Arthur Upfield - Winds of Evil

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 causeda 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 bodyrelaxed, 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 that mental tenacity which his wife termed pig-headedness. “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 wasyourself 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 half-way to Nogga Creek.

“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 book-keeper 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.”

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.