“Doors at the entrance to a cave,” he said. “Wooden doors.” He lay on the ground for a second or two. “Oil and petrol on the other side. Doors wide and high enough to admit a helicopter. Now for the final effort. And, for the last time, remember it rests with yourselves whether you go on to life and lights, or back to jail.”
Chapter Twenty-five
THE room was large, solidly furnished, serviced by two standard lamps. Against the wall opposite the french windows a stout redwood table supported the radio transceiver before which now sat Charles Weatherby.
His younger brother, Edgar, was wholly absorbed by an aviation journal. Nearer the french windows sat the wives of these two men; one sewing, the other idle, her glance fixed upon a picture her mind did not register. When the older woman spoke, she apparently didn't hear. Nor was she listening to her brother-in-law, who was saying:
“Yes, Jim. Two hundred fats. They ought to reach Kal on the 17th. I got permission to travel 'em through Lancefold, where there's plenty of feed at the back of the run. Will you see the boys through your place and on to town? Over.”
A voice through the speaker said:
“O.K., Charles. I'll attend to that, and keep in touch with your men through Lancefold. That head stockman of yours in charge? Over.”
“No,” replied Weatherby. “Had to keep him back to muster a mob of stores to take down the line. Having missed that last rain here, our feed will dry off soon. How's things with you?”
The speaker said âthings' were reasonable. Weatherby was talking of feed prospects when the door was silently opened, and a figure appeared which brought his brother to his feet.
The figure looked like a wild aborigine wearing cast-off mission clothes for the first time in his life. Dark hair was over long, and the stubbly whiskers were matted. His feet were bare, and the trouser legs hung from the knees in shreds. This
wild man ran across the room to stand beside the transceiver and point an automatic at the senior Weatherby.
“On your feet! Back! Farther back!” he ordered.
The large man obeyed. The wild man's eyes were hidden in the upper shadows cast by the lamp-shades, but the gun was clear enough.
“Who the hell are you? What the devil...”
“I am Detective-Inspector Bonaparte, alias William Black. There are five expendable cartridges in this weapon. Outside are friends of mineâgentlemen named Clifford Maddoch, Mark Brennan, Edward Jenks, and Joseph Riddell. A Mrs. Myra Thomas is with them. Also your head stockman. Being intelligent men, you will both realise that the situation has the element of danger, for you and your wives. Now contact Kalgoorlie.”
“Be damned if we will,” whispered the younger man, and took four paces forward. “You wouldn't shoot. You're a mighty big bluff. Inspector be damned!”
The french windows were rattled against their bolts, and one of the women cried out. The men spun about to see their head stockman flanked either side by reincarnations of the first bushrangers. Then the elder Weatherby turned again to Bony.
“They're all loose?” he asked, tightly.
“All but Doctor Havant. Why hesitate? They are dangerous men. Raise Kalgoorlie for me, at once.”
“No!” shouted the other man. “We have guns, too.”
“Dead men never aim straight,” Bony reminded him, adding: “I always do.”
“Charles!” called his wife. “Do what he says. He's right. Raise Kal.”
The elder Weatherby slumped into the operator's chair and pushed down a switch and turned dials. Again the windows rattled against bolts. The women faced the threat from without. The younger man shrugged and withdrew to his chair, resignation in his dark eyes.
“Mount Singular calling! Come in Lancefold. Come in Kalgoorlie. Mount Singular calling. Urgently calling Kalgoorlie. Over.”
He switched over, and a voice deeply resonant spoke.
“Kalgoorlie Base, Mount Singular. I am getting you clearly.”
“Inspector Bonaparte speaking from Mount Singular, Kalgoorlie. Hold it a moment. Mrs. Weatherby! Admit those persons before they break through. Just another moment, Kalgoorlie.”
Those outside surged into the room, pushing the head stockman before them. Bony signalled silence with his hand, palm outward. “Brennan, come here. You others remain inactive for one minute. Now, Mark, watch these Weatherbys while I report to Kalgoorlie. Take a message, Kalgoorlie. Over.”
Bony motioned to the elder Weatherby, and then the speaker announced that Kalgoorlie was ready, adding:
“We have been alerted for you to contact us, Inspector.”
