Winds of Evil Read online

  “Oh! How, may I ask?”

  “I cannot, of course, speak of the case, which was delightfully baffling. Miss Marion Stanton, as she was then, is both physically and mentally a beautifully woman. For the sake of her happiness I confessed to my colleagues my first and only failure to finalize a case.”

  Stella Borradale was regarding the detective pensively.

  “Marion and I have been friends for years,” she said. “Some time back she hinted that her present happiness was due entirely to you. They ask me to tell you how much they hope you will call at Windee before returning to Queensland.”

  “That would be like the people at Windee. Did Mrs. Trench mention Father Ryan?”

  “Yes. She said she thought you would like to know that Father Ryan always talks of you when he and they meet. Are you a Catholic?”

  “No. But I admire Father Ryan immensely. He is a wonderful man—a splendid man.”

  Through the smoke of her cigarette Stella watched the dark face now animated and lit with the lamp of enthusiasm. She tried very hard to keep out of her own eyes her increasing interest in this half-caste who behaved and spoke as well as any man she had ever known. His vanity was obvious, but her interest was not based on his fine face and modulated, cultured voice. Just what it was based upon puzzled her.

  She said impulsively, “May I ask why you are continuing your investigation after the arrest of Barry Elson?”

  At once Bony’s face became a mask.

  “You are asking a conjuror to show how he does his tricks,” he said chidingly, the smile again lighting his eyes. “But I will answer your question—in strict confidence. I am almost, but not quite, certain that Barry Elson did not attack his sweetheart.”

  “I am sure he didn’t,” she said emphatically. “But ... but could you not have prevented his arrest?”

  “I could have done, I think.”

  “Then why didn’t you? Think of the state of his mind at this moment if he is innocent, as I am sure he is.”

  “Barry Elson admitted to me, Miss Borradale, that he did a caddish thing when he left Mabel Storrie to walk on home alone, most especially after those two terrible murders. He must learn his lesson and then, perhaps, he will be given the opportunity to re-establish himself with the Storries and with everyone else who knows him. I regret that I cannot enlighten you further on this matter.”

  “Well, will you appease my curiosity by telling me if you have made any progress in your investigation? We seem to agree that this strangling beast is still at large. Sometimes, chiefly at night, I become horribly nervous. One never knows when that terrible person will again attack and kill.”

  “I can assure you that I shall not return to Brisbane and my family until I have located him. I wonder, now—would you assist me by frankly answering a few questions I would like to ask, in strict confidence?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “I do not think it absolutely essential but I believe it will be of assistance to maintain my slight deception on the people here,” Bony said in some kind of preface. “Nearly everyone will talk more freely to a private individual than they will to an investigating police officer. Why, I don’t know, but it is so. Other than to Mrs. Trench, you have not revealed my identity?”

  “I passed you my word about that.”

  “I stand reproved, Miss Borradale. Now may I begin the inquisition? No one will disturb us, as my sentry is on duty.”

  “Your sentry!”

  “A willy-wagtail. He informed me of your coming. Now for my first question. Please go back in your mind to the night when Alice Tindall was murdered. Were both you and Mr. Borradale at home that night?”

  “Yes. I remember it quite well.”

  “Alice Tindall left the homestead for the blacks’ camp shortly after eleven o’clock, did she not?”

  “The time she left was settled for ever by Sergeant Simone,” replied Stella. “It was twenty-five minutes after eleven. It had been a dreadful day, and about nine o’clock it began to thunder and lighten badly. There was no rain, but we expected it, and Alice stayed with the cook and the maids until the thunder had passed on.”

  “Were there any visitors at Wirragatta at that time?”

  “No, no one.”

  “I suppose you cannot recall who the men were then working at the homestead?”

  “Not all of them. Hang-dog Jack was here, of course, and Harry West and Young-and-Jackson. Mr. Dreyton had just gone into the office as book-keeper.”

  “Ah, yes! Mr. Dreyton is a man of breeding and education. He reminds me constantly of Mr. Trench at Windee.”

  “Oh! In what way?”

  The expression of pensiveness on the dark face was banished by the slow-growing smile.

