Mystery At Riddle Gully (12 page)

Viktor placed his protective glove on the desk and began unwinding the bandage from his head, Sherri hastening to take over the task. ‘An excellent result!' he said, bobbing up and down between Sherri's arms. ‘Our friend flew away most happily! If only I could grow wings and follow him!'

He strode across to his sound system. ‘May I suggest a little of Bach's
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor
to celebrate his recovery?'

‘Magnificent!' sighed Sherri.

Soon, eerie tumbling pipe organ music was filling every crack in the room. For Pollo, every old vampire movie she'd ever watched was filling every crack in her head. It was making her jumpy all over again. And
something else was wrong too ... something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Another sound she'd heard.

With a jolt, it dawned on her. She jumped up and flapped her hands at Viktor, who hastily muted the volume.

‘Viktor,' she said, ‘when you went outside did you hear anything funny?'

Viktor scratched his head. ‘I confess, I was singing bat sounds to my patient as I walked. I didn't hear a great deal.'

‘This might sound silly,' said Pollo, ‘but I think I picked up a sound while the door was open. It was strange—sort of echoey. But a little bit like ... well ... like Shorn Connery.'

Viktor, Sherri and Will all started towards the door.

‘No, stop!' Pollo called. ‘Don't worry about it. I think the organ music must have got to me. If Shorn Connery was out there he'd have come to the hut, same as last night. It was probably Viktor's singing I heard.'

‘This is likely,' said Viktor. ‘My singing has been mistaken for many things in the past.'

Pollo was keen to change the subject. ‘Viktor, what did you mean before, when you said the bat was one of a bunch that came here every year?'

‘Aah, this is most intriguing, Pollo!' Viktor began pacing the room. ‘Allow me to explain. Each community of our Southern Bent-wings has both a winter residence and a summer residence. Like movie stars, no? The winter
residence—one such as I believe is close here in Riddle Gully—it occupies all to itself. The summer residence, however, is what we in the field call a maternity cave. This cave, it shares with many, many other communities of the subspecies.'

He rubbed his hands together as though about to tuck into something delicious. ‘At the start of every summer,' he said, ‘Southern Bent-wings in their tens of thousands make their way from all their different winter caves back to the same maternity cave. Up to three hundred kilometres they fly! And there, at the maternity cave, they give birth to their little bat pups. Year after year, generation after generation, it is a grand reunion!'

Will frowned. ‘But why do they fly all that way to the one cave? Can't they just do their business here in Riddle Gully, or wherever they hang out over winter?'

‘Ah! Nature is very cunning!' said Viktor. ‘You see, when the vast numbers of bats all cluster on the roof of the maternity cave, the chamber becomes warm and humid—just like the crowded room. It becomes perfect, then, for the raising of their pups. A natural humidicrib, if you will.'

‘They put
me
in a humidicrib when I was born!' said Pollo. ‘Dad said visitors didn't know what to say because I looked like a skinned rabbit!'

Viktor chuckled. ‘The bat pups too are hairless, much like baby mice. They clump together, hanging from the roof of the cave. But come the end of summer, they have
glossy fur coats, are weaned from their mothers' milk, have learned to hunt, and are ready to flap all the way home to their family's winter cave.'

He stroked his chin. ‘You have noticed the bats hereabouts lately, yes?'

Pollo suppressed a shudder.

‘Riddle Gully's Southern Bent-wings coming home for winter!' said Will.

‘Precisely,' said Viktor. ‘And, let me tell you, from now until the truly cold weather, they will be very busy. Every evening, they will fly out from their cave to fill their bellies with as many insects as they can catch, trying to get as fat as sausages,' he said, patting his stomach. ‘For soon the bugs will become hard to find. The shops, so to speak, will shut.'

‘What will they do then?' said Will.

‘Ah! They have a trick up their wing!' said Viktor. ‘They will find the darkest, coldest part of their cave and go into a very deep rest—or hibernation, as we say. They will hang from the roof and let the temperature of their bodies fall to as low as two degrees—barely above freezing! Their bodies will run so slowly they will need no food for months. The fat they have acquired will see them through. “Au revoir,” they'll say, wrapping themselves snug in their wings. “Wake me up when it's springtime!”'

‘Cool!' said Will.

‘Indeed,' smiled Sherri.

Viktor looked around the group. ‘My task, my friends, is to point the pin to the winter cave of Riddle Gully's Southern Bent-wings. I believe that what we witnessed this evening, above the clearing where we had so much fun, was their nightly exodus from this nearby cave in search of food. We are close, my friends—very close indeed.'

‘Are you sure you need to know
exactly
where the cave is?' said Pollo. ‘Isn't it just nice to know the Southern Bent-wings are around here somewhere?'

