Wanted Dead (8 page)

“I appreciate that, sir,” said Riley, “but it can all be checked to a degree if I could take a party of troopers up to the cave.”

“To a degree, to a degree,” said the sub-inspector. “A party of troopers will go to the cave, if it exists, but you won't take them. Oh no, you won't take them. You'll wait here in the cells until they report back.”

“Well, there's my horses and gear too, sir,” said Riley “you see . . .”

“That will be looked into too, Riley,” said the sub-inspector, who now looked as though he was trying to restrain himself from breaking into laughter.

Riley didn't care much any more. All he wanted to do was to lie down somewhere and go to sleep. Surely this must all be straightened out somehow; he couldn't possibly be convicted of horse stealing and sent to gaol. Somewhere in the Colony there must be some saner authority than this sadistic fool sunk into the chair in front of him.

Seven days in the cells and Riley, sallow from want of sunlight and sick from prison food, was brought before the sub-inspector again. Was it really necessary, he thought irritably, for a trooper to stand on either side of him like that? He was hardly likely to assault the sub-inspector, although it was an attractive idea.

“I thought, Riley,” began the sub-inspector, speaking with a tolerance and geniality that rang false as hell to Riley, “that you'd be interested in the report of the party who investigated your story.”

He paused and looked expectantly at Riley. He still had a fleck of foam at the corner of his mouth, thought Riley. He said nothing.

“Well?” barked the sub-inspector.

“Yes, sir,” Riley said resignedly.

“Well,” said the sub-inspector, genial again: “To begin with they found your camp, more or less where you said it was.”

He paused again and leaned forward on his desk, raising his eyebrows to lend force to what he was about to say.

“It was in ashes, Riley, ashes.”

He paused again, to let that sink in.

“And they found your horses, Riley. Both shot through the head.”

“Then I presume the bushrangers found the camp,
sir,” said Riley, “I suppose they would have spent a fair amount of time looking for me, and——”

“You may suppose what you like, Riley,” said the sub-inspector harshly. Then dropping his voice so that it was almost a whisper: “All I'm giving you is the facts.”

He leaned back in his chair with a smug simper on his face, as though to say, “there what do you think of that?”

This man was a genuine maniac, Riley realised. Not just an irascible eccentric but a lunatic who simply ought to be locked up. And here he was in charge of a body of troopers and with his, Riley's, fate in his power.

“They found the cave you spoke of Riley,” continued the sub-inspector, “and some evidence of an explosion. So at least we can assume that some part of your story is true—there was an explosion, eh?”

“And do you know what else they found Riley? Do you know what else they found?”

“No, sir.”

“They found a new grave Riley, a new grave.”

A grave, then he had killed somebody?

“They dug it up, Riley, and what do you think they found inside? A body, Riley, the body of a man who had been shot in the head.”

That dark mass that had screamed when he fired at it on the path on the bridge a week ago; that was the man he'd killed. Riley was aware of no particular emotion.

“And this man, Riley, is no known bushranger. He's not known to the police at all. So what do you make of that? Eh?”

“Well, I presume, sir, that he's just a member of
Hatton's gang. He must recruit new members occasionally. I suppose it's quite possible there are quite a few bushrangers whose identity is not known to the police.”

“You suppose a lot, don't you, Riley? Well suppose you just go out now and see if you could identify this man.”

“But I couldn't possibly, sir,” said Riley.

“What, couldn't even identify the man you shot?”

“But I told you in my report, sir, it was completely dark: I had no idea what he looked like.”

“Is that so, Riley?” said the sub-inspector, leaning forward again and leering. “And after the warning I gave you when you started to be careful who you went about shooting.”

This was impossible, thought Riley. This couldn't be happening to him.

“There'll have to be an inquest, Riley, an inquest. And wouldn't it be surprising if you found yourself charged with murder as well as horse stealing.”

Riley said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

“Very good. Sergeant,” said the sub-inspector, “take him out and show him that body.”