  “When first I met Mr. Trench,” Bony said, “he was a rabbit-trapper and kangaroo-shooter on Windee. As you would know, that is not a trade for a man of refinement to follow. Mr. Trench provided me with quite a little mystery, and I think I run no risk of breaking a confidence when I tell you that the reason he was a fur-and-skin getter was due to the condition imposed on him by Mr. Stanton. Wishing to prove him before accepting him as his son-in-law, Mr. Stanton made it the condition of his consent that Mr. Trench should apply himself to the hardest work on the run for two years.

  “There is a certain similarity between Mr. Trench and Mr. Dreyton. Both are gentlemen and both are English. Their manner and speech prove rearing and education above that of the average man. Can you tell me why Mr. Dreyton prefers working on a boundary-fence to working in an office?”

  The abrupt question, following the reference to Trench proving himself for love, caught Stella’s breath. Try as she might, she could not conquer the betraying blush, and Bony felt he had been indelicate.

  “Forgive me!” he exclaimed. “Do not, please, answer that impertinent question.”

  “But I must,” she said quickly, breathlessly. “There is nothing like that of the Trenches between Mr. Dreyton and me. Neither my brother nor I know why Mr Dreyton prefers the fence work. Or rather we do. We wanted him in the office because he is such a good tennis player and bridge player, and then the other day, when my brother made a direct appeal to him, he explained that living with us, even as the book-keeper, reminded him too acutely of the status in life he had enjoyed and lost before coming to Australia.”

  Bony now was sitting motionless, gazing absently out through the drop-window.

  “Don’t you believe me?” Stella Borradale asked coldly.

  “Er ... of course, Miss Borradale. I fear I am being very rude.” Again the quick smile. “I am often rude when I am thinking. Now let us come forward in time to the murder of Frank Marsh. Can you recall that night?”

  “Easily. Sergeant Simone questioned us all enough to make us remember it all our lives.”

  “Then I owe something to the redoubtable sergeant,” Bony said laughingly, and his smile was so disarming that it made Stella momentarily forgetful of that dangerous ground to which he had led her. “Tell me, please. Who slept at ‘Government House’ that night other than the cook and the maids?”

  “Only my brother and I. Mr. Allen, who was then bookkeeping here, occupied the book-keeper’s room in the office building.”

  “There were no visitors?”

  “None.”

  “At that time Mr. Dreyton was fence-riding. Was he here at the homestead or not?”

  “Yes, he was. He was camped in this hut,” Stella answered, obviously trying to perceive the objective of Bony’s questions.

  “You are being very patient with me,” she was told. “You had no visitors when Alice Tindall was murdered, and you had none when Frank Marsh was murdered. Did you go out the night that Marsh was killed?”

  “No. It was a bad night.”

  “Did you play bridge?”

  “No. My brother was away part of the evening. He went to the Storries to discuss with Fred Storrie a deal in sheep.”

  “Can you tell me what Mr. Dreyton did that ev
ening?”

  “Yes ... due again to Sergeant Simone. Mr. Dreyton visited Carie, where, for some time, he played chess with Dr. Mulray. But tell me! Surely you do not think that Mr. Dreyton_____”

  Bony chuckled.

  “You will be accusing me of thinking that either Mr. Borradale or Mr. Dreyton is the Strangler. Men like they do not commit murder without a sound motive. Besides, you can tell me, I am sure, what time they returned to the homestead. In your brother’s case at least.”

  “Yes. He returned shortly before ten o’clock. He had been poorly all day and he went straight off to bed.”

  Bony rolled and lit another cigarette.

  “I have, of course, a reason for asking all these questions, and when you decided to come here this afternoon with Mrs. Trench’s message you let yourself in for them. You see, I have to solve a jig-saw puzzle, and my questions can be termed the pieces of the puzzle. Would you be able to forgive me if I were very candid with you?”

  She could, subsequently, never understand how this man swamped her natural reserve to the extent of compelling her to tell him that he could be as frank as he wished. He went on:

  “I find it difficult to believe Mr. Dreyton when he says that his reason for preferring the fence to the office is the pain he feels when in contact with luxury, comparative to his previous financial and social status. I find it difficult, too, to believe that your brother’s desire to have him in the office is due to Dreyton’s social accomplishments.”