Weatherby worked on switch and dials, and Bony replied:
“Thank you, Kalgoorlie. A message for Superintendent Wyethâper phone. Inspector Bonaparte reports he is at Mount Singular, together with Mrs. Myra Thomas, and the following men who failed the conditions of their parole: Mark Brennan, Joseph Riddell, Clifford Maddoch and Edward Jenks. Despite extreme provocation, these men are behaving with commendable restraint, but the situation could be explosive and I need assistance with all speed. Got that, Kalgoorlie? Over.”
“Every word, Inspector. Keep on the air.”
Silence, and during the silence reaction hit them hard. Bony's hopes to skate over this emotional ice were frustrated by Maddoch who pointed to the junior Weatherby and shouted:
“I know you. You're the man I met on the train going to my brother's place, the man who coshed me on the station
platform. You're the man who kidnapped me. You vile creature!”
“He! He!” sniggered Jenks from somewhere amid whiskers like a circular chimney broom. He mimicked “Vile creature! So now we know where we are, and now we know why you keep that helicopter in the cave at the foot of the cliff outside. I been waitin' a long long time for this.”
“Jenks!” Bony said sharply.
Jenks remained tense, ready to go into action. He glared at Bony, downward to the automatic. Riddell spoke up:
“Caw! Stop the how-doin' and get us some grub and a bottle or two of whisky. Plenty of time to argue.”
“Of course there is,” supported the girl. “We're not standing for any rough-house, Jenks. Not now when the bright lights are only just round the corner. Smashing up these people and this place won't get us anywhere but back to jail. Be your age, idiot.”
“Gimme the gun, Inspector,” pleaded Brennan. “You're too much of a gent to handle this. I'll stop Ted while you are thinkin' about doing something. No more ruddy jail for me. I've had a bit more'n I can take.”
“You guard that transceiver, Mark,” Bony ordered. “Ladies! Food, and coffee or tea. Please. Here.”
The older woman nodded and made for the door. Myra Thomas lurched after her, crying:
“I want a bath, and clean clothes. I want...”
The speaker said, stentorianly: “Superintendent Wyeth calling Inspector Bonaparte. Over to you, Mount Singular.”
Bony stepped backward towards the receiver, had to turn to the elder Weatherby for a second, and this gave Jenks his chance. The ex-sailor leaped for Edgar Weatherby, evading Riddell's grasp. Then Jenks had his hands about the throat of the seated Edgar, and was pressing him down into the back of the chair. The speaker continued to announce that Superintendent Wyeth was calling Inspector Bonaparte. Credit
must be given to Riddell for acting promptly, but he was slower than the aborigine head stockman, who, sweeping up another chair, brought the front edge of the seat down upon Jenks's cannon-ball head.
This outraged loyalties. Brennan jumped past Bony and waded in with Riddell, to subdue the head stockman. Maddoch hovered on the outskirts. He grabbed another chair, then collapsed on the floor, turned on his chest, and began to cry with rage. The younger Mrs. Weatherby screamed and ran from the room. Her husband was nursing his lacerated throat, and Superintendent Wyeth still called for Inspector Bonaparte. Because of the poor physical condition of the white men, there was considerable damage done to the room's furnishings before the black man was finally put to sleep.
“Over to Mount Singular,” ordered Bony. “Right! Inspector Bonaparte calling, Superintendent. I was delayed in answering your call by a slight diversion. Send relief as quickly as it can be managed. Please note. The persons listed in my first message were incarcerated by these Weatherbys, in underground caverns on the northern extremity of the Plain. Motiveâout of this world, but acceptable. I am happy to report that they have behaved well and are continuing to do so. They deserve every consideration. Over.”
“Quite a tale, Bonaparte. Quite a tale. There's a man named Fiddler, another named Mitski, and Doctor Havant. Do they enter into it? Over.”
“Yes. Fiddler and Mitski are dead. Havant we left in the caverns as he wasn't fit to tramp two hundred miles over the Plain.”
“Big thing, Bonaparte. Organised conspiracy?”
“Well organised. It would be wise to keep all this from the Press until you choose to release it. Security doesn't count. It's all ours. Over.”
“Good! Well, the man at Rawlinna is on his way, and Easter is being contacted to leave at once. I'll charter a plane and the pilot will arrange to arrive out there when it's light
enough to see a landing. Tell those people with you that your report on them will be noted, and they'll have nothing to worry about. Perth is waiting for me. Stay on the air.”
Brennan smiled into Bony's cold blue eyes.
