The New Shoe. Arthur W. Upfield
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her courage, changing then to ire at the woman’s stupidity. She seemed to lean against the wind, oblivious to the possibility of a sudden fall in pressure which would suck her into the gulf. He shouted up to her to draw back, but either she did not hear, or, hearing, ignored the plea.
Then she slid her right foot forward to the very verge. It seemed she was going to jump. In Bony, perturbation changed to horror. The foot was withdrawn. The woman turned a fraction, and as though from her heels there rose behind her a man. The man was shorter and more stockily built. He appeared to wrap his arms about the girl’s waist, and proceeded to drag her back.
For a step or two only. She stamped her heels on his feet. She struggled to release her arms from the clamp about her waist She exerted all her strength to drag him with her over the edge. Bony could see her frenzied face, and just discern the stony grimness on the face of the man.
Abruptly the man released her, caught her jacket with his left hand, swung her back from the cliff’s edge, and neatly upper-cut her. As she collapsed, he caught her again in his arms and carried her back from Bony’s sight.
“Ungentlemanly, but necessary,” Bony thought, and decided to make sure all had ended well.
There was no way round the eastern claw of Split Point, and no way up to the Lighthouse save by walking the beach for several hundred yards the other way, crossing the bar of the Inlet and negotiating the rocks which had fallen from the cliffs. As he proceeded into the Inlet, the back of the headland came down to meet the level ground, and from this point he could take the long slope to the Lighthouse.
The slope took Bony high above the great basin with its sandbar raised by the sea to keep the creek water within. He passed by two graves of the original pioneers of this district, on and up to skirt the eight-feet-high iron fence about the Lighthouse. To his left were the houses once occupied by the keepers: to his right, low clumps of tea-tree bush scattered upon the grassland to the verge of the cliffs.
The wind hissed about the corners of the iron fence: the white towering structure ignored it. On passing into the clear beyond the fence, Bony saw no one. He proceeded to the place where the girl had appeared, and, keeping safely back from the cliff, was undecided what next to do. Below was the narrow strip of sand-beach whereon, written plain, were his own tracks and the mark of the shallow grave he had dug with his heels. Here on the verge were the tracks of the girl’s shoe heels.
There had been time for the girl and her rescuer to leave the headland by passing between the government buildings and down the opposite slope where several summer cottages were set within their hedges of lambertinna. As it would be useless to search among the bush and scrub, Bony turned back from the cliff ... to see a man standing a dozen yards away and calmly watching him.
He was stockily built. His face was square, and his greying hair was short and straight. He was, obviously, a permanent resident.
“Good day!” Bony said, on advancing to the motionless figure.
The watcher merely nodded.
“Have you seen a young woman and a man within the last fifteen minutes?”
The man shook his head.
“How long have you been up here?” pressed Bony.
“Half an hour. Per’aps longer.”
“And you’ve seen no one?”
“No. And if I have, what’s your business with ’em?”
The box-red face was blank, but the grey eyes were hard. Bony’s voice was soft.
“I was down on the beach and thought I saw a man struggling with a young woman. Were you the man?”
“No. I don’t struggle with women. Good day-ee to you, Mister.”
It was Bony’s turn to watch as the man strode to the low crest of the headland, finally disappearing between two clumps of tea-tree. He memorized those bushes, and proceeded to examine the ground.
The surface was grey and comparatively hard, but yet retained the woman’s heelprints. The man’s tracks were less in evidence, but he wore a boot size seven, and they were down at heel. The taciturn man was wearing well-conditioned boots size eight. Bony had automatically noted that.
Thus early, he found himself at a slight disadvantage, for he was here as a visitor on holiday and not as an expert bush tracker. To remain in character, he must decidedly not behave as a tracker, and with casual mien he walked back to the crest and passed between the memorized bushes. Here the ground was softer. Here the ground plainly retained the tracks of boots number eight, and also boots number seven and a woman’s shoe size six. All three persons were proceeding away from the cliff.
Chapter Two
Strangers are Suspect
Less than eighty miles from Melbourne, Split Point is situated between the holiday resorts of Anglesea and Lorne. Behind the Point lies the Inlet and back of the Inlet one can be a thousand miles from the city.
During the winter months visitors are rare at Split Point, and at the Inlet Hotel Bony learned he was the only guest until the next day, when a Navigation Department man was expected. However, on entering the small bar he found several men who were obviously locals ... soft-speaking and reserved. Their conversation ceased on his entry, and eyes examined him with an apparent lack of interest.
The licensee was large, round, bald and beery, an incarnation of the innkeepers of Dickens’ novels. His dark eyes were like those of a kookaburra, his nose a wondrous blob of blue-veined red marble.
“Go down to the beach?” he asked, drawing a glass of beer for Bony.
“Yes, Mr Washfold. A wild afternoon, and cold. Pretty place, though. I’m going to like it.”
“Looks prettier when the sun shines,” returned Washfold. “Been around a bit myself, and liked no place better. You can have Melbun, all of it includin’ the pubs. A shilling’s my price for that hole any day.”
The licensee shot a glance at the other men, received their tacit approval, and waited for opposition from this guest.
“No one living in those houses down from the Lighthouse?” Bony questioned.
“Don’t think. Summer houses they are. You been up there?”
“Walked up to see the Lighthouse, yes.”
Bony was conscious of the silence, and the licensee moved along the short bar counter to re-fill glasses. Then one man asked another if he had sighted the hardwood boards on order, and yet another admitted he had obtained roof guttering without much trouble. Washfold returned to Bony.
“Haven’t put you down in the Lodgers’ Book yet,” he said. “Taking a longish spell, Mr ... er ... ?”
“The name is Rawlings,” Bony replied. “Yes, I always have a good holiday when I get my wool cheque. The wife goes to Melbourne. I clear out on my own. Good for domestic bliss, you know.”
Washfold’s hairless brows rose a fraction, and for the first time his beady eyes were friendly.
“In sheep, eh! My bit of wool’s being sold next week. What d’you reckon? Prices hold up?”
“I think it’s likely,” replied Bony, pushing his glass forward. “Almost sure to now that the reserve stocks in America are low.”
“That’s what I was saying the other day,” agreed the licensee, and Bony felt he was now beginning to be accepted. “Sheep is wool these days, Mr Rawlings. My clip’ll go into one bale. How many sheep you got?”
“Five thousand,” Bony smiled. “I’ve five thousand sheep and no hotel, and you have a hotel and a few sheep. You’re better off.”
A wide grin overspread the full round face. What the licensee would have said was prevented by the house gong announcing six o’clock and that dinner was ready.
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