Winds of Evil Read online

  “Fred Storrie and his missus weren’t alarmed this morning when they found that Mabel hadn’t got home. They did find young Tom snoring in his bed, and he said he missed Mabel and thought she would be sleeping at her aunt’s in town.

  “It was one of the passengers on the coach who saw the girl lying about twenty-odd yards off the track. The coach brought the girl into the town, as she was alive, and Dr. Mulray took her into his house, where she is now being nursed by her mother and the doctor’s housekeeper.”

  “Horrible, Lee. Damnable. How was the unfortunate girl when you left this afternoon?”

  “Bad. Not only has she been almost strangled to death, she has received a severe blow to her forehead. She hasn’t yet regained consciousness. According to her mother, a swagman called at the house yesterday afternoon, got some meat, and said he intended camping at Catfish Hole. He hasn’t reached town yet, and when I visited Catfish Hole to interview him he wasn’t there.”

  “Probably the man who called here this morning,” Martin cut in. “Wants to see me about a job, I think. He was told to wait until the wind subsided.” The young man abruptly leaned towards the policeman, his face expressing angry determination. “This strangling swine has got to be caught, Lee.”

  Lee sighed.

  “I wired Broken Hill about it this morning,” he said, in his voice a hint of despair.

  “We can only hope they will send a keener man than last time. Shall I call for this swagman?”

  “I wish you would, sir. He may be able to tell us something.”

  In answer to Martin’s ring a maid appeared, and she was asked to cross to the office building and request the bookkeeper to find and bring the swagman to the study. When the door had closed behind her, Martin said slowly:

  “Two months ago I recalled the fact that the present Commissioner of the Queensland Police Force was an old friend of my father’s. I wrote him a long description of the two murders committed here, and asked him if he could have a really first-class man sent from Sydney. In his letter to me he said he would send a man, by arrangement with the New South Wales Commissioner, when that man could be released from a case. Now matters have come to such a pass that no man or woman is safe after dark.”

  Chapter Four

  Joe Fisher

  THE DOOR OF the study was opened to admit two men, the first of whom was the Wirragatta book-keeper. Martin and the constable both ignored the dapper man and concentrated their attention on the swagman. When the door closed behind the retreating book-keeper, the swagman surveyed those at the table. He was of medium height, very dark of skin, very bright-blue of eyes. When he smiled his white teeth emphasized the colour of his skin, and when he spoke Martin’s brows lifted a fraction.

  “Gentlemen, you wished to see me?” said the swagman.

  “Yes, we do,” Lee growled. “Sit down on that chair. I’ve a few questions to ask.”

  The swagman brought the chair indicated and became seated so that he faced both Martin and the policeman.

  “I am an adept at answering questions,” he stated lightly, and then, as though prompted by an afterthought, he added, “And at asking them, too. May I smoke?”

  At this effrontery Lee frowned heavily and glanced at the squatter. Martin placed the silver cigarette-box nearer the swagman, who took one and lit it, saying:

  “Now and then I like a Turkish cigarette, but I have never been able to conquer the habit of rolling my own. My tastes, I fear, are plebeian.”

  “Never mind your tastes,” shorted Lee. “Where did you camp last night?”

  “At the lower extremity of a sheet of water called, I think, Catfish Hole.”

  “What time did you get there?”

  “Having no watch, and being unable to see the stars, I cannot reply with accuracy, but it would be about six o’clock. Not later than seven o’clock.”

  “What did you do when you got there?”

  “I made camp and grilled chops I cadged from a young lady at a selector’s house. After darkness had fallen I rolled my swag in such a manner as to mislead any evil person into thinking I was sleeping there. Then I stole away and sat with my back against a tree all night. It was most uncomfortable physically, but mentally it was comforting.”

  “Why did you do that? There are no wild blacks in this State.”

  “Yesterday I ate lunch with a fellow swagman who had camped the night before in your jail. In consequence of information received concerning an unknown killer, I decided that a nice big tree-trunk at my back would be a blessing.”