There was a sweet sick smell in the hot tin shed, empty except for the slab table with its burden of a blanket shrouded mass that looked as though it couldn't possibly be the body of a man.

This was a man he'd killed, thought Riley, but still there was no reaction. This was all too remote from the frantic action on the ridge. There was no longer any relationship between himself and this man, this body. Not that there ever had been much.

The trooper pulled back the blanket and Riley saw
the remains of a human face, badly torn about and almost black with dried blood.

“What did you hit him with,” said the sergeant, speaking for the first time. “A shotgun?”

So it was the bird shot that had done the job. Riley thought, he might have realised he would have missed with the ball.

“No,” he said, “I had a pistol loaded with bird-shot.”

“Must have been pretty close,” said the Sergeant.

“Yes,” said Riley.

The corpse's head was almost bare of hair, and Riley remembered seeing the bald headed man in the fire-light when he was crouching in the cave. That gave the corpse some identity, gave Riley some feeling of actually having killed someone—not a faceless blur in the dark that had become a faceless corpse in a tin shed. Some feeling, but not much. It was all too academic now, and too complicated with absurdities.

“Do you know 'im?” asked the Sergeant.

“No.” said Riley.

“Pity you didn't get the Hangman,” said the Sergeant. “You'd be a rich man.”

“Oh?” said Riley, surprised, “You believe me do you?”

“Course I do,” said the Sergeant, “Everybody does. Don't worry about old Mad Mick. He'll have to send the report down to Sydney and you'll be out of here in a week.”

“Mad Mick?” said Riley, “that's the sub-inspector is it?”

“Yeah. Mad Mick Madden they call him. He'll be relieved soon. He's driving us all as mad as he is.
But you've got nothing to worry about. You've done a good job—for a special that is.”

The Sergeant pulled the blanket over the corpse's face.

“What about the inquest he's talking about?”

“Oh there'll be an inquest all right, but the verdict'll be justifiable homicide. You've got nothing at all to worry about.”

“What about that girl?” said Riley, “The sub-inspector didn't say anything about her. Did they talk to her?”

“Janey Cabel? They talked to her all right, but she had six witnesses to swear she was at a dance in the shanty all that night. But don't worry about that. Everybody knows young Johnny Cabel's one of the Hangman's telegrams.”

The Sergeant seemed disposed to chat, but Riley was finding the atmosphere of the shed oppressive, even more so than that of his cell.

“That's not a bad idea,” said the Sergeant as he locked the door on Riley. “Putting bird shot in pistols. I'll pass that on.”

It was another two weeks before the order for Riley's release came up from Sydney, despite the fact that the Coroner's inquest had, as the Sergeant predicted, brought in a verdict of justifiable homicide.

“You've been more fortunate than you deserve, Riley,” said the sub-inspector, and there was no suggestion of geniality about him now.

“Yes, sir,” said Riley, who didn't agree at all. Rather the reverse in fact.

“I have been instructed to re-equip you and send you out again,” said the sub-inspector, mumbling and
speaking more to the desk in front of him than to Riley.

“Yes, sir,” said Riley.

“However,” said the sub-inspector, looking up at Riley and speaking more clearly and with more relish: “I have had no instructions as to either your pay or your gear and in the absence of any other advice propose to act according to the regulations.”

“Oh,” said Riley, not knowing what acting according to regulations involved but assuming it must be unpleasant.

“You will therefore have the value of your horses and gear debited against you and the amount taken from your pay. You know how much that is, Riley?”

“No, sir.”

“Ninety-four pounds seventeen shillings, Riley. Ninety-four pounds seventeen shillings.”

“Yes, sir.”

“However the regulations provide that the whole of a trooper's pay shall not be deducted to defray the expenses of replacing equipment lost or damaged,” said the sub-inspector, speaking from the book as he was occasionally prone to.

“You will therefore be allowed to retain fifty per cent of your pay each month.”

