Arthur Upfield - Winds of Evil

“The obvious is right more times than not, according to my reading of the newspapers.”

“I agree, Lee, I agree. Sometimes I am blind to essential facts because of their obviousness. When all is summed up there was no other man in the district who fitted the meagre facts so well as Hang-dog Jack-after one other man. Let us examine him.”

There was a bluish mark on the cook’s right temple, which of itself did not account for the man’s prolonged unconsciousness, but when he was turned over there was revealed an evil-looking wound at the back of his head.

“Can you account for this?” Bony asked the sergeant, who joined them.

“Well, sir, after I hit him with my gun-butt as he faced me, he fell on his back. Likely enough the back of his head struck one of those large, loose stones, lying half-buried in the creek-bed. That wound don’t look nice. He’ll want a doctor.”

Bony stood up. He was dirty and weary.

“It cannot be far off daybreak,” he said. “When you have had a drink of tea, Lee, you must return to the town, get a truck, and bring Doctor Mulray out. We cannot do anything for this man, and to move him before the doctor has seen him might well be dangerous.”

Invigorated by the spirit-laced tea, Lee set off for Carie when the swirling sand swept across the dawn sky. Presently Elson joined Bony and the sergeant at the fire to announce that he was feeling almost recovered from his ordeal. He had discarded his women’s clothes and washed from his face the rouge and the powder.

“It is not a nice morning, Barry, but it will surely prove to be a brighter day for you,” Bony greeted him. “I am positively sure that you were not so nervous last night as I was when sitting back against the boundary-fence and watching you pass andrepass.”

“I wish I had known just where you were, Mr. Bonaparte,” Barry said with an effort to smile. “I suppose I could catch the mail-car for Broken Hill and Adelaide tonight?”

“Of course, but Sergeant Smithson will be returning this evening or tomorrow morning. Why not travel with him?”

“Yes, I’ll be going back, Barry,” agreed the sergeant.“Unless I’ve to wait a little before taking down the prisoner.”

“Ah, yes, sergeant. Doctor Mulray may want to keep him here for a day or so. Yes, Barry, you can go whenever you wish. And the very best of luck.”

When Bony set off for the homestead Dr. Mulray had not arrived. The sky was white-a pasty, unwholesome white. The air in the comparative shelter of the trees was white-tinged-a ghastly colour. Long, low streamers of sand were sliding across the plain, and Carie could not be seen. Second by second the wind was gaining strength, and immediately the sun rose it raised ever higher the rolling sand-waves. When Bony arrived at the homestead the sky was no more.

Despite his slight disappointment that the Strangler had turned out to be the Wirragatta cook, Bony felt profound relief that the case was finalized. In this affair he had not experienced the pleasure of sorting out clues to establish the essential clues. He had built a structure from half-clues and theories which had proved to be like a house built on quicksand. He had wasted effort and time, and the carefully baited trap had shown him that he had backed the wrong horse.

Yet, although he had received a blow to his vanity, relief far outweighed chagrin. The case was finished. He had unmasked the criminal and provided proof of guilt. Now he could bid adieu to the several people he had met and to the two whom he had come to admire. He would turn a little out of his way to visit the people of Windee and stay a night with Father Ryan, who lived in the small town close by. Yes, after he had talked with Donald Dreyton and permitted him to read the report on his career before coming to Australia, he could say his farewells to Miss Stella Borradale and her brother.

Then, of course, there was the little matter of the gun-trap so carefully set by the squatter, who had so keenly desired to score over him, Detective-Inspector Bonaparte. Bony was chuckling over that as he neared the men’s quarters, and Dreyton, who was standing outside the closed door, wondered why he was smiling.

“Another night of chess, eh?” the book-keeper shouted above the howling wind. “Mr. Borradale has been asking for you. He wishes you to go to him immediately you return.”

Bony’s browsrose a fraction.

“Mr. Borradale is about early this morning.”

“He came to my room an hour ago,” Dreyton said. “I am to show you right to his bedroom window if you come before the house staff are up.”

As Bony accompanied the tall Englishman to the wicket gate, he was still smiling. So the trap-setter had been out early to his trap and had found the cartridges removed from the gun!

Dreyton led the way to the south veranda and indicated one of the pairs offrench windows.

“I’ll leave you,” he said. “Better knock.”

At the station-hand’s knock one of the windows was opened by Martin Borradale, who was smoking a cigarette and was dressed in dressing-gown and slippers.

“Come in, Bony. Close and fasten the window after you. We’re in for another filthy day, by the look of it. Have you been playing chess with the doctor?”

“No,” replied the detective. “I have been playing chess with the Strangler.”

“Ah! Who won?”

“I did.”

Bony turned to the room. Martin stood behind a table set end-on to the foot of the bed. On the table was an oil lamp, its light accessory to the murky daylight coming through the windows.

“Cigarette?” asked Borradale.

“Thank you, but I prefer to make my own.”

“Very well. Sit down in that chair and tell me all about your night’s work. First, though, tell me the name of the fellow you caught.”

“Hang-dog Jack,” replied Bony, who, having removed tobacco, papers and matches, sank into the indicated chair. Martin seated himself at the table’s far side. Briefly, Bony related the night’s adventures.

“You do not seem to be very pleased with the results,” Martin said, regarding the detective curiously.

Having lit the cigarette, Bony looked up.

“No, I am not too well pleased,” he confessed. “I never really considered Hang-dog Jack as the guilty man. He did not-in fact, even now he does not-square with the steps of my investigation.”

“That iron collar and the acid paste smeared on it was an excellent idea. Yours, I suppose?”

“Yes. You see, having myself been almost strangled to death one night on Nogga Creek, I came to have a great respect for the fellow’s strength. He has hands of iron.”

“Indeed!” Martinmurmured, his expression tragic. “Like these, I assume.”

Borradale’s hands had been concealed below the table’s edge. Abruptly they came upward. In the right was a revolver, which now steadily pointed at Bony’s heart. The left hand was held palm outward for Bony’s inspection. It was red-raw and blistered.

“You see, Bony,” Borradale said slowly, “your trap was cunningly prepared, but you have captured the wrong man.”

Bony’s Unfortunate Friend

“NOTHING, INSPECTOR BONAPARTE,” Martin said, making a great effort to speak calmly, “nothing would grieve me more than to shoot you. I have certain statements to make, certain requests to ask of you, and then a certain thing to do. Should you reach for your gun, or attempt to leave your chair, I shall kill you. I must!”

The almost placid expression with which Martin Borradale had first met the detective this morning was now distorted into the reflection of a terror-filled mind. Bony shivered, but his voice was steady when he said:

“The effect of the surprise given me by this denouement is much less than the blow given my pride. Not to have examined the cook’s hands is one of the very few-but the greatest-mistakes I have ever made. However, all this is compensated for by the fact that after all I was sound in my reasoning right up to the moment I saw you setting a gun-trap in one of the Nogga Creek trees. Probably you will be good enough to explain just why you did that. If it was done to mislead me completely, then it was wholly successful. To retrieve my own self-respect, you could escape only after having killed me. Even so, you would have then to deal with Constable Lee and Sergeant Smithson, who so ably represented the prospector.”