"No footprints in the bush" - читать интересную книгу автора (Upfield Arthur W.)

Chapter Five

The Threat

MR DONALDMcPHERSON and his guest sat in cane chairs on the south veranda. The sunset colours had drained from the plain, lying two hundred feet below the house, and from the sky which now was a uniform pall relieved by the stars. Save for the croaking of bullfrogs by the dam it was very quiet.

“The blacks have buried the body of that Illprinka man killed this afternoon,” the squatter said.

“I know nothing about any body that required to be buried,” Bony lied, calmly. “Do you often flog an aborigine?”

“Very, very seldom. Chief Burning Water takes care of minor delinquents. He can hit hard. I taught him to box.”

“He’s an unusual man.”

“He’s outstanding among an unusual race. We grew up together. My father would not send me to a city school. He brought out tutors, three of them. They were all Scotch. Every one of them could recite all the poems of Burns, and they knew everything there is to be known about the tartans. They brought me up on Sir Walter Scott and the tenets of the Kirk*, and having made me an expert with the three R’s, my father took me in hand with the rules of business and keeping books. In many ways my father was shrewd and long-sighted-if he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have survived here-but on one point he was not just to his only son. * Scots language name forThe Church of Scotland.

“By keeping me back from school down in a city where I would have rubbed shoulders with other boys and have gained a balanced outlook on life, he didn’t serve me too well. I never went off the place till I was twenty-two, and then it was to accompany the overseer and half a dozen blacks with cattle to what used to be called Hergott Springs, and from there down to Port Augusta.

“The only friend I had in my youth, in fact the only friend I’ve ever had is Burning Water. He’s three years my junior. My mother, who saw the want of a companion for her son, interested herself in Burning Water, and he proved worthy of her interest. What the tutors taught me I handed on to Burning Water. What I did, he had to do. My father took a great liking to him, and eventually he lived here as one of the family.”

“And yet he went back to his own people,” Bony said.

“He did, and he went back for a particular reason. When I became a man I was sealed into the tribe, and after Burning Water was made a man by his people we used to talk about the blacks a great deal. You see, I was, to all intents and purposes, brought up with them. I understood them, and through me Burning Water came to recognize what was good in our civilization and what was bad.

“Under the last head man, the tribe became loose and slovenly in obedience to its own laws and customs, and when he died, Burning Water decided to make himself head man and pull the tribe together. He and I both knew that the road to extinction was sign-posted by disregard for customs and contempt for laws. Burning Water felt he had a mission. Come to think of it, it is a damned fine mission.”

Bony rolled a cigarette. “And he has succeeded?”

“There’s no doubt about it. He pulled the tribe together in less than six months. He modelled himself on my father, for whom he had great affection and respect. He said to me one day: ‘What is the secret of life? The answer is, discipline. You white folk are strong because you know discipline. My people have become like a mob of steers because they have lost the discipline imposed by the laws and customs created for them in the Alchuringa. I must force them to respect the laws and follow the customs, so that they will become men and women and not just eating beasts.’ That he has done.”

Bony said. “Do you think it possible he had fore-knowledge of the attack on Errey’scar. ”

“Of course not.”McPherson spoke angrily. “Burning Water thought a lot of Errey, and Errey considered him a personal friend. Used to talk to Burning Water for hours about the aboriginal beliefs and customs. Burning Water often goes off alone. You see, it’s part of his job to visit the tribe’s sacred storehouses, and to keep an eye generally on the tribe’s land.”

“And has he had much trouble with the Illprinka tribe?”

“Not till recently. They became troublesome about six years ago. You know much about the blacks?”

Bony laughed, saying, as he stared at the void masking the fragrant garden and the plain beyond it:

“Enough to be convinced of how little I do know. Ah-there’s Price’s car!”

“Yes. He’s about where those cabbage-trees are. It’ll be too dark for him to see the wreckage of Errey’s car… Oh yes, the blacks are a damn sight wiser than we are. My father liked them, but he took a strong line with them. He had his troubles, you know. There were mother and my sister and me, the baby, and only two other white men and the wife of one of them. They were all here for years.

