Winds of Evil Read online

  The glasses permitted her to see the modern motor mailcar halted at the top of the nearer creek-bank. She could not perceive anyone in the car, nor could she see anyone standing beside it who could account for its unusual halt at that place.

  It was a circumstance at once arousing the curiosity of a woman habitually in possession of all knowledge connected with Carie and with the mail-cars that passed through Carie. Curiosity so controlled Mrs. Nelson that she experienced no little difficulty in keeping the glasses directed at the motionless car.

  At least one minute passed before she saw figures emerge from the box-trees beside the track. They moved together in a bunch to the side of the car, and Mrs. Nelson fancied she saw once a flash of light blue. Then, whilst she continued to watch, the men climbed into the car and it began to move towards the town.

  That the halt had not been occasioned by a mechanical breakdown Mrs. Nelson was convinced. Something of an unusual nature had caused the driver to walk right off the track and in among the trees bordering the creek. When she lowered the glasses to the veranda rail her hands were still violently trembling. Her face was almost as white as her hair.

  Again seated, she watched the oncoming mail-car seeming to swerve alternately eastward and then westward as it followed the winding track, its wheels and mudguards hidden from her by the low bluebush. A huge volume of dust rose behind the vehicle, to be rushed eastward in a long slant by the wind. Oddly enough, that dust reminded Mrs. Nelson this morning of the old oleograph in the bar parlour showing H.M.S. Majestic ploughing an angry Atlantic as great billows of black smoke poured from her two funnels set abreast.

  An old man came forth from one of the houses to stand and peer along the track. The uniformed policeman emerged from the police station calmly to survey the township. The usual stray cow and two goats wandered into the single street. And then, beating the sound of the wind, came the rising hum of the mail-car.

  As had the drivers of Cobb and Co.’s coaches, so did the youths driving these mail-cars always when arriving from Broken Hill pass the hotel to make first stop at the post office. Having dropped the mail, they then drove back to the hotel, where passengers and driver ate breakfast, and where, in the old days, the horses had been changed.

  To the grave perturbation of Mrs. Nelson and to the astonishment of Mr. Smith, Constable Lee and “Grandfer” Littlejohn, this morning’s mail-car passed the post office to stop outside Dr. Mulray’s house.

  Old Grandfer very nearly fell down as he hobbled across the street to reach the mail-car. The baker, the storekeeper, the policeman and half a dozen women, who had seemingly evolved from space, rushed to the house side of the mail-car; while, once more on her feet, glasses glued to her eyes, Mrs. Nelson danced like a willy wagtail. The passengers she saw emerge from the car, and the little crowd appeared to be strangely stilled. Then the robust figure of Dr. Mulray appeared, when there was suddenly much loud talking. The wind permitted Mrs. Nelson to hear not a word.

  One of the passengers then pressed to the side of the car and there slid into his arms a crumpled figure in a blue dress. He was a big man, and he carried with ease the limp body into the doctor’s house, immediately followed by Dr. Mulray himself.

  Mrs. Nelson lowered the glasses. She was repeating over and over: “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

  She saw Fred Storrie come racing to the hotel corner in answer to James’s shout. He ran on to the doctor’s house, and the male portion of the crowd stared after him when he rushed inside.

  And then the first of a long succession of sand waves rolled over the township, blotting out Nogga Creek and the Common, smearing into semi-obscurity the bakery on the far side of the street. Mrs. Nelson almost collapsed into her chair. She went on repeating softly as though stunned:

  “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

  Chapter Three

  The Wind

  “MARTIN, AREN’T YOU well this morning?”

  The strong but well-modulated voice penetrated the consciousness of the young man lying on the bed. About him, washing against him, and against the bed, were the strange and yet familiar vibrations set up by the gale of wind sweeping over and about the stout Wirragatta homestead.

  Martin Borradale stirred, opened his grey eyes, moved wide his arms. The light from the tall closed french windows was of tinted yellow. It cast the girl’s face in shadow, which was yet no shadow, and it laid a shade of drabness over the interior of the room which normally was very pleasant. Round of head, her dressing-gown-encased body long and beautifully curved and set firmly on small feet, Stella Borradale regarded her brother from the foot of the bed.

