Bony and the Black Virgin by Arthur UPFIELD

By Arthur UPFIELD

Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte is termed to the drought-stricken outback for this, his most recent case. At a desolate sheep station males were savagely crushed to loss of life and it really is Bony's task to make an arrest. this is not a simple case, seeing that clues are scarce during this sun-baked, sand-blown kingdom, yet Bony's figuring out of the bush and the folk who reside there - either black and white - leads him inexorably to the killer...

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Anyway, as Robin put it, he’s now resting at L’Albert. ” Neither spoke again until the meal was ended and Eric had lit a cigarette and had stared at his father for a long moment. “We have troubles, too,” he said. ” “The time comes, lad, when nothing excepting agistment does any good,” the old man said, firmly. ” “By Christmas we won’t have a sheep left,” Eric claimed. ” snarled Eric, temper leashed. “Four miles out from Rudder’s is scrub we could lop for feed, and a morsel of salt-bush. We cart water out there to the sheep and stop that everlasting walking.

Taking the branch and the paper bag with him he walked to the centre of the clear space, where he gathered a few completely dry sticks and twigs, and of them made a fire. Then, with care, he dropped from the paper bag a quantity of long black hair. The hair smoked but lightly. When it was consumed, he burned the paper bag, and stood awhile until the fire died down, when he scraped a hole with the heel of his boot, enlarged it with his hands, and finally with a twig teased all the fire embers into it, and covered the mass with sand.

He was better dressed than a judge. He was wearing a new suit, the creases knife-edged. On his white hair sat a new velour hat. The moustache matching his hair was neatly trimmed. He was a dynamo of a man which the whisky of three hotels had failed to slow down. “Anyhow, so long, Sergeant,” he shouted. ” Sergeant Mawby grinned. Downer winked. Sergeant Mawby winked. The truck moved off. At the edge of town, he shouted to his son: “Always know when I’m beat, lad. ” “Without any help from you,” returned Eric, still savage.

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