Bony - 02 - Sands of Windee Read online

  “My! Ain’t he going some?” chuckled Withers.

  “It will end in a brawl,” said Bony.

  “Hope so. Ain’t seen a dog-fight for years.”

  “Nor I. It will amuse me,” agreed Bony calmly. “In a few min­utes the spears will begin to fly. I suggest we climb this tree to gain a better view.”

  “I’m on”—and in thirty seconds Withers was on a comfortable branch, which gave him a grand-stand seat. Bony climbed up beside him.

  The exultation of his warrior ancestors lifted him entirely out of his ordinary existence. Everything was forgotten in the fierce expectation consuming him. His cooking job, the necessity to prepare breakfast on time, was simply wiped from his mind.

  “Look, Bony! Mertee’s warmin’ up at last!”

  “He had to. No self-respecting aboriginal could for long stand Moongalliti’s unpleasant language.”

  Moongalliti suddenly slithered down the steep bank to the dry sandy bottom of the creek. He dropped his murrawirrie, and with his left hand took from his right all the spears but one. White foam was on his lips, and his face was terrible in its passion. His body, bearing a score of battle-scars, shook and trembled whilst he defied Mertee, cursed him and his father and his mother, and implored him to become a man and come down to him and fight.

  “Ah!” Withers sighed long and with great content when Mer­tee, with an answering yell, sprang down to the creek-bottom, where the opponents were but twenty yards apart.

  “Oo-um—oo-um—oo-um—oo-um—oo-um!” yelled Moongalliti.

  “Yulm-yulm—yulm-yulm—yulm-yulm!” responded Mertee.

  With the swiftness of light Moongalliti’s arm was flung back, for a fraction of a second the spear became horizontal, and then the weapon was flying towards Mertee with deadly precision.

  “Got him!” shouted Withers.

  “No!” cried Bony.

  To the watchers it appeared that the spear had reached Mertee, but in that last second he stepped smartly aside, and the spear passed to touch the ground yards behind him and slither over it for yet further yards. To a new-chum his agility was nothing less than amazing. In comparison a Spanish bullfighter would have seemed as slow as a turtle on land.

  Mertee used a spear-thrower, a perfectly balanced piece of flat wood with a socket at its extremity to hold the butt of the spear. He bent over sideways as an athlete putting the weight, straight­ened as a length of clock-spring, and his spear described an arc. It rose much higher than Moongalliti’s head, and then rushed down on him. As briskly as Mertee he stepped aside, and the spear quivered in the ground close behind him.

  “ ’Ot stuff, Bony, old lad!” Withers cried.

  “It will become hotter,” Bony told him gleefully.

  Again the two combatants each threw a spear, and again each stepped aside. A third and a fourth time spears were exchanged without a hit. It was then that Moongalliti’s cunning became apparent; for, when at last neither he nor his opponent had a spear left in hand, Mertee was forced to run back to pick up Moongalliti’s hand-thrown spears, whereas his own stick-thrown spears stuck up out of the ground close behind Moongalliti. Not for nothing had the white-headed chief fought his hundred fights.

  His hands reached out and swept up two of Mertee’s spears, and then he rushed on Mertee, who was running back to retrieve a spear many yards to his rear. He reached one. Moongalliti stopped. Mertee crouched to pick it up. Moongalliti threw. Mertee seized the desired spear, sprang upward and to one side. But when he leapt aside Moongalliti’s spear was hanging from his left thigh.

  The bucks roared, the gins screamed, the children on one side yelled insults to the children on the other. Withers clapped his hands and yelled: “Encore, encore!”—almost falling off the bough. Bony’s eyes were twin points of blazing blue light.

  The concert of all these sounds utterly drowned the barks and yelps of the numberless dogs. Momentarily, even Moongalliti was stunned. He appeared transfixed with astonishment to observe Mertee dancing on his right leg and holding the spear in his left thigh with both hands. Mertee shrieked more with humiliation than with pain. He continued to shriek until his ebony chest was flecked with foam, when it appeared that he became insensible to pain, for he suddenly plucked out the spear and, still shrieking, dashed for his murrawirrie and rushed madly on Moongalliti. Seeing him coming, the heavy awkward weapon, used as a sword, whirling about his head, Moongalliti made haste to retrieve his murrawirrie and rushed to meet him.