  “Oh! What’s your name?”

  “Joseph Fisher.”

  “I don’t want your nom-de-track. I want your real name.”

  “Alas, it is one which humbles me. I am unworthy to bear it, but the responsibility is not mine.” The twinkle in the blue eyes puzzled Martin and angered Lee. “I am Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  Lee’s annoyance was swept away by an expression of astonishment.

  “Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte!” he almost gasped.

  “If you kindly address me as Bony it will be sufficient. I am not a real policeman, at least not at heart. You are, I take it, Mounted-Constable Lee, and you, sir, are Mr. Martin Borradale. I have a letter for you from Colonel Spendor of Brisbane and an official one for you, Lee.”

  The contents of the blue envelope apparently were short, for Lee laid it down and stared at Bony until Martin had read the Colonel’s much longer one.

  “It has become obvious, Lee, that you are officially interested in me as a swagman. Why? Proceed with the questions you intended to ask.” Lee remembered himself and stood up. “No, no. Please be seated. As Colonel Spendor delights to impress on me, I am not a real policeman. I will take charge after you have completed your questions.”

  “Very well, sir. Did_____”

  “I insist upon being called Bony,” murmured the swagman.

  Lee’s jaw firmed. Then he said:

  “Bony it is, sir. Did you hear anything out of the ordinary during the night?”

  “Er—no. Nothing not quite ordinary. At what I think was about eight o’clock, a car or truck passed along the road over the creek going towards Carie. I reasoned that it was the young lady from the selection and her brother, as she told me she was going to the dance at Carie when she gave me the meat. A car or truck returned from Carie about two o’clock this morning. I assume it was the same people returning from the dance.”

  “You heard nothing more; saw nothing?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t hear a woman scream or cry out?”

  “No—o. But wait. Before the day was utterly gone a curlew screamed as it passed over my camp. Then, about an hour before the car or truck passed on its way south, I heard the curlew again. It seemed then to be near or on the road. That second cry might have been a woman’s scream. The two are not very dissimilar. Why do you ask that?”

  “Because the girl, Mabel Storrie, was strangled almost to death near the road where it crosses the creek, less than a quarter of a mile from where you were camped.”

  Bony’s long brown fingers ceased all movement when rolling a cigarette.

  “Indeed! So the third crime of a similar nature has been committed. But please wait. I would like to have the particulars of them in chronological order. Begin with the details of the first.”

  “You have, then, not seen the letter I wrote to Colonel Spendor two months ago?” Martin asked.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Borradale. I would, however, like to hear all the details from Constable Lee. Now I am all attention, Lee.”

  “Well, sir—er—Bony, it was during the night of November the tenth two years ago, that Alice Tindall was strangled to death on the bank of Junction Waterhole, which is half a mile up-river from here and just below where Thunder and Nogga creeks join to become Wirragatta River. Alice Tindall was a half-caste, young and pretty, aged nineteen. She lived with her mother and her mother’s tribe, who up to then had their home camp be
side Junction Waterhole. She had spent the evening of November the tenth with the servants in this house, and the next morning one of the blacks discovered her body on the bank of the waterhole opposite the camp. The night of the crime was just such a night as last night. The post-mortem was carried out by Dr. Mulray, and the coroner’s verdict was murder.”

  “Any proved or probable motive?”

  “No. The girl had neither money nor jewellery on her person. Although she was pretty and popular, she had no known enemy. Her character was very good.”

  “Who conducted the investigation? You?”

  “I did what I could. Sergeant Simone, from Broken Hill, took over the case. He failed.”

  The grim lines about Lee’s mouth prompted Bony to ask:

  “Is this Simone a live man?”

  “Well, he’s a good policeman, I think.”

  “Ah, but a bad detective, eh? You said that the girl’s maternal tribe was camped beside the waterhole. I assume that their gift of tracking was put to full use.”

