“We are progressing, doctor,” Bony said with great satisfaction. “Now, bear with me a little longer, please. Our Strangler operates only during a sand-storm. At first I believed he was sane enough to choose the conditions provided by these storms in order to conceal as much as possible evidence which might reveal his identity. I am beginning to think now that this might not be so. He might not be actuated by his own safety, but impelled to seek to satisfy his lust to kill by the electrical phenomenon accompanying these fierce windstorms.
“Further. I have been seeking a man who knew, when normal, just what he did when abnormal. Now I recognize the probability that, when he is normal, he might not know what he does when insane. If this is so, then my task is made ever so much more difficult, because I could not trap him through conversation. He would not betray himself, being unaware of his guilt. Proof positive of his guilt can only be obtained by catching him in the very act of killing.”
“Then he might be—anyone?”
“He might be anyone, as you say, doctor. Still, lacking the requisite knowledge of a combined Edison, Einstein and Curie, we cannot consider this aspect of the case to be anything more than a theory, and, perhaps, a wild theory at that. To arrest Hang-dog Jack might be to commit as great a mistake as that committed by Simone when he arrested Elson. Even if I found the Wirragatta cook climbing along the Nogga Creek trees I would not be justified in ordering his arrest. There is no law against him climbing trees, even at two o’clock in the morning I am not going to order the arrest of any suspect before I am certain of his guilt. I have never yet done such a thing and I am not going to do it in this case. It is the toughest nut I have ever been asked to crack, but I’ll crack it if I have to stay here for ten years—and am sacked by my chief for not giving it up.”
Dr. Mulray pushed back his chair and clawed his way to his feet.
“Come along to the study,” he suggested. “I think, perhaps, I can give you a hammer which might enable you to crack the nut.”
Dusk was falling swiftly upon Carie as they entered the doctor’s most comfortable room and drew the heavy leather chairs to the open window. With many grunts and sighs the pendulous doctor settled himself deliberately, as deliberately put the tips of his podgy fingers together before he spoke.
“Professional secrecy is generally an excellent thing, but sometimes it is not excellent. In the interests of justice, which will have to act quickly if another life is not lost, I will acquaint you with one or two matters which may have an important bearing on your investigation. All these people here have been, are, or will be, my patients. There are two men and one woman who stopped growing mentally when they reached the age of five. One of the men should be certified. Despite what you have said this evening, I long since have reached the conclusion that the genesis of these crimes is to be found in the very roots of the place. Here is a peculiar thing. From what I learnt recently, I believe that many years ago Mrs. Nelson almost met her death by strangulation.”
“Ah!” breathed Bony, his eyes suddenly blazing. “How did you learn that?”
“I was with Mabel Storrie when she regained consciousness, and the first thing she said, with great difficulty, was, ‘Will my neck be disfigured like Mrs. Nelson’s?’ I reassured her and commanded her not to talk, but a few days later I asked her about the old witch’s neck. She then was loath to talk about it, saying she was sorry she had mentioned it, as she was under promise to Mrs. Nelson. I was interested, however, and I was firm, less because I was curious than because I could see the girl was suffering from some inhibition. It came out that at the time I got Mabel to nurse Mrs. Nelson when she had an attack of neuritis she saw on the old witch’s neck several peculiar scars.
“I have never seen those scars. Mrs. Nelson always wore a nightdress with a high collar at those times I visited her when she was in bed. According to Mabel, Mrs. Nelson would never remove the nightdress to wash herself or to change it whilst the girl was in the room. One day when Mabel returned from a visit to her aunt in the town she found Mrs. Nelson asleep and the collar of the nightdress undone. The scars were visible to her, and on awakening and discovering that her nurse knew about them Mrs. Nelson was very angry.”
“This is all very strange, doctor,” Bony interjected.
“’Tis so,” Mulray agreed. “In a young woman this shyness which dictated concealment of ugly scars could be put down to vanity. What is so interesting is Mrs. Nelson’s determination to conceal such scars from her doctor and her nurse. Here is another peculiar matter. After the old witch got better, or well enough to be attended by Tilly, she presented Mabel with a most expensive ring. I know the old woman fairly well. She’s made a fortune out of that pub, and in business she is as hard as steel. In other ways she’s very generous, but even so, to give a nurse an expensive ring in addition to five pounds a week seems to call for an explanation.”
“You are sure that the scars were caused by attempted strangulation?”
“Almost sure from the description of them I obtained from Mabel.”
“Thank you, doctor. You have given me material with which to build many theories.”
“I have more material to give you. I have been here fourteen years, as you know, and I have never attended Mrs. Nelson for wounds of that nature. Practising here before me was a Frenchman by descent named Tigue, and he left all his case-books here in this house. I’ll come back to them in a minute, for I must begin at the beginning.
“Old Tigue fell mortally ill early in nineteen twenty-two, and at Mrs. Nelson’s expense I came up from Adelaide to see him. I found Grandfer Littlejohn’s wife nursing him. After Tigue died I returned to Adelaide, and a few weeks after that I received from Mrs. Nelson an offer of a hundred and fifty a year and this furnished house rent free to practise here. Further to this was the somewhat singular addition of a case of spirits per month.
“For several reasons I decided to accept the offer.” The old man smiled when he added, “It was the spirit, perhaps. Of course, the hundred and fifty a year and the house was compensation for the lack of many practice fees. As Mrs. Nelson explained, it was an inducement to a medical man to reside and practise here when his normal work would not be remunerative enough to feed him. She thought it was up to her to hand back a fraction of what she took from the public in her hotel. I think that as she is getting old she fears the devil. I send in my bills to her as with the rest. She is an extraordinary character. I’ve known her foreclose on several properties because the mortgage interest wasn’t kept up. And yet no one in real trouble appeals to her in vain.”
Bony was staring unseeingly into the darkling night. He had met Mrs. Nelson but once, and he now was wondering if her acts of philanthropy were actuated by some ulterior motive, such as the gift of a valuable ring to Mabel Storrie to seal her lips.
“Mrs. Nelson has been very generous to the Storries, hasn’t she?” he asked.
“Decidedly. Not only did she waive Fred’s half-yearly mortgage interest, but she gave them a cheque for a hundred, and told Mrs. Storrie that if she wanted more for Mabel she was to wire for it. I saw the note she wrote to Mrs. Storrie. Lastly, she almost ordered me— ordered me, mind you—to accompany the girl to Broken Hill and see that a nurse was engaged to take her on to Adelaide.”
“Ah! Very interesting, doctor, very. There is something else, though, isn’t there?” Bony suggested.
“Yes. When I heard about the scars on the old witch’s neck, and knew I had not treated her for the wounds from which they resulted, I thought of Doctor Tigue’s case-books. They were all in a wood chest in this room when I first came here. I went through the lot.
“Each book is devoted to the cases in one year and the range of years is from 1909 to 1922—one book for every year Tigue practised in Carie. He was a methodical fellow, and at the end of every book the cases in it are indexed. In nearly all of them there is a reference to Mrs. Nelson’s ailments, but a leaf from each of the books devoted to the years 1910 and 1914 are miss
ing. They have been torn out. In all the range of books these are the only two leaves missing, and according to the indexes both leaves referred to Mrs. Nelson...”
“Go on, doctor!” Bony cried softly.
“The missing leaf in the 1910 book was numbered pages eleven and twelve, and according to the index page twelve was devoted to Mrs. Nelson, and page eleven to Mrs. Borradale. In the other book, the year 1914, the page numbers of the missing leaf are one hundred and thirty-seven and one hundred and thirty-eight. Here again the index shows that page one hundred and thirty-seven concerned Mrs. Nelson, and page one hundred and thirty-eight dealt with a certain Henry Wagstaff, since deceased. Now for what did old Tigue attend the old witch on or about 5th January, 1910, and again about 15th June, 1914?”
“Hum! I suppose that the case following the missing leaves does not concern Mrs. Nelson? Doctor Tigue could not have made a mistake, or dropped a blot of ink and merely torn out the offending page and directly continued on the next?”
“I don’t think so. If he had done, why did he index the material on them?” countered the old man. “They were torn out for a purpose, and the person who removed them didn’t think of the indexes or thought that the indexes were of no importance.”
Through the tobacco-smoke Bony stared hard at his host, and observing the stare the doctor realized how dark it was becoming and heaved himself upward to light the lamp. Bony lowered the window and fastened it and drew down the blind.
“Let us have a drop of my allowance of spirits,” Dr. Mulray suggested. “Bring the chairs over to the table, my dear fellow. This detective business is just as interesting as chess. Would you care to look at those damaged case-books now?”
“Later, perhaps, thank you. Do you know Mrs. Nelson’s history?”
“Yes—from the year Tigue came here to practise, in 1906. At that time Mrs. Nelson was living with her husband in one of the poorer houses in Carie. Her husband was Cobb and Co.’s groom. In February, 1910, she, and not her husband, bought the hotel.”
“One of the pages in the case-book for that year is missing, is it not so?”
“It is.”
“As the wife of a horse change-groom, where did Mrs. Nelson get the money with which to purchase the hotel. Do you know?”
“She has said, and I have heard it from several people, that she inherited the money from an aunt.”
“Well, what other important dates are there?”
“In 1914 Nelson died, and from that year Mrs. Nelson prospered. I understand that he was an alcoholic.”
“Ah! And the year 1914 is also remarkable for the missing leaf in the case-book devoted to it.”
“Yes, but he died towards the end of the year, and the missing leaf deals with notes made in June. The notes concerning the death are still in the book.”
“There is no reference in all the case-books to the wounds which caused the scars on Mrs. Nelson’s neck?”
“Nothing.”
“The wounding might have been done before Doctor Tigue came to Carie?”
“But it wasn’t,” Dr. Mulray almost shouted. “Across in old Grandfer’s son’s house is a photograph of Mrs. Nelson and her husband and a small crowd taken outside the hotel at the time she purchased it. In the picture Mrs. Nelson is wearing a low-cut blouse.”
“Dear me!” Bony sighed, to add sharply, “What more do you know, doctor?”
“Nothing. And yet I have often scented a mystery enveloping the acquisition of the hotel by Mrs. Nelson. Old Dogger Smith once told me that Mrs. Nelson never had an aunt to die and leave her any money. There are two men who could tell us quite a lot about those early days—if they chose. One is Dogger Smith and the other is Grandfer Littlejohn. For heaven’s sake don’t ask Littlejohn anything. He would be sure to tell Mrs. Nelson.”
“There may be no connection between the scars on Mrs. Nelson’s neck and the Strangler,” Bony said slowly. “I must mentally chew all you have told me. Did Mrs. Nelson have any children?”
“Yes—one. A male child. It died a day or so after it was born.”
“What was the date of the birth?”
“The fourth of January, 1910.”
“Oh! And the leaf torn from Tigue’s case-book for that year bore reference to Mrs. Nelson! I must see those casebooks ... now ... with your kind permission.”
Dr. Mulray was absent from the room only two minutes.
“I am a great believer in intuition,” Bony told him on his return. “This matter of Mrs. Nelson’s neck scars may be the essential clue in this extraordinary case I am looking into. I have been baulked and baffled for a lead, and this may well be it. Now for those dates as I write them down, thus:
1ST March 1906—Tigue begins practising in Carie. Mrs. Nelson and husband living in poor house. Nelson is Cobb and Co.’s change-groom.
4TH January 1910—Mrs. Nelson gives birth to a male child. Child dies a day or so after birth.
February 1910—Mrs. Nelson purchases Carie Hotel, as it was then named, with money from a legacy.
Leaf in case-book for this year, probably dealing with the birth of Mrs. Nelson’s baby, is missing.
20th June 1914—Near this date another leaf is missing in the year’s case-book. One page of this leaf also devoted to Mrs. Nelson.
27th November 1914—Nelson dies of alcoholic poisoning.”
“What do you make of it all?” inquired the interested Dr. Mulray.
“Nothing of much import just now, doctor,” Bony replied in that clipped voice which betrayed mental excitement. “The missing leaves in these case-books provide us with a mystery, the solution of which may solve the identity of the Strangler. It is a thought, however, which might well be father to the wish. We can, with assurance, guess what concerns Mrs. Nelson on the page torn from the book devoted to the year 1910, the birth of her child and its death. By the way, from your examination of the books, do you think Tigue would note its death on the missing page?”
“Yes. That is why I assumed its death. It is not noted elsewhere. Further, I had heard that Mrs. Nelson’s only child died in infancy.”
“Oh, indeed! Then as yet we have not proof of its death. I wonder, now, for what Dr. Tigue attended Mrs. Nelson about 20th June, 1914? Did he attend her for wounds on the neck caused by attempted strangulation?”
Bony stood up, and Dr. Mulray always remembered him as he looked at this moment—slim and yet indicative of power, his eyes lit with the flame of mental vigour. “Doctor, I thank you,” he said gravely.
Chapter Eighteen
The Warning
THE NEW BOOK-KEEPER for Wirragatta arrived on the morning of 1st December. The next day he took over the office from Donald Dreyton, and the day following Dreyton departed, with his camels, on another inspection of his one hundred and eighty-three mile section of boundary-fence.
As usual, this morning of 3rd December, Bony, as Joe Fisher, accompanied the men to the office at half-past seven, where they received orders for the day. As usual, promptly on time, Martin Borradale emerged through the wicket gate in the homestead garden fence and walked briskly towards the knot of waiting men.
He had a nice way with his employees, which went far in retaining their loyalty. He would always halt several yards from the gathered men and, after giving a general good morning, would call each to him in turn and give his orders in quiet, confidential tones.
This morning he called first Harry West, and what he had to say occupied a full five minutes. Having received his orders, Harry came away with a stony face and paused beside Bony to whisper that he was to take the ton-truck with wire and fencing-tools out to a place called Westall Corner and there assist Dogger Smith, who had accepted a few week’s work fence repairing.
If there was a man Bony was anxious to meet it was this Dogger Smith, and when, on having called him, Martin Borradale asked with a smile what work he would like to be given this day, Bony requested to be sent with Harry West.
“All right, Bony. Are you looking for a sp
ell of real work?”
“Physical work always bores me, Mr. Borradale, but it invariably improves my digestive organs.”
“How is your investigation going?”
“Slowly but surely.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Borradale said warmly. “My sister, having guessed who you are, has been talking to me quite a lot about you. You know old Stanton and the Trenches at Windee! Jolly fine people, aren’t they?”
“They are among the finest I have met,” Bony agreed with equal warmth. “I hope you do not take it amiss that I have not confided in you about my investigation, but I always work along certain lines. However, it is due to you to know that I wish to examine this man called Dogger Smith. Can I have your permission to use the truck should I desire to return here before the fence repairing is completed?”
“Certainly—but I would like you to leave the camp with sufficient water to last for three or four days. Would you inform me on one point which has bothered me for some time? I cannot think what motive the Strangler has in killing people. Do you think he is a lunatic?”
Bony looked deep into the candid grey eyes and then examined in a split second the boyish, kindly face. Slowly he shook his head.
“I don’t really know what to think, Mr. Borradale. Were he a lunatic he would not select the time and the place when opportunity presented him with a victim. Were he a lunatic he could not hide his lunacy from his associates for long. I may be wrong, of course, but that is what I think. The Strangler is a man who is controlled in exaggerated form by the lust to kill. This same lust, in much lesser degree, finds expression in the normal man who shoots pigeons released from traps, and who kills animals and birds when not bound to do so for food. I should say that the Strangler is a man who has never mentally matured.”
“You think, then, that Simone arrested the wrong man?”
Winds of Evil Page 16