Viktor resumed his perch on the camp bed and pressed his palms together. ‘It is a most delicate situation, Pollo,' he said. ‘The two maternity caves that remain in your country are quite famous. One is even on the World Heritage List—the bats that go there are celebrities! But sadly, the winter caves to which the bats disperse are very different. Most of them are on private land and are extremely tricky to keep the eye on. The owners of the land may clear trees, or build close by, or spray crops with pesticides that sneak into the bats' systems. They may even—mon Dieu!—use the cave itself as a rubbish tip! They may not realise they are doing any harm at all.'

Viktor sighed. ‘On top of this, when the bats are deep in hibernation they are most vulnerable indeed. A disturbance, if it does not kill the creatures outright, forces them to stir and use the lovely fat they acquired to last them through the winter. They may wake up in spring close to starving—or not wake up at all. Without
finding and protecting their winter caves,' said Viktor, ‘I am afraid anything else is not worth the pinch of pepper.'

He drummed his chin with his fingertips. ‘Imagine a grand orchestra, if you will. Each week, one less musician is able to come and play. Eventually there is only the percussionist, all alone. She taps the rhythm with her foot and every few bars plays a
ting!
on her triangle to cheer herself up. It could be this way with the Southern Bent-wings, my friends. If, one by one, their winter caves are damaged and disturbed, it will not be long before the yearly reunions at the maternity cave are not so very grand at all.'

The four sat quietly, sipping their tea to the soft hiss of the kerosene heater and the hoots and squeaks from the forest. This time, Pollo couldn't hear Shorn Connery in any of them, no matter how hard she tried.

Viktor coughed gently. ‘The picture I have painted is perhaps a little too gloomy,' he said, stroking his chin. ‘After all, we are not too late to protect the bats here in Riddle Gully. Once I complete my survey, we can talk with the council about the development to be linked with this Diamond Jack's Trail—on the meadow between the forest and the cemetery. This is still some months from commencement.'

‘Gosh!' said Sherri. ‘I'd forgotten all about Mayor Bullock's precious tourist centre. Everything seems to
have gone quiet on it since I got back from my holiday. So that might impact on the bats, you think?'

Viktor pressed together the tips of his long fingers and nodded. ‘Most certainly. The plans show a large car park and amusement ground, a cafe and an information centre. There is, as well, an extremely unpleasant giant statue,' he said. ‘The charming meadow and many, many trees at the edge of the forest will be levelled to make way. But alas, this is all vital hunting ground for our Southern Bent-wings.'

His face brightened. ‘However, once I have documented the presence of a critically endangered species, I see no reason why your mayor cannot transfer his development to the other side of the cemetery. The hiking trail will not be far away.'

‘People can walk through the cemetery and say hello to Diamond Jack's ghost on the way!' said Will.

‘And as I say,' said Viktor, ‘we have time up the sleeve.'

Pollo shifted on her crate. ‘Viktor, this is the Diamond Jack Experience Tourist Centre you're talking about, right?'

‘I believe this is its official title,' said Viktor. ‘Work is due to commence at the end of winter.'

Pollo rested her tea on the floor and fished her notepad from around her neck. She flicked to one of her last entries, scanned it and looked up. ‘I'm sorry to be the one to tell you all this, but there's less time than we think.'

Will twisted over her shoulder to look. ‘What have you got there?'

‘I was going through those old Coast newspapers you dropped off, Sherri,' said Pollo. ‘One of the articles was on Mayor Bullock's announcement that work on the tourist centre had been brought forward.' She referred to her notepad. ‘So that it could be “fully operational for the spring holiday traffic”. Site preparation was starting within the month, it said.'

Will stabbed at the page. ‘Is this the date the article was written?' he said. ‘It's three weeks ago!'

Pollo gasped. ‘That must be why Mayor Bullock was at the cemetery this afternoon!'

‘Mayor Bullock was at the cemetery?' said Sherri. ‘It would have to be something big to get him off his couch on a Sunday.'

‘He was with another man,' said Pollo. ‘They were banging in stakes with bright pink tape tied to the top.'

‘Markers for the bulldozers!' said Will.

‘Mon Dieu!' said Viktor. He sprang to his feet and began pacing up and down the room, running his fingers through his hair. ‘This would be why two colleagues who were to join me this week found the caravan park fully booked. All the workmen are coming! Ai-yai-yai!'

He paced some more then suddenly shook his fists at the ceiling. ‘But the environmental assessment—it has barely begun!'

Pollo looked at him sadly. ‘That's probably the whole
point, Viktor,' she said. ‘Let me guess—Mayor Bullock knew that your institute was surveying the area, right?'

‘Correct,' said Viktor. ‘I wrote to the council seeking permission to use this hut. They took a very long time before deciding to give it to me.'

‘I bet Mayor Bullock was buying time!' said Pollo. ‘Then, rather than risk your survey turning up anything that could delay his pet project, he rushed construction forward. Sherri and I heard him only yesterday—he's too good for “red tape”, isn't he, Sherri?'

‘But there are the compromises!' cried Viktor. ‘The alternatives!'

‘Oh, piffle!' Sherri tossed her head. ‘That wouldn't have stopped him. The mayor does whatever he thinks is best for him. Once the damage is done, it's done. If he cops a fine, it's nothing. He'll call it the price of progress.'