  “Scrum! Scrum! Get to it! Get to it!” yelled Withers when the bucks of both sides leapt down to the creek-bed. Spears began to fly in all directions. Everyone yelled or screamed, and Withers, to keep his end up, added to the uproar.

  “Let ’em alone! Damn it, let ’em alone! Boo-hoo! You’ll spoil it! Let ’em alone … let ’em alone!”

  The women were now jumping and slithering down the creek-banks, and, utterly regardless of the vicious spears, sprang on those which fell near them and broke them into half a dozen pieces. Bony and Withers saw one of the three young men whose backs were caked with mud stagger with a spear right through his chest and collapse. Another buck dropped like a pole-axed bullock when a murrawirrie was brought down on his head from behind. After that it was difficult to follow the actions of any unit, because the men were bunched as in a Rugby scrum, and the women clawed at them from the rear in vain efforts to pull them away.

  Excitement made Bony speechless. His blood was aflame with ecstasy, and he was moving back along the branch to reach the main stem by which to get down to join in the fray, when from almost below them the reports of a double-barrelled shot-gun very nearly caused both him and Withers to fall to the ground.

  The effect of these reports was astounding. There followed in­stant silence, instant cessation of all movement. It was as though what had gone before was a rapidly screened talking picture, when the machinery had broken down and the scene on the sheet had become a fixture. And then, precisely as though the operator had adjusted his machine and set the picture again in motion, the crowd broke and fled the instant two further shots roared up and down the creek.

  “Go it, Moongalliti!” Withers yelled with a resumption of enthusiasm. “Even money on Moongalliti! Ten to one on Noonee! Hop it, Noonee, hop it! By cripes, you’ll beat him at the post!”

  Mertee painfully but manfully followed his fast-disappearing tribe into the belt of timber dividing the creek from the plain. A mob of “home blacks” rushed down along the creek-bed, helter-skelter towards their camp, followed in the rear by old Moongalliti, with Noonee, his first wife, almost as old and six times his weight, close on his heels.

  “Let’s ’ave a look at the dead ’uns, Bony,” the irrepressible Withers suggested gaily, and, without bothering to climb down the tree, he lowered himself from the branch and dropped the nine or ten feet. Bony followed him, and when he stood on the creek-bank he came face to face with Jeff Stanton.

  “Why-in-hell didn’t you try and stop ’em?” Jeff demanded.

  “Stop ’em?” Withers echoed, a look of utter astonishment causing his eyes to cross still more. “Stop ’em? Why, I wouldn’t ’ave stopped ’em for a hundred quid! It’s the best bleedin’ dog-fight I seen for years.”

  “I am glad you enjoyed yourself, Jack,” Jeff said with biting sarcasm. Then: “We had better examine the corpses.”

  Together with Bony, Withers, and most of the homestead hands, Stanton gained the creek-bed, and at that moment one of the corpses sat up, gazed round blankly, uttered a yell and, springing to his feet, raced up the farther bank as quickly as a dog-chased squirrel runs up a tree. Stanton fired two more cartridges into the air to hurry him, but further haste appeared impossible.

  The buck with the spear sticking out between his shoulder blades was quite dead. He was Moongalliti’s son, Ludbi. A third casualty was alive and seemed merely stunned.

  “The biter bitten,” murmured Bony.

  “Moongalliti urged them on to fight when they were by no mean
s inclined, and the only one killed of them all is Moongalliti’s son, whom he loved.”

  “Humph! What’s this?”

  Up the creek came a small flock of women, led by Noonee and Moongalliti. The old man walked proudly erect, his white head thrown back, his beard matted with blood from a cheek wound. Stanton and his men drew back. Moongalliti came and looked down on the face of his son. His lips twitched. The women raised their arms and wailed. Noonee, Ludbi’s mother, cried aloud and fell on the body.

  And Moongalliti, erect as a soldier, arms hanging stiffly at his sides, turned towards the east, silent, his face immobile save for his trembling lips.

