Winds of Evil

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Horrible!” murmured Bony. “Were you with him when he died?”

  “No. Old man Borradale was short of a horse-boy and I was on that job for more’n five years. You see, I was getting past real work even in those days, and the job was easy. The missus, rest her soul, and me had this very house behind us, so when me and the boss wasn’t out on the run I could get home at nights.”

  Memory silenced Grandfer Littlejohn for several moments, and Bony wisely waited. Then:

  “We’re gonna have another wind-storm be the look of that sky tonight,” predicted the old man. “It bin a rare year for wind-storms, this has. Not as bad as seventy-one though.”

  Bony recalled the conversation he had had with Dr. Mulray, when he had complained about the shortness of life, and now he glimpsed the comfort old age drew from the store of memory. Grandfer’s body was old, but his mind was young. How strange it is that while the mind remains healthy it seldom grows old and feeble like the body. Bony saw himself fifty years hence. God willing, what a store of memories he would possess then!

  Softly he said, “I wonder! I wonder if John Nelson would have pulled up if his wife had had children.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Grandfer as though this was a question he had often debated. “You know, she did have one baby. It was early in 1910. I remember quite well when it was born, because it was in the middle of the worst sand-storm I ever seen. Fortunately for Ma Nelson, poor John went on the booze something terrible two days before the little un come along and the policeman locked him up for Ma’s good. Old man Borradale—he was the sitting Justice, as his son is today—he gets the policeman to charge John with assault and battery and resisting arrest, and obscene language, so’s he can give fourteen days without the option. As it happened, John was just plain drunk—so drunk that he couldn’t resist and assault no one, and he couldn’t swear, because he couldn’t speak. Every one knew it and every one was glad he got the fourteen days.

  “That give Ma Nelson a bit of peace and quiet. My wife, rest her soul, tended her, and when the baby was born the father was stone sober and quite safely out of the way. When he was told about the baby, he swore off the drink and implored the policeman to let him out so’s he could see his son and heir. But the policeman, he says, ‘No, Nelson. You stays where you are till your fourteen days is up. When we lets you out your wife will be strong enough to take care of herself and the baby.’

  “Then the baby died, and when John got out, instead of going home to Ma, he walked direct to the pub and started drinking again. That finished Ma with him. She was never the same to him again, and I don’t blame her. Watkins had no business to serve him, and ever since she took over the pub, Ma watches the married men, and if she thinks they’re boozing too much she puts ’em on the Blackfeller’s Act, and James keeps ’em out. If that baby had lived, poor John might have gone straight, but I doubt it. He was too far gone.”

  “Hum! Very sad, Mr. Littlejohn,” murmured Bony. “Your wife, I suppose, assisted to prepare the little body for burial?”

  “She did, young feller, she did,” Grandfer replied shortly—so shortly that Bony did not expect him to continue. However, after a space of five seconds, he went on: “Old man Borradale was very good to Ma Nelson. He provided the coffin and things, and the baby was buried up at the cemetery, old man Borradale reading the service, and crying over it, too. Yes, my wife, rest her soul, was Ma Nelson’s greatest friend, and when Ma came into that bit of money she wasn’t forgotten.”

  “That was kind of Mrs. Nelson.”

  “Too right!” Grandfer instantly agreed. “She gave my missus, rest her soul, a clear thousand pounds, although no one never knew anything about it afterwards. I—I_____”

  The ancient ceased speaking, and Bony could see him peering down at him.

  “I shouldn’t have told you that,” Grandfer said anxiously. “I promised Ma I never would. I never even told my son and his wife about it, nor anyone else. It sorta slipped out, you see. Don’t you say a word about it to anyone, there’s a good lad.”

  “We will both forget this talk, Mr. Littlejohn,” Bony suggested quickly. “If you say nothing of our conversation this evening, I’ll say nothing about that money. What do you say to a pint of good beer?”

  The ancient leapt to his feet.

