The Lake Frome Monster. Arthur W. Upfield
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from crows or eagles. The overseer took his trackers back to the homestead at high speed. Shortly afterwards, the pedal radio was churning out its news to Broken Hill and the police and a retinue of black trackers descended on the site. A temporary camp was set up and the trackers put to work circling the body in ever-widening arcs to pick up the killer’s tracks. They returned at dusk reporting failure, for the westerly wind had so increased in velocity that even the cattle tracks on exposed areas had been levelled out and the shifting sand had made their task impossible. Strangely enough, one tracker did report having found camel tracks through distant stands of trees and old man saltbush. He advised the police that the animal had been approaching the bore from the north and appeared to have watered at the point where the bore stream vanished into the sand and where most of its salt content would have been filtered out of the water. Other than that and a flurry of cattle tracks, nothing of any significance was found. The police made all the usual inquiries from those Fence workers and stockmen who could have been in the vicinity, but none of these inquiries or the following inquest on Maidstone did anything to resolve the mystery of his death. His family could suggest no reason why anybody should have wanted to take his life and, after listening to what evidence the police had to put before him, the Coroner had no hesitation in finding that Maidstone had been murdered by a person or persons unknown.
Fred Newton was in charge of the northern section of the dog-proof Fence. This section extended for 200 miles and included the Lake Frome area. To the dozen odd men who patrolled it, he was not only boss but their only consistent link with the outside world. He was a rangy man in his early fifties, and his beard was the colour of a stove brush streaked with chalk. In daylight his eyes were unusually narrowed, due to the incessant sunlight and the wind laden with sand grains. He was the type of man with whom lesser breeds never argued.
Like many of the patrol men, he used camels to transport his dunnage, and some three weeks after Maidstone’s body had been found he drove his three camels to carry out his periodical inspection of the Lake Frome area. On the way north he sacked the man on the sub-section south of Quinambie, and the two of them made for the homestead where the man was paid off in time to catch the mail coach to Broken Hill. Newton was interested to see that the mail coach had brought a passenger from Broken Hill in addition to the mail and he studied him with some care.
The passenger was the physical antithesis of Newton himself. He was clean-shaven for one thing, and for another his actions were quick and his remarkably bright blue eyes had the trick of boring concentration. He was wearing ordinary go-to-town store clothes and boots, and the swag he removed from the mail car was bulky. This he lifted to a tank stand to defeat the homestead dogs, and found Fred Newton behind him.
“You are the new hand?” asked Newton slowly.
“Yes. And you must be Fred Newton. My name, pro tem, is Bonnay, Edward Bonnay.”
“They’ll be busy with the mail and orders for the coach driver, so we’ll have a drink of tea before you’ll want to draw stores. The mokes are out this a’way.”
The passenger looked round at Quinambie homestead. There was the usual wide-verandaed weatherboard house, surrounded by a netted fence to keep out cattle and rabbits. Behind the homestead lay the machinery sheds, storage sheds for fodder and a number of staff huts. The mulga clump nearest to the homestead housed the kennels of many kelpies whose ambition, judging by the holes adjoining their kennels, was to bury themselves completely. No Australian who handled stock would ever part with his loyal and hard-working cattle dogs and, as on most stations, some of the dogs were living in honourable retirement and no doubt had the privilege of riding in the station utility while the younger dogs ran beside it. The whole area of the homestead looked efficient and well cared for, and the house itself had recently been painted. All this the passenger saw in a few swift glances as he and Newton walked to the rear of the homestead.
Newton’s three camels and two others were lying down placidly chewing cud back of the machinery shed. They were loaded with riding and pack saddles. A short distance from them sticks had been gathered and a fire lit and flames were licking the bottom and sides of a billy filled with water. It was a brilliant day, free from dust and heat. While watching the water slowly coming to the boil, the man who had introduced himself as Edward Bonnay produced an envelope.
“Did you get the original of this official letter?” he asked, and when Newton said he’d received it the week before, tossed it into the fire.
“The Superintendent told me I would receive full co-operation,” Bonnay continued, “and that you wouldn’t talk. He also said you could arrange to put me on the section due east of the bore which is nearest to where Maidstone was murdered. I specialize in this type of crime, but usually I have to become part of the scenery to get results.”
“I take it you don’t want it known you’re a detective,” the overseer said in his quiet drawl. “OK by me. Yes, I fixed it. The man on the section south was never much good and I just sacked him. I’m transferring to that section the bloke on this one to let you in. Know anything about camels?”
“I’ve had some experience,” admitted Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, with unusual modesty. “I suppose I shall be expected to work?”
“And how! Worst section on the entire Fence. Still, you complete your case by August, you’ll escape the worst season for wind. Wind is the great enemy. How long d’you reckon you’ll be on the job?”
“Could be only a week. Might be a year.”
“Oh, one of them determined guys.” Newton regarded Bony with calculating eyes. “Well, if you don’t do the work I’m expectin’, I’ll be putting you off. With me the Fence comes first, and murder a long way last.” He tossed a handful of tea in the tea billy, watched it tossed violently for a full minute before taking it from the fire. “You got any ideas?”
“None. Have you?”
“No ideas to fit the facts. Bloke wasn’t doing any harm to anyone. Why shoot him?” He stirred the tea leaves to make them sink, filled two tin pannikins, took from the tucker box tinned milk and a tin of sugar. “Seems he was making for the Lake, but why go out there’s a bit hard to understand. Wanted to take pictures they said. Well, there’s plenty of sand and salt and mud, but you have to be patient to catch up with animals. You ever seen it?”
“No, but once I caught a killer on the middle of Lake Eyre.” Bony’s mouth expanded in a grin. “I doubt that Lake Frome is as bad. The patrol man whose section I’m to take over, what is his character?”
“Not a bad organizer as abos go. Three-quarter abo he is. He takes his wife and their children and some of the relations with him to do the work. He directs ’em. They should be getting to the base camp today. You’ll be taking over two of his camels and the gear, as the mokes are used to the section.”
“And the base camp?”
“Two miles out towards the Fence and the Fence is five from here. You come in once a month for meat and rations. Rations credited to you; meat for free. You got a rifle in your swag?”
Bony shook his head, and did not admit that he did have a revolver.
“Ought to have a gun. Never know when it’ll be handy. I got a Winchester and a Savage. I’ll lend you the Winchester. You’ll have to buy cartridges at the store. I’m short.”
“The Savage is a fine weapon, don’t you think?”
“Too right! Three-fifty yards without raising the sights. Cartridges expensive, though. They say Maidstone was shot with a Winchester forty-four. The police were interested in Winchesters.”
Bony changed the subject.
“On the Western Australian Fences section men have to keep a diary of travel and work. Is that the same here?”
“No. You done Fence work?”
“Yes. I manned a hundred-and-sixty-four-mile section in WA.”
“Your section here is only eleven miles, and when you travel it you’ll know why.”