‘But it sounds like a heap of trouble to go to,' said Will, ‘just so that Riddle Gully gets a tourist centre. What's in it for him?'

‘I'd say it's the glory,' said Sherri. ‘That preposterous giant statue of Diamond Jack looming over the entrance, for instance—it's Mayor Bullock, only thirty kilos lighter! And then there'll be the Diamond Jack Family Tree in the foyer, with the mayor's ugly mug right at the top.'

‘But this bushranger fellow,' said Viktor, ‘was he not an escaped convict? I do not understand. Why is he to be honoured in this fashion?'

Pollo, Will and Sherri all looked at one another. Will shrugged. ‘Australians are just like that, I guess.'

‘When the tourist centre's finished,' said Pollo, ‘Mayor Bullock will carry on worse than ever about progress and how he's brought Riddle Gully into the twenty-first century. He'll want to be re-elected so that he can boss everyone around and have things his own way for years to come.'

‘Oh golly, don't even talk about it,' said Sherri.

Pollo wove her scarf between her fingers. ‘There could be another reason he wants the tourist centre so badly. Though it's just speculation. There's no proof. I probably should shut up.'

‘Most certainly not!' said Sherri.

Will nodded eagerly. ‘Just don't put it in your gazette.'

‘Please, Pollo!' said Viktor. ‘Feel free to spill the bean!'

Pollo smiled. ‘Well, Mayor Bullock made his money by selling gambling equipment around the countryside, right? Poker machines and stuff like that. The thing is, a few months ago, my Uncle Pete was at a Chamber of Commerce dinner in Maloola. Mayor Bullock was there too, and let's just say he'd had a few too many. Uncle Pete says he was rabbiting on about Riddle Gully being the perfect place to turn into a mini Las Vegas! Quite a few people suspect that the tourist centre, in his mind, is just the first step.'

‘Gambling!' said Will. ‘That'd be robbing people worse than Diamond Jack ever did!' He looked at Viktor. ‘Isn't there anyone who can stop him? Can't we go to a judge or something—like they do on TV?'

Viktor flopped down on the camp bed and put his head in his hands. ‘In my experience, Will, life is not like the television show. Court actions take time—alas, more than we have.'

He pressed his palms to his temples. ‘In any event, without us being able to point the pin precisely to the location of the Southern Bent-wings' wintering cave, no court would listen to our protests. We need the hard evidence that this development will affect them. Without this we are kaput!' He combed his hair with his fingers. ‘Ai-yai-yai! If only I had begun my survey a few days earlier!'

‘Has anyone got a mobile?' said Pollo. ‘How about we find out exactly how much time we
do
have? Sherri is friends with half of Riddle Gully. She could make some calls.'

‘If you rang the caravan park,' said Will, ‘they could tell you when the workers were coming.'

Sherri rummaged in her picnic basket. ‘Never leave home without it!' she said, waving her phone triumphantly. ‘You never know when a handsome zoologist might call!'

They waited while Sherri went through the pleasantries with the owner of the caravan park before getting
down to business. When she turned to them, her face was arranged in a brave smile.

‘You guessed right, Viktor,' she said. ‘The park is booked out by a construction company. They're coming on Tuesday to start work first thing Wednesday. It could be worse though ... we've got tomorrow.'

‘Mon Dieu!' said Viktor. ‘Hectares can be levelled in the blink of the eye!'

Pollo was thinking. ‘Tomorrow's the third Monday of the month, right?' she said.

Sherri nodded. ‘Mmm-hmm.'

‘That means there's a town council meeting tomorrow night! Anyone can go along!'

‘We could go and stop the project!' said Will.

‘But this mayor of yours—he always gets what he wants, no?' said Viktor mournfully.

‘Well, yeah,' said Pollo. ‘But what Mayor Bullock wants more than anything is to be thought of by the voters as a successful, popular leader. If the whole town objected to the project he might change his mind about what it was that he wanted. What do you think, Sherri?'

‘I think the man needs a good psychiatrist,' muttered Sherri. ‘But yes, I agree. The only thing that stops him from doing exactly as he pleases is public opinion.'

‘So,' said Will, ‘if we could somehow find the bats' wintering cave tonight...'

Pollo grinned. ‘And convince everyone in Riddle Gully to go to tomorrow night's meeting, then...'

‘Bongo!' yelled Viktor. He leapt from the camp bed and began striding around the room, shrugging into his long black coat and collecting his equipment. ‘Who is coming with me?' he cried.

Pollo threw up her hand.

‘Count me in,' said Sherri.

‘And me!' said Will, yanking on his T-shirt. ‘And after we've found the cave, I'm going to design something that'll make everyone go to the meeting. I already know what I'm going to paint!'

Pollo swung round to look at him. ‘On paper, right?'

Will looked startled. ‘Well ... err ... yeah, of course. What else?'

‘Oh nothing! Just checking!' Pollo looked closely at Will until he found something fascinating on the ceiling to study.