  “Hullo, old thing! Phew! I feel deadly,” replied Martin. “I’ve got a headache and lots of other aches as well. I might have been playing football half the night instead of dancing.”

  Stella’s next question was without trace of irritation.

  “How much did you drink in Carie?”

  The young man winced.

  “Not much, old girl,” he confessed. “Four cocktails all told. They bucked me up, anyway. I was not feeling up to scratch all yesterday. I hate these dust-storms. Is it bad again today?”

  “It’s vile. It is going to be worse than yesterday, I think. I’ve brought the morning-tea.”

  “What’s the time?”

  “A few minutes after ten. There’s nothing to get up for if you’re not fit.”

  “Then I’ll snooze off again after I’ve drunk the tea. By the look of it and the sound of it no one of us will be able to work. Has there been a telephone message, or a telegram from Carie?”

  “No. You’ve often asked that question lately. Are you expecting a wire?”

  Borradale hesitated for a fraction of a second before saying:

  “Well yes, perhaps. I’ve been hoping to receive a visit from a man from Brisbane. Personal matter, you know. I have been expecting him for a month. Oh, well, he’ll turn up some day.”

  “Indeed!”

  Stella waited for enlightenment, but did not press for it. When she turned to the windows from which she had a few minutes before drawn aside the curtains, the sinister day-light revealed clear, hazel eyes well spaced in a vital face. Her brother watched her as she crossed to the door, and it did not occur to him that she might be piqued by reason of his secrecy regarding the expected visit. Her dressing-gown was of white and gold, and her light-brown hair hung in two plaits down her back. He did realize how amazingly-feminine she was, and how wisely obstinate in her refusal to have her hair cut.

  During her absence from the room he wearily sipped his tea, and when she returned carrying a small bottle he inquired what it contained.

  “Aspirin, dear. Two tablets will put you right.”

  “Hum! Thanks. How did you sleep?”

  “I slept all right while I was at it, but I feel I have slept only for five minutes. Coming along for breakfast later?”

  “Er—no. I am going to snooze till lunch and try not to dream about this beastly dust-storm.”

  “Till lunch, then?”

  “Until lunch.” Martin essayed a laugh. “Sounds like a toast, doesn’t it? Confound Mulray! I hate spirits, but he would have me slip across to the hotel with him. He’s the kind of man who won’t be denied, and one can’t drink beer at a dance.”

  His sister drew the curtains before the windows after standing for a moment to observe the swirling veil of dust without. Softly she left the room and passed to her own room where her maid waited with her morning-tea.

  Between these Borradales there existed a real and even affection. They had never been heard in the recrimination not unusual in this relationship. Martin was well set up, slimly athletic, twenty-seven; his sister was remarkably attractive, but yet not beautiful. She was several years her brother’s junior. Both were keen on horses and tennis. Both preferred to drive a fast trotting-horse to a car. Both were cultured, having attended Adelaide’s best schools, but a university had been denied Martin because of their father’s u
ntimely death when the young man was barely twenty. It had necessitated his instant return to Wirragatta.

  Having graduated, Stella gladly joined her brother to work in harness with him. Their mother having predeceased their father, the estate had been willed equally to them, but there had never been any suggestion that it should be realized and portioned.

  So Martin had settled down to master the details of what is an exceedingly intricate business, and, like his father, he was succeeding remarkably well. He was fortunate in that for the first five years he had had an able mentor in his father’s overseer. Only after that canny Scot had died did the young man realize what he owed him and feel the weight of responsibility of which his shoulders, till then, had been relieved.

  Stella came home, and quite naturally managed the staff of domestics and efficiently ran the homestead. The world beyond far-away Broken Hill continued on its exciting social and political orbit, but at Wirragatta, as at Carie, it rolled placidly onward from year to year and left no regrets.

