Arthur Upfield - Sands of Windee

“Humph! What’s this?”

Up the creek came a small flock of women, led by Noonee and Moongalliti. The old man walked proudly erect, his white head thrown back, his beard matted with blood from a cheek wound. Stanton and his men drew back. Moongalliti came and looked down on the face of his son. His lips twitched. The women raised their arms and wailed. Noonee, Ludbi’s mother, cried aloud and fell on the body.

And Moongalliti, erect as a soldier, arms hanging stiffly at his sides, turned towards the east, silent, his face immobile save for his trembling lips.

Bony touched his bare shoulder, and the old man’s eyes came slowly to rest on him.

“Moongalliti,” Bony said softly, “Ludbi was a man. Beneath the moon last night he faced its cradle.”

Bony raised his right arm as a sign.

Slowly the old man’s right arm went up too, and when it rose the fierce face softened and tears fell down his scarred and wounded cheeks.

Bony Instructs Headquarters

SERGEANT MORRIS arrived during the afternoon, the fight and its tragic result having been reported to him over the telephone by Jeff Stanton. He walked into the kitchen about four o’clock after he had been given tea and scones by Marion on the big house veranda. Bony was preparing the dinner, and neither he nor the sergeant spoke until both were assured that no one was by to see or hear.

“Good day, Bony,” the policeman said in greeting, with far less than the habitual gruffness he used to people whom he considered his social inferiors. “Cooking, eh?”

“I shall be glad when Jeff gets a cook, for I am becoming tired of cooking.”

“The cooking didn’t prevent your attendance at the dog-fight this morning, I am told.”

“Alas! Man, after all, is a brute beast,”sighed Bony. “Nevertheless, I was entertained and thrilled.”

“Humph!” Sergeant Morris looked as though he did not quite approve. “Anyway, as you were a witness, tell me all about it.”

“I believe I saw you talking to Jack Withers,” Bony remarked blandly.

“Yes. I got his statement.”

“Then why in the world, my dear Morris, do you attempt to waste my time?”

“Well, I want a corroborative statement from you. You and Withers appear to be the only witnesses of the affair from first to last.”

“In that case, send me a copy of Withers’s statement, and I’ll sign it as my own. Yes, yes! I know you are a senior police official, and stuffed full of red tape, but Ludbi’s death was the result of a tribal affray, and not murder, and therefore nothing for us to worry about. Have you got the report concerning Marks?”

“Yes. How is the case going?”

“According to plan, Morris. It proceeds unhurriedly to its destined end.”

“And you still believe it was murder?”

“Decidedly. I know it was murder.”

“You do? Who did it?”

Bony smiled provokingly, and said: “As yet I do not know the identity of the killer. When I do, it will be a most difficult matter to prove.”

“Why?”

“I will explain,” Bony answered, rolling out a slab of dough with which to cover a large meat pie. “As I once told you, nine hundred and ninety-nine cases of murder out of every thousand are affairs of the utmost simplicity. The body of a human being is discovered, either whole, as was the body of the victim ofMilsom and Fowler and kindred cases, or in pieces, as were the victims of the romanticCrippen, the money-loving Mahon, and the atrocious Landru. It has been said by people of great intelligence that the human body is one of the most difficult objects to destroy completely. Landru, the French bluebeard, came very near to success. Deeming utterly failed.

“Why it should be considered that a human body is difficult to destroy, and why murderers, who in their normal state are thinking, reasoning beings, should make such blundering failures of their attempts, has, to me, always been a source of amazement.”

“You, then, could succeed in completely destroying a body?” Morris said, with sceptically raised brows.

“Man, I could completely destroy a body in six quite different ways. It is really simple.”

“How? Describe the methods.”

“How can you, my dear Sergeant?” Bony evaded, with gentle reproof.

“All right! If you won’t tell, don’t.”

“If I did tell you, Morris, you might start at once removing your enemies,” the detective laughed.

The half-caste finished his pie-making by decorating the edges of the pastry crust with a fearsome butcher’s knife. Observing Morris watching the knife, Bony smiled queerly and turned back to place the pie in the oven. Then he added wood to the fire, pushed in a damper, examined the contents of several pots, and finally filled two tin pint pannikins with tea, and put them on the table.

“Have a sip of real China tea,” he urged Morris.

“China tea?”

“Yes, China tea! Made by the Chinamen in our great cities. They collect the tea-leaves from the hotels and restaurants, take them home, dry them over a stove, and sell them to those provision merchants who supply squatters with rations for the poor station-hands. I believe the wholesale price is somewhere about one pound per ton. The profit must be enormous. Now, please, the report.” Morris handed it to him, and sipped in silence whilst Bony read.

“William Green, born 10 February, 1878, at Louth, River Darling, N.S. W. Educated State schools, Louth and Parkes. Passed intoN.S. W. Police Force 9 Oct., 1907. First station, Wilcannia. Second, Sydney Central…”And so on, until:“Resigned to joinA.I. F. Served withA.F. A . at Anzac and 5th Division in France. Decorated M.M. 2 June, 1916. Promoted commission rank 19 June, 1917. Received head wound about 22 September, 1917. DischargedA.I. F. 17 January, 1919. RejoinedN.S. W. Police Force 18 November, 1919. Transferred Licensing Branch May

Then followed an amazing mass of detail relating to Green, alias Marks. As a dossier it was creditably complete, and Bony expressed his satisfaction by seizing his pannikin of tea and drinking the health of theN.S. W. Police Force.

“The report seems to please you,” observed Morris.

“It does, Sergeant! It does!” smiled the gratified Bony. “Now I want you to make dossiers of some other people.”

He rose, and for some little time was absent in his room. On his return he carried several letters and a package, as well as some loose sheets of paper.

“Post these letters and register this package for me, please,” he requested. “You see, I cannot post anything at the office here, excepting letters to my wife. Now here is a list of every white person known to have been within a radius of ten miles of Marks’s abandoned car the day he left Windee homestead. All these people are as fish in my net. Among them is the sting-ray for which I am looking. By my peculiar method of inductive reasoning I have identified all but seven as harmless fish. Among the remaining seven, therefore, is the sting-ray. I wish you to render me a comprehensive report of everything you know and can ascertain of these seven people. Here are their names.”

With quickening interest Sergeant Morris read the list: Jeff Stanton, Young Jeff Stanton, Mr. Roberts, Jack Withers, Ned Swallow, Dot, Dash.

“But I think I’ve told you the history of most of these people,” Morris objected.

“No matter. Get it down in chronological order. One of these seven men killed Marks or Green-we’ll stick to Marks-and one or more of these seven disposed of Marks’s body. If I possess the pasts of these unidentifiable fish, I may dig out of the cemetery of the past one little bone which will ally itself with the sting-ray. Do you think that Headquarters would bring here from North Queensland a very old friend of mine?”