Wickham died in this house, and early one morning. The doctor stated, and so signed the certificate, that death was due to heart disease. You support a private report made to me that he died during a bout of delirium tremens. Well?”
“We were having the hoo-jahs. We were both getting over ’em,” declared Mr. Luton. “We were at the tail-end of ’em when Ben died that morning. He should of come out of them hoo-jahs like he always did. Same as me. But he died instead. Of something else.”
“The doctor said it was alcoholic poisoning,” interjected Bony.
“The quack’s a bone-pointer, like. He wouldn’t know,” argued Knocker Harris, savagely pulling at his dirty-grey ragged moustache.
“Mr. Wickham had been drinking hard for more than three weeks,” Bony persisted.
“Not a reason,” countered Mr. Luton. “We often drank hard for six weeks. Once for two months, solid. Nearly got carted off to hospital that time.”
“Wickham was seventy-five.”
“I’m eighty-four, Inspector.”
“You told the policeman that that morning you woke from a good sleep. Feeling slightly better, you decided to light the stove and prepare something to eat. You were busy with the stove when you heard Mr. Wickham laughing. Mr. Wickham was occupying the front room. You went to him and found him sitting up in bed. He continued to laugh, and appeared to be unaware of your presence. You returned to the kitchen and brewed a pot of tea. When you returned to your friend with tea and dry biscuits, Wickham was lying back on the bed asleep. So you thought. You covered him with the bedclothes and left him for an hour. On again going to join him, you discovered that he was dead. Correct, Mr. Luton?”
“All correct,” replied the old man, his eyes hard, his chin like a rock. “Still, Ben didn’t die of the drink. He was pointing to things on his legs, and he was laughing like hell at what he was seeing. We had been boozing on gin for a bit more’n three weeks, and gin don’t have that effect on any man. Want me to prove it?”
“If you can,” Bony assented, “prove it.”
“I will, when I’ve lit the stove. Switch on the light, Knocker.”
The stove was already prepared for lighting, and the electric light pushed the dying day a million miles beyond the doorway. Knocker said, as though Bony might be doubtful:
“He can, too.” He smiled brightly, and Mr. Luton, turning back to the table, saw the smile and stared disapprovingly. He was breathing a trifle fast, and the fingers loading the pipe shook a little, all telling Bony that this was the crucial moment for which Mr. Luton had hoped. He began slowly, a pause between each word:
“Back in the Year One, when I was wearing out me tenth pair of pants, I’d got sense enough to stick to whatever I started on, and found I could go further and stand up longer. You know how it is with us—a good, hearty booze-up every year, perhaps twice a year, very rare more’n three times a year.
“I haven’t had time to tell you yet, but Ben and me was mates