The New Shoe. Arthur W. UpfieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
Both were about the same age ... thirty. The eyes of both were grey. Bony inquiringly raised his brows.
“Take a drink with me?” he suggested.
“Don’t mind if I do,” replied the tall man.
The other smiled, and the smile was slow and sure.
“Me, I’ll take a drink with anyone. You go up to the Light?”
“’Course Mr Rawlings went up,” interposed Mrs Washfold. “I seen him on the balcony with the engineer. I wouldn’t have been there for a hundred quid.” She set the glasses before them. Wouldn’t go up there again for a thousand.”
“For a thousand quid I’d go up to the top of the dome and stand on me head,” said the tall man.
“And I,” added the other, giving that slow smile, “I’d go with you and hold your feet up. For a thousand quid I’d do anything. Luck!”
They drank. Bony would have “shouted” again but for the quiet air of independence of these men, the taller of whom asked:
“Didn’t see a body in that locker, I suppose?”
“No,” Bony answered. “I went up to see the Light. In its way a beautiful setting. I read about the murder, of course, but I was much more interested in the Lighthouse.”
“That murder was a funny business,” stated the tall man, and his companion looked at him, smiling as though waiting for a joke. “Neat, that’s what it was. I must say I like a good murder.”
The smile on the face of his mate broadened, seemingly created more by affection than humour. Mrs Washfold’s voice was acid.
“I don’t, Moss, and I’m sure Mr Rawlings don’t, either.”
“It’s certainly remarkable that no one can identify the victim,” Bony said, soothingly. “He must have been a casual visitor. A local man would have been missed.”
“Yair,” the short man agreed, and to Mrs Washfold: “Eric told me that him and all the other drivers was taken up to Mel-bun to have a deck at the corpse. None of ’em could remember seeing the bloke on their run.”
“Eric! Who’s he?” casually asked Bony.
“Drives one of the buses between Lorne and Geelong.”
“You must have been busy at that time, Mrs Washfold,” Bony said, and the woman in black thrust out her chin.
“Fourteen guests and half a dozen or more detectives. The Chief of the CIB was one, and Inspector Snook another. Didn’t have no time for the Inspector, but the Superintendent was a real gent. They musta been disappointed at getting nowhere.”
“Aw, don’t be too sure they’re getting nowhere,” objected the tall man. “They don’t let out all they know, and they never let up, neither. Remember the Pyjama Girl case. Went on for years, and then a cop.”
“Yes, and then what?” snapped Mrs Washfold. “Found him guilty and gave him a year or two in gaol, and then worked him out of the country and back to his own. Paid his fare, too.”
The rear door opened and the licensee appeared. He paused to take in the empty glasses, forgotten by the absorbed Mrs Washfold and the men interested in her words. When he joined his wife, there wasn’t turning room behind the counter. “Dry argument,” he snorted. “What are we waitin’ for?”
Pouncing on the glasses, he filled them.
“I was sayin’,” remarked the tall man, “that the police’ll get the bloke what done this Lighthouse murder ... tomorrer, the next day, sometime. Betcher.”
“Zac,” offered his mate, and smiled at Bony. “What’s the worry, any’ow.”
“Betcher a quid, the police finds the murderer,” persisted the other.
“A fiver,” raised the short man, and dragged a roll from his hip pocket.
“A fiver! All right, a fiver,” agreed the other, and also produced a roll.
“Cobbers’ agreement,” said the short man, and shoved the roll back into his pocket.
“Cobbers’ agreement it is,” said the tall man, doing likewise.
Washfold leaned over the counter towards Bony:
“Plenty of money, eh?” he remarked loudly. “The down-trodden working men. The capitalist-starved working men. And you and me, Mr Rawlings, has to slave our hearts out to support big, loafin’, hungry wives what’ll let the dinner spoil sooner than tend to it. All right, Dick Lake, you can shout. And then, Moss, you next.”
“Suits me,” replied the short man, again smiling. The old felt hat was perched at the back of his fair head, and the smile had become a fixture. Mrs Washfold edged herself through the counter flap to reach the rear door, and Dick Lake caught her arm, saying: “Stay here with us, and we’ll make the old man sweat pulling the beer. Bet I can drink more beer than you.”
“I’m not takin’ you on, Dick Lake,” replied the woman, both pleasure and indignation in her voice.
“Aw, have a heart, Mrs Washfold. Be a sport. About a couple more and I’ll be flat out.”
“I’ll have one drink with you boys, and no more. I’ve the dinner to serve up.”
“Worst pub I ever been in. No friendliness. No sport. Make it a long one, Bert.”
The other man, addressed as Moss Way, joined Bony. “Didn’t you look into that locker?” he asked, hopefully.
“Well, the engineer did show it to me,” conceded Bony. “But I really didn’t want to look into it, you know.”
“Cripes, you lost a chance. Hey, Dick. What’s that locker like? You worked with the Repair Gang when they was down before Christmas. How big’s it?”
Lake turned from talking to Mrs Washfold.
“Just a hole in the ruddy wall. Bit above the first landin’. There was a winder, and they used to put the danger lamp there. The foreman cemented the winder and fixed a door to make her a cupboard for spare parts.”
“How big?” pressed the tall man.
“Four be four be four. Big enough to take a naked man, anyhow.”
“You were in the Navigation Department?” remarked Bony.
“Me? Never. I was took on as a casual hand when the Gang was here. Good job. Good wages. Funny thing was that I got six and tenpence a week more’n the tradesmen, and they had to do all the high climbing. They reckon a wharf labourer gets more than a university professor, and they’re about right.”
“Any other casuals beside you?”
“Nope. Only me. I’m enough. You stayin’ here for a spell?”
“Staying here for several weeks,” interjected Mrs Washfold.
“What we’re not doing,” declared the tall man, and the short one smiled at Bony, and at Mrs Washfold, and suffered himself to be led out to the truck.
Mrs Washfold slipped away to the kitchen. Her husband proceeded to tell Bony that Dick Lake and Moss Way were a couple of characters and were partners in a wood-carting-general-carrier business. Bony listened with one ear. No mention was made in the Summary of any casual hand employed in the Repair Gang.
Fisher appeared with three of the house builders, and there was time for a round of drinks before Mrs Washfold beat the dinner gong and her husband shouted: “Six o’clock, gents!”
At dinner, Bony told Fisher he could return to Melbourne, leaving the keys of the Lighthouse with him.
Chapter Six
Caskets on Offer
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