“That would have been too bad-for the union boss.”

“How so?”

“He would have had to do a spot of work or…”

“Or what?”

“Sweat it out in this cell.”

“He would have worked,” Bony predicted confidently. “Better work than sweat. I’ve had some. And don’t you go and scold Rose Marie. She saved my life with her tea and cake. Yes, I thought that your compound fence needed paint, and the work will provide me with a reason for being closely connected with the police. When do you intend to arraign me before the local magistrate?”

“Eh?” barked the sergeant.

“When will you prosecute me for (a) giving fictitious answers to lawful questions, et cetera, including (b), (c), and (d) in brackets?”

“You are not being serious, sir?”

“I am. You will press all those charges. I will plead guilty. You will whisper a word or two beforehand into the ear of the beak, asking him to give me fourteen days without the option of paying a fine. I will lodge here, eat of your wife’s excellent cooking-your own physical condition indicates that she is an excellent cook-and every evening at five-thirty you will pay me two shillings to spend over at the hotel. And then instead of everyone holding their horses in the presence of Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, they will talk quite freely with poor old Bony, the latest victim of theber -lasted per-leece. It is all so simple.”

“But what if the heads hear about it?”

“Who’s running this show, you or me?”

“I’m supposed to be running the district,” said the sergeant, a little doubtfully.

“You are. And I am running the investigation into the death of George Kendall. We are going to run in harness, and run well. The killing of Kendall wasn’t just a plain, ordinary booze and bash murder. Had it been, I would not have been here talking to you. There are aspects of this Kendall case which not only interest me but which escaped Detective Sergeant Redman, and, I venture to say, you too. For instance, you and Detective Sergeant Redman, and others, all believe that Kendall was murdered in his hut at Sandy Flat on Wattle Creek Station. I have not been there, ever, and I know that he was not murdered in his stockman’s hut.”