The Lake Frome Monster. Arthur W. Upfield
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find anything at Number Ten?” asked the overseer, combing his whiskers with his pipe stem.
“No. You saw the camel tracks through the gateway?”
“That’s so. By the way, I had a word or two about the crime with Needle Kent. He’s the man north of you. Didn’t tell him who you were, of course, but from what he told me I got an idea. For some time now Quinambie think they’ve been losing cattle. They can’t find anything very definite, but on general principles they suspect Yandama’s been pinching ’em. Yandama is north of Quinambie and goes right up to The Corner. Used to be Quinambie would steal Yandama cattle and the Yandama blokes would pinch ’em back with a few more for good luck. Them was the wild days.”
“Kind of sport?” surmised Bony.
“No fear, Ed. Dead serious. Well, Needle Kent remembers that one night about the time of the murder he was camped some ten miles north of the Number Ten gate, and woke in the middle of the night to hear a big mob of cattle passing south on the other side of the Fence. You could say that cattle don’t travel at night, but sometimes they do without any drivin’. Suddenly gets restless and sick of the country and shifts themselves to another part.
“Needle’s a bit of a character,” Newton went on, and chuckled in that deep manner of a big man. “If he stays on the job much longer he’ll end like Looney Pete—shove his hat on a fence post and argue the toss. He’s lying under the blankets with the fire out and he’s hearing these cattle go by and reckons they must be making for Bore Ten. They goes by, all of ’em, and then a bit later he hears horses passing, and now and then the clink of metal. He reckons the clinking was being done by hobble chains round a horse’s neck, and that the horse had a rider on him. It was black as hell, but he’s sure there were several horses.”
“Rustlers?”
“Could be. Station hands don’t work at night, even them loafing bastards over to Lake Frome. The moving cattle would be on Lake Frome country, as you’d know.”
“He didn’t mention this incident to the police. And it seems he didn’t mention it to anyone save yourself at your last meeting.”
“Said he wasn’t going to get mixed up with cattle duffers and have himself shot like Maidstone. The point is, Ed, for your information, Maidstone could’ve been shot by duffers. Don’t know why. He could have seen them good enough to identify them.”
Bony pinched his nether lip and admitted it was a possible motive.
“How long is Needle’s section?”
“Twenty miles. Two men north of him, including Looney Pete. I mentioned this cattle business sort of casual to both of ’em, and neither said they’d seen cattle tracks passing through their gates. This would seem to make them Quinambie cattle all right. If the riders were duffers, likely enough they’d get the beasts to the Number Ten at daybreak, water them there and move ’em well away to cut out the weaners and throw a brand on ’em and take them on south.”
“Interesting,” Bony conceded. “It will bear keeping in mind. Tell me, getting back to Nugget, what does he do with the money he earns?”
“He’s got more money than me,” Newton replied. “He’s a peculiar bloke. Puts his pay cheques in the bank and writes cheques . . . thinks himself no end. You officially interested in him?”
“Only in so far as that of the Fence men he was the nearest to Maidstone when he was shot. That is, six miles. The next nearest was the other man, Needle. Nugget seems to be generous with his women and children?”
“Never goes down to the Hill, so he can afford to. Every six months a Syrian hawker comes to Quinambie. He carries everything. So Nugget’s women and kids get dresses they wear till they fall off, and the kids are loaded up with toys and things. They are grand nights, them Hawker’s Nights. What with Nugget and family, and all the other homestead blacks spending their dough on the Syrian, they have a wonderful time. I once seen Nugget smokin’ cigars a foot long. Even gave me a cigar once. I was near enough to being sick.”
The overseer scrambled to his feet and filled the billy for the last pannikin of tea for the day. Bony ambled about for “openers” or sticks to start a blaze first thing in the morning, and presently they settled down again.
“It would seem that Nugget’s generosity is sometimes misplaced,” he said. “At his central camp I saw a box camera badly damaged.”
“Nugget only cares for two things, Ed: his rifle and his camera. There was trouble at first with the camera. Mighty expensive one and Nugget couldn’t work her until the Quinambie overseer gave him some lessons. Then he got to take good pictures. That box camera he musta given to one of the kids. The wrecks of toys I see often.”
Bony turned the conversation away from Nugget by asking how often Newton took his holidays, and Newton followed by putting a few discreet questions on Bony’s work and home life. Then he said:
“You seem to know more about the Number Ten murder than we do.”
“I should,” agreed Bony. “You see, I’ve studied the police reports, read the very few statements. You will know that the detective-sergeant and his offsider stayed at the bore for a base for over a week before the inquest. The inquest brought a solution no nearer, and accordingly I was asked to come and take a turn. As I believe I told you, I specialize in this kind of investigation in areas where there are no ordinary police facilities.”
“You think you’ll nail the killer?”
“Of course! I always do. I’ve never failed yet!”
“Been at the game long?”
“Since leaving University. Patience is my greatest asset. Once I finalized a case in a week, and one took me two years. My job is something like your Fence—it never ends. While I think of it—where does Needle draw his ration?”
“Actually at Quinambie, but doesn’t often go in to ’em. Every other Thursday he camps near the Bore Ten gate to meet the Lake Frome utility what passes through for the mail. The ute collects his list and brings it back later in the day. Let me think. Yes, he’ll be at your north end next Thursday. You aim to meet him?”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“Good enough!”
“What’s the Frome manager like?”
“Something like Nugget, only white, that is if you could get the sunburn off him. Clean-shaven when he shaves, which is about once a week. Not like Commander Joyce, the Quinambie boss, but then his homestead ain’t like the Quinambie one, either. Not much more than a permanent bush camp. Levvey don’t seem to care. I was rather surprised he’d got the manager’s job when I first met him.”
“The run bigger than Quinambie or not?”
“Not quite as big. Certainly not as well supervised. Supposed to be owned by an English company.” Newton paused to light his pipe. “Levvey gets on well with the natives, while Commander Joyce at Quinambie doesn’t do so well with them. Mind you, Joyce is good with white men and he’s got a good overseer under him.” Again the deep chuckle. “Us common men don’t get asked inside at Quinambie.”
“Joyce does seem to be rather aloof.”
“Too right! May be partly his wife. I don’t think she likes this part of the world very much. Ah, well, I think I’ll turn in.”
Bony and Newton parted at sun-up the next morning, and Bony made a mental note that the following Thursday was five days ahead. Newton told him to expect him again in a fortnight, or thereabouts.
“Be good!” he said in final parting.
So began the north trip, Bony’s camels watered and contentedly chewing their cud and rolling along like ships on a beam sea.
Bony was becoming familiar with their little ways. Neither was vicious, both accustomed to their section, and they gave little