“The old man had a triangle put up. He didn’t shoot the blacks when they got out of hand. He didn’t poison them or hang them. He flogged them. Always said flogging hurt more than hanging, and that a live black was more useful than a dead one. I’ve never had to flog one since Burning Water became chief. The fellow today doesn’t count. He was an Illprinka man.”

“Do you use them as stockmen much?”

“A great deal. I employ a white overseer who lives with his wife and family at the out-station, a white men’s cook, and the old fellow you probably saw tending to the sprinklers. Other than those three all the work is done by the blacks. My mother used to train the young lubras to housemaid and cook, and my niece carries on with breaking them into house service.” McPherson sighed. “But you know how it is. Without warning a girl will vanish leaving her clothes behind, to be seen next day with the tribe. You can’t manage these people.”

“What about Burning Water?”

“Yes, perhaps I was too sweeping. Nevertheless, there is a part of them you can’t change. It might be because they’re too human. Well, Price ought to be here in twenty minutes.”

“How long has Price been stationed at Shaw’s Lagoon?”

“Two years. He’s a good man, intelligent. How do you intend to work with him?”

“With reserve-until I am sure of him. This is my investigation and I will not let up on it until I have put a rope round the neck of that pilot. I will not brook interference from Price, or from anyone else. I shall tell Price that the steering gear of Errey’s car failed when it was rounding abend, that it crashed against the hillside, caught fire, and then rolled down into the gully. By the way, is there a tracker attached to the police station?”

“No,” replied McPherson. “When the police want a tracker they ring me. Burning Water won’t permit any of his men to stay in Shaw’s Lagoon. I wish that blasted pilot would crash somewhere out in the open country.”

“Oh, why?” mildly inquired Bony.

“Because I don’t want publicity outside, you understand. It wouldn’t do me or the station or the blacks an iota of good. The annoyances to which they and I have been subjected are our affair, and we always have been capable of settling our own affairs without fuss.”

There were grounds for the squatter’s objection to the publicity such a murder of a police officer would obtain, because Bony was confident that the pilot of the airplane was behind the theft of McPherson’s cattle, the murder of two Wantella blacks, and other crimes. He now understood, a little more clearly, the mind of this man sitting with him.

That insistence on being able to look after “their” own affairs; that insistence that even the crime of killing was an annoyance, more than hinted that McPherson was jealous of the police and of police protection. Bony thought he could now understand the cause of McPherson’s hostility to any restrictions imposed from outside his own land save only those imposed by financial institutions. The man had been born of people still imbued with the idea of feudal rights and obligations, and all his life he had been cut off from advancing thought. He had stayed still, locked away out here; perhaps had never been to a city.

“I suppose you go occasionally down to one of the cities for a holiday?” he asked the squatter.

“Only once. I went to Sydney. Had a headache all the time I was there. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t even think properly. I came home again after a week. To me it was like being in a madhouse.”

“But Miss McPherson-”

“Flora goes to Melbourne for the first three months of every year. She’s different. She was brought up in a city, but she likes being here with us, all the same. Here’s Price.”

Bony accompanied the squatter to welcome the constable, and the three proceeded at once to the office, where Price asked:

“Sergeant Errey-how is he, sir?”

This policeman was a man. He possessed McPherson’s jaw, but he was bigger, quicker in movement. His mind worked more swiftly as could be seen in his tanned clean-shaven face and keen hazel eyes. He was dynamic and efficient. His manner of addressing Bony obviously impressed the squatter.

“First, here are my credentials.” Bony murmured.

Price’s fleeting smile was a shade grim.

“Following what you stated at the station four days ago, sir, I checked up through divisional headquarters. I shall be glad to render any assistance I can. But Sergeant Errey-”

“I greatly regret, Price, to say that Sergeant Errey is dead,” Bony cut in. Swiftly he told the story of the “accident.” “He had with him a passenger, a Wantella black named Mit-ji, who also perished.”

Price’s lean face revealed his horror.

“It doesn’t seem possible,” he slowly said.

“I know,” Bony almost whispered. “Still, that’s how it is. It appears that Errey was taking the black, Mit-ji, to Shaw’s Lagoon, for further questioning concerning the murder of two aboriginal stockmen. I will continue, not from where Errey left off but from where he began. You will have the sad duty of dealing with the wreckage and the bodies.”

