as a motive for the crime appears to be quite ruled out. The idea Ericson was putting into shape of settling here and buying a launch for Spinks to run for him, as well as to employ Spinks’s mother and sister, smashes any theory connecting Spinks with the disappearance of the Do-me. Ericson was robbed of nothing but his life. There is nothing in his character that would lead one to assume that he could or did double-cross Spinks for any reason, whilst his death would be the cause of certain loss to Spinks.
“There is a man here, a Joseph Peace, who is going to be of great assistance to me. Officially he is regarded as being a crank because of his claim that he can define the direction of a succession of sea currents. Possibly I have been termed a crank for the reason that I can follow tracks not to be seen by ordinary men. Peace, I understand, is mate to a Jack Wilton, who owns a launch named Marlin. I would like to engage those men and that launch.”
“Wilton will be glad of the engagement,” Blade hastened to say. “The Do-me affair has cast a shadow over Bermagui and the place is not popular just now. If you can remove the shadow, everyone here will be grateful to you. How long will you be requiring the launch, do you think?”
“During the whole of my stay here, which may be for several months. As I told you, my expenses are to be paid from Ericson’s estate.”
“What about tackle? I assume you will require that.”
“Sergeant Allen told me I could hire the tackle from you. I must rely on you for what I want, for I know nothing about swordfishing.”
“Well, then I can let you have a complete set of tackle for five pounds a week: rod and reel, line and trace and hooks, body harness and teasers. I will get you to sign for the items, and then Wilton can take charge of them and have everything ready. Will you be going out tomorrow?”
Bonaparte’s face was alight with anticipation.
“Assuredly,” he replied, to add with a smile: “A detective’s first duty is to examine the scene of the alleged crime, and so I must visit Swordfish Reef, and … perhaps … catch a swordfish. Meanwhile I am a cattleman from the Northern Territory. I will study Wilton and his mate before taking them into my confidence. They tell me, Mr Blade, that catching a swordfish gives a greater thrill than buffalo hunting, even tiger shooting.”
Blade sighed, and Bonaparte saw ecstatic memory leap to his eyes.
“Life doesn’t hold a bigger thrill than the “feel” of a two to three hundred pound swordfish at the end of five hundred yards of line,” he said slowly. “The rougher the sea the more intense the thrill. Are you a good sailor?”
“I have authority for thinking so. Nothing will—”
The sound of flying feet on the sidewalk outside the office put a period on what Bonaparte was saying, and in through the open doorway dashed a small boy.
“Mr Blade! Mr Blade!” he cried pipingly. “The Gladious is coming in with a swordie.”
“Oh! Is she flying the blue flag?”
“Yes, Mr Blade. Can I go with you on the truck down to the jetty?”
“Certainly. You run in and tell Mr Parkins. Are you coming along to the jetty, Mr Bonaparte? I have to go to weigh the capture.”
Bony was on his feet.
“I could not possibly do anything else, Mr Blade,” he replied.
Chapter Six
“Fish-Oh!”
Bony breakfasted at seven o’clock the following morning in company with that Mr Emery who had set up Marion Spinks in business and whose capture of the last evening was now suspended on the triangle at the entrance to the town. The small grey eyes regarded Bonaparte for a fraction of time.
“Morning! You going out fishing today?”
“Yes. This is to be my first sally after the swordfish. What are the prospects, do you think?”
Again that stabbing glance was directed at the half-caste, but the heavy, reddened face successfully masked the thought relative to Bonaparte’s birth. An educated man is stamped by his voice and accent, and both were weighed and judged by a mind used to lightning decisions. Although Emery was ageing and probably knew better, he bolted his food and spoke with his mouth full.
“You never know how the day will turn out,” he said, in a manner reminding his table companion of a marionette show. “This is my third swordfishing season at Bermagui. It’s the uncertainty of the fishing which makes it so great a sport. If a feller could catch ’em all day long and every day he’d want to be as strong as one of those wrestlers—as you will, I hope, find out. A feller’s lucky to get three swordies a week, and sometimes, when the shoal fish are away, you can go a full week and never see a fin. You using your car?”
“No. I came down by plane.”
“Well, then, hurry up and I’ll take you along to the jetty in my “tub”. Ordered your lunch basket?”
“Yes.”
“You get sick?”
“Never.”
“You’re lucky. Me, I’m terribly sick the first day or two.” The food was shovelled into the wide mouth. Then: “Being sick don’t stop me fishing. First day this time I was as sick as a dog and not keeping proper watch on my bait-fish, when a hammerhead took the bait. Great brainless pig of a fish is that kind of shark. Won’t fight, you know. Anyway, time I’d bullocked with him, and he wanted to go down deep and drown himself, I forgot all about being sick.” Another silence followed these somewhat inapt remarks. Presently: “If I ate like this at home I’d have indigestion for a month and a doctor’s bill to pay. Go on, man, hurry up. The days are short enough without wasting time on breakfast.”
They ate rapidly, Bonaparte feeling the thrill of a race.
“Fighting a swordfish must give a terrific thrill,” he said, anxious to know all that was to be known about swordfishing in the shortest possible time.
“Swordfishing gets you like whisky,” Emery stuttered. “One time I used to down two bottles a day, so I know what I’m talking about. Once you bring a swordfish to the gaff you become a slave to a drug worse’n whisky. I’ve landed ten fish so far. Years ago I used to day-dream of fighting blackguards to rescue a girl; now I day-dream of fighting a swordie in a half-gale, one that’ll weigh a thousand pounds. Australian record was one going at six-seven-two pounds, a black marlin captured by a Mr J. Porter, of Melbourne. There must be a thousand-pounder somewhere to be caught.”
“We will hope that one of us will capture him.”
“We’ll hope like mad.”
“A great place this Bermagui,” Bony remarked a moment later. “Fish everywhere, they tell me, and no mosquitoes.”
“Bermagui becomes a man’s Sharg Grelah, or whatever was the name of that place in Lost Horizon. A feller’s never happy away from it. You finished? Good! Come on!”
They rose to dash across to the sideboard for their prepared lunches and thermos-flasks, Emery the more disreputably dressed of the two. Outside the hotel, where it had been carelessly parked all night, stood the tub, a three-thousand-pound affair in charge of a uniformed driver. From the hotel to the jetty was less than half a mile, and the walk after breakfast would have done Emery good, but time was precious, or so he said.
“What launch have you booked?” he asked when they had taken their seats. “Drive slowly past the fish, Fred. I want to look at it.”
“The Marlin.”
“Oh! Good craft, that, and they tell me that young Wilton’s a good man. Want a tip?”
“All you can give me.”
“In a minute, then. What d’you think of my fish? Took me fifty-three minutes