Chapter Seventeen
WHEN THE TWO POLICEMEN joined Nettlefold, Elizabeth and the two doctors in the study, Nettlefold suggested drinks.
“I vote we all attend to our own wants,” the genial cattleman said. “You’ll find everything in the wall cabinet. I used at one time to dream of occupying a large mansion containing a real bar and an attendant barman. Now I am satisfied with something much less ornate. A barman would give the place the air of a club.”
“You are a member of the Apollo Club, are you not?” queried the specialist.
“Yes. I often spend time there when I’m in Brisbane.”
“Thought I saw your name on the register.”
Having brought his glass back to his chair, Dr Stanisforth and the cattleman began to talk personalities. Knowles remained seated, and Bony now knew positively that the man was fighting against the craving for whisky. Why? He recalled how the man’s nerves twitched late that afternoon; and that since his return he had drunk nothing stronger than tea. Well, it was unwise to stop drinking so abruptly. Over thirty pounds a month, had it not been?
“Come along,” he invited the doctor. “The sergeant finds the time too early, and the others are gossiping about people far above me.”
Exhibiting no sign of haste, Knowles rose to his feet.
“Not a bad idea,” he agreed, outwardly calm but unable to conceal from the detective’s shrewd eyes signs of the terrible inward fight.
Bony would have preferred waiting for the inevitable tea to be served, but he felt genuine sympathy for this man. Despite his weakness, Knowles was a brave and cultured English gentleman, who, from the very beginning of their acquaintance, had evinced no sign of superiority, none of that mental snobbishness he had so often met and which so hurt him.
“I suppose you find this case taking a big bite out of your time,” he asked.
“Soda water?”
“Please.”
The siphon fizzed.
“I am thinking of throwing up my other work so that I can devote all my time to this one,” Knowles said, after vainly trying to prevent the edge of his glass from tapping against his teeth.
“Then what about your other cases. How will they get along?”
“There are very few at present, and none of a serious nature.” Knowles put down his empty glass. For a moment his iron will-power deserted him. His dark eyes widened and blazed at Bony. “Are you any nearer to identifying the devil who caused that paralysis of my patient?”
The mood passed, or was conquered. The cynic regained the mastery. He poured himself out another drink.
“It is usual for a detective to say that he is in possession of an important clue,” Bony lightly declared. “He does that when he is completely baffled. So far, I am completely baffled with regard to the identity of the person who so determinedly tried to commit murder; but, to employ a childish phrase, I am getting warm. I now know much more than I did when I came here, a good deal more than I knew yesterday, and more than I knew an hour ago. Are you aware of the fact that I have never yet failed to finalize a case?”
“No, I didn’t know it.”
“I have been successful, Doctor, because I did not graduate from a beat, because I have always declined to permit red tape to control me, and because I overlook no apparently trivial side issues. Since I took over this case I have encountered no less than three little mysteries. They may have no connexion whatever with the major mystery. Yet, on the other hand, any one of them may be the very keystone of the arch supporting the big mystery.”
“Indeed! Would it be presumptuous of me to ask what they are? Perhaps I could assist in clearing up at least one.”
“Well, I think you could clear up one of them, but I hesitate to put it to you, fearing that the amicable relationship between us might be severely strained. You see, it concerns yourself.”
Knowles stood quite still, the fingers of his left hand halted in the act of twisting the short ends of his moustache.
“The solution of the little mystery which concerns me would be of assistance in solving the major mystery?”
“I do not say that it would,” Bony hastened to reply. “I will not say even that it would be likely. I mentioned the fact of these little mysteries because, in more than one case, a little mystery solved has enabled me to solve the big one.
“Very well. If I can clear up the mystery concerning myself I will be happy to do so on the off-chance that it will be of assistance to you in locating the devil who drugged that poor girl.”
Bony leaned towards the doctor.
“Do not think that what I am about to ask is actuated by idle curiosity. The mystery concerning you is this: Why have you resolved to combat and to defeat the craving for spirits?”
In an instant the cloak of his national reserve fell about the doctor.
“I cannot see that that is any business of...”
“I agree, my dear Doctor,” Bony interrupted. “It may be no business of mine, but it is just possible that it is. If you would rather not clear it up for me let us drop the subject at once. I have no desire to offend you or to intrude, where I have no right. Shall we have another drink? I do not usually take more—”
Dr Knowles relaxed. There was a trace of eagerness in his voice when he said:
“Bony, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you why I am struggling to cut out the whisky. Were I a criminal I would find pleasure in being arrested by you. A long time ago—years and years—I was in the third year of my medical course. That was in 1915. I was madly in love with a girl of my own age, and one night we were returning to her home at Ealing, outside London, having been to a theatre, when we were caught in an air raid. She was killed in my arms by a bomb splinter while we were taking shelter in a doorway.
