Winds of Evil b-5

by Arthur W. Upfield

  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 hadvanished. 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 A few strong men in my time,” growled Sergeant Smithson, “but never a manso 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 Hang-dog 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 gota 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.”

  “Cowardbe 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.

  “ ’Bouttime 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 andrepass.”

  “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 browsrose 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 offrench 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, who, 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!” Martinmurmured, 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

  “NOTHING, INSPECTOR BONAPARTE,” Martin said, making a great effort to speak calmly, “nothing would grieve me more than to shoot you. I have certain statements to make, certain requests to ask of you, and then a certain thing to do. Should you reach for your gun, or attempt to leave your chair, I shall kill you. I must!”

  The almost placid expression with which Martin Borradale had first met the detective this morning was now distorted into the reflection of a terror-filled mind. Bony shivered, but his voice was steady when he said:

  “The effect of the surprise given me by this denouement is much less than the blow given my pride. Not to have examined the cook’s hands is one of the very few-but the greatest-mistakes I have ever made. However, all this is compensated for by the fact that after all I was sound in my reasoning right up to the moment I saw you setting a gun-trap in one of the Nogga Creek trees. Probably you will be good enough to explain just why you did that. If it was done to mislead me completely, then it was wholly successful. To retrieve my own self-respect, you could escape only after having killed me. Even so, you would have then to deal with Constable Lee and Sergeant Smithson, who so ably represented the prospector.”

  “You mistake me,” Martin said, speaking rapidly. “I am not contemplating escape from you, but rather from myself-from this body and this brain. Let me speak. Lee and the sergeant will soon find that Hang-dog Jack’s hands are not burned. So there is little time left. When I have finished, you will get up from your chair and leave me here without feeling the slightest desire to arrest me, for you are not a Sergeant Simone.”

 
“That remains to be seen. Please proceed.”

  Borradale sighed, and the agony of his mind was portrayed on his face. The pain of his hands must have been severe, but he gave no sign that he was conscious of it.

  “Until an hour or so ago I did not know who was the Strangler,” he said, battling for control. “I am glad-immensely glad-that your trap has succeeded. But I must begin at the beginning.

  “When I was at school I gave much trouble by sleep-walking. Sometimes I was rescued from sitting on the sill of the dormitory window with my legs dangling over a sixty-foot drop. Sometimes I was found on the roof of the building. Once I was watched climbing to the roof by way of a rain-spout. On another occasion I was followed to the park beyond the road where, in a line of ornamental trees, I climbed about like a monkey.

  “On awakening I never could recall the details of these escapades. My school fellows used to regard me as something like a Tarzan of the Apes, and I took no little pride in my unconscious antics. My somnambulism almost came to be taken for granted. I never committed harm to anyone or to myself. Dieting had not the slightest curative effect. And then, when my father died and I had to come home to manage Wirragatta, I was assured by the head that I had grown out of my somnambulism, as I had not walked in sleep for several months.

  “Arrived home here, I was claimed physically and mentally by Wirragatta and my father’s old overseer, who almost took my father’s place in my affections. I thought but little of my former somnambulism. It had never been real to me, because I recollected nothing of what I did. My adventures were related to me as though they were the experiences of someone else.”

  Bony’s cigarette had gone out. Interest in what was being said, and speculation on what was about to be said, completely mastered him, but he noted with an underlying interest that the pistol in Borradale’s hand never wavered off the direct line to his heart. He could see in Martin’s face, as well as hear in his voice, the emotional tempest which was being chained by will-power. If the chain broke, then he might be presented with the chance to take charge of the situation.