Arthur Upfield: Sands of Windee

For the first time that evening Father Ryan had fallen into the brogue of his country. He saw the effect his words had in the expression of Bony’s blue eyes, he saw the look of hurt perplexity, and at once his great heart went out in sympathy.

So Bony slowly told of his meetings with Marion Stanton and of the conversation between them in Marion’s sitting-room. He explained his upbringing, and attempted to explain the duality of race constantly in turmoil within his soul.

“I do not believe I suffer from an inferiority complex,” he said, with his head bent to the task of cigarette-making. “I am a proud man, and take pride in my accomplishments and my civilized state. I loathe the dirty, the bestial, the ugly things of human life, and adore the beautiful. In the art gallery in Sydney there is a painting of a dead knight who lies on a bier in full armour, and beside the bier is a great dog looking up at its dead master. Every time I am in Sydney I spend two hours looking at that picture and marvelling at the expression on the dog’s face and the calm majesty of the masklaid on the dead man.

“In Miss Stanton I found beauty of a different order which affected me as does that picture. She represents my ideal of womanly beauty. Sex has nothing to do with my ideal. I do not love Miss Stanton as I love my wife. Not knowing that she and Dash were in love, I ordered the arrest of Dash, who I knew was implicated, in the hope of bringing the whole truth to light. Miss Stanton was surrounded by her relatives and her friends, yet it was to me she turned. Father, I am not a callow youth, I am not a fatuous man seeking a woman’s favours, but when she made her appeal I could not-simply, I could not refuse.

“I suspected strongly that the killing of Marks was not done with forethought and malice. I knew he was that most loathsome of all creatures, a blackmailer. And I saw in the moment of her appeal that inevitably she would suffer by the revelation I was there to make and was being paid to make by the State. Even my sympathies were with Joseph North in the affair of the stolen bride, which was the precursor of Marks’s death and the tangle which I have unravelled.

“There remain now two courses, one of which I must adopt. I can render my report wholly based on lies which will place the blame of Marks’s death on the shoulders of Dot, and attribute to him as motive the passion to gain money, thereby blackening his character as he would have done himself had he lived and had Dash permitted him. Or I can return to Sydney and admit failure to find evidence of murder. I have not told Morris everything, and what I have told him is consistent with Dot’s concealing Marks’s money, which is proved, and is all that can be proved. Dash need not be implicated, and Dot’s death would finalize the case.

“One moment!” he said hastily, when Father Ryan was about to speak. “I have been a member of the Queensland Police for sixteen years, and I have not once failed to complete a case successfully. I am a man without a failure against him. They have given me cases on which other men have failed. They now send me out on a case believing without a shadow of doubt that I shall bring to justice the criminal.

“My superiors believe me to be infallible. I know I am infallible. Arrived here, I found myself faced by a crime carried out by clever men, having at their disposal plenty of time. It was, I say, almost the perfect murder, and I did not start my investigations until two months had elapsed and all traces about the scene of it had been wiped out by wind and sand.

“And I won, Father-I won the greatest case that any detective ever had given him. Now I can only create a fabrication of lies, calumniate a dead man who was lovable and honourable, or else admit that I, the infallible Bony, have at last met my Waterloo.

“You see, Father, do you not, the quandary I am in? You see the cup that is offered me? Can I set it aside and, now that a snake has placed Dot beyond reach of human justice, can I raise my structure of lies and save my reputation?”

Father Ryan beheld Bony’s appealing expression with a sad heart. The look in the blue eyes of the man, torn between vanity and honour, weighed him down with the knowledge that here was no ordinary problem. Without a word he rose and brought a volume from one of his shelves, and in a moment had found a page and a paragraph he needed. Softly yet clearly he read:

“ ‘Methuselahlived nine hundred, sixty and nine years and begat sons and daughters-and what then? And then he died.’ That is what Daniel Defoe wrote on the occasion of the death of the Duke of Marlborough. Again of him Defoe wrote this, Bony: ‘All his victories, all his glories, his great projected schemes of war, his uninterrupted series of conquests, which are called his, as if he alone had fought and conquered by his arm what so many men obtained for him with their blood-all is ended, where other men, and, indeed, where all men ended: he is dead!

“It appears, Bony, that you are confronted with the choice of telling lies about another man or telling lies about yourself. Without my advice I know precisely which choice you will make. Remembering all the circumstances, knowing that the innocent will suffer more than will the guilty, knowing that the killing of Marks was legally justifiable to prevent his committing murder, I must concur in your choice.”

“Father Ryan, it will be a hard path to tread,” pleaded Bony.

“A lesser man than you, Bony, could not tread it.”

“Itis hard. Can you not think of a third way?”

“There are only the two, my son. Let us again refer to Defoe, who in effect so aptly says: ‘Men remarkable for all the virtues and all the vices, famous men and infamous men, they are but mortal clay.’ Death is the end of them, although I know it is not the end of their souls. What is a man’s reputation? Merely a manifestation of vanity. Pride is vanity. Vanity is the spur of success. Next to love the greatest humanvirtue is-sacrifice. But it takes a big man to make a big sacrifice-the bigger the sacrifice, the bigger the man. I believe you are a big man, my son.”

The little priest held out his hands and, rising, Bony took them with tears in his eyes.

“I will try to be big, Father,” he said with a tremor in his voice.

“Youare big. Also you have won your case, and a little old foolish priest in Mount Lion knows you won it.”

Bony sighed. Father Ryan smiled and gripped his hands the more tightly.

COLONEL SPENDER, Chief Commissioner of the Queensland Police, looked up at the entrance of his secretary.

“Detective-Sergeant Wills has reported from Toowoomba, sir. He states that the money and securities stolen from the bank have been recovered in the cashier’s garden, and the cashier arrested.”

“Good! It is about time that matter was finalized,” growled Colonel Spender. The secretary then made a further announcement:

“Ex-Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte has called to see you sir.”

Very deliberately Colonel Spender laid down his pen, his face becoming ominously red.

“I will see him-at once,” he snapped.

When Bony entered, the police chief was writing rapidly, and when Bony stood before his desk, he continued to write.

“You appear, sir, to be very busy this morning,” Bony murmured. “Shall I call again?”

The pen scratched horribly. Ink spattered over the document. The pen was flung down on the desk. A fist crashed after it.

“What the devil do you want?” Colonel Spender roared, lifting up his well-nourished body and with it the chair. The chair banged on the floor. Colonel Spender glared.

“I have to apologize for not reporting sooner,” Bony explained gently. “I was detained.”