  “That beer what arrived the day afore yestiddy oughta be well settled be now,” he said brightly, no longer living in the past. “Still, I can’t shout back, Joe. Me daughter-in-law don’t let my son slip me more’n two bob a week terbacco money.”

  “Then I will shout twice,” suggested the very pleased detective.

  But Bony walked pensively to the hotel, with Grandfer Littlejohn hopping along beside him like a sprightly sparrow.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Two Appeals

  IF THE EVENING when Bony talked with Grandfer Littlejohn hinted at yet another wind-storm, the next morning most plainly predicted it. There was an entire absence of wind and not a leaf stirred among all the great river red-gums. A tenuous high-level haze produced in the sunlight a distinctly yellow tint, while the flies were far more sticky than usual, and the seeming lack of oxygen had a depressing effect on both men and animals.

  When Bony entered the office a few minutes before noon, he found Martin at work at his writing-table.

  “Hullo, Bony!” the squatter said wearily. “Sit down, will you. My book-keeper left yesterday, as probably you know, and I’m up to my eyes in office work.”

  “Isn’t Dreyton due in?”

  “Today or tomorrow,” was the reply, spoken irritably. “I do wish he would stop here for good. Dependable man, Dreyton. When he’s here, everything goes with a swing. Have you seen that couple who are camped at Catfish Hole?”

  “No, but I have heard they are there.”

  “Then you probably know that the man is about forty, and his wife slim and light-weight and only half his age. Lee tells me he has warned the fellow of what has happened along Nogga Creek, and what might happen to the woman if they persist in staying there. Then the man produced a miner’s right this morning and pointed out the corner pegs of a claim he intends working just below the water.”

  “And that waterhole being on Crown land, no one can argue with the miner and his miner’s right,” Bony said calmly while rolling the inevitable cigarette.

  “I am not so sure,” Borradale countered with a show of temper. “I’m not so sure that they can’t be moved away. I am the sitting Justice. Here are Lee and yourself, representatives of the law. We ought to be able to devise some action to remove them from what I think is still a grave danger.”

  “Yes, it could be done, of course,” conceded Bony. “I could complain to Constable Lee of being assaulted by the man. Lee could arrest him, and you could remand him for the Divisional Magistrate to deal with. We three would have to stick together in the frame-up. If it came out_____”

  “What the devil are you driving at?”

  “I am outlining one way we could adopt to move that couple from Nogga Creek,” Bony calmly answered. “There are, of course, other methods. You and I could kill a sheep this side of the boundary-fence and then swear we saw the miner killing it.”

  “This has gone far enough,” Martin almost shouted, his eyes blazing with indignation. “If you think I am a liar and a perjurer you are_____”

  “I fervently hope not, Mr. Borradale,” interrupted the now smiling Bony. “I was merely suggesting ways and means—not that you would even consider them. I would, of course, never lend myself to anything so gross. The fact is that the man has legal right to be where he is, and we have no legal right to move him from where he is. He has been made conversant with the ugly history of Nogga Creek, and, if tragedy comes to his wife or himself, you and Lee and I can be held blameless.”

  “But all that does not remove the very grave danger, to the woman especially. I am more or less responsible for this district, and every day since Simone arrested Barry Elson I am becoming more convinced that
he has arrested the wrong man.” Martin vigorously banged a clenched fist down upon the table. “Is it not your duty to prevent a crime if possible?”

  “It is, I believe, the duty of an ordinary policeman,” Bony gravely admitted. Then, although his face remained serious, his eyes began to twinkle. “I like crimes to be committed. A cleverly executed crime is ever a delight to a man having my brains to solve it.”

  “Ye gods!” Martin cried despairingly.

  “What on earth would I do for a living; how would I maintain my wife and children and keep the eldest at the university if people did not commit crimes? Oh, no ... I certainly would never attempt to prevent a crime, especially a first-class murder.”

  Borradale sighed with exasperation.