  Quite slowly Stella expelled her caught breath. She was become fearful that she would once more betray herself. To prevent this she hurried into an admission.

  “I also find it difficult to believe that,” she said, and Bony did not fail to note that her coolness of demeanour was temporarily shattered. “I have long suspected a stronger reason than bridge and tennis and good company. I think that sometimes my brother feels the responsibility of running this property too heavy to bear, and I think his load is lightened for him when he can discuss his difficulties with Mr. Dreyton. As you know, Mr Dreyton is only a few years senior to my brother, but he is decades older in worldly experience. Martin takes after our mother in many ways. Our father was much more rugged and hard than is Martin.”

  “Hem! I can understand that running Wirragatta successfully is not an easy task. And then your brother left school to return home direct to manage this property, and therefore missed that hardening process induced in one’s character by what is cynically called sowing one’s wild oats.”

  “If you do not believe Mr. Dreyton’s reason for preferring the fence life, what do you think could be his reason?”

  The indifference with which this question was put was not genuine, and Bony’s sharp ears detected it. Stella now was semi-masking her face by lighting a cigarette from the match he held in service, but having guessed the secret of her heart he knew her reason for asking the question.

  “I will not attempt to answer your question, Miss Borradale,” he told her as his eyes twinkled. “It may be that Mr. Dreyton is being very foolish. As to that I cannot say.”

  For the second time this afternoon Stella Borradale felt the warning heat creeping to her face, and she was not alone in blessing Hang-dog for beating on his triangle at this moment. They rose together. Bony gallantly escorted her to the door of the hut, but despite the cook’s interruption and the detective’s gallantry the blush would betray her.

  In a frantic effort to overcome it she said laughingly, “I think you are a very dangerous man, Bony.”

  It made Bony laugh delightedly, and when they stood one on either side of the doorstep he said, “Dangerous, Miss Borradale? Never, never dangerous, I earnestly assure you.”

  4 The story is told in Mr. Upfield’s novel, The Sands of Windee. Back

  Chapter Fourteen

  Retrospect

  IT WAS A thoughtful man who walked across the river’s dry bed to the men’s quarters. Bony’s inquisition of Stella Borradale had brought out several facts, only one of which at the moment appeared to have any significance relative to Bony’s investigation. This was the fact that Donald Dreyton must have known that Alice Tindall was walking back to her camp and that Frank Marsh was walking back to the Storries’ house.

  Martin Borradale knew this, too, and it was likely that yet others would be discovered who knew as much. Yet this series of crimes began shortly after Dreyton arrived at Wirragatta. It was he who climbed trees, to discover a piece of grey flannel in one, and it was he who for some mysterious reason preferred life on a boundary-fence to the comparatively luxurious life at the homestead.

  And yet_____ It was as difficult to believe Dreyton capable of such terrible deeds as to think it of Martin Borradale, of Harry West, or of Bill the Cobbler. Bony had detected a kindly streak even behind the exterior of Hang-dog Jack. He was searching for a ferocious beast, and no one he had yet met came near his mental picture of this beast. Almost despite himself his mind kept reverting to Dreyton, for there was the keen suspicion that the temporary book-keeper knew certain facts and suspected others which he had never divulged.

  When Bony entered the men’s dining-room Harry West and the horse, Black Diamond, was the subject under discussion. Harry was reviling Constable Lee for reporting him to the boss of Wirragatta for riding Black Diamond into Carie.

  “Fair towelled me up, he did,” Harry complained.

  “You deserved it,” Bony asserted as he seated himself at the table. “Pass the beetroot, please.”

  “Oh, I ain’t whinin’ about it, Joe, only it’s a bit thick to be chewed for ridin’ a moke I can manage with one hand.”

  “Why did the boss order that no one was to ride Black Diamond?” inquired Bony of everyone in general.

  “’Cos he’s a man-killer,” replied Hang-dog Jack. “That ’orse has already killed one bloke and injured two others. Give the boss his due, he done quite right to declare Black Diamond an outlaw. ’Arry here is the only bloke wot ever rode him, but to go and ride ’im in the dark—well, he deserves what’s coming to ’im.”

