Arthur Upfield - Winds of Evil

“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 yourreal 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 beside 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 theStorries. 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.”