Wanted Dead (20 page)

Three men at a table just in front of the semi-throne arrangement at which the magistrate sat were scribbling furiously on sheets of papers. It was just as well they could hear what was being said, Riley
thought, because he was sure the people in the gallery couldn't. But then it sounded as though the magistrate was speaking specifically for the newspaper men. “Scourge of outlawry,” would look well in those headings of larger than usual type with which the newspapers introduced their accounts of various happenings. Riley had become very familiar with newspapers and their employees of late. The defence of the homestead had excited the interest of all the newspapers in the colony. One,
The Burrangong Miner
, had even had a ballad composed which it featured prominently on its front page. Riley had read the ballad until he came to a line in which Dermot Riley was rhymed with “standing firm not slyly.” He had put the paper away with a shudder.

The magistrate had finished speaking and was gathering up his papers. The police, the newspaper men, the officials and the spectators, straggled to their feet. The magistrate walked briskly out of the courtroom.

“Let's go and have some beer,” said Collingwood, who'd sat next to Riley throughout the hearing.

“Yes,” said Riley.

“I wonder how much is involved in those rewards?” said Collingwood as they stood at the bar looking out through the glare of the doorway into the dusty, busy main street of Goulburn.

“Mm,” said Riley, whose thoughts had been straying in the same direction.

“Probably no more than two hundred pounds for each man,” said Collingwood. “They weren't particularly notorious. I'd never heard of them.”

“Still, that's four hundred pounds,” Riley said.

“Yes,” said Collingwood. “We'd better arrange for it all to go to old Andy's sister. There doesn't seem to be anybody connected with Dave.”

“That would probably would be best,” said Riley in non-committal tones. He wished he had the same automatic generous instincts as Collingwood. He agreed with the principle of all the money going to Andy's sister, but he could not help a faint twinge of regret. Of course, his ungenerous self whispered before it was suppressed, Collingwood was in a position to afford to be automatically generous. For Heaven's sake, he told himself, searching his mind to make sure he wouldn't really have the money distributed any other way, and reassuring himself by finding that he would not, for Heaven's sake. Just the same he sometimes wished Collingwood wouldn't treat him so consistently as a gentleman amateur.

There was the sound of heavy feet on the boards of the hotel verandah and the doorway was darkened by a bulky figure. The sun outside was so bright that the man's features were obliterated, although Riley distinguished the trooper uniform. The man strode across to Riley and Collingwood, and he was quite close before Riley recognised him as the Sergeant who'd once acted as his warder.

The trooper touched his finger to his cap.

“Afternoon, Mr. Collingwood,” he said, then turned to Riley: “The sub-inspector's back. He wants to see you urgently.”

“Madden?” said Riley.

“Yes.” said the trooper. “He's back!”

“Oh,” said Riley, who'd nurtured an irrational hope that he might never see the sub-inspector again.

“He said
urgently,”
said the trooper.

“All right,” said Riley wearily. “I'll go.”

“How long is he likely to be?” said Collingwood.

“I've no idea, sir,” the trooper replied.

“I'll see you back at the homestead then,” Collingwood said to Riley. “I'm still a couple of dogs short, and there's a fellow got some for sale I want to see.”

The trooper knocked on the door of the sub-inspector's office and opened it tentatively. “Special Constable Riley's here, sir,” he said.

“Send him in, send him in,” said the sub-inspector and his voice held the note of geniality which Riley now knew boded only ill.

He walked into the office. Involuntarily he stopped just inside the door. He knew he shouldn't stand and gape. He knew that was just what the sub-inspector had expected, and wanted. But he couldn't help it. This was the most improbable thing in all this improbable colony.

Jane Cabel was sitting in a chair in front of the sub-inspector's desk.

“Come in Riley, come in,” said the sub-inspector heartily. “Don't just stand there.”

Jane had looked up once and smiled slightly and shyly at Riley. Now she was looking into her lap where she held her hands folded. She was wearing a high necked black dress which hung in folds around the chair. Riley took a few more shaken steps into the room and stood before the desk, just a couple of feet away from the girl.

