Winds of Evil

by Arthur W. Upfield

  The wind was hot, and yet Bony felt icy cold. Reason and inherited superstitions warred within him with nerve-racking ferocity. After all is said about reason, it flourishes best in the sunlight and drawing-rooms. A dark night with a prowling, foul murderer at hand is apt to wither this flower.

  Thus was the reasoning Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte assailed by fear and doubt. Neither reason nor instinct assisted him to maintain the will-power.

  A noise not of the wind banished even fear from his mind, subconsciously tensed his muscles for instant flight. Someone was on the road, humming a tune, and Bony tightened his ears and taxed his straining eyes. He saw, passing by on the road, distant but four yards, the figure of a woman dressed in white, and he knew “her” to be Barry Elson.

  The fellow had grit, to be sure. A wave of shame and self-reproach swept through the soul of the half-caste. For a young and not too robust man to walk alone under the creek trees and in this darkness, hoping and yet dreading to hear at any moment a quick, pantherish step behind him, and then to feel iron-strong hands gripped about one’s throat, demanded courage of the highest degree. To do it night after night and never to know when the attack would come! To have no tree-trunk, no strainer-post comforting one’s back! To be able to control oneself like that for love’s sake and the honour of one’s name!

  Bony was strongly tempted to call out, to get up and assure the young man that he was guarded by a watcher at this end of his awful beat. Barry Elson was playing the major part in a dreadful drama, while he, the investigator, crouched like a rabbit at its burrow’s mouth. But when the white figure passed again back to the camp, Bony kept silent and still.

  After that, the minutes passed slowly, dragging out their allotted span. Above the dull glow of the tree-masked camp-fire was now growing an unearthly refulgence. Against this gradually came into being the ghostly outlines of the branches of the near trees, and Bony knew that the moon was about to rise.

  The wind continued its blaring of fantastic music, now satanic, mocking, shrewish, then strident, roaring, triumphant. Of the little familiar bush sounds there were none. They long ago had fled, affrighted by this monstrous concert played on leaf, bough and fence wire.

  When the dirty-red disk of the moon was high above the invisible horizon, the white figure again appeared. Only the mind of a madman would find no incongruity in a woman walking in such a place and at such an hour, but it was a madman Bony sought. Elson went on down to the creek-bed, and then turned and came back to “float” away towards the camp.

  After the passing of another hour the moon’s enormous disk, lustreless brown in colour, strove bravely to rise above the dead-black sand waves endlessly leaping upward to snatch it down into their inky depths. These waves appeared like lava and as solid, before they passed beneath the moon, when they became redly diaphanous and made the moon’s light more terrible than the featureless darkness had been.

  Another sound not of the wind appeared to originate above Bony’s head. Fear, like icy water, poured through his veins. Slowly he turned his head to look up and behind. He quite expected to see an awful face looking down upon him, but there on the top of the post perched a night bird, its white owl-like face and big fathomless eyes presented to the moon.

  For some few minutes it remained there before taking to wing with an abruptness Bony was sure was not due to his presence. Another minute passed, and then the fence wires unmistakably tightened. Something was telegraphing its presence along them—something was climbing through or over them.

  Bony’s eyes were never still. All physical and mental powers had become concentrated on the effort to probe the gloom. Across his skyline ran a shapeless form, so grotesque, so indistinct, that to name it was impossible. One moment did Bony see it: the next moment it had vanished. Whatever it was it had either climbed through or over the fence. Its action had appeared too quick for it to be a man, but it had not the graceful movement of a wild dog or a kangaroo. Tensed, wondering, every nerve screaming protest, Bony waited.

  The wind came in a mighty gust, a roaring, hissing, triumphant clamour, and in it or under it there reached Bony a long-drawn-out gurgling scream of human terror. It came from somewhere up along the creek-bank, and, figuratively, it kicked Bony to his feet, automatic pistol in hand. Muffled by the wind as it was, there was no mistaking the direction from which the cry had come. Then, likewise muffled by the wind, a revolver of large calibre cracked like a child’s toy pop-gun.

