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

Chapter Seven

Prospecting

WAITED upon by Ferris Simpson, Bony ate in meditative mood the excellently prepared dinner. At the other table old Simpson twice attempted to break into the general conversation and was pointedly ignored by his son, who talked with Glen Shannon of gold and its incidence in their respective countries.

Simpson was dressed in an old but well-pressed dinner-suit, and the starched collar and shirt cuffs emphasised the weather-darkened skin of face and hands. His brown hair, parted high up, lay close to his head, which added strength to the face when in profile.

The man’s reaction to the gold-shot quartz had been slightly baffling, especially in view of the general knowledge of gold being now revealed in his conversation with the American yardman.

When returning to the hotel with Bony, he had asserted it to be a “floater” brought away from the range in the distant past by, probably, water from a cloudburst. He had never found gold in the district, and no one ever had. It was the strangest fluke that Bony had found it, and then had come the pressing questions: Had Bony prospected for gold? Where and when? Had he ever staked a claim? All questions which could have been intended to get farther into Bony’s background.

Simpson had said he was out after rabbits for the table, but Bony saw by his tracks that he had stood for several minutes watching him before he spoke, and before that he had advanced spasmodically from a point where first he sighted him, advanced as though desiring to do so without being noticed.

Rabbits! No, not along that road. Along by the creek there were rabbits. There were rabbits in the abandoned vineyard. It appeared as though Simpson had been looking for him, which would indicate that he was suspicious.

Throughout the meal Detective Price tried to emerge from the back of Bony’s mind, being frustrated only by the interest in Simpson and his reactions. The old man was wheeled away in his chair by his daughter, out through the door leading to the hall and the front veranda, and when she returned she brought the coffee and Bony lit a cigarette. It was then that Price won.

In Bony’s mind the death of Detective Price had for some time been disassociated from the mystery of the hikers, but in view of what he had discovered this afternoon it demanded reconsideration. If Price had been killed by some person or persons responsible for thevanishment of the hikers, whereabouts along the chain of his investigation had he discovered a clue, or a link, which had made him an acute danger to those responsible for thevanishment? The subject was like a dog’s curly tail which, on being smoothed straight, swiftly returns to the curl.

The same thing followed when the supposition was raised that Price was murdered because he had discovered a vital clue leading to the discharged yardman, Ted O’Brien. Old Simpson was so sure that the man would not have departed without saying good-bye to him. Supposing O’Brien had seen something, or discovered something concerning the two girls, and had been effectively silenced, and then suppose Price had discovered something of the yardman’s fate, and himself been effectively silenced? That appeared to be a more reasonable hypothesis than that Price had found such a clue to the fate of the girls as Bony had that afternoon discovered.

It was not a ruby but a brilliant which had had a setting. Neither of the girls had worn hats when they left Melbourne, and one, Mavis Sanky, had worn a hair-clip studded with ornamental ruby-red brilliants. Her companion had been wearing a similar ornament decorated with emerald brilliants. The setting of both ornaments was nine-carat gold, and therefore the ornaments were not cheap and the stones would not easily fall out.

Bony decided he was licensed to assume that his picture of the car waiting on the shingle area was authentic. There had been a struggle during which the hair-clip worn by Mavis Sanky had dropped from her head, had been trodden upon as it lay on the shingle, had been picked up minus that one brilliant which had dropped down between the pieces of quartz and remained unseen.

Had the persons concerned in the struggle retrieved the hair-clip before they drove off with their prisoners, or had it been found by either the old yardman or by Detective Price?

Assumptions only, but they were all that Bony had gained, and as he passed out of the dining-room, already evacuated by the others, he determined to press forward with his interrogation of old Simpson.

On the few occasions he had been able freely to talk with the old man he had been unable to elicit anything further to the remark about the body in the spirit store. Old Simpson was deeply cunning or slightly decayed mentally, in either case aggravatingly so, and Bony was given the impression that he was being bargained with. If he wanted information he’d have to buy it with a drink or two. And with this in his mind, he passed on to the front veranda and was ordered to:

“Get to hellouta here,” by the cockatoo.

