to an opening through the scrub not fashioned by the elements. It was narrow and littered with tree debris and once had been a used track. He recalled the details of his own map, and hereabout would be the track turning off to Baden Park Station. The slight mystery of this track not being drawn on the pictorial map in the hotel hall was now solved. Those at Baden Park Station now used a track skirting the hotel and the vineyard at its rear. He turned and walked back, and his mind went back, too, to the smudge on the picture.
Old Simpson had complained that his son would not allow him to talk with visitors. The son’s attitude was, doubtless, based on the desire to prevent his guests being bored, for it was understandable that guests would want to lounge on the veranda and not have the old man continually “ear-bashing” them. And so, when the house was filled with guests the old man was banished to the rear, where he had the solace of the yardman’s company, an elderly man by the name of Ted O’Brien. This Ted O’Brien had been employed as yardman at the time the two girls had disappeared. He was referred to in the Official Summary of the case. Old Simpson had said that O’Brien had been “sacked” on having been discovered drunk in the spirit store, and in this matter Bony had gained another step when, the previous evening, he had given the old man a small nip of whisky before his tablet. To his question as to when O’Brien had been dismissed, old Simpson had said it was early in November, which was after the period covered by the Official Summary.
Simpson was perfectly justified in getting rid of an employee who had gained entry to the spirit store and drunk himself insensible. The fact that old Simpson averred that O’Brien was too honest to do such a thing counted for very little in view of his mental condition, but that little could not be discarded, and O’Brien’s subsequent movements would have to be established.
And old Simpson’s confidence would have to be further strengthened.
On crossing the little bridge, Bony saw the splendid Buick outside the garage being washed by a tall young man arrayed in blue overalls. Nearing the car cleaner, he greeted him and was regarded by wide-spaced hazel eyes beneath a shock of unruly brown hair.
“Mornin’, sir. Been takin’ the air?”
The voice raised the straight dark brows of the man who seldom exhibited astonishment.
“American, eh?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, sir, I’m from the United States. I’m Glen Shannon, the yardman here.”
“And from the South?”
“Texas, and I got a little bit of home right here under my hands.”
“It’s certainly a beautiful car,” Bony agreed. “Have you been working here long?”
The man from Texas wrung out a cloth and continued drying the mirror-like surface.
“Since just after Christmas,” he replied with that pleasing drawl which creates for foreigners visions of sunlight and galloping horses and two-gun men. “Good job. Nothing much to do and plenty of time to do it.”
“You like Australia, do you?”
“I like this place, sir. Reminds me of home. Back home us kids never saw a stranger once in a month. My pa had a ranch, and somehow we were mighty interested in things around. You know, horses and cattle and the usual chores. Guess it was the war that made a difference. I joined the Army and my kid brothers went into the Navy. Then, after the war was over and I went back home, it didn’t seem the same. It was me who had changed. So—here I am.”
“You’ll go back some day, I suppose?”
“Oh, sure! Some day. Pa said: ‘Roll around, son. Roll the moss off you. Us Shannons never yet had moss attached to us for long.’” The hazel eyes gleamed good-humouredly when directed to Bony, and Shannon laughed softly before adding: “Pa never had any moss on him that I can recall. He was as bald as a billiard ball. What part of Australia do you come from?”
The trick he had of tossing his hair back from his forehead and the swift smile which seemed to leap into his eyes Bony found very engaging. His chin was firm and his body looked hard. That he was yet thirty was to be doubted.
“I own a small place in New South Wales,” he said. “It’s about three hundred and fifty miles north. I run sheep.”
“A sheepherder, eh? That’s interesting. We never had nuthin’ to do with sheep. You got many?”
“Something like ten thousand,” replied Bony.
“Ten thousand! Say, that’s a lot. How many acres on your ranch?”
“A hundred thousand. As I told you, it’s only a small run.”
Shannon turned to face Bony.
“A hundred—— You’re not kiddin’? What’s a big place?”
“Farther outback—well, anything from three-quarters to a million acres.”
Bony described his mythical small place, its lay-out, the type of country. Having digested this information, Shannon said:
“Musta cost you a lot of money to build a boundary fence around all them hundred thousand acres.”
“Before the war it was roughly about twenty-two pounds a mile.”
“That all! How many barb wires?”
“None. My fences contain only five plain wires.”
Shannon frowned and turned back to his work. Then:
“Don’t they have higher fences than that in your part of the country?” he persisted.
“No. There’s no necessity.”
Shannon rubbed hard upon a fender, and without straightening up he said:
“What would they keep inside a fence eight feet high with a barb wire every six inches up from the ground, and an outward over-arm lay of five barb wires?”
“The Japs, I should think,” replied Bony, laughing. “Where is there such a fence?”
“I don’t recall. A fella stayin’ here a couple weeks back was tellin’ me. You got good roads where you ranch?”
“Fairish. We have difficulty in getting about in motors after heavy rain. Our roads are earth tracks, you know.”
“How would I get along in wet weather on a motorcycle?”
“Quite well. D’you own a motor-bike?”
“Yes. It’s inside the garage. What’s the best time to see your part of Australia?”
Shannon was avid for information. When in the Army he had visited Melbourne and Sydney, and it appeared now that the only brake to his desire to travel about the continent was the petrol rationing. He questioned the necessity for it, and Bony agreed that it was being maintained merely to keep a lot of people in quite unnecessary jobs. He gave his quick and open friendly smile as a reward for Bony’s information, and Bony went into the hotel for breakfast.
Bony had often felt the urge to visit America, and the desire was strong as he breakfasted alone in the dining-room, waited on by Mrs. Simpson. No one knew Australia better than he—its powerful allure, its pervading aura of antiquity. There were two things he wanted to see in America: Death Valley and the Grand Canyon. There were three things he wanted to do: to be the guest of an Indian chief, to fish for marlin off the California coast, and to meet the Chief of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
He spent the day on the hotel veranda dreaming of these things and how he might wangle four months’ leave to make the dreams come true. Late in the afternoon he strolled along the track on which had come that magnificent Rolls-Royce. The sun was striking full upon the face of granite towering towards the zenith, and up that face most experienced mountaineers might have climbed. The granite was warmly coloured from dark grey to brilliant rouge.
The track he followed in meditative mood took him past the hotel and its rear buildings, past a ten-acre