  Bony began a wild semi-blind race. He was roared at by the trees, jeered at by the wind, blinded by the dust, hobbled by the unevenness of the ground. He raced up the incline to the creek’s bank, and then towards the camp obsessed by the necessity of reaching Barry Elson.

  Ahead of him the revolver spoke thrice in rapid succession. He shouted to stop the firing, for in this ghostly darkness, friend might well receive the bullet intended for the enemy. A man cried out exultantly. To Bony’s left, another shouted. He could now see the pin-prick of fire marking the camp-site. Still ahead, but closer, he heard Elson’s hysterical crying, and a moment later he saw him, a white-clad figure, lying on the ground.

  “Barry! Barry! Are you hurt?”

  “No, not much! Down in the creek! Smithson’s got him! Go on! Never mind me!”

  Recklessly Bony leapt down to the invisible bed of the creek. He was directed by the sounds of a severe scuffle. He heard the sergeant shout:

  “Take that!”

  “Ease up, blast you!” shouted a second man, his voice muffled by another terrific gust of wind.

  Bony could see them now—two men struggling. Now one fell, and the other stooped menacingly over him. As the detective was about to charge, not knowing who the stooping man was, he heard the sharp click of handcuffs.

  “You have him?” pantingly asked Bony.

  “Too right!” replied the triumphant sergeant. “I only happened to see him getting away from Elson. He fired once at me, and I fired three times at him, but don’t think I hit him. He’s tough all right. I had to bash him with my gun-butt. Let’s have a look at his face.”

  Lee came rushing to them like one of the wind gusts. They bent over the still form on the creek’s gravel bed. and Smithson managed to strike a match and keep the tiny flame alight for a half-second.

  It was Hang-dog Jack!

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The Brand

  “I’VE TACKLED few strong men in my time,” growled Sergeant Smithson, “but never a man so strong as this one. He’s an expert grappler, and he very nearly got a strangle hold on me. What beats me is that a gun will never jam when used in practice, but nearly always does when in action. How is young Elson?”

  “Not severely damaged, I believe,” replied Bony. “You take this man up to the camp, and I will go across to Elson. By the way, sergeant, where was Hang-dog Jack when you first saw him?”

  Smithson paused, with his hands under the cook’s arms.

  “When Elson shouted, I headed for him at once. I saw him fall, and I saw this man jump off the creek-bank. From the creek he fired twice, and I shouted to him to stop or I would shoot. When I reached the creek-bed he was running away down the creek, and I again ordered him to stop before I fired at him. That stopped him, and he came at me like a bull.”

  “Well, the trap succeeded,” Bony said slowly. “I am a little disappointed, because, after all, Lee guessed right. It has been a baffling case all through. Yesterday I was sure who our man would be. Today I was sure it would certainly not be Hangdog Jack. My congratulations, Lee.”

  Bony left the policeman to carry the inert form of the Wirragatta cook to the camp, whilst he scrambled up the creek-bank to reach Barry Elson. The young man was seated on the ground.

  “Are you badly hurt, Barry?” he said.

  “Not much, Mr. Bonaparte. He got his hands round my collar all right, and I ... I couldn’t help screaming. I couldn’t, I tell you. Then he lifted me right off the ground and threw me down hard. My arm hurts, that’s all.
Did you get him?”

  “We have him well entangled in handcuffs, Barry,” Bony said soothingly. “Now we must be careful of the acid preparation on the collar. Come, let me help you back to the camp.”

  Elson laughed hysterically.

  “Who is he, Mr. Bonaparte?”

  “Hang-dog Jack.”

  “I thought so. All my muscles are trembling and I can’t stop them. Hang-dog Jack is it? I tell you I couldn’t help yelling when he gripped me round the neck.”