  Bony touched his bare shoulder, and the old man’s eyes came slowly to rest on him.

  “Moongalliti,” Bony said softly, “Ludbi was a man. Beneath the moon last night he faced its cradle.”

  Bony raised his right arm as a sign.

  Slowly the old man’s right arm went up too, and when it rose the fierce face softened and tears fell down his scarred and wounded cheeks.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bony Instructs Headquarters

  SERGEANT MORRIS arrived during the afternoon, the fight and its tragic result having been reported to him over the telephone by Jeff Stanton. He walked into the kitchen about four o’clock after he had been given tea and scones by Marion on the big house veranda. Bony was preparing the dinner, and neither he nor the sergeant spoke until both were assured that no one was by to see or hear.

  “Good day, Bony,” the policeman said in greeting, with far less than the habitual gruffness he used to people whom he considered his social inferiors. “Cooking, eh?”

  “I shall be glad when Jeff gets a cook, for I am becoming tired of cooking.”

  “The cooking didn’t prevent your attendance at the dog-fight this morning, I am told.”

  “Alas! Man, after all, is a brute beast,” sighed Bony. “Never­theless, I was entertained and thrilled.”

  “Humph!” Sergeant Morris looked as though he did not quite approve. “Anyway, as you were a witness, tell me all about it.”

  “I believe I saw you talking to Jack Withers,” Bony remarked blandly.

  “Yes. I got his statement.”

  “Then why in the world, my dear Morris, do you attempt to waste my time?”

  “Well, I want a corroborative statement from you. You and Withers appear to be the only witnesses of the affair from first to last.”

  “In that case, send me a copy of Withers’s statement, and I’ll sign it as my own. Yes, yes! I know you are a senior police official, and stuffed full of red tape, but Ludbi’s death was the result of a tribal affray, and not murder, and therefore nothing for us to worry about. Have you got the report concerning Marks?”

  “Yes. How is the case going?”

  “According to plan, Morris. It proceeds unhurriedly to its destined end.”

  “And you still believe it was murder?”

  “Decidedly. I know it was murder.”

  “You do? Who did it?”

  Bony smiled provokingly, and said: “As yet I do not know the identity of the killer. When I do, it will be a most difficult matter to prove.”

  “Why?”

  “I will explain,” Bony answered, rolling out a slab of dough with which to cover a large meat pie. “As I once told you, nine hundred and ninety-nine cases of murder out of every thousand are affairs of the utmost simplicity. The body of a human being is discovered, either whole, as was the body of the victim of Mil­som and Fowler and kindred cases, or in pieces, as were the victims of the romantic Crippen, the money-loving Mahon, and the atrocious Landru. It has been said by people of great intelli­gence that the human body is one of the most difficult objects to destroy completely. Landru, the French bluebeard, came very near to success. Deeming utterly failed.

  “Why it should be considered that a human body is difficult to destroy, and why murderers, who in their normal state are think­ing, reasoning beings, should make such blundering failures of their attempts, has, to me, always been a source of amazement.”

  “You, then, could succeed in completely destroying a body?” Morris said, with sceptically raised brows.

  “Man, I could completely destroy a body in six quite different ways. It is really simple.”

  “How? Describe the methods.”

  “How can you, my dear Sergeant?” Bony evaded, with gentle reproof.

  “All right! If you won’t tell, don’t.”

  “If I did tell you, Morris, you might start at once removing your enemies,” the detective laughed.

  The half-caste finished his pie-making by decorating the edges of the pastry crust with a fearsome butcher’s knife. Observing Morris watching the knife, Bony smiled queerly and turned back to place the pie in the oven. Then he added wood to the fire, pushed in a damper, examined the contents of several pots, and finally filled two tin pint pannikins with tea, and put them on the table.

  “Have a sip of real China tea,” he urged Morris.

  “China tea?”

  “Yes, China tea! Made by the Chinamen in our great cities. They collect the tea-leaves from the hotels and restaurants, take them home, dry them over a stove, and sell them to those provision merchants who supply squatters with rations for the poor station-hands. I believe the wholesale price is somewhere about one pound per ton. The profit must be enormous. Now, please, the report.” Morris handed it to him, and sipped in silence whilst Bony read.