“Were you the only witness?” Price asked.

“Yes. I will write my statement before you leave. I would like you to defer the inquest as long as you possibly can. I have several reasons for asking that. Er -I will be making my report to your Chief Commissioner, which you might post for me on your return to the township.”

“Very well sir.”

“I have a favour to ask of you, too. I don’t like to be addressed as ‘sir,’ ‘Inspector’-if you like, but I prefer merely the abbreviated name ‘Bony.’ You see, Price, I’m not a real policeman.

“Tell me,” Bony proceeded, “is there a squatter inside your district, or outside it, who flies an aeroplane?”

“An aeroplane! No. We have a visit from the Flying Doctor sometimes. His headquarters are at Birdsville, three hundred miles away.”

“Indeed! What kind of a machine is it?”

“Monoplane. A new one. Had it only six months.”

“What is its colour?”

Price frowned. Then:

“Light grey, I think. Yes, light grey.”

“Not a silver-grey. Kindly be definite on the point of colour-if you are able.”

The constable pondered, again frowned.

“No, I don’t think it’s silver-grey. I saw the machine only once-two months ago. Why, Mr McPherson, probably you can answer the Inspector. Dr Whyte visited you that time.”

Bony glanced at the squatter. McPherson had been standing in the door frame, his back to them. Now he turned to answer Price.

“Dr Whyte’s machine is a light grey in colour,” he said. “Yes, he was here two months ago. Came to see my niece, not me. They met in Melbourne last year. If you’re ready we’d better go over for dinner. It’s getting late.”

On the way across to the house, Bony said to Price:

“Is this Doctor Whyte a good pilot?”

“Yes, Inspector, and a good doctor, too.”

Flora McPherson warmly welcomed the constable, and Bony instantly saw another facet of her character in this meeting of youth with youth. This evening she was wearing a semi-evening gown of French-greyninon and her hair was done in a style less severe. She smiled at him; but it was to the policeman she offered her arm.

Bonaparte was destined never to forget that meal, served by efficient aboriginal girls, smartly dressed even to silk stockings and shoes. There were two serving direct from the kitchen; and although in the morning they might be missing and found in the camp as the good Lord made them, they disproved the lie that these people cannot be trained.

Bony was not displeased that Price and their hostess conducted the conversation and that McPherson was taciturn and answered questions monosyllabically. He was still feeling like a man bushed and the gleaming table and soft light, the smooth service and the atmosphere of solidity and security, failed to banish from his mind the array of grim men who watched from the canvassed walls.

Flame in the shadow!

On what was McPherson pondering? His replies to questions were abrupt; once he made an affirmative answer by mistake. Hadhe taken Errey’s attache case from the swag, to destroy the dead sergeant’s notes on the murder of the two stockmen? Both he and Burning Water must be held suspect of knowing whomight be the murderous pilot. Well, after preliminaryprobings here at the homestead, he would have to go out to that hut and endeavour to follow Errey’s trail. Yes, up to the point when Errey decided to take Mit-ji to Shaw’s Lagoon.

Mit-ji-ah-yes, Mit-ji. Mit-ji knew something about those murders; otherwise Errey wouldn’t have arrested him. Mit-ji was probably in league with the Illprinka men, because the stockmen had been murdered during the theft of a large number of McPherson’s cattle. Supposing the theft of cattle was connected in some way with the pilot of the aeroplane, as seemed likely since the machine had come from, and returned to, the country of the Illprinka. Then supposing that the pilot had destroyed Errey’s car, not for the purpose of killing the sergeant but for the purpose of silencing Mit-ji?

The theft of the cattle and the killing of the aborigines who guarded them at first appeared all black. The murder of Sergeant Errey by a man flying an aeroplane appeared all white. Yet the last might have been dependent on the first, and the two together partly white and partly black.

It was going to be a really good investigation, he was sure. He was pleased now that he had decided not to present Price with the real facts of the death of Errey and Mit-ji. Price appeared in an excellent light; a man eminently suited to his particular job which was much nearer the administrative side of police government than “pinching drunks.”