  “It’s all right, my dear Barry,” Bony said. “It’s all right now. Come, take my arm and we will get back to the camp and boil the billy. The job has been done magnificently and you did just the right thing by shouting when you did. Here is Constable Lee. Take his other arm, Lee. Barry is not much hurt, but he’s a bit shaken.”

  Thus supporting the nerve-racked Elson, they reached the camp, where they made him sit on a case within the light of the replenished fire.

  “I’ve got a bottle-of rum in my swag and this is a good time to open it,” Smithson announced. “You get it, Lee, while I remove Elson’s collar. It’s a good fit, but a trifle weighty, isn’t it, Barry, old man?”

  With care, the sergeant unlocked the iron band, when its two hinged sections opened wide to permit removal. The collar was deposited in the fire, and, with his knife, the sergeant cut away the protecting high collar of the blouse. Elson was shaking as though with fever.

  “Here, Barry! Have a stiffener,” Lee said kindly, proffering a tin pannikin.

  “Thanks. I feel bad, but better than I did. Gad, that was terrible. I’m a bit of a coward, after all.”

  “Coward be hanged!” Smithson growled. “It took the grit of a regiment of soldiers to do what you done. You come and lie down on your bunk. We’ll make a drink of tea, and we will take an aspirin or two with it.”

  Bony sat on the vacated seat and rolled a cigarette whilst the sergeant took Elson to the tent and Lee made the tea.

  “’Bout time Hang-dog Jack came round,” suggested the constable.

  “Yes, Lee. We must look him over. It has been a good job well done, but I still feel the disappointment. I thought up till now that I was a good judge of men. Hang-dog Jack was too obvious to be true.”

  “The obvious is right more times than not, according to my reading of the newspapers.”

  “I agree, Lee, I agree. Sometimes I am blind to essential facts because of their obviousness. When all is summed up there was no other man in the district who fitted the meagre facts so well as Hang-dog Jack—after one other man. Let us examine him.”

  There was a bluish mark on the cook’s right temple, which of itself did not account for the man’s prolonged unconsciousness, but when he was turned over there was revealed an evil-looking wound at the back of his head.

  “Can you account for this?” Bony asked the sergeant, who joined them.

  “Well, sir, after I hit him with my gun-butt as he faced me, he fell on his back. Likely enough the back of his head struck one of those large, loose stones, lying half-buried in the creek-bed. That wound don’t look nice. He’ll want a doctor.”

  Bony stood up. He was dirty and weary.

  “It cannot be far off daybreak,” he said. “When you have had a drink of tea, Lee, you must return to the town, get a truck, and bring Doctor Mulray out. We cannot do anything for this man, and to move him before the doctor has seen him might well be dangerous.”

  Invigorated by the spirit-laced tea, Lee set off for Carie when the swirling sand swept across the dawn sky. Presently Elson joined Bony and the sergeant at the fire to announce that he was feeling almost recovered from his ordeal. He had discarded his women’s clothes and washed from his face the rouge and the powder.

  “It is not a nice morning, Barry, but it will surely prove to be a brighter day for you,” Bony greeted him. “I am positively sure that you were not so nervous last night as I was when sitting back against the boundary-fence and watching you pass and repass.”

  “I wish I had known just where you were, Mr. Bonaparte,” Barry said with an effort to smile. “I suppose I could catch the mail-car for Broken Hill and Adelaide tonight?”

  “Of course, but Sergeant Smithson will be returning this evening or tomorrow morning. Why not travel with him?”

  “Yes, I’ll be going back, Barry,” agreed the sergeant. “Unless I’ve to wait a little before taking down the prisoner.”

  “Ah, yes, sergeant. Doctor Mulray may want to keep him here for a day or so. Yes, Barry, you can go whenever you wish. And the very best of luck.”

  When Bony set off for the homestead Dr. Mulray had not arrived. The sky was white—a pasty, unwholesome white. The air in the comparative shelter of the trees was white-tinged—a ghastly colour. Long, low streamers of sand were sliding across the plain, and Carie could not be seen. Second by second the wind was gaining strength, and immediately the sun rose it raised ever higher the rolling sand-waves. When Bony arrived at the homestead the sky was no more.