  “There’s no law against riding a measly horse to a township, is there?” Harry demanded hotly. “Lee’s a liar to say that I rode to the public danger. Why, I only got as far as the pub corner. Didn’t I, Joe?”

  “It was far enough. You might have ridden down someone on the road.”

  “Someone on the road!” came the withering echo. “Ain’t every man, woman and child in the district afraid to go out after dark?”

  “But Simone’s nabbed Barry Elson,” Bill the Cobbler pointed out.

  “You’re a bigger fool than I take you for if you think Barry Elson done all them murders,” Harry flashed out.

  “We don’t think it, and neither does anyone else wot’s got any gumption,” put in Young-and-Jackson. “Didn’t Simone tell Hang-dog Jack that he reckoned he was looking at the murderer of Alice Tindall?”

  “Perhaps he spoke a true word when he spoke in jest,” Harry heatedly got in, and then ducked when the bone of the leg of mutton carved for the meal whizzed past his head.

  “You ’int I done them murders again, Harry West, and I’ll break you inter little bits,” snarled the cook, crouched now at the head of the table, his face hideously convulsed with rage, his long arms curved and his hairy-backed hands opening and snapping shut. Yellow teeth were bared in a ferocious grin.

  “If we all took the sergeant seriously,” Bony said in effort to pour oil on troubled waters, “then I would not sleep o’ nights. Sergeant Simone told me that he thought I was the murderer, and I cannot understand why he did not arrest me instead of Elson. Come, now, don’t let us lose our tempers over what the sergeant said. Harry, sit down.”

  The quiet authoritative tone succeeded. Harry sat down and the rage slowly passed from the cook’s face. Hang-dog Jack turned back to his serving-bench, and thereafter the meal was eaten in silence.

  “You should not have said that about truth and jest,” Bony reproved Harry West as they walked acro
ss to the bunkhouse. “When controlled by such a gust of anger, Hang-dog Jack might do you a serious injury. Once he got his hands on you, you would be lost.”

  “I didn’t think,” confessed the young man. “Besides, I was riled at him for backing up the boss. The boss sorta hinted that I’d lost me chance of one of the married houses for riding that black devil against his orders. Ah, well! Poor old Hangdog Jack ain’t a bad sort. I’ll go back and apologize to him. No bloke can be responsible for his dial.”

  “To apologize requires courage,” averred Bony, glancing quickly at Harry’s fearless face. To that face came a grin.

  “To apologize to Hang-dog Jack certainly does,” Harry said. “Say, are you going to town tonight?”

  “Yes, I promised to play chess with Dr. Mulray.”

  “Good-oh! When you startin’?”

  “Just after sundown.”

  “That’ll do me. We could arrange to meet and walk back together. I don’t like the idea of coming on alone in the dark—on foot.”

  “Very well,” agreed Bony, and Harry returned to the kitchen to prove his courage and raise himself high in Bony’s estimation.

  The sky was aflame to the zenith, and the vociferous birds were winging about the homestead and river trees when the detective and Harry West left for Carie. The track to Carie ran beside the river for a quarter of a mile before branching off from the creek track just above Junction Waterhole. When they arrived at this splendid sheet of water Bony halted beneath one of the huge red-gums which was the third last to the first of the creek box-trees. A gentle easterly breeze rippled the crimson-dyed surface of the water, and when a fish jumped for a fly its gleaming scales gave back crimson fire.

  “It was here where poor Alice Tindall was found, wasn’t it?” Bony asked.

  Harry West shrugged his shoulders without knowing it. “Yes,” he said, to add quickly: “Come away, Joe. I hate this place even in daylight.”

  “Why, it is entrancingly beautiful,” Bony objected. “What a waterhole! It must have been a great camping-place for all the blacks in this district. Water! Cool and precious water now that the summer is come again. Shade! Real shade cast by these trees which suckered before Dampier ever saw Australia. There was loving and fighting, chanting and feasting for years upon years, Harry, all about this waterhole. Then the white man came, and for still a few more years the blacks lived their unfettered lives. But there was no more hunting and, because the white man’s tucker was easy to get—by working for it—there was no more real feasting. Finally came the dreaded bunyip to drive them all away, and this beautiful place now is desolate.”