Wings Above the Diamantina

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Do you know anything about sheep?” Bony persisted.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, when I was young I served five years as a jackeroo on a sheep station. It was down in New South Wales.”

  “Is that so!” Bony sat bolt upright in his chair and regarded his host with steady eyes. “I need your assistance,” he went on slowly. “To obtain it I must confide in you. Usually no successful crime investigator confides in any one. I have in this case to be particularly cautious, because I am convinced that certain people command an excellent intelligence service.”

  “Anything you tell me is in the strictest confidence.”

  “Thank you. I have established the fact that Captain Loveacre’s monoplane was destroyed by a man who walked to it from the main St Albans-Golden Dawn track at a point some miles beyond Gurner’s Hotel, and then walked back to the main track. That fact proves another—or goes a long way to prove it. In my opinion more than one person was engaged in the matter of this stolen aeroplane. There is the man who piloted it, and there’s the man who poisoned the brandy. The firing of the machine and the poisoning of the brandy were done too closely together in time for one man to have done both.

  “The man who destroyed the aeroplane—probably with the object of obliterating his fingerprints—did his work when wearing sheepskin boots having the wool on the outside. Out there we found no actual tracks of him, but we did find fibres of wool detached from his sheepskin boots. I understand that you have never run sheep on Emu Lake paddock?”

  “There have never been any sheep running on Coolibah.”

  “There are, however, sheep on Tintanoo.”

  “Yes. Kane always has a few mutton sheep.”

  “What class of sheep are they, do you know?”

  “Yes. They are Border Leicesters crossed with Merinos.”

  “Does he breed them, or does he buy them elsewhere?”

  “I am not sure, but I think Kane purchases them from Olarie Downs. The Greysons run that cross. But Kane isn’t the only man who buys killing sheep from them. The Olivers, of Windy Creek, do, too. So does the Golden Dawn butcher. You see, in this district we are cattle people, but some people run a few sheep to give us a change from the eternal beef. When I want mutton I always buy a carcass from the butcher, because the Coolibah fences are not sheep-proof.”

  “Hum! Well, that will widen the search.” Bony produced a pocket wallet, and from it he took an envelope containing several cigarette papers, each containing a fibre of wool and each numbered in the order that the fibres were found. “Does this wool come from a cross-bred Leicester?”

  Nettlefold looked closely at the several fibres.

  “Yes, they are all from the same class of sheep, if not all from the same animal. You know, Bony, if that man walked through the bush from the main track to Emu Lake and then back again, he must know this country as well as I do.”

  “That’s exactly what I think. He knew it so well that he could fly an aeroplane over it at night, and jump from the machine per parachute when he knew he was over fairly clear country. What puzzles me is how he did it without landmarks. He would be unable to follow a road, or distinguish any other landmark in the dark.”

  “I think he could,” Nettlefold said thoughtfully. “Midway between this house and Tintanoo homestead there is a long sheet of water in one of the river channels. Once he picked that out on the dark ground, he could set his course for Bore Fourteen, which is north of Emu Lake paddock on Tintanoo. He would recognize those two waters by their shape: the long ribbon of it in the river channel, and the narrow channel of it, ending in a small lake, at Bore Fourteen.”

  “Ah! Thank you. Knowing the country so well, he would certainly recognize the shape of the waters you mention. Now, who would know the country as well as you do yourself?”

  The manager considered.

  “Kane, young Oliver, Ted Sharp, Ned Hamlin—oh, and a dozen others.”

  “Well, we are progressing, Mr Nettlefold,” Bony said with satisfaction in his voice. “If I could obtain definite proof that when the aeroplane thief flew the machine he was guided by the water lying in that river channel, then I would be even more hopeful.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Stanisforth Provides An Idea

  AT FOUR O’CLOCK Tilly, the aboriginal maid, set the afternoon-tea table at the western end of the veranda outside the study windows, and when she had gone and Elizabeth had conducted the two doctors from the patient’s bed, Bony and the cattleman rose and stepped out to join them.

  At last Elizabeth asked the question that had been on the tip of her tongue for over an hour. “What do you think of the patient, Dr Stanisforth?”

  “I will be candid,” he told them, in a low voice. “Unless we can find the person who produced in her the condition of muscular paralysis, and he is made to disclose just what he did to produce that state, I fear that we cannot save her. Her condition is not due to brain injury, either physical or mental, and it is not the result of violence.”