  Neither of them vegetated, notwithstanding. Wirragatta was not a farm but a principality; the men were not yokels but clever sheepmen and fine horsemen. Many of them were well-read and well-informed. The neighbouring squatters were not country men but people modern in ideas, in dress, in manners. The internal combustion engine had wiped Cobb and Co.’s horse-drawn coaches off the tracks, and now was beginning to span and respan the skies. The great depression was passing and hope burned in the hearts of men.

  As these Borradales had agreed, human activities outside the house were stopped by this second day of wind and blinding sand. The stockmen in their huts were unable even to read. The cooks swore and gave up their efforts to protect food. Even within the well-built homestead, even within Stella’s bedroom, where she sat reading a novel, the air was tinged with red dust. It was necessary, in order to read, to have the standard oil-lamp burning, there being no electric light at Wirragatta.

  The wind boomed and whined about the house, and the colour of the oblong presented by the windows deepened to a sinister dark red as the day aged. Stella’s chair vibrated like a harp-string. The lamp smoked if the wick was turned to its normal height. Already her eyelids and the corners of her mouth were sticky with dust. And so, first reading and then dozing, Stella got through the morning.

  At noon the maid appeared to ascertain her wishes about lunch. The girl’s hair was damp and wispy, and her face was stained by dust and coloured by heat. Knowing full well the terrible conditions faced by the cook, Stella suggested tea and toast. She invariably suggested; never ordered.

  “Did anyone ring up this morning—or call?” she asked, reaching for the cigarettes.

  “No, Miss Borradale. Oh—but then, of course, he wouldn’t count. A swagman came about eleven asking to see Mr. Borradale. Cook told him to go and camp till the wind dropped, as she wasn’t going to have Mr. Borradale disturbed a day like this.”

  “Poor man,” Stella said feelingly. “Did cook give him anything to eat?”

  The maid shook her head.

  “Oh, well, Mary, bring tea and toast. I will slip along to Mr. Borradale and see what he would like.”

  Stella found her brother standing before the windows gazing out upon the red fog which now completely masked the orange-trees but a few yards distant. Her quick glance found his dressing-gowned figure instantly, noted the unusual orderliness of this most masculine room, its quiet furnishing, the occupant’s day clothes neatly folded and hung over a chair-back. Like all other rooms in the house today, the air in this was stale and clammy. At her entry Martin turned.

  “Hullo, old girl! Just plain hell outside, isn’t it?”

  “Just that, dear,” she agreed. “I am going to have tea and toast for lunch in consideration for cook and her difficulties—especially her temper.”

  “That will suit me. Might I have it here? I don’t feel like dressing yet. Anyone telephone?”

  “No. A swagman called at eleven, and cook told him to wait till the storm had died down. He wanted to see you.”

  “Oh! Wants a job, I suppose.” Martin sighed. “Well, thank the Lord I’m not a swagman.”

  Assured that her brother had recovered from the exertions of the previous evening, Stella returned to her room and suggested to the maid that a tray be taken to Mr. Borradale.

  The afternoon was worse than had been the morning. When many women would have reviled the country and the temporarily uncomfortable conditions, Stella Borradale felt concern and sympathy for the stockmen in their rough huts, the team of dam-sinkers in their unprotected tents, and the two boundary-fence riders who patrolled the netted frontiers of this nine-hundred-thousand-acres kingdom called Wirragatta. She thought particularly of one of these fenceriders, Donald Dreyton, a man who mystified her, and she pictured him crouched in the only shelter provided by stacked camel-saddles.

  Yet there was one man who compelled his horse to face the blast of hot, sand-laden wind and ride to Wirragatta shortly after four o’clock. When the maid entered Stella’s room with afternoon-tea she informed her mistress that Mounted-Constable Lee desired to see Mr. Borradale.

  “This afternoon!” exclaimed Stella, glancing at the windows. “On an afternoon like this! Tell cook I would like her to offer Mr. Lee tea and cakes in the morning-room. Cook will be unable to expose the butter.”