  “William Green, born 10 February, 1878, at Louth, River Dar­ling, N.S.W. Educated State schools, Louth and Parkes. Passed into N.S.W. Police Force 9 Oct., 1907. First station, Wilcannia. Second, Sydney Central. …” And so on, until: “Resigned to join A.I.F. Served with A.F.A. at Anzac and 5th Division in France. Decorated M.M. 2 June, 1916. Promoted commission rank 19 June, 1917. Received head wound about 22 September, 1917. Discharged A.I.F. 17 January, 1919. Rejoined N.S.W. Police Force 18 November, 1919. Transferred Licensing Branch May 1923.”

  Then followed an amazing mass of detail relating to Green, alias Marks. As a dossier it was creditably complete, and Bony expressed his satisfaction by seizing his pannikin of tea and drink­ing the health of the N.S.W. Police Force.

  “The report seems to please you,” observed Morris.

  “It does, Sergeant! It does!” smiled the gratified Bony. “Now I want you to make dossiers of some other people.”

  He rose, and for some little time was absent in his room. On his return he carried several letters and a package, as well as some loose sheets of paper.

  “Post these letters and register this package for me, please,” he requested. “You see, I cannot post anything at the office here, excepting letters to my wife. Now here is a list of every white per­son known to have been within a radius of ten miles of Marks’s abandoned car the day he left Windee homestead. All these people are as fish in my net. Among them is the sting-ray for which I am looking. By my peculiar method of inductive reasoning I have identified all but seven as harmless fish. Among the remaining seven, therefore, is the sting-ray. I wish you to render me a com­prehensive report of everything you know and can ascertain of these seven people. Here are their names.”

  With quickening interest Sergeant Morris read the list: Jeff Stanton, Young Jeff Stanton, Mr. Roberts, Jack Withers, Ned Swallow, Dot, Dash.

  “But I think I’ve told you the history of most of these people,” Morris objected.

  “No matter. Get it down in chronological order. One of these seven men killed Marks or Green—we’ll stick to Marks—and one or more of these seven disposed of Marks’s body. If I possess the pasts of these unidentifiable fish, I may dig out of the cemetery of the past one little bone which will ally itself with the sting-ray. Do you think that Headquarters would bring here from North Queensland a very old friend of mine?”

  “I don’t know. What do you want him to be brought here for?”

  “Not to kiss him,” said the bland Bony. “I want to introduce him to friend Moongalliti.
”

  “What the deuce for?”

  “Because I am sure he will like Moongalliti.” Then Bony became serious: “I intend trying to obtain certain information from Moon­galliti,” he explained, in his way of imparting what seemed much but which amounted to little. “My efforts, however, will, I think, be without result. My friend’s method will, I am positive, be more successful. He is a charming person, although I believe he has not washed for sixty-seven years, which is his age. I want you to instruct Headquarters in Sydney to send a man to Burke, in North Queensland, there to get in touch with a tribe chiefed by Illawalli. He is to tell this chief that Bony wants him, and is to bring him to me as fast as aeroplanes, trains, and motors can bring him.”

  “Instruct Headquarters?” Sergeant Morris gasped.

  “No less. If you prefer a request it will be delayed. They’ll want to know why I want Illawalli. Tell them what I have said as though you were the Great Corsican himself. Tell them that if they refuse or delay granting my request I shall throw up the case.”

  “Do you often instruct your own Headquarters?” Sergeant Morris asked with forced calmness, although his worship of discipline writhed under this irreverent handling.

  “I have found during my career as an investigator of crime that if one wants a thing one has to issue a demand and not seek a favour,” Bony explained calmly. Then with superb vanity he added impressively: “My Headquarters know that I have never failed in a case, and that I am the only detective who has not failed and failed repeatedly. They also know my views about delaying and wasting time.”

  Sergeant Morris burst into hearty laughter. He really could not help it. “I will forward your instructions,” he promised, with a purple face.

  Chapter Twenty