At that rate it would take him roughly a year before he received full pay again, Riley calculated rapidly. It was obviously time he left the service. There must be some other way he could make a living in the colony. He couldn't think of one offhand though. Still, it meant he now had eight pounds, which was something.

“However,” continued the sub-inspector, “as you have spent three quarters of your first month in the
service in prison, you will draw only one week's wages this month. You will be allowed to retain fifty per cent.”

This could all be corrected, thought Riley. A written complaint to headquarters in Sydney would set all this right. But how long would it take, and what fantastic amount of trouble would it involve? Better just get out of the service now and forget the whole thing.

“And in case you were thinking of leaving us, Riley,” said the sub-inspector, “I might remind you that in the event of a trooper leaving the service the whole of any money due under the provisions for the replacement of gear lost or damaged becomes due immediately.”

This bloody man seemed to be reading his thoughts.

“And I might also remind you Riley that leaving the service without due notice constitutes desertion and is punishable by imprisonment. Imprisonment, Riley.”

“Yes, sir.” The situation seemed well covered from any possible angle. God damn the impulse that had brought him to this barbaric Colony and double God damn the impulse that had led him to join the police force.

“So off you go again, Riley, and if you can't bring back a bushranger at least bring back a better story next time, eh?”

The sub-inspector's uncontrolled laughter followed Riley out of the office.

Riley hoped he choked.

The small boys followed Riley out of town again.

He was equipped exactly as he had been a month before, even down to the horses, who surely must
have been foaled by the same dams as the other two, and as long ago.

The only difference was that this time Riley was reading and re-reading a letter which had been handed to him when he collected his gear. It had been waiting at the barracks for him for a fortnight, but he hadn't been able to receive it while he was in the cells.

“Dear Mr. Riley,” the letter ran: “I understand it is you whom I have to thank for the recovery of my racehorse Cicero. I understand your present circumstances make it impractical for me to thank you personally at the moment, but I also understand these circumstances are only of a temporary, formal nature. I would be more than grateful if, as soon as you are able, you would call at my property to enable me to express my thanks in a concrete form.”

The letter was signed Charles Collingwood, and underneath the signature was a small map showing how to reach his property from the township of Goulburn.

Now just what did Charles Collingwood mean by a “concrete form” Riley wondered as he walked his horses slowly along the first of the roads indicated by the map. The racehorse was undoubtedly a valuable animal and there well could have been a reward offered for its recovery. How much? Fifty pounds perhaps, a hundred? Anyhow it was obviously well worth going to see him. At least he might get a decent meal, of which he felt sorely in need.

The homestead was about a mile off the road and the drive up to it was lined with pines about ten years old. The homestead itself was a long, wooden building painted white with verandahs on all sides. Hundreds of sheep were grazing in paddocks around the
house, although the house itself was isolated in a garden of lawns and shrubs from which the sheep were barred by a white picket fence.

It was a pleasanter place than Riley had seen since he arrived in Australia, except for a few stone houses near the port in Sydney.

He left his horses outside the homestead garden and walked up a metal drive to the house.

“That's quite far enough for the time being,” a voice called to him.

He stopped walking. He could see no-one.

“What's your name?” came the voice.

“Dermot Riley.”

“And what's your business?”

“I was invited here by a Mr. Collingwood,” said Riley.

“My dear fellow,” cried the voice apologetically, “I'm so sorry.” A door on the verandah opened and a tall, lean man, dressed in white, and carrying a double-barrelled shot-gun, came out.

“Come in my dear fellow,” he said, advancing across the verandah, “I'm most terribly sorry. I didn't remember the name. I'm Collingwood.” He offered his hand which Riley duly shook.

“Come on inside. Don't worry about your horses, I'll get someone to look after them. Come on in.”

He led Riley into a hallway in which the most outstanding piece of furniture was a rack holding every type of firearm Riley had ever heard of and some that he hadn't.