  Despite his slight disappointment that the Strangler had turned out to be the Wirragatta cook, Bony felt profound relief that the case was finalized. In this affair he had not experienced the pleasure of sorting out clues to establish the essential clues. He had built a structure from half-clues and theories which had proved to be like a house built on quicksand. He had wasted effort and time, and the carefully baited trap had shown him that he had backed the wrong horse.

  Yet, although he had received a blow to his vanity, relief far outweighed chagrin. The case was finished. He had unmasked the criminal and provided proof of guilt. Now he could bid adieu to the several people he had met and to the two whom he had come to admire. He would turn a little out of his way to visit the people of Windee and stay a night with Father Ryan, who lived in the small town close by. Yes, after he had talked with Donald Dreyton and permitted him to read the report on his career before coming to Australia, he could say his farewells to Miss Stella Borradale and her brother.

  Then, of course, there was the little matter of the gun-trap so carefully set by the squatter, who had so keenly desired to score over him, Detective-Inspector Bonaparte. Bony was chuckling over that as he neared the men’s quarters, and Dreyton, who was standing outside the closed door, wondered why he was smiling.

  “Another night of chess, eh?” the book-keeper shouted above the howling wind. “Mr. Borradale has been asking for you. He wishes you to go to him immediately you return.”

  Bony’s brows rose a fraction.

  “Mr. Borradale is about early this morning.”

  “He came to my room an hour ago,” Dreyton said. “I am to show you right to his bedroom window if you come before the house staff are up.”

  As Bony accompanied the tall Englishman to the wicket gate, he was still smiling. So the trap-setter had been out early to his trap and had found the cartridges removed from the gun!

  Dreyton led the way to the south veranda and indicated one of the pairs of french windows.

  “I’ll leave you,” he said. “Better knock.”

  At the station-hand’s knock one of the windows was opened by Martin Borradale, who was smoking a cigarette and was dressed in dressing-gown and slippers.

  “Come in, Bony. Close and fasten the window after you. We’re in for another filthy day, by the look of it. Have you been playing chess with the doctor?”

  “No,” replied the detective. “I have been playing chess with the Strangler.”

  “Ah! Who won?”

  “I did.”

  Bony turned to the room. Martin stood behind a table set end-on to the foot of the bed. On the table was an oil lamp, its light accessory to the murky daylight coming through the windows.

  “Cigarette?” asked Borradale.

  “Thank you, but I prefer to make my own.”

  “Very well. Sit down in that chair and tell me all about your night’s work. First, though, tell me the name of the fellow you caught.”

  “Hang-dog Jack,” replied Bony, w
ho, having removed tobacco, papers and matches, sank into the indicated chair. Martin seated himself at the table’s far side. Briefly, Bony related the night’s adventures.

  “You do not seem to be very pleased with the results,” Martin said, regarding the detective curiously.

  Having lit the cigarette, Bony looked up.

  “No, I am not too well pleased,” he confessed. “I never really considered Hang-dog Jack as the guilty man. He did not—in fact, even now he does not—square with the steps of my investigation.”

  “That iron collar and the acid paste smeared on it was an excellent idea. Yours, I suppose?”

  “Yes. You see, having myself been almost strangled to death one night on Nogga Creek, I came to have a great respect for the fellow’s strength. He has hands of iron.”

  “Indeed!” Martin murmured, his expression tragic. “Like these, I assume.”

  Borradale’s hands had been concealed below the table’s edge. Abruptly they came upward. In the right was a revolver, which now steadily pointed at Bony’s heart. The left hand was held palm outward for Bony’s inspection. It was red-raw and blistered.

  “You see, Bony,” Borradale said slowly, “your trap was cunningly prepared, but you have captured the wrong man.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Bony’s Unfortunate Friend