  “Then it is a pity that Sergeant Simone arrested Elson and took him away to Broken Hill. He would have moved on those people.”

  “Sergeant Simone is a man capable of doing anything, Mr. Borradale. On the other hand, he is very tiresome when his somewhat original personality begins to wear on one. Honestly, though, that miner cannot be moved against his will. I will see him this afternoon and try to persuade him to go somewhere else. I can at least paint a word picture which will keep the woman inside the tent after sundown.”

  Martin swiftly became his normal self.

  “If you would do that, it would be something,” he said. “We can’t do more than our best to move them away. By the look of the sky today we are in for another wind-storm. It will be a snorter, too, so late in the year as this. You understand the incidence of those crimes taking place during a wind-storm?”

  “Yes. The fellow is clever enough to choose his time when his tracks are certain to be wiped out very shortly after he commits a murder. He has his wits to that extent.”

  Martin fell to staring hard at the detective.

  “Would it be too much to ask if you have any inkling of his identity?” he asked.

  “By no means, Mr. Borradale. I have in mind at least three men, one of whom could be the Strangler. It has been a very difficult case and yet one profoundly interesting. Solving a crime mystery depends largely on the element of luck. I have read of no prolonged investigation which did not contain the element of luck to make it successful. It has become the fashion to sneer at coincidences, as though coincidence was never found mixing the destinies of men and women. This case has been exceptionally barren of coincidence, but my investigation has been attended with luck. However, the detective’s greatest asset is patience, and patience is my greatest gift. When investigating a crime I permit nothing to disturb me, not even this private letter from my revered chief, Colonel Spendor. Listen.”

  Bony had produced a plain envelope, and from it he took a sheet of notepaper. He read:

  You cannot expect to succeed every time. Should you think Mr. Borradale’s case will occupy you for very long, return at once. You are urgently required at Roma. Perhaps at a later date you could take up Mr. Borradale’s case again. Convey my warmest regards to him and to his sister. This is no time for you to go on a walkabout. Report at once.

  “Here we have, Mr. Borradale, a very mild effusion pounded out on a typewriter by Colonel Spendor at his private home. It illustrates the dear old man’s inherent impatience. If I took the slightest notice of it, I would get nowhere. Still, I promised him in my letter, which left on the mail last night, that I would finalize this case within seven days. I think I can assure you that I shall keep to my timetable. I believe that this coming wind-storm will give me the Strangler.”

  “You do? I am glad to hear it. The beast has cast a shadow over us ever since Alice Tindall fell a victim to him. You must have a lot of sway over Colonel Spendor. My dad used to tell me he was the greatest martinet in Australia.”

  Bony chuckled, and now his blue eyes were beaming.

  “Long ago,” he said, “I discovered the secret of managing Colonel Spendor. By the way, I have come up against another mystery. Do you know anything about Mrs. Nelson?”

  “Quite a lot. What’s the mystery?”

  “Do you know how she came to possess at least five thousand pounds early in 1910?”

  “From an aunt, I think.”

  “But Mrs. Nelson had only one aunt, and she died years before 1910, I am told. Your father took a great interest in the district, did he not?”

  “He did.”

  “And he helped several people over very bad stiles, I understand?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “I learnt that both he and your mother had deep sympathy for Mrs. Nelson in her affliction—John Nelson. I have been wondering if your father assisted her financially to take over the hotel.”

  “I am sure he did not, Bony. My father was a very methodical man and he kept accurate records of all his transactions. After his death those records provided me with much interest. You know, he was thought to be a hard man, but the records prove his secret generosity.”

  “Thank you. Knowing the first Mr. Westall, who was living in that year, 1910, do you think he might have advanced her the money?”

  “It is quite possible,” agreed the squatter. “Those were the times and those the men when generosity in the bush was a by-word. It was my father who set up the first Storrie on that selection, which was taken away from Wirragatta.”