Then, of course he, Bonaparte, had as usual his old ally, time. There was plenty of time to conduct the investigation, which would have to include two separate cases of crime appearing to have a joint origin…

Probably because of his non-participation in the conversation, Bony was the first to hear the sound of a distant aeroplane engine. One of the two aboriginal maids was standing at his side, offering a dish when he heard the faint and somehow sinister sound. He turned slightly sideways, the better to look up into her face to ascertain if she, too, had heard this sound.

None of the others saw the quick clash of gaze, the swift understanding of a man and a woman. Bony knew then that the lubra knew the truth concerning Mit-ji’s death with Errey, as did probably every aborigine within hundreds of miles. He saw in the big black eyes naked fear.

Flora McPherson was speaking to Price and her uncle of the possible assistance which might be rendered the widowed woman in Shaw’s Lagoon. McPherson was saying he would do anything suggested.

“Pardon me, everyone,” Bony said, his voice clear and quick. “Mr McPherson, I hear the approach of an aeroplane. I suggest that all lights are extinguished.”

“Why on earth-?” began the girl.

“Yes,” snapped the squatter.“Out with those lights.”

Bony bent over the table and blew out the candles in the sconces. McPherson jumped to his feet and strode to the lamp on the sideboard.

The room now was illumined only by the reflection of a light in the passage without, and Bony saw the tall figure of the squatter for a moment. Then that light vanished, and McPherson could be heard shouting for all lights to be put out.

Price was demanding to know this and that, supported by Flora McPherson. Bony moved to the open French windows, through which quite plainly came the noise of the oncoming machine. Through the windows passed the half-caste, across the wide veranda and down the steps of the rose-bedded lawn. The stars were bright. The night air was soft, warm and laden with rose scent. The croaking of the frogs by the great dam of water was banished by the rising roar of engine exhausts. Bony went on between the small beds of standard roses, managed to escape the arms of the sprinklers, and stopped when he reached the bottom fence. There he stared into the night.

Presently he saw it. It had no navigation lights. It was flying at a great height beyond the dam, and when it began to turn in a giant circle Bony knew that the pilot had sighted the dull star-reflecting sheen of the water and had picked up his land-mark.

He was coming down. The sudden decrease of engine power told that. The plane became a shadow passing across the faces of the stars, and because it appeared lower than it actually was, it seemed to Bonaparte that its descent in giant circles was much prolonged. It drifted out over the plain, vanished, reappeared, coming to pass directly over the house. But no, it passed over the dam, its engine breaking into periodic bursts of power which finally became sustained.

Now the plane was away to the north, beyond the sky-cutting edge of the house roof. That the pilot had nerve to fly at night was proved. That he had complete confidence in his engine and his instruments was proved, too. The roar swiftly increased. It was approaching the house. Bony waited, no fear in his heart, only a fierce desire in his mind to identify the machine with that from which Errey’s car had been bombed.

Then the roof edge, silhouetted against the sky, was abruptly blurred by the shape of wings and dragon-fly body. The plane was a bare five hundred feet from the ground, and the thunderous song of its engine deafened the staring Bony, who was confident it was the same machine he had seen at noon. His feet registered a slight shock. A missile had struck the ground close to him. He knew its position, and he flung himself down and waited. No explosion came.

Possibly it was not a bomb, but a message! If it should be a message of some kind, then Bony simply had to have it. On his hands and knees he moved forward to the approximate position of the missile, fear now a stabbing torment. The arrival of McPherson on the veranda drove him on. The squatter was asking for him. Pricewas wanting to know why the lights had been put out, and the girl was saying that perhaps the pilot of the machine was urgently looking for a landing place.

Then Bony’s hand came in contact with the “bomb.” It wasa treacle tin with an air-tight lid. The force of the concussion with the ground had forced off the lid, and from the tin openinglay a ridge of fine sand. It had been filled with sand-and a sheet of paper.

Bony pocketed the paper. The tin he emptied of the remaining sand, and hastily buried it, with the lid, in a rose bed. Then he strolled towards the house, murmuring:

“All things are for the brave-even a big slice of luck.”

But his heart was a thudding hammer in his chest.