  Remembering not to frown because of two vertical lines which would appear between her brows, understanding that the cause of the policeman’s visit must be serious—otherwise he would have telephoned on a day like this—Stella again entered Martin’s room, to find him stretched on his bed reading. What he instantly saw in her eyes caused a tightness at the corners of his mouth, and as she spoke she watched this tightness grow tauter still.

  “Lee called?” he cried sharply. “Where is he?”

  “Making the best of what cook is able to provide. Will you have some tea before you see him?”

  “Yes. I’ll dress at once.”

  He was trying to keep the horror out of his eyes, but she saw it and whispered:

  “Do you think—again? Those other two were killed in weather like last night.”

  For ten seconds both stared at the other. Then Martin’s body relaxed, and he said with forced calm:

  “Let’s hope not. By God, let’s hope not.”

  When, half an hour later, the dust-grimed policeman was taken to the study he found Martin newly shaved and dressed in flannels.

  “Ha, Lee! What on earth has brought you here on a filthy day like this?” inquired the squatter, indicating a chair flanking the writing-table. A silver box of cigarettes was set between them, and Lee accepted one. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  Mounted-Constable Lee was phlegmatic. He grinned at Martin, but without humour. Only after his cigarette had been lit did he answer.

  Lee was a large, lean man. His hair was sandy in colour and thin, and his clipped moustache was like his hair. Pale blue eyes seemed always to regard the world with wonder, as though his slow but tenacious brain failed to understand why men troubled themselves to break laws.

  “Sir,” he began, and paused. “Carie has been stirred up again, and remembering how you, as a sitting justice, kindly assisted me with sound advice when Alice Tindall was murdered two years ago, and when young Marsh was murdered last March, I thought you wouldn’t decline to advise me about one or two points regarding this last crime.”

  “Certainly, Lee. What has happened? Not another murder?”

  “Early this morning the girl, Mabel Storrie, was nearly strangled to death. This time the Strangler didn’t complete his foul work. Before I relate the facts I’d like you to answer a question or two.”

  “Very well. Carry on. What is it?” demanded the squatter, his eyes narrowed.

  “What time did you and Miss Borradale get home last night?”

  “I don’t really know. Some time after midnight, I think.”

  “Perhaps Miss Borradale would know,” suggested Lee, exhibiting tha
t mental tenacity which his wife termed pigheadedness. “I’d like to know for certain.”

  “I will ask her. I’ll not be a moment.”

  During Martin’s absence Constable Lee produced a long notebook and went over the notes he had made since the arrival of the mail-car from Broken Hill that morning. He was thus engaged when the squatter returned.

  “My sister says that we got back at twenty-five minutes after twelve,” Martin announced, dropping into his chair and selecting a cigarette.

  “Humph! You came to town in the car last night. Which way did you return home?”

  “By the direct track.”

  “That’s to say, you took the Broken Hill road to the Common fence, then came through your own gate on to your own country and so direct here?”

  “Yes. Why are you so interested in our movements?”

  “I wanted to know the way you came home last night because if you had followed the Broken Hill road, to Nogga Creek, turned in there through your boundary gate, and so come home along the creek, you might have seen someone or something of a suspicious nature.”

  “We saw no one. The last person we saw was yourself standing under the door light of the hotel.”

  Lee sighed and put away the notebook. Martin could see that he was laboriously marshalling his facts, and that to hurry him would be worse than useless. Even then the constable had to jerk his heavy body upward and the hem of his tunic downward before he spoke.

  “Just after eight o’clock last night,” he began, “Mabel Storrie and young Tom drove to Carie on their father’s truck. When the dance broke up at one-thirty this morning Tom Storrie and the truck were missing. This being so, Barry Elson undertook to escort Mabel home on foot. They were seen to leave the hall, and I saw them pass the hotel shortly after one-thirty.

  “When they got a bit beyond the Common gate they fell into argument. Mabel objected to her boy kissing her because he had been drinking. She told him she didn’t want his escort, and, in a huff, he left her to go on alone when they were halfway to Nogga Creek.