Bony novels by Arthur W. Upfield:
1 The Barrakee Mystery / The Lure of the Bush
2 The Sands of Windee
3 Wings Above the Diamantina
4 Mr Jelly’s Business/ Murder Down Under
5 Winds of Evil
6 The Bone is Pointed
7 The Mystery of Swordfish Reef
8 Bushranger of the Skies / No Footprints in the Bush
9 Death of a Swagman
10 The Devil’s Steps
11 An Author Bites the Dust
12 The Mountains Have a Secret
13 The Widows of Broome
14 The Bachelors of Broken Hill
15 The New Shoe
16 Venom House
17 Murder Must Wait
18 Death of a Lake
19 Cake in the Hat Box / Sinister Stones
20 The Battling Prophet
21 Man of Two Tribes
22 Bony Buys a Woman / The Bushman Who Came Back
23 Bony and the Mouse / Journey to the Hangman
24 Bony and the Black Virgin / The Torn Branch
25 Bony and the Kelly Gang / Valley of Smugglers
26 Bony and the White Savage
27 The Will of the Tribe
28 Madman’s Bend /The Body at Madman's Bend
29 The Lake Frome Monster
This corrected edition published by ETT Imprint, Exile Bay 2020.
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers.
ETT IMPRINT & www.arthurupfield.com
PO Box R1906,
Royal Exchange
NSW 1225 Australia
First published 1953.
First electronic edition 2013.
Copyright William Upfield 2013, 2020.
ISBN 978-1-922384-09-6 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-922384-60-7 (ebk)
Digital distribution by Ebook Alchemy
Chapter One
Introduction to Drowning
Like the hotels, Australian trains are not what they ought to be, and Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte was glad to leave the bone-shaker at the four-pub town called Manton where he was to take the service car to Edison—Edison being a one-pub town on the coast south of Brisbane.
The youth guarding the station exit accepted his ticket with native indifference, and languidly informed him that the service car would be parked outside the Post Office.
The one point in favour of the service car was that it did have four wheels. It must have come from somewhere, and could be expected to go, if only for a yard or two. The driver was tall and lanky and young. He wore an English cloth cap back to front, hung a burnt-out fag to the corner of his mouth, and evidently preferred his shirt tails outside his drill trousers. The single redeeming feature was a pair of grey eyes which actually laughed.
“She’s all right,” he assured the prospective passenger. “Get you anywhere any time.”
“I want to go to Edison.”
“Then you gets to Edison when she gets there. You Inspector Bonaparte?”
“I am Inspector Bonaparte.”
The grey eyes took in the carefully-groomed passenger: his smart grey suit, light grey felt, brilliantly polished shoes. They also noted the dark complexion, the straight nose, the firm mouth, the eyes which recalled the blue of the sea.
“Well, we’re all set,” the driver asserted, tossing Bony’s suit-case upon the back seat already crowded with parcels, spare tubes and tools. “Hop in the front gallery, Inspector. No other passengers this trip. Old Mawson said to look out for you. Sorta busy, and couldn’t come himself.”
Bony almost committed Mr Pickwick’s injudicious error of asking the age of the cab horse. The alleged automobile complained when accepting his weight, and it shuddered when the driver started the engine by tickling something under the rusty bonnet and then leaping to the steering-wheel before the effect of the tickling could die in a convulsion. The gate-change gears were slammed into first and the journey begun with flying-saucer acceleration.
Twenty-one miles to Edison, isn’t it?” questioned Bony.
“And a bit,” replied the driver. “Could do it in thirty minutes, but the road’s crook and we gotta coupler places to call. You gonna go into them drownings at Answerth’s Folly?”
“Yes. What is your name?”
“Mike Falla. Me old man’s got a farm two miles outa Edison, but I couldn’t stick the cows and feedin’ pigs. Cars is more in my line.”
“You have other cars?”
“One more. Not as good, though. Can’t beat the old stagers, y’know. Cars we’re getting now falls to bits as soon as you take ’em on the road. They’re all spit and polish and no guts.”
The town road became a track, and abruptly the track dipped to take a narrow bridge spanning a chasm of a gully. The driver changed down to first and braked the contraption with the engine. Beyond the bridge Bony asked:
“Saving your brake linings?”
“Ain’t got none. They turned it up beginning of last winter.”
“You manage all right without brakes?”
“Yair. Nothing wrong with the ruddy engine to ease her up.” The cigarette butt danced a jig across the wide mouth. “Funny about them drownings, isn’t it? Beats me. Ed Carlow wasn’t exactly a sissy, y’know. Six feet something, and sixteen stone if an ounce. Fight sooner than spit. Don’t get it at all. And old Mrs Answerth was harmless enough, and she had nothing to be killed for. Sorta reminds me of Ginger, them drownings do.”
“Ginger!” murmured Bony.
“Yair.”
The track was like a snake on the rampage, twisting to avoid the larger trees of the scrub hemming both sides. Being mid-September in Southern Queensland, there were teeth in the air meeting Bony’s face. The yellow track, the grey-green tree-trunk and the dark green foliage of massed shrubs were painted with the vivid veneer of spring. The service car fought its way to a rise, gasped at the top and sang with relief when nosing down the opposite slope. Speed increased. Each successive bend was taken by the complaining tyres, and at each bend Bony anticipated disaster.
“One day you will meet an oncoming vehicle,” he remarked.
“Yair.”
The cigarette butt continued its dance. Like a lion springing from its lair, the car spun on to the floor of a wide valley, and followed a rule-straight yellow ribbon edged with wire fences. Beyond the fences flat paddocks were tiled with ploughed chocolate clods. Here and there were small neat farmsteads about which waved fast-growing maize. The time now being favourable to ask the driver for attention, Bony reminded