  “You are, then, able to say that the paralysis was not caused by shock given by the landing of the aeroplane in which she was found?” Bony pressed.

  “Yes, I can say that. And, while I am not positive, I incline to the opinion that the paralysis has been caused by some drug.”

  “Do you know the drug, or a likely drug?”

  “There are several which could have produced the effect temporarily. The venom of certain snakes will create temporary paralysis, but I know of no drug that would produce such an apparently permanent effect.”

  “Have you knowledge of the method by which the drug was administered?” was Bony’s following question.

  “Dr Knowles and I are agreed that the drug was given through the mouth, probably with drink or food,” the specialist answered. “Neither of us has seen a case exactly like it. We are like blind men. If the patient cannot be cured—if the antidote cannot be found and used—death inevitably will claim her.”

  “But surely we can keep her from dying, Doctor?” Elizabeth said desperately.

  “Her pulse is weak, and growing weaker. Do not think I am making light of your nursing. I congratulate you on that. The cause of your patient’s increasing weakness is the wastage of body tissues. She is unable to take normal nourishment. At present she is living on stimulants. Added to this is that, although the involuntarily controlled muscles are not completely affected by the drug, they are being seriously affected by the passiveness of the voluntarily controlled muscles which are paralysed. In short, the patient’s condition is unnatural. I wish I could speak more cheerfully.”

  The ensuing silence was ended by Bony.

  “If an antidote cannot be found,” he asked, “how long do you think...”

  “That is always a difficult question to answer,” replied the specialist. “I can only guess it. In my opinion it would be from five to seven weeks. Certainly no longer than two months.”

  His verdict was followed by a much longer silence. Covertly, Bony watched those seated with him about the tea-table. Nettlefold stared through the fly-gauze towards the men’s quarters. His daughter looked down at her hands now lying in her lap. Knowles at this moment defied analysis. He sat slumped into his chair, his head resting against its high back, his eyes closed, and the little trimmed black moustache quite unable to conceal the drawn lines about his mouth. The outward muscles of his left eye were throbbing, and the white hands resting on the chair-arms were never still.

  “Do you think, Dr Stanisforth, that the patient would have a better chance if she were removed to a city hospital?”

  Stanisforth leaned forward.

  “Miss Nettlefold, her condition might react to radium or electrical treatment. I say only that it might. On the other hand, the journey to a city would be gravely dangerous. She might collapse, no matter how easy the trip was made for her. No, I think it better for her to remain here. Quite and careful attention are two factors that will help her, and while life remains there always is hope
.”

  “She certainly shall have all the attention possible, I assure you.”

  Stanisforth smiled at her encouragingly. Then he turned to Bony.

  “I suppose it is a case of foul play, Inspector?”

  “I am convinced of it,” asserted Bony. “Pardon my presumption, but might the patient react to hypnotism?”

  Stanisforth shook his head.

  “I have attempted it, but without success.”

  “When you hypnotize a person you gain control of the mind to the extent of making the subject do your bidding—am I right?”

  “To a certain degree that is so.”

  “You cannot, however, project your mind into that of the subject?”

  “No.”

  “Or be able to see into the subject’s mind—read it, as it were?”

  “No,” Stanisforth repeated. “In an ordinary case I might be able to command a person to reveal by his tongue what is in his mind. I might make him write it. I cannot myself see it. Because I cannot overcome the girl’s paralysis I cannot make her tell me or write down what we want to know. Why are you smiling, Inspector?”

  “Doctor, you have placed me in your debt. You have given me an idea. I think I know how I might find out what is in the patient’s mind.”

  “How!” demanded both doctors and Elizabeth.

  “I am afraid I cannot explain myself just now,” Bony said. “I cannot guarantee success, of course, but I believe there is an excellent chance—Ah! Here comes Sergeant Cox.”

  “But surely,” said Stanisforth, “you can give us some idea—”

  “I think it most unlikely that the patient would know the name of the drug,” Bony pointed out. “She might not even know that she has been drugged, but she does know who took her up in Loveacre’s red monoplane, and left her in it to crash to destruction. When I know who that is he will tell me the name of the drug given her, or what he did to her.”

  “If he chooses to tell you,” Nettlefold argued.

  “He will tell me,” Bony repeated grimly.

  It was five o’clock when Bony and Sergeant Cox left the house to stroll down along the winding creek, which came from the east to skirt the men’s quarters before going on to stop at a river channel. On the dead trunk