Arthur Upfield - Sands of Windee

“Decidedly. I possess proof that Marks is dead, even though we cannot produce the body,” Bony said with a trace of triumph in his voice. “Even though we cannot produce the body, I can prove how he died.”

“How can you prove that?”

“By a little silver disk which might have come from the back of a wristlet watch, but did not.”

“Explain, man! Damn it, explain!”

“Not now, Morris. I am not quite ready. What is the visiting lady’s name?”

“Thomas-Mrs Rose Thomas. Interested in her?”

“Not personally,” answered the half-caste, faintly smiling. “She has business with Jeff Stanton. Ron is taking her to Windee this afternoon. By the way, if the reply from Headquarters does not arrive whilst I am in town, I want you to get it to me as soon as possible.” Bony rose to go, and added: “Never hurry in detecting crime. So many people scoff at coincidences, and yet coincidences are the toys of Father Time, and Father Time is pre-eminent as a crime investigator.”

When Bony walked to the door of the office Sergeant Morris bit a fingernail. Of all the strange men he had come across during his long official career this half-caste surely was the strangest. His methods were unique, his philosophy of crime detection most original, yet for all that Morris felt utterly sure that Bony would be completely successful. There was the inevitability of fate in the man’s make-up.

“Oh, by the way,” the half-caste drawled, returning to the desk, “you might put this stuff in your safe for security.”

The sergeant, with widened eyelids, saw on the desk before him wad after wad of treasury notes which appeared with baffling quickness from various portions of Bony’s dress. “What the deuce…!” he began.

“That is the money which Marks had with him at the time of his death,” interrupted Bony in the quietest of tones.

“The devil!”

“No. Marks, not the devil.” And before the astonished policeman could exclaim further Bony had vanished, and was heard swinging back the wicket-gate.

It was then a little after noon, and the two stores were closed during the lunch hour. Knowing that a further twenty minutes was at his disposal, Bony sauntered to the hotel, and, seating himself in the shade of one of the flanking pepper-trees, he produced the letter with the Queensland postmark, opened it, and proceeded to read.

Dearest Bony,

Your letter written November 25th reached me this morning, and I am so glad to know that you are all right. All day I have been laughing at your description of Runta and the way you frightened her off marrying you. Yoube careful now, or I shall be losing you yet. I will send on the dress for her. A figured print one-piece garment inan out-size should suit her, and I do trust it will repair her broken heart.

Remember, though, that if you don’t come home soon your Marie will be suffering a broken heart, a broken heart which will take all your attention and all your affection to mend…

Come home, Bony dear! We all want you; and write soon to

Marie.

Smiling gently, the detective re-read the letter, and pictured in his mind the tall, robust figure, almost regal in its grace, and the dark brown face with its clear-cut features and wide-spaced fearless grey eyes. Every time he saw his wife, every time he thought of her, he experienced a sense of prideful satisfaction that she was his mate-she was so worthy to be the wife of Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.

He was still thinking of her and his family when the lunch-gong sounded from the hotel, and, seeing Ron coming from the direction of the store, he rose to meet him. They decided to have a drink before lunch.

Within, they found Mr Bumpus in his shirt-sleeves drying glasses. With deep and intense boredom depicted on his round, red face, he served them with tantalizing slowness.

“I’ll come along and give you a hand with the loading after lunch, if you like,” Bony volunteered to Ron.

“The job’s done,” was the triumphant reply. “All I’ve got to do now is to do the errand for Miss Marion, collect the mail, have one more drink, and rope in our fair passenger. Then…”

With the utmost caution Mr Bumpus leaned over the bar till his face was between their empty glasses and about on a level with them.

“She’s a corker!” he whispered. “Gonnerstay at Windee at least one night, and got the lubrication ’arfhour ago. Two bottlesuv whisky and oneuv gin. Strike me pink! Fancy being married to ’er!”

“Must have more money than I’ve got,” Ron commented.

Mr Bumpus refilled their glasses. “She’s abloomin ’ corker-abloomin ’ corker,” he whispered again. “If shewus my wife, I’d-I’d…”

“What?” inquired the delightedBony.

Mr Bumpus once more wormed himself across the bar. His face had become purple with honest indignation. He spoke with conviction: “I’d cut her ruddy throat!”

He did not share their low laughter when they left the bar and walked along to the dining-room. Here, with all the windows open and the blinds three parts drawn, the air was a little cooler. There were three tables, and at one of these sat the lady who called herself Mrs Rose Thomas. On seeing them she smiled and invited them to sit with her. An anaemic young lady waited on them.

In the darkened room Mrs Thomas did indeed appear youthful. She was gay, possibly a little too gay. Her small, very modern hat was pulled well down over her head, but beneath it was to be seen the highlyperoxided hair. On her fingers there flashed several rings, whilst resting on her breast was an enormous diamond pendant which, if genuine, must have been worth considerably more than a hundred guineas. Throughout the meal she addressed herself entirely to the Englishman, without studiously avoiding Bony, and for this the detective was thankful, for it enabled him to observe her carefully and to listen.

She appeared avid for information about theStantons and about Windee. Regarding Jeff Stanton, she asked of Ron several questions at intervals. How old was he? What was he like in appearance? How long had he occupied Windee? Bony came to wonder what was her actual reason for visiting the squatter. Her hunger for information appeared excessive in a woman supposedly seeking employment as cook or maid, and when the time came for them to leave the table Bony had become deeply interested in her. Ron promised to be ready to leave at precisely two o’clock.

It wanted but twenty minutes to the time of departure when a boy gave Bony a telegram. It was addressed to Sergeant Morris, and read: Age fifty-eight-height five-seven-peroxide hair-brown eyes-flashily dressed-wears much jewellery-speaks rapidly, shrilly-maiden name Green.

No indication was given of the sender. It had been sent from Sydney. Bony’s blue eyes became almost invisible between the narrowed eyelids. Why was Marks’s sister visiting Windee?

A Squatter at Home

JEFF STANTON was working at his own particular table in the Windee office on the morning Bony paid his visit to Mount Lion. Spread before him was a large-scale map of Windee Station, with every paddock named thereon, every well and dam and natural water-hole. The map was affixed to a drawing-board, and in it were stuck two-colour pins and miniature white flags bearing black numbers. From data supplied him every evening by his overseer at Nullawil and his lonely boundary-riders, he could tell at a glance the condition of the natural feed in a paddock, the supply of water, and the number and classification of the sheep within its five-wire fences. The map served the squatter as other maps serve a military commander.

A sheep-run of over a million and a quarter acres is not exactly a farm, and the well-being of seventy thousand sheep calls for constant attention and thorough experience, for, whilst a man can go bankrupt in a year or two through bad farming, it is possible for a squatter to fail in one month when drought is beginning to grip the country and the water supplies are failing. Allow sheep to remain-say three thousand-in a paddock when a hot sun has sucked up what has been considered a week’s supply of water in a dam, and, because those sheep have become used to a drink every day, they will all have perished within a week. And wow! there goes four thousand pounds.