Arthur Upfield - Winds of Evil

“Naturally. I never fail.”

“And may I-in private, of course-call you Bony, as Mrs. Trench does?”

“Assuredly. I shall insist on it.”

To them the hum of a car came from Carie way. Turning, Bony saw it at the Common gate.

“This,” he said, “may be Sergeant Simone. He arrived last night.”

“Oh!” the grey eyes narrowed and the keen blue eyes did not fail to notice it. “Then I will get along, Bony. Sergeant Simone disapproves of women smoking cigarettes, and I am not going to throw away a half-smoked one. I think it such a pity that Sergeant Simone always arrives here after one of these terrible crimes and never before one is committed.”

“Might I ask why?” inquired Bony.

“Because then Sergeant Simone might be the victim. Aurevoir. I’ll keep my mouth shut about it, never fear, And please, please tell me from time to time how you are getting on.”

For a moment the detective thrilled at her laughing face, and as he looked after the car and its rising dust he remembered the list of names in his possession. Stella Borradale’s name was down on that list. It was absurd to have it there, but then the name of Mrs. Nelson was there, too. He crossed to rebuild the fire for the tea making, and he was busy with it when the car from Carie pulled up with screaming brakes.

A harsh voice shouted, “Hey, you! Come here!”

Detective-Sergeant Simone

JUST BEYOND THE closed gate stood three men. Bony instantly recognized Constable Lee and the slight young man whom he had met the previous evening, but the hugely fat man dressed in light grey flannels was a stranger. It was this fat man who shouted:

“Hey, you! Come here!”

He was like an old-time sergeant shouting at a private when men in the ranks were less important than the regimental mascot, and the singular thing about this man’s voice was the clarity of his articulation when his teeth were clenched on a cigar. It says much for Bony’s sense of humour that he instantly obeyed the summons with a distinct twinkle in his eyes. He was careful to close the gate after having passed through it. He now saw with interest agate-hard strong white teeth biting viciously on a large cigar and green agate-hard eyes glaring down at him from a superior height.

“What’s your name?” rasped Sergeant Simone.

“I am Joseph Fisher-as Constable Lee has doubtless told you,” Bony replied lightly. On observing that his tone and careless indifference at once aroused the unreasoning animus of a beast, he added, “And who are you?”

“Never mind who I am, and never mind what Constable Lee might have told me. You answer my question and no slinking round corners. What’s your name?”

“Joseph Fisher.”

“You were camped at Catfish Hole the night Miss Storrie was attacked and left for dead?” the question shot out.

“That is so,” replied Bony, further fanning a smouldering fire.

“What time did you make camp that night?”

“That I couldn’t say.”

“Well, what time did you leave camp the next morning?”

“That I could not say, either.”

“Well, you had better say, and mighty sharp, too, or you’ll be for it. I don’t standno nonsense from nigs and half-castes. You’re a likely looking bird to have done this last crime. And you are wasting my time.”

The slight young man was looking at Bony miserably, but the face of Constable Lee registered a flash of genuine happiness. Bony’s calmness gratified him, and now he was mentally licking his chops.

“My dear sergeant-” began Bony, when Simone cut in:

“Don’t you ‘dear sergeant’ me,” he roared without removing the cigar from his mouth. “What time did you camp that night at Catfish Hole?”

Bony sighed with emphasized despair.

“I tell you I don’t know,” he said. “There was no sun visible and I had no watch. Because I had no watch and because later the stars were invisible, too, I could not state the time that the truck crossed Nogga Creek on its way to Carie and the time when it came back.”

“Then guess the time-do you hear me?”

“I can guess and be nearly correct. I camped about half-past six o’clock. It was about eight when the truck passed on its way to Carie, and it was about half-past two when it returned. It was about a quarter to two that I heard the curlew scream from about here. It was a wild night, and I was dozing when it screamed, and, as I told Constable Lee, it might just as well have been Miss Storrie screaming as that bird. It is all down in the statement I made to the constable here.”

“Humph!” grunted the hugely fat sergeant from somewhere deep in his stomach. He took a fresh bite on his half-masticated cigar. Then:

“I don’t like that statement. To me it smells fishy, and I’ve got a good nose for fishy statements. I didn’t rope in Moorhouse Alec and half a dozen other crooks without knowing a thing or two about statements. Yes, my lad, there is a lot queer about your statement.”

“I trust that I omitted nothing,” murmured Bony.

“What’s that? Omitted nothing? You might have done. I reckon you made up that statement, and what’s more I reckon you spouted it from memory, having been learnt it by someone else.”

“Why do you think that?” Bony inquired mildly.

“I’ll tell you, my lad, why I think it,” Simone vouchsafed, at the same time bending forward and leering down at the detective. “Igotta sister what reviews novels in alit’ry paper, and you and that statement is what she’d say wasn’t in character.”

“Dear me! I hope all the participles were correct.”

“What’s that?”

“I said I hoped all the participles were correct,” Bony replied. “I was always weak on participles.”

“I suppose you are trying to be funny. Well, I’ll tell you where you and that statement don’t square. It is too well put together for a half-caste swagman and fence cleaner.”

“You relieve my mind, sergeant. For the moment I actually thought you had discovered an error in the participles,” Bony said gravely, and even the slight young man forgot to be miserable. “Really, I did dictate the statement and Constable Lee really did take it down.”

“All right. We’ll return to the statement later on. Come on with me and no tricks, or I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. I want you to show me just where you camped at this Catfish Hole, and where you sat all night with your back to a tree-according to your statement.”

The four men walked under the bordering box-trees to the lower extremity of the sheet of water called Catfish Hole. There Bony pointed at the charred embers of his fire, now partly submerged by wind-driven sand. Then he indicated the big tree-trunk, around which no man could have reached to strangle him. Simone expectorated with practised neatness before again glaring down at Bony from his superior height.

“Where did you come from?” he roared, to add without a pause, “Come on, now! Out with it!”

“I came up from Broken Hill.”

“You don’t belong there. I’ve never seen you before.”

“Oh, no. I came across to Broken Hill from Barrakee Station. You see, I was working at Barrakee.”

“Barrakee, eh! We’ll soon check up on that. Who owns Barrakee?”

“Mr. Thornton.”

“Humph!” Againcame the devastating grunt. Then Simone turned to the slim young man.

“Now, Elson, what time was it you left Miss Storrie to come on alone?” he barked.

“I don’t know the time exactly,” replied Barry Elson, who was dark, good looking, dapper, a horseman writ large all over him. “It would be about twenty to two in the morning.”

“It was a nice thing to do, any’ow, leaving a poor defenceless young woman to come on home alone a night like that, with this strangling brute in the offing,” Simone said insultingly. “To date we’ve only got your word that you didn’t go hurrying after her-if you parted with her at all-and try hard to do her in. Oh, yes, you can fidget, Elson. I’ve got two eyes and a bit right on you, same as I got ’emon Mister Fisher, here.”