"The Mountains have a Secret" - читать интересную книгу автора (Upfield Arthur W.)

Chapter Eleven

The Raid

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE was finding it necessary to exert willpower to subdue temper. He had suffered injury to his dignity, and that was also a blow to his pride, which could not easily accept physical defeat at the hands even of a man like Toby Lucas, one of the world’s greatest mat men. That he had come within an ace of suffering physical injury was of less significance.

He regained command of himself during the moments when the two plain-clothes policemen took in the room, the open cupboard and Shannon standing within it and polishing a glass, the four hotel guests.

The raid had been efficiently conducted. The police car had been stopped a mile away from the hotel, and on foot the crew had arrived to surround the hotel and simultaneously enter it at the front and the back.

Two more policemen came into the lounge, and one of these took command. Unobserved by Bony, Ferris Simpson had entered the cupboard, and the American had emerged into the lounge to stand nonchalantly chewing gum. The girl was asked to bring the register.

“You men staying here?” demanded the police leader, and, having received affirmative replies, he waited silently for the register.

Bony sat down, emotional reaction causing leg and arm muscles to throb and heart to pound. Breathing was now slightly easier, but his brilliant blue eyes were still dilated and noticeable in the dark face. The leader of the raiding party flashed him a keen look the instant before he accepted the register, snapped open the leaves to lay bare the last entries, and examined the page.

“Who is John Parkes?” he asked.

“I am,” Bony admitted. “Address isCoonley Station, via Balranald.”

“Huh!” grunted the leader, as though by force of long habit he did not believe a word of it. “Well, which of you is Cyril Loxton?”

The parson answered. He was standing beside the table upon which he was elegantly leaning one hand.

“Your name is not Loxton. Your name is Edson.” The slight movement of those in the room was stilled by that harshly spoken objection. “Which is Matthew Lawrence?”

“That’s me,” replied the pirate. “That is my name.”

“Not in Australia it isn’t. Your name in Australia is Antonio Zeno. And your name-your real name-you know, the name at birth?”

“Toby Lucas,” replied the wrestler. “And you can’t argue about it.”

“Good!” The policeman signed the book and returned it to Ferris, who had stood by tight-lipped and silent. “I like people who stand by their legal names. Saw you at the stadium a month ago. The wife barracked plenty for you. Thought I recognised you. Must say you’re pretty good on the mat. Still, I don’t think you’d put up much of a performance against four of us, so calm down. Now, what about you? You’re not in the book.”

“I’m the yardman and general man employed here,” replied Shannon, without ceasing to chew.

“How long you been employed here?”

Shannon said he had been working at the hotel for close on three months, and then, to Bony’s astonishment, for the senior man had not once appeared to look in that direction, he was asked about the knife sticking from the wall.

“I tossed it,” he announced. “Was giving a demonstration how it’s done.”

The senior man now stared at the knife and then went back to the American.

“H’m! Pretty good, eh? Friendly demonstration, I suppose?

“Sure.”

“Glad to hear it. Name is?”

“Name’s Glen Shannon.”

Ferris was brought into the range of the hard hazel eyes.

“That O.K., Miss Simpson?”

“Yes, that’s correct, Sergeant.”

“Good! Shannon, you clear out. Miss Ferris, lock the cupboard and retire.” He waited until Ferris and the yardman had withdrawn, and then he addressed himself to Antonio Zeno, asking how he had arrived. Zeno said he had come in his own car and, when this question was put to Edson and Lucas, they admitted they had travelled with the pirate.

“Well, we must get along, gentlemen,” proceeded the leader. “Parkes, I am going into your background in a minute. You, Edson, and Zeno, I’m taking back to Melbourne-for identification, you know. I have reason to think that the names you gave me were false.”

The parson stepped forward.

“Now look here, Sergeant, we’re not doing any harm. Came here for a short holiday. We’re going on to Lake George tomorrow for the fishing.”

“Not now you’re not, Edson. Better cuff ’em.”

There followed swift movement, and the pirate and the parson were joined with steel. The wrestler glowered and clenched his hands.

“You’d better come with us back to the city, Lucas,” he was told.

“But you can’t do that to me,” expostulated Lucas.

“You’d be surprised. Go and pack yourdunnage, and then get out to the cars and be ready to push off.”

“But, look-”

“No buts-Lucas-else I charge you with consorting.”

There was no beating down the ice-cold hazel eyes, and following only a slight hesitation the wrestler left with the others and three of the policemen. The door was closed and the sergeant said:

“Superintendent Bolt asked me to tell you he was becoming anxious about you, sir. Said he doesn’t want to crowd in, and so he asked our branch to run the rule over this place and contact you. Someone’s been making enquiries about you.”

Bony’s brows rose a fraction, but he made no comment. The sergeant proceeded:

“Yesterday morning a telegram was received at Balranald from A. B. Bertram of 101a, Collins Street, City, to the Agricultural Experts’ Association, Balranald, asking whether a person named John Parkes lived in the district. Bertram is an indent agent in a rather big way of business. Further to this enquiry, a man called at the Motor Registration Branch yesterday afternoon asking to be told the owner of a car registered number 107ARO, which, you remember, is the number now on the Superintendent’s car. He wasn’t granted the information, and he was kept until a man could be put on to him. He was trailed to A. B. Bertram, and subsequently identified as Frank Edson, con man. Naturally Edson was kept under observation and was seen to leave Melbourne with another criminal named Zeno, in the company of Toby Lucas, the wrestler. The car was reported passing through Bacchus Marsh and, having taken the road to Skipton, was later reported by Dunkeld as heading this way.”

“They were not permitted to know they were under observation?”

“No, sir. They’ll accept this call by us as routine work.”