“Her death profoundly shocked me, and I often doubt if since that night I have ever been really sane. I interrupted my medical course to join the Flying Corps. I began to drink, and I have drunk heavily since then because I have not the courage to commit suicide. I did well in the Air Force because the more I drank the better I could fly and fight. After the war I gained my medical degree, but I have only been playing at doctoring. Until now! Bony, the girl lying so still in that room is the exact double of the girl I loved and who died in my arms.”
Seated in a wicker chair outside the door of the south veranda, Ted Sharp smoked and idly watched the red lightning flickering along the western horizon. Nettlefold strolled out.
“Storm coming up, Ted?” he asked the boss stockman.
“Yes, it looks like it, Mr Nettlefold. They’ll be early this year. Might have one to-night—to be followed by two or three days of fine weather before the storms really set in.”
“Humph! Well, we’ll have to get the breeding cows out of the south river paddock into Emu Lake paddock. I’ve a mind, too, to put into Emu Lake the breeders now in Watson’s. Think you could start the muster of the river paddock tomorrow?”
“Whenever you wish. There’s Alec and Ned Story, and Harry and Syl here, and there’s Ned Hamlin and the two blacks out at Faraway Bore. They could ride across and meet us.”
“Very well. I’ll telephone Ned Hamlin right away. You can take two of the blacks camped down the creek. They were asking to be put on only yesterday. I’d like to get all the breeders into Emu Lake, and I think we should delay no longer. We might get the storms at any time, and they might give us a local flood like we had in 1925.”
“Yes, they might,” Ted agreed.
“All right, then! You can get off to bed and have a real sleep. I will do guard duty to-night.”
“Not a bit necessary. I slept all to-day. I couldn’t sleep if I did go to bed. You still think it wise to maintain a guard? That feller isn’t likely to make another attempt.”
“Bony says that it’s more than likely.”
“Has he found out anything?”
“Quite a lot. I cannot tell you just what, because he told me in confidence. Bill Sikes is about the cleverest tracker I know, but this Bony can run rings round him. He was asking me about you a moment before I came out. Wants a word with you.”
“Oh! What about?”
“That I don’t know. I’ll tell him you’re here. Now I’ll wake up Ned Hamlin about to-morrow’s muster. Good night!”
“Good night, Mr Nettlefold.”
The cattleman went inside, and presently Bony stepped out.
“Good evening, Mr Sharp!” he said in greeting.
“Ah, good evening, Mr Bonaparte! Looks like a storm coming.”
“I earnestly hope that it does not rain. By the way, everyone calls me Bony.”
Ted Sharp chuckled.
“And everyone calls me Ted,” he countered. “I’ll get another chair if you want to pitch for a while.”
“Please do not trouble. I can sit on the ground here.”
The detective made himself easy on the ground and proceeded to fashion the inevitable cigarette. He could not see the other’s face, but he liked Sharp’s voice.
“I understand that you come from the Warrego, down in New South Wales. I know the Wyatts down there. Do you?”
“Who told you that I came from the Warrego?” Sharp asked with evident surprise.
“Oh! I really don’t know. Someone. I was wondering if you know anything about sheep,” Bony replied airily.
“A little,” the other admitted cautiously. “Why?”
“Will you give me the benefit of your experience in this district?”
“There appears to be no reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Thank you! I felt sure that you would be willing to assist me. I want you to tell me why you did not go to Mitchell’s Well on the night of 28 October, and why you did go to Gurner’s Hotel.”
The flickering lightning dulled by distance though it was, revealed to Bony the other’s tense face and taut figure. When another investigator would have figuratively jumped in to follow up the advantage gained by surprise, Bony remained silent.
“I’ll tell you,” Sharp presently decided. “I slipped across to the hotel to get a bottle of whisky. It was a warm night, you understand, and I felt like a drink, but Mr Nettlefold has a strict rule against it.”
“Was that why you rang up Ned Hamlin to back your story of having gone to Mitchell’s Well?”
“Yes. You see, I wouldn’t have Mr Nettlefold know about it for anything.”
“So far as that is concerned, it is no affair of mine, but when you went to Gurner’s Hotel expressly to interview an unknown stranger it becomes my concern.”
“So you’ve found that out, too, have you?” Sharp exclaimed harshly.
“Of course!” assented Bony, as though it was but a perfectly natural sequence of events. “Who was that man, and what was your business with him?”
“I am not going to tell you.”
“Oh, why not? I shall eventually find out what I want to know, but it will occupy valuable time.”
“It will take you all your life,” snapped the boss stockman.
“No, it won’t,” Bony said confidently, and then, when Sharp abruptly got to his feet: “Sit down, please! I have not finished with you, yet.”
“I don’t intend to answer your questions,” the younger man burst out passionately. “My private affairs have nothing to do with your case, and therefore I am not going to discuss them with a confounded half-caste.”
“Sit down, man, and don’t be a fool,” urged Bony politely. “You may be dealing with a half-caste, but you are also dealing now with an intelligence—an intelligence having the powers of a police officer.”
“I don’t care a damn about that.”
“There are some detectives, I know, who do not respect confidences. I am not one of them. I take a pride in being an honourable man. What I wish you to tell me would be treated with strict confidence should it have no bearing on my investigations.”
“Well, it has no bearing. Because it is so, I do not intend to say anything. The fact that you are a detective doesn’t give you the right to pry into everyone’s private affairs.”
“Permit me to differ,” Bony said, again politely. “In ordinary circumstances I would not attempt to pry into your private affairs, but the circumstances of the present case are far from ordinary. In this sparsely-populated district, a crime has been committed. Within fifty miles are about only a dozen men. It is absolutely essential that each one of those men is proved innocent of complicity. On the night that the crime was committed, you meet a stranger in mysterious circumstances—very mysterious circumstances. You trouble to lie to me about it, and you further trouble to ring up Ned Hamlin and ask him to back your lie that you visited Mitchell’s Well.
“If your business with the mysterious stranger is perfectly innocent,” continued the detective, “why hesitate, now that you know I know about the interview, to state the facts of it? Of far greater importance than the discovery and apprehension of the person who stole the aeroplane and destroyed it, as well as the person who poisoned the patient’s brandy, is the acquisition of the knowledge of the drug given her and its antidote in order to save her life.”
“My private affairs have nothing—” Sharp began again.
“I’m glad to hear that. You will, then, tell me who the man was who arrived at Gurner’s Hotel and occupied a private sitting-room.”
“I will not tell you. You can go to the devil!” Sharp almost shouted. “If you suspect me of being the criminal—”
“We can do nothing else but suspect you,” came Elizabeth’s voice from the doorway behind them. “I’m sorry, but I could not avoid overhearing what you were saying. Your voices were raised.”
Bony was now on his feet, and side by side they faced the white-clad figure standing holding back the spring-hinged door. When she again spoke, her voice was cold.
“You should apologize to Mr Bonaparte for referring slightingly to his birth, Ted.”
Beneath the coldness of her voice, Bony thought he detected soft entreaty.
“If Mr Sharp would only be open with me, my investigation would be materially assisted,” he said slowly. “As for my being a half-caste—well, that is entirely a personal matter. As I pointed out, Mr Sharp’s business at Gurner’s Hotel may have no connexion with my present case, but there is the possibility that it may. I must know where every person in the vicinity of Emu Lake was on that vital night, and what he was doing. Come, Mr Sharp, do not make matters harder for me.”
“I can assure you that my business that night had no connexion with the aeroplane and the drugged girl.”
“In that case, be reasonable and give Mr Bonaparte the information he requires. Can’t you see, Ted, that by refusing to speak you are forcing suspicion on yourself.”
“I shall say nothing. Oh, can’t you understand, Elizabeth?”
“I am afraid I cannot, Mr Sharp.”
The formal address obviously stung. Lightning revealed the effect of the sting to the watchful Bony, and he thought he guessed another Coolibah secret.
“No, I cannot understand why you refuse to account for your actions that night when, as Bony says, everything—everyone’s energies must be directed to discovering what is necessary to enable the doctors to save that helpless girl’s life. If it is something disgraceful...”
“Eliz’beth, please!”
“Miss Nettlefold!”
“Oh, all right! I ... I can’t say what my business was that night. To do so would ruin all my plans, smash my ambitions. It would drag in innocent people. No, I can say nothing.”
When Elizabeth spoke again her voice was as brittle as thin ice.
“I must go in to my patient—good night, Bony.”
The two men stood watching her dimly-white figure beyond the fly-gauze of the veranda door, a dainty figure outlined by the soft light within the patient’s room.
“Damn you! Why the hell can’t you mind your own affairs?” snarled Ted Sharp. He strode away into the darkness, leaving Bony to sigh: