Death of a Swagman. Arthur W. Upfield
Читать онлайн книгу.
he was.” Grey eyes flashed and the twin hair plaits were jerked into a half swing. “He was ever so rude to young Mr Jason. I hate the big police bully. That’s what Mr Gleeson calls him. I told Sergeant Redman that I hated him too, and he only laughed at me. When I told young Mr Jason about that he said he would punch Sergeant Redman on the nose if he came here again and laughed at me.”
“But why was Sergeant Redman rude to your young Mr Jason?” Bony pressed.
“’Cos young Mr Jason wouldn’t answer all his silly old questions.”
“Oh! What were the questions about, do you know? ”
“About poor Mr Kendall who was killed out in his hut. ”
“But young Mr Jason wouldn’t know anything about that, would he?”
“Of course he didn’t,” Rose Marie replied indignantly. “No one liked that beastly Sergeant Redman.”
Footsteps fell on the ground beyond the open door, and Rose Marie murmured: “Oh my!”
Into the doorframe loomed the figure of Sergeant Marshall. He stepped inside the cell. Rose Marie’s little body stiffened into rigidity. Her hands were clasped and nursed in her lap, and over her face spread an expression of resignation, such as she had probably seen on her mother’s face when she waited for a storm to break.
Bony stood up. From regarding his daughter, Sergeant Marshall surveyed the evidence of the afternoon tea. The silence was tense. Then the policeman exploded.
“Well I’m damned!” he said, giving a pause between each word.
Chapter Two
Bony Gets Down to Business
“Florence, take those things back to the house and then wait for me at the office.”
“Yes, Father.”
Sergeant Marshall stood stiffly erect, his red neck swelling over the collar of his tunic, reminding Bony of an goanna when annoyed. The sergeant’s eyes were like small brown pebbles in his brick-red face. With delightful dignity Rose Marie stood up and, with wilful unhaste, collected the afternoon tea service, picked up her tray, and sedately marched out, her back like a gun barrel, the plaits of her hair giving never a swing. Then, to Bony, the sergeant said:
“Good job you never made a break for it.”
“You know, it never occurred to me,” Bony told him gravely. “By the way, I have a letter for you.”
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed, and his big body appeared to rise slightly on springs in his feet. Other than that he made no move. Neither did he speak whilst watching Bony unstrap his swag, although he was prepared to jump should the prisoner produce a weapon. His eyes narrowed still more when he was presented with a plain foolscap envelope inscribed with his rank, name, and station.
It was an instruction to him from the chief of his division to render all assistance to Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, who was reopening the investigation into the death of one George Kendall.
Still stiffly erect, the sergeant returned the instruction to its envelope and the envelope to a tunic pocket. His eyes were no longer small, nor was his face brick-red—it had become distinctly purple. Redman had told him one evening in the office something about this Napoleon Bonaparte and had said he was the best detective Queensland, or any other state, had ever produced. And he, Richard Marshall, first class sergeant, and the senior officer of Merino Police District, had locked him up, because ... He fought for composure.
“I regret having charged you, sir. I didn’t know,” he said.
“Of course you didn’t know me, Sergeant,” Bony agreed soothingly. “Sit down here beside me and let us talk of cabbages and murders and things.”
“But ... but ... oh, my aunt!”
“What is the matter with your aunt?” mildly inquired Bony, and then smiled.
“Bit of a shock, sir, finding that I’ve locked up a D.I. Took you for an ordinary half ... ordinary station hand. Saw you were a stranger in my district, and we want the station compound fence painted and the cells whitewashed.”
“Labour scarce? ”
“No, but money is.”
“And so you arrest a stranger in this town, get him seven or fourteen days’ detention from a tame justice, and then provide him with a paintpot and brush, three meals and a bed, and two bob a day to take over to the hotel half an hour before closing time. I know. Good idea. The swagman gets a nice rest and the taxpayer has a drop of his money saved out of the ocean he provides. But you want always to be sure not to lock up police inspectors or union bosses. Supposing I had been a boss of the painters’ union?”
“That would have been too bad—for the union boss. ”
“How so?”
“He would have had to do a spot of work or ... ”
“Or what?”
“Sweat it out in this cell.”
“He would have worked,” Bony predicted confidently. “Better work than sweat. I’ve had some. And don’t you go and scold Rose Marie. She saved my life with her tea and cake. Yes, I thought that your compound fence needed paint, and the work will provide me with a reason for being closely connected with the police. When do you intend to arraign me before the local magistrate?”
“Eh?” barked the sergeant.
“When will you prosecute me for (a) giving fictitious answers to lawful questions, et cetera, including (b), (c), and (d) in brackets?”
“You are not being serious, sir?”
“I am. You will press all those charges. I will plead guilty. You will whisper a word or two beforehand into the ear of the beak, asking him to give me fourteen days without the option of paying a fine. I will lodge here, eat of your wife’s excellent cooking—your own physical condition indicates that she is an excellent cook—and every evening at five-thirty you will pay me two shillings to spend over at the hotel. And then instead of everyone holding their horses in the presence of Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, they will talk quite freely with poor old Bony, the latest victim of the ber-lasted per-leece. It is all so simple.”
“But what if the heads hear about it? ”
“Who’s running this show, you or me?”
“I’m supposed to be running the district,” said the sergeant, a little doubtfully.
“You are. And I am running the investigation into the death of George Kendall. We are going to run in harness, and run well. The killing of Kendall wasn’t just a plain, ordinary booze and bash murder. Had it been, I would not have been here talking to you. There are aspects of this Kendall case which not only interest me but which escaped Detective Sergeant Redman, and, I venture to say, you too. For instance, you and Detective Sergeant Redman, and others, all believe that Kendall was murdered in his hut at Sandy Flat on Wattle Creek Station. I have not been there, ever, and I know that he was not murdered in his stockman’s hut.”
“But the blood on the floor ... all about the body!” objected the sergeant.
“Oh, of course, the blood!” Bony agreed calmly. “Was anything done to establish if it was human blood or animal blood? Of course not. The man lay in blood, and therefore it must be his own blood. So say Detective Sergeant Redman, and you, and others. Well, well, you may all be forgiven for believing that Kendall lay in his own blood. But first things first. Allow me to introduce myself.
“I never arrive on the scene of a crime, the investigation of which has baffled others, in my official uniform and accompanied by experts. Most often no one outside police circles knows what I am and cares less who I am. Publicity is not my forte. As my own chief commissioner says so very often that repetition of the obvious wearies