Cake in the Hat Box. Arthur W. Upfield
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Dr Morley. “I don’t get it. Didn’t you hear that Stenhouse had gone south, ’Un?”
“I did. Everyone at Agar’s thought Stenhouse had gone south on patrol to Leroy Downs. Jacky Musgrave said so, anyhow. Stenhouse never gave much away. Secretive sort of bloke. You never knew how you was with him.”
“Jacky Musgrave! The police tracker?”
“Yes. Been with Stenhouse for nigh on three years,” replied ’Un, twirling the points of his upturned moustache. “Good tracker by all accounts, and pretty thick with Stenhouse. Stenhouse could have got him to put it around that he was headed south when he intended heading north. Musta. He’s north now, ain’t he?”
“How long was he stationed at Agar’s Lagoon?” asked Bony.
“Seven years and a bit.”
“He was a widower, I believe.”
The cheerfulness departed from ’Un. Sam Laidlaw spoke:
“Wife died on him three years back. Doc can tell you about her.”
Dr Morley remained taciturn. He was still wearing his overcoat and, squatting on his heels, was apparently entranced by the blue spirals of smoke rising from the camp fire. Again the transport driver spoke:
“Wife got knocked about a bit. She was only two hands high, and couldn’t take it. If she’d been my sister, Stenhouse would have been sitting dead in his jeep years ago. Fair’s fair, I reckon. A good belting don’t do any woman any harm, but no woman is expected to take punches from a bloke like Stenhouse.”
Sam picked a live coal from the fire and balanced it on his pipe. Dr Morley helped himself to brandy and added a dash of coffee. ’Un concentrated his gaze on the crow cawing defiance from a wait-a-bit tree. Bony rose and wandered away.
The three men covertly watched this stranger: noting the way he placed his feet, the manner in which he held his head. Observation with them was a habit from which came inductive reasoning.
“Colour in him, for sure,” murmured Sam.
“Quarter, I’d say,” supplemented the yardman. “Decent sorta bloke, though.”
There was a pause in their critical appraisal, terminated by the old doctor.
“He’s all there. Entitled to his police rank, for he’s learned more than to read and write. The shape of his head and the power of his eyes have brought him a long way. If either of you men have anything to keep under cover, watch your step. You made a bad break, Sam, when you said what you’d have done if Mrs Stenhouse had been your sister.”
“Oh! How so?”
“Mrs Stenhouse had a brother, and you remember what happened that day she was buried.”
Chapter Four
Bony Takes Charge
Bony’s first impression of Senior Constable Irwin was not favourable. It was, however, to be of short duration.
Irwin drove a sturdy utility and, in accordance with practice, his trackers rode on the load behind the cabin. Emerging from the driving seat, he advanced to meet Detective-Inspector Bonaparte, walking stiffly, less from cramp than in recognition of their respective rank.
He was large and loose-limbed, and his feet were turned slightly inward through years in the saddle. Perhaps thirty-five years old, his hair was red, his eyes were blue, and his mouth was wide. Over the mahogany-tinted face was a smile which seemed to be a fixture, and before saying a word he laughed as though the discordant crows were joking about the dead man in the jeep.
Following the mutual introduction, Irwin said:
“We were able to radio-contact headquarters last night, and the Chief suggested that, as you happened to be on the spot, you might like to take charge of this job. Sends his compliments, sir, and says he’ll fly a man to Agar’s to take over Stenhouse’s district.”
Bony noticed the absence of humour in the light-blue eyes, and it was then that the first impression vanished.
“Very well, Irwin,” he said. “I’ll be glad to assist if I might have your co-operation. This case may be a simple one, or it may not. I hope, the latter. Have you breakfasted?”
“Yes. Stopped at daybreak for a feed.”
“Then, when you and the trackers have had a spot of coffee, we’ll get to work. We have done nothing as yet. Laidlaw covered the body when he passed here yesterday.” They walked to the men about the fire, the two trackers standing by the utility.
The others greeted Irwin easily, yet betrayed knowledge that this large man’s jovial front was but a mask. He picked up a used pannikin, filled it with coffee, adding a little of the doctor’s brandy.
“Had breakfast, thanks. Hey, Charlie! Larry! Bring over your pannikins.”
They came, two ebony-skinned, dark-eyed young men wearing military greatcoats over their ordinary clothes, broad-brimmed military felt hats and heavy military boots. They were intensely proud of this uniform which gained for them great respect from all aborigines. Irwin told them to return to the truck. Bony asked the transport driver to detail everything he did on discovering the dead policeman, and, having heard Sam’s story, they pushed the jeep back to its original position by the stones on which the blood had dripped.
“Did you at any time enter the jeep?” Bony asked Sam.
“No, Inspector. I moved the dunnage about at the back to find what was missing, but I did that from the ground.”
“You are sure that when pushing the jeep off the track you did not touch the steering-wheel?”
“Yes, I am. The front wheels slewed enough without that.”
“And the brakes were not applied?”
“No, they were free enough.”
“All right! We’ll get the body out for Dr Morley’s preliminary examination.” Sam removed the blanket, and the doctor and the two policemen studied the position of the dead man and noted the ravages committed by the birds to the face and neck.
“Stenhouse believed in making himself comfortable. Good idea having the seat back built like that,” remarked Sam.
“Yah,” agreed ’Un. “Old Williams, the blacksmith at Agar’s done that for him when he built the canopy.”
“Ready, Doctor?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
They removed the body and left it with the doctor, who nominated the yardman as his assistant. Sam was asked to boil water, and Bony said to Irwin:
“Although, according to Sam, the tracker’s swag is missing, and there’s no rifle, indicating that the tracker shot Stenhouse and cleared out, I am not satisfied that Jacky Musgrave killed his boss.”
“Nor me,” agreed Irwin. “Seems that Jacky Musgrave was extra loyal to Stenhouse, from what I know, and that Stenhouse treated him pretty well. What’s the alternative?”
“As yet, I’m not sure. Does the back of the driving seat tell you anything?”
“Yes. The bullet passed through it after passing through the body.”
“Let’s move the dunnage. I see a tin immediately behind that bullet-hole in the seat back.”
Spare tyres and camp equipment were taken out, and Irwin removed the four-gallon tin of oil. Most of the oil had leaked from the hole made in only one side, and it was obvious that the tin had been full when punctured. They poured the remainder of the oil into another tin, and found the bullet, which had been cushioned by the thick oil. The nose was slightly broadened by the impact.
“H’m! Lead bullet. .44. Should give us the weapon from which it was fired,” murmured Bony.
They