“You know Miss Cabel, don't you?” said the sub-inspector.

“We've met,” said Riley.

“Yes, well that's all right then,” said the sub-inspector.
Riley found himself looking anxiously for the fleck of foam on the sub-inspector's beard. It was there, just below his lip on that small tuft of hair that sprouts centrally just above the main growth on the chin.

“I see you've taken your beard off,” said the sub-inspector and Riley wondered, as he had done before, whether this man had some capacity for reading, or at least connecting in some way with other people's thoughts.

“Yes, sir,” he said carefully. “I did it to preserve my
incongeeto
as you suggested.”

No flicker of irritation marred the horrible merriment of the sub-inspector's face, and Riley knew that he was to be allowed his shaft unscathed.

“Quite the fancy man now, isn't he, Miss Cabel?” said the sub-inspector, who was leaning expansively back in his chair. Soon, Riley knew, he would lean forward on to his desk and start making his point.

Jane looked up hastily and a suggestion of a smile appeared on her lips. She was a pretty jade, thought Riley in spite of himself.

“And you've been covering yourself with glory while I've been away,” continued the sub-inspector. “Showing us, old regulars, how to do it, eh?”

Riley made a deprecatory gesture.

“I suppose you'll be rich now with all your reward money, eh?”

Riley tried to answer with a half smile, but the sub-inspector leaned forward a little in his chair and said, belligerently, “Eh?”

“Yes, sir,” said Riley.

The sub-inspector leaned back again and smiled. At least, thought Riley, it was to be supposed he was
smiling. His mouth was stretched wide over his yellow uneven teeth, and Riley could see a suggestion of yellow tongue. It wouldn't have been considered a smile in any other face, but it was probably the best the sub-inspector could do.

Abruptly the sub-inspector leaned forward onto his desk and cupped his face in his hands. Here it comes, thought Riley, here it comes.

“Now you'll be pleased to hear that you're to have another chance to show what you can do.”

Riley could see it coming; some peculiarly unpleasant and dangerous assignment.

“Miss Cabel here has given us some very valuable information as to the whereabouts of James Hatton.”

Curious the way the man's speech so often lapsed into formality, thought Riley, as his mind struggled to take in what had been said.

He looked at Jane, but her eyes were cast down.

“In fact, Miss Cabel has told us where James Hatton is—where we can find him.” The sub-inspector brought this out triumphantly and sat waiting for Riley to reply.

“I see, sir,” said Riley, after a moment. He knew what was coming. He couldn't believe it but he knew it was coming.

“And I have decided, Riley, in view of your . . .” he paused, searching for a word — “in view of your record, to give you the opportunity of making the capture.”

Riley stared into the man's pig face. It could not be true. This could not happen to him. But he had felt that way before in this man's presence.

“Now,” said the sub-inspector, leaning back in his chair, “do you know Dead Horse Marsh?”

“No, sir,” said Riley promptly.

“No,” said the sub-inspector smiling. “I didn't think you would, being a stranger to the country, so I'm having a little map made up for you. It'll be ready before you go. Anyhow that's where Hatton is, and that's where he'll be for the next week, Miss Cabel tells us. He's got a
plant
in the marsh and he's resting up there with a couple of wounded men. That's how Miss Cabel came to know where he was. She was, ah, approached with a request to supply bandages and ointments for the wounded.”

This had gone far enough, thought Riley.

“Would it be possible for me to speak to you alone for a moment, sir?”

The sub-inspector looked at him solemnly.

“Is it about this business, Riley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I don't think it's necessary for us to be alone, Miss Cabel is, after all, vitally concerned. Besides, I think I know what you're going to say.”

Riley stared at him in numb wonderment.

“Very well, sir. You've read my report on my last encounter with Hatton?”

“Of course, Riley, fully. Very interesting I found it. A little highly coloured, perhaps, but then we can forgive that.”

“Then you will remember,” persisted Riley, “that I said that Jane Cabel deliberately led me into a situation which very nearly ended in Hatton killing me?”