  “Yes, but the blacks hadn’t a chance to work. As I said, the night of November the tenth was like last night, and November the eleventh was even worse than it has been today. The wind blew away the face of the earth. And then Simone didn’t use them right. He wasn’t tactful with ’em. They sneaked away a day or two later and they never came back. They got to fear Simone worse than the blue devil, or the banshee, or whatever they call the evil spirit of the bush.”

  “So neither you nor Simone found one clue?”

  “No ... not a blessed lead.”

  “Well, then the second crime, please.”

  “The second murder was committed during the night of March the seventeenth this year. There was a young fellow named Frank Marsh, who had returned to Carie the year before, after having served his time to a tinsmith. He turned out to be a good tradesman, and he found plenty of work in this district. At the time of his death he was making water-tanks for Fred Storrie, the selector, and then was camping with the Storries. On the evening of March the seventeenth he visited Carie, and on his way back to the selection he was attacked and strangled to death. Thinking he had stayed in Carie for the night, Storrie didn’t worry about his not turning up for breakfast. A swagman found the body about half past nine the next morning. It was lying between the two back gates on the Common fence.”

  “This time, of course, there were no blacks to call on to track?”

  “No. As I mentioned, they had all cleared out. And if there had been any handy to work for us they would have been no good.”

  “Oh! Why?”

  “The weather conditions were exactly the same as when Alice Tindall was killed.”

  “Is that so! Who investigated?” Bony asked sharply.

  “The same officer—Sergeant Simone.”

  “Results?”

  “None! The young fellow had been killed just as the girl had been killed and just as senselessly.”

  “And last night, or early this morning, in precisely the same weather conditions, this Storrie girl was almost murdered in exactly the same manner?”

  Constable Lee nodded gloomily.

  “That’s it,” he assented. “She went with her brother to a dance in Carie last night. The brother and the truck were missing when the dance broke up, so she walked home with her sweetheart. On the way they had a tiff, and they parted when half-way to the creek. This morning one of the coach passengers saw her lying several yards off the track. She had been almost strangled to death and she had suffered a severe blow on the forehead, which has rendered her unconscious ever since. If she lives, she’ll be lucky.”

  “You have communicated with Broken Hill?”

  “Yes,” answered Lee. “If they send Simone again, they should get their heads read.”

  Bony chuckled. “If they send anyone—which probably they won’t, knowing I am here—we will hope it is Sergeant Simone. Why don’t you like him?”

  It might have been the fact that Bony was not a member of his own State Police Force that made Lee unusually candid when he replied:

  “Sergeant Simone may be a good detective in a city or large town, but he’s not the shadow of one when dealing with a bush case. He is too overbearing with bush people. You can’t get anything out of bush people by bullying them.”

  Bony nodded approvingly.

  “My opinion of you, my dear Lee, is becoming quite favourable,” he said smilingly. “You know, I think I shall thoroughly enjoy myself whilst on this investigation. My thanks are due to you, Mr. Borradale, for drawing my attention to these murders through my revered chief, Colonel Spendor. The Colonel said, ‘Bony, the son of an old friend of mine is being annoyed by a blackguard whose vice is strangling people. Go and get him.’ I said, ‘Do you refer to the blackguard or the friend’s son, sir?’ and he said, ‘Damn you, sir. Don’t you try to be humorous with me’.”

  Lee’s mild eyes now were opened to their fullest extent. He was staring as though his ears were faulty, and Bony chuckled.

  “This strangling person uses his brain,” Bony went on. “Only the rare murderer does that. In general, murderers are the most stupid of criminals, prone to commit a hundred mistakes. They are more stupid than embezzlers. I believe that it is the fear of the rope which upsets the average murderer and makes him make mistakes. Even the really clever murderer, the odd one in the hundred, will make at least one vital mistake. Not always, however, does the investigator see, or recognize, the mistakes, so that it is always the investigator who fails to sheet home a crime and not the cleverness of the criminal to get away with it. Now permit me.”