“Good. That’s important. You report to Superintendent Bolt what I am about to relate, and say that I stress the importance of not being interfered with until I call for assistance-if I have to.” Bony related what had happened in that room. “I’d like those three men to be held for as long as possible, but not to be charged with the assault on me, because it is vital that I continue with the character of John Parkes. Tell the Superintendent that I’ll communicate with him some time tomorrow.

“Also ask him to check up on the yardman here, Glen Shannon. I think Shannon has been in the country only a few months. Better make a written note of that and other matters.”

“Righto, sir. And-”

“Simpson, the licensee, went down to Portland this afternoon. It’s most important to know why. I think that the date March twenty-eighth has something to do with the journey. Then at the time the young women vanished in this country, there was a yardman here by the name of Edward O’Brien. He left under somewhat peculiar circumstances. He has a sister living at Hamilton. I want to know where he is now. Got that?”

“Er-yes, sir, that’s clear.”

“Constable Groves might give a lead on O’Brien. You could call on Groves when you pass through Dunkeld.”

The sergeant nodded, snapped shut his notebook, and then as he slipped it into an inside pocket regarded Bony thoughtfully.

“The Superintendent said he would feel much easier in his mind if you could arrange to communicate with the Station at Dunkeld at least once in every twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t think that would be possible,” Bony said, frowning. “Anyway, I’ll be talking to him most likely tomorrow afternoon. Where is the nearest District Headquarters?”

“At Ballarat, sir.”

“Then tell Superintendent Bolt that if I have not reported at Ballarat by midnight tomorrow-you can make another raid.”

“All right, sir. Is that all?”

“That’s all, Sergeant. Thanks for calling. Er -I’m sorry you ordered the cupboard to be shut.”

The big man grinned with an abruptness which was startling.

“I could order it to be opened, sir.”

“Then do so. I am going to bed. You fellows have a long drive back to the city. I’ll say good night.”

“Good night, sir, and all the doings.”

Bony passed along the passage, to his room and switched on the light. As he undressed, with intent he passed his shadow across the drawn blind that the three men in custody waiting in the cars, and probably Glen Shannon, might know his decision to retire for the night. Then, having slipped on a dressing-gown, he pocketed the whisky bottle and soda-water, added a glass, put out the light, and noiselessly raised the blind and climbed over the sill to the veranda.

The veranda was dark, and in case someone switched on a light, he moved to the far comer, where he waited in the black shadow of a roof support massed with wisteria. He stood there for some time before witnessing the departure of the police car and the gamblers’ sedan for Dunkeld and the city. It was then ten minutes to twelve.

He continued to lounge there, his eyes constantly on the alert and probing into the lighter shades of the night-masked scene for sign of human movement. For many minutes he could hear the noise of the departing cars, and it was not until the night was empty of all sound that the tension seeped from his mind and his body.

As silently as James Simpson had visited his father, Bony reached the old man’s bed and leaned low over him.

“Awake?” he murmured.

“Well, Iain’t climbing up thechimbley,” softly snarled the invalid.

“I’ve been having an exciting evening. That’s why I’m late.”

“All right! You needn’t give it to me inwritin ’. Did you bring me a taste?”

“I said I would,” Bony expostulated, and sat down upon the bed. “I promised you a double drink-otherwise two little drinks. Here’s the first.”

He could hear the gulp and the flinch of the whisky drinker, and then felt the touch of the empty glass. Without comment he gave the invalid the second of the promised drinks and heard again the gulp and the flinching only after the old man had asked what the uproar had been about and “men tramping all over the ruddy place.”

“The Licensing Police paid a call,” Bony explained. “They arrested the three new guests.”

“Oh! Did they so! Whaffor?”

“Giving wrong names. Being known criminals. At least two of them are criminals. The third was taken for consorting with criminals. He’s a wrestler by the name of Toby Lucas. Know him?”

“Only in the papers. The other two-did you hear their right names?”

“Frank Edson and Antonio Zeno. Know them?”

“Never heard of ’em.” The old man broke into soft chuckling. “They play up?” he asked.

“They went quiet enough. Sure you never heard those names before?”

“Iain’t no liar-unless I want to be. You describe ’emagain. Names don’t mean anything.”

Bony gave a detailed description of both men and still Simpson failed to identify them.

“Never been here before,” asserted the old man. “You said Ferris didn’t know them either.”

“I’m not quite so sure about that.”

“Ah! Not so sure, eh? Gimme a drink.”

Bony complied with what was a command.

“How they get along with you, young Parkes?”

Bony related the details of the evening in the lounge, and when he concluded the old man remained silent save for his low, slightly rasping breathing. It was a full minute before he spoke. On no previous occasion had he appeared to be so normal.

“I don’t know. It makes me think things, John Parkes,” he said. “I beenworryin ’ a lot lately, and I oughtn’t to be worried at my age. I still got the old woman to think on, and the hotel and everything. Ferris wouldn’t be too bad without Jim. If I knew a bit more I could order him out of the place for keeps. You better go. You better leavetomorrer.”

“I was thinking of doing so.”

“You get away and look for old Ted O’Brien. Tell him I sent you along. Find out if he’s all right and why he left without saying a good-bye to me. He knows something, does Ted. Told me he did. You tell him I been worried a lot over how things are going on here.”

“And you really don’t know why your son went down to Portland today?”

The old man became petulant. “I told you about that,” he said.

“So you did. Did you ever hear of a man named A. B. Bertram?”

“Gimmeanother little drink. It’s good for the memory.”

Bony retrieved the glass in the dark. He said nothing, guessed the measure, and passed the drink to the invalid.

“A. B. Bertram,” repeated the old man. “Yes, I know him. He’s stayed heremore’n once. Bit of a German, I’ve always thought. Plays the fiddle. Uster play it with Jim playing on the organ. What’s he done?”