“Yes, Riley, I read that. But you jumped too hastily to conclusions, young fellow.” The sub-inspector in an avuncular mood was intolerable, thought Riley. “Miss Cabel has explained all that to me. She didn't know Hatton was going to be there that night. It was just one of those unfortunate coincidences. No, no. Riley,
I'm quite confident that we can rely completely on Miss Cabel's good faith.”

“Well I'm afraid, sir . . .”

“If I am confident of Miss Cabel's good faith,” said the sub-inspector, menacing again now, “you may be confident too. It's me who makes the decisions around here, Riley, not you. It doesn't matter what the papers might say—you're still just a special constable, which means you've got about as much say around here as a blacktracker. Is that quite clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Riley. It was no use. Reason was useless with the irrational.

“Your orders then are to proceed to Dead Horse Marsh and capture or kill James Hatton.”

“Single handed, sir?” said Riley almost sarcastically.

“No, no!” said the sub-inspector, genial again now. “You mustn't think us unreasonable. We don't want a valuable man like you killed. What would the papers have to write about if you weren't with us? No, Riley, we're not sending you out against Hatton alone.”

Riley looked at him warily. It was too much to hope that he was to be given a force of armed and trained troopers. That would be too reasonable. That would give him half a chance in the obvious trap he was being forced into.

“No, Riley, we're not sending you alone.” he raised his voice to a shout: “Sergeant!”

“Sir!” came the voice from the doorway. The Sergeant must have been standing just outside.

“Come in, Sergeant, come in. You are to proceed immediately to Dead Horse Marsh with special constable Riley and effect the capture of James Hatton.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant stoically. “What force shall I take, sir?”

“No force, Sergeant, just yourself and Riley.” He
leaned back and gave a little chuckle. “We can't afford to risk too many men on an expedition like this Sergeant.”

The sergeant said nothing. He stood unmoving, at attention. He must have been through this sort of thing before, thought Riley.

“Any question. Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. Where is Dead Horse Marsh?”

“I'm having a little map prepared for you, Sergeant. It will be ready before you leave. Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Then nothing remains except for me to wish you good fortune.” The pig face was split with that travesty of a grin again. So might a pig in fact look if it tried to grin, thought Riley—a particularly ill-natured pig.

“May I speak, sir?” he said.

“Of course, Riley, of course.”

“I would like to ask Miss Cabel a few questions if I may.”

The grin slipped away, sideways, as though it was being pulled off, but then it came back again, hesitant, doubtful.

“All right, Riley, go ahead.”

“Miss Cabel,” said Riley, turning to Jane who raised her eyes and looked at him gently . . . but surely there was a spark of mirth somewhere in those attractive depths? “Miss Cabel, why exactly have you given this information about James Hatton.”

“For the same reason I told you before,” said Jane. “He killed my brother.”

“But you remember the last time we had a conversation like this?”

“Of course I do.” Strange how the Australian accent
sounded almost pleasant on those treacherous, but lovely, lips.

“Then would you mind telling me where you were when I arrived at the shanty and found Hatton waiting for me?”

The little face became troubled. She hadn't had time to think that one out, Riley thought. She'd probably been hiding in the kitchen in fact. She brushed her hand across her nose and opened her mouth.

“I've already told you, Riley,” said the sub-inspector heavily, “that I am completely satisfied with Miss Cabel's good faith. You may accept my word if you won't accept hers. It is not your place to make these investigations.”

Riley sighed and turned to the sub-inspector.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“That will be all. Sergeant, see that you are both adequately equipped. Pick up that map and I'll expect to hear from you, or one of you, within a week.”

Those blasted cicadas again, thought Riley, as he rode out of Goulburn with the Sergeant in the late afternoon. Riley was riding his police horse, complete with sword and carbine. He was dressed in one of Collingwood's white suits. He'd have to change before he went into the bush, he thought. The Sergeant, similarly mounted and armed, was wearing his operational uniform. They had their gear in rolls behind their saddles, having felt that pack horses would have slowed them down too much.