  Bony pushed back his chair and rose. On moving the cigarette-box, he commanded half the table surface.

  “We have here excellent sketching materials,” he murmured as with a finger point he drew on the dusty surface of the polished table a rough map of the locality. He was as facile as. a lightning-sketch artist, and both Martin and the policeman were astonished by his accuracy.

  “When were you last in the district?” asked Lee.

  “I have not been here before, but when in Broken Hill I studied several large-scale maps. Now please point out to me on this sketch where the three victims were discovered.”

  With a grimy finger Lee did so.

  “Ah!” Bony murmured, and then stood back as though to admire a hung masterpiece. “Yes ... very interesting ... very. I am glad I came. Thank you, Mr. Borradale. You have put me in your debt. I admire clever murderers immensely—almost as much as I admire myself. Officially I am always delighted to order their arrest. Privately I would like to let them go so that they could commit another murder without making the same mistakes.”

  Constable Lee’s face was a study of outraged law. He glared glassily at the now laughing detective. The twinkling blue eyes beamed on Martin, and the squatter could not forbear to chuckle. He had heard of Bony through intimate friends, and he knew the half-caste’s reputation.

  “I’m glad that Colonel Spendor consented to get you to lift this horrible shadow from us,” Martin said soberly. “Anything we can do to assist you in your investigation will be readily done. The entire community will be grateful to you if you can apprehend this strangling brute.”

  “Without public collaboration a detective’s work is made trebly difficult, Mr. Borradale, and I thank you for your offer of assistance. First, I want my name and rank suppressed. I will work for you, Mr. Borradale, as a casual hand under the name of Joseph Fisher. You can take me on your wages-sheet from now. Set me to work clearing that boundary-fence of dead buckbush. From you, Lee, I require the name of every man and woman in the district. Not now, but later, I would like to study the weather records over the last five years. But to no single person mention who or what I am.”

  Chapter Five

  The Fence-Rider

  IT WAS BY chance that Mounted-Constable Lee met Donald Dreyton several miles to the west of Carie on the boundary of Wirragatta Station. For five minutes they conversed across the nette
d barrier, and Dreyton learned of the brutal attack on Mabel Storrie. When Lee went on his business, Dreyton regarded the stiff military figure astride the grey gelding with the manner of one whose eyes are blinded by mental pictures.

  Behind the fence-rider stood one riding-and two pack-camels, animals possessing personality and able to think and reason.

  Dressed, this first day in November, in khaki slacks, a white cotton shirt, a wide-brimmed felt hat and elastic-sided riding-boots, with face and forearms tanned by the sun, Dreyton had the appearance of being over forty when actually he was but a little more than thirty years of age. Constant exposure, day and night, to the sun and the air had so darkened his skin that the peculiar blue-grey of his eyes was startlingly emphasized. The thin nose and mobile lips, added to the breadth of forehead, indicated intelligence above the average, whilst the two sharp lines between the brows bespoke constant mental activity. He was not a bushman born and bred, but in this was no oddity.

  It was seldom that Dreyton troubled to ride. For one thing his riding-camel vigorously objected to being kneeled to be mounted, nor would it consent to be climbed up and down whilst standing. At nearly every wire strain something was required to be done to the fence, and consequently Dreyton walked the ten to fourteen miles every day along his section of one hundred and eighty-three miles. It was doubtless this incessant walking that gave to his body its lithe grace of movement.

  Having filled a straight-stemmed pipe with rubbed chips of Yankee Doodle tobacco, having lit the pipe with a match ignited on the seat of his trousers, he resumed his patrol to Carie and the homestead of Wirragatta.

  It was almost four o’clock when he arrived at the corner post between the two black gates in the Common fence, there ruefully to observe the long rampart of dead buck-bush built by the wind against the fence running south from that point to Nogga Creek, where his section terminated, and for many miles beyond. So clear was the air he could see the individual trees bordering the creek, while Nelson’s Hotel and Smith’s bakery appeared to be within easy stone-throw.