“Thanks for making it a bit sweet for us, Inspector.”
“We have several hours ahead of us, Mark. Is Jenks dead? And that aborigine?”
“The abo could be. No chair ever made could kill Jenks. What a man!”
“Joe! Where is Riddell?”
“Gone looking for grub, I think. Couldn't wait.”
“Call him.”
Brennan went to the door and shouted. Riddell came in. He was chewing on a leg of mutton. Bony sighed.
“Joe, sit there and eat, and watch these two men. Mark, hunt for something to tie Jenks up with, and make it snappy. I'll have to look-see Clifford. He seems to be all in.”
With thankfulness he was careful not to betray, Bony sat at ease eating sandwiches and sipping hot coffee. He was feeling that at last he was indeed master of the situation, and that he had strategically placed all these people to await the hour help arrived.
Maddoch slept in utter exhaustion on the settee. Riddell was still gnawing into his leg of mutton. Brennan was the life of the party. He was feeding sandwiches to Jenks who sat on the floor, his arms lashed to his sides and his feet tied, and with his back to the wall. The head stockman was just tied hands and feet. He continued to dwell in another place. The two women and their husbands sat and glowered. Only Myra Thomas was absent. Presently the younger Mrs. Weatherby rose and dragged her chair, to sit almost knee to knee before Bony. Her husband attempted to rise, waved his hands in resignation, and absently loaded a pipe.
Mrs. Weatherby's dark eyes searched Bony's face.
“Did I hear you say that Igor Mitski is dead, Inspector?”
“Yes. He was killed by a falling rock, Mrs. Weatherby.”
“I'm very glad, Inspector. You know, of course, that he murdered my little girl?” Bony nodded. “He hit her with his fist. Then he picked her up by the feet and swung her round and dashed her head against the door-post. Do you approve of that kind of thing?”
“I do not, Mrs. Weatherby. But I think you are wrong on the details. Isn't that so, Mark?”
“Not much, Inspector. The lady's always right an' all that.”
“Not then quite as you related it, Brennan.”
“That is what he did to my little Mayflower, Inspector,” the woman continued, her voice soft, but her eyes hardening, and her slim nostrils beginning to flare. Her sister pleaded:
“Jean! You had better come away from the Inspector. He'll let us go and lie down till this is all over. Please, Inspector.”
“Yes, do,” Bony agreed. Abruptly, Mrs. Edgar Weatherby stood, and words built into shrilled sentences as the emotional dam broke.
“No!” she shouted. “No, I stay. It was my idea in the beginning and I take all the responsibility. I am the mother of the murdered. I persuaded my husband to join me in executing justice. I organised all those others who sought justice for their murdered. Now listen, all of you, because after tonight I shall never open my mouth again about this matter; my husband won't, and my sister and her husband won't.”
Bony witnessed the effort to regain control, the facial muscles working, the mouth firming above the square chin of this now dominant woman.
“It's like carrying coals to Newcastle, Inspector, to tell you what has been going on in this country, and especially in those States long controlled by the lower orders. We all know that in Australia there is a growing section of the people who are indifferent to crime, and a certain section who are definitely sympathetic towards murderers. Proof! When that Thomas
woman was acquitted, she was greeted outside the court by a huge crowd of cheering people.
“Our aim is for justice on behalf of the murdered. We have to accept the verdict pronounced by a judge in court, but justice is stamped in the mud when a gang of politicians flout the sentence of the judge and release the murderer years before he has served his sentence; flouting justice to make themselves popular.
“They pander to men and women who have the lust to murder in their hearts, but lack the courage to strike. They pander to people who resent laws, hate the police, hate any restraint placed on their vile emotions.
“Hanging was too drastic for the murderer of my little girl; too cruel for the murderer of that young bridal couple; too heathenish for the killer of the farmer who objected to his animals being ill-treated; unthinkable for the wife slayer; too unkind for the abortionist! Twelve years they gave the murderer of my child. Then the vote catchers stepped in and freed him after eleven years. Mark Brennanânever to be released, but he was. Maddoch and the others, released years before they served the sentence imposed by a competent judge. Yesterdayâdeath. Todayâa few years in prison. Tomorrowâa few months' detention.”
“Todayâa Fellowship,” drawled Mark Brennan.
Mrs. Weatherby turned to stare at Brennan. She frowned, wiped him off like a gnat.