  “Thank you. It is rather puzzling and, therefore, interesting.” Bony rose to go. “Throughout my career I have always had to fight down the temptation to expend time and thought on a mystery having no connection with my investigation. I am like a young dog who is always dashing off one scent to follow another. Ah! There is Hang-dog Jack smiting his triangle for lunch. What a case he would present to an anthropologist! Au revoir, Mr. Borradale. I will certainly visit that couple camped at Catfish Hole.”

  “Thanks. I hope you are successful. It would be a heavy burden off my mind if they were moved away.”

  Bony having departed, Martin worked on till the homestead gong called him to lunch.

  He was again at work at five o’clock, when Dreyton entered the office, and at sight of the tall and lean fence-rider he cried, “Hullo, Donald! I’m mighty glad to see you. Sit down.”

  Dreyton’s sun-puckered eyes glanced at the empty bookkeeper’s table and then at the book on which Borradale was employed.

  “That chinless ass left for Broken Hill last night,” Martin said.

  “What was his hurry?” asked Dreyton.

  “Fright.”

  “Fright!” echoed the fence-rider, his body jerked abruptly tense and his eyes as abruptly wide open. “What gave him the fright, Mr. Borradale?”

  “A kookaburra’s laughter and a branch breaking from its parent trunk to crash to the ground.”

  “But surely_____”

  “The evening before last my sister and Payne were playing tennis until quite late,” Martin explained. “Stella says that from one of the river trees there reached them a long chuckle of devilish laughter which made her shiver and caused Payne nearly to drop. Then a heavy branch snapped and crashed to the ground, and a few seconds later the same laughter reached them from somewhere down the river.”

  “Strange!” Dreyton murmured, his face muscles strained so that his mouth was nothing but a line.

  “There is nothing strange about it,” objected Borradale. “At any time during these quiet summer days a gum branch is liable to snap off. They are the most dangerous trees in the country. Then, too, the kookaburras always laugh and chuckle a little after sunset. I got Joe Fisher to have a look at the ground along the river and search thoroughly about the fallen branch. He assures me that what Stella and Payne heard was a bird and that the branch snapped off because the sap, which the heat had driven down to the roots, had been prevented from as quickly returning to the branch by a growth.”

  “Miss Borradale_____ does she now believe what Fisher says?”

  “I am afraid not,” Martin replied. Then he was on his feet, his eyes blazing with passion. “Why the devil don’t you stay here with me
? Can’t you see that I am almost worried to death by this Strangler business and the responsibility of running Wirragatta? On top of it all there is a miner and his wife camped at Catfish Hole, who won’t go away and who can’t be made to go because they have a miner’s right. I wouldn’t care a tinker’s curse if my sister didn’t own a half-interest in this place. I keep awake nearly all night debating if I will do this or that, and gripped by fear that whatever I do I will make a mistake. With you here in the office my mind is relieved by half the responsibility. You’ll have to stay this time, Donald. You can ask what salary you like.”

  He stood, young and good-looking and passionately earnest, glaring down at the seated fence-rider, who knew quite well just the measure of anxiety such a property as Wirragatta would lay on the mind of its owner.

  “What I want is a long holiday. I should go to Europe for a trip,” Martin went on, the gust of anger having subsided. “I have never had a holiday since I came home after my father’s death. If I owned the place, I wouldn’t worry about making a bloomer now and then. In fact, I’d sell it and go to Sydney to live. But Stella won’t sell with me. Says we would be betraying our father by doing such a thing. Say you’ll come back to the office, Donald.”

  The pleading in the young man’s grey eyes touched Dreyton as no argument had ever done or would ever do. Martin hurried on:

  “Here is this problem of two thousand hoggets I have to decide before tomorrow. I’m offered twenty-four and three-pence a head. The market is inclined to rise and I am not short of feed. But a good rain down in the Riverina will cause the market to fall. What shall I do—sell ’em or hold ’em?”