“Don’t you take no notice of that ruddy fowl,” snarled the old man. “Come on over here and have a talk before they dump me into me cot like a body into a coffin. Where you get that floater, eh? I can’t make head nor tail of it the way Jim tells it.”

Having settled himself near the invalid, Bony described the shingle area and proffered the quartz for examination. Old Simpson held it to the light and squinted at the golden speck.

“I know the place,” he said. “Might be as Jim said about being washed down by a cloudburst. It’d have to be that. Groundain’t low enough to have been the bed of a river.”

“The quartz might have worked up from a reef underneath the shingle,” Bony suggested, and the old man nodded quick agreement. He said:

“Pity Ted O’Brienain’t here. He’d have an idea or two. He done a lot ofprospectin ’ around Ballarat in the old days. How long you staying on?”

“Few days, I expect.”

The weak eyes peered at Bony and then were directed along the veranda to the caged bird. Bony could almost see the mind working.

“You pull outtomorrer,” the old man said, hope in his voice. “You go down to Hamilton and find Ted’s sister and from her find out where Ted is. Show him this bit of quartz. Back him with a grub-stake and arrange to go partners with him. I’d like to see Ted again.”

“Perhaps O’Brien didn’t go back to Hamilton.”

“Perhaps he never did. Iain’t sure. I’d like to be.” The old man’s voice sank to a whisper. “The winder behind me-is it open?”

Bony brought his gaze upward to pass swiftly across the window next to that of his bedroom. He shook his head and then crossed to his bedroom window and, sweeping aside the curtains beyond, leaned inward to take a box of matches from the dressing-table. The door was closed and the room was empty.

On resuming his chair, he said:

“What’s on your mind?”

“A drink, that’s what’s on my mind. That and old Ted whouster talk to me. You try and find Ted and hear what he says about that piece of quartz. Don’t you tell Jim about it, aboutfindin ’ Ted. He’s going over to Baden Park tonight. That’ll be him getting out the car. He goes over there some nights to play the organ for ’em.”

Bony leaned forward, saying:

“Who else have you asked to find O’Brien?”

That gave the old man a shock. The thin, warped hands clasped and unclasped. The expression in the watery blue eyes became cunning, and the answer in the negative was forceful.

“Did O’Brien do any prospecting about here?” Bony persisted.

“Yes, sometimes.”

“I suppose he used to cart in the firewood?”

“Course. That’s the yardman’s job. What’s firewood got to do withprospectin ’?”

“Did he use the horse and dray for prospecting?”

“No, nor did he useairyplanes. He had two good legs, didn’t he?”

“How far would he go out for firewood? Two miles?”

“Nuthin’ like it. There’s enough good wood within half a mile of the place.” The voice became petulant. “Youtryin ’ to lead me around?”

Bony nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m wondering why you are so anxious to find out what happened to Ted O’Brien.”

“I told you. Me and Ted were friends. Jim hadn’t no right to sack him just because he got into the spirit store.”

“Where there was a body all cold and stiff, eh?”

The old man tittered, gasped, and glared at the laughing Bonaparte. Bony stood up and stretched and yawned; then, gazing down upon the wreck, he said softly:

“Would you like a little drink tonight?”

“Would a man dying of thirst like snow water? You-you bring me in a little nip tonight, eh?”

“I might.”

The sunken mouth writhed and a shaking hand was lifted to still the tremor. Bony studied the watering eyes, observed the struggle going on. Desire, cupidity, mental instability seemed enthroned at the one time. Old Simpson was far from satisfied that the old yardman had actually left the hotel, and he had stated his unbelief in the excuse put forward for the man’s discharge.

“You keep a secret?” Bony asked.

“I’m full of secrets,” was the reply.

“All right. I’ll let you in on a secret later tonight. What time does your son usually return home from Baden Park?”

“About-any time between three in the morning and daybreak.”

“I’ll come in and have a chat with you about midnight.”

“You’ll fetch a nip?”

Nodding, Bony left the old man to stand for a moment or two before the bird’s cage and then to saunter down the steps and cross to the bridge spanning the little creek. The Buick was parked outside the garage. The sun was setting, and the face of the mountain was like the face of an Eastern woman-partially hidden by the yashmak of purple silk.

Abruptly the wanderlust was upon him. He wondered what lay beyond the mountain, and through him swept the urge to climb it and look. Without doubt, beyond the mountain would lie another valley, and beyond that another mountain range, poised, restrained from crashing forward; but up there upon the crest he would stand in colour, be bathed by it, gaze into the flaming sunset, and have nothing of desire save wings with which to fly into greater freedom.

Down in the hotel clearing, standing on the bridge and listening to the water music and the whispering voice of the sleepy birds, he felt as adungeoned prisoner must feel on gazing upward through the wall slit at the open sky. He was not happy, for the week had been filled with frustrations. Then he remembered the ruby-red brilliant and the tracks of the hotel dray which made a record for two miles through the scrub to a huge pile of rock rubble fallen from the mountain face.

When the dusk was deep Jim Simpson issued from the side door of the hotel and slid backward into the driving seat of his car. He drove away past the building, past the paddock at its rear, along the track skirting the creek, and onward to Baden Park Station. The engine purr dwindled to become the song of a drowsy bee, and when the bee alighted Bony knew that the machine was halted before the locked gates on what Simpson had said was Baden Park boundary.

With his ears he could trace the progress of the car up the incline beyond the gates. So quiet and soft was the falling night, despite all the aids to subdue its sound, the humming of the “bee” continued to pour inward from the outer silence. He heard Simpson change to second gear, and then he saw the car’s headlights, a golden sword pointing to the evening star, wavering, swerving to the left, and illuminating a cliff of granite. A moment later he watched a mountain gorge open to receive the sword into its heart and the car into its iron embrace.

Someone switched on the veranda light, and Bony left the bridge and sauntered past the garage to see the yardman standing between it and the hotel, standing on the track taken by the Buick and listening as Bony had been doing. In its ill-fitting clothes, the figure appeared like a fire-blackened tree-stump, for Shannon did not move as Bony went on to the veranda, walking silently as only his progenitors knew how to move.

“Been out for a walk?” asked Ferris Simpson, who was seated beside her father.

“Oh, just over to the bridge,” Bony replied. “I’ve been watching the sunset colours on the mountain. I think I’ll do a little exploring tomorrow. You know, find a way to the top. I could go by the road, only the gates are kept locked.”

“Don’t you go into Baden Park country,” ordered old Simpson. “They don’t like trespassers. Too many valuable sheep over there. You stay this side of them gates. And don’t you go climbing that mountain, either. Bits of it is liable to come away any time.”

The girl vented a peculiarly nervous laugh. Her face was in shadow, and when she stood up it was still so.

“Please don’t attempt to climb up, Mr. Parkes,” she said. “As Father says, it’s very dangerous. And-and we don’t want any more trouble.”

“Trouble, Miss Simpson?”

“Yes, trouble,” snorted the old man. “What with people getting bushed and others getting shot to death and others going away without saying a howd’y’do to anyone, we’ve had enough trouble without you breaking your neck climbing that ruddy mountain.”

“Father! Don’t speak to Mr. Parkes like that!” exclaimed the girl.

“I’ll speak to him how I like and when I like.”

“You’ll go to bed, that’s what you’ll do. Just see what comes of letting you stay up too late. Don’t you take any notice of him, Mr. Parkes.”

“Go climbing mountains!” shouted the old man. “So you’d push me off to bed, would you, me girl? Well, you just wait. You wait till I’m dead. Then you’ll see.” He was whirled away along the veranda and round the corner, shouting and threatening, and Bony sank into a chair and wanted to chuckle, for only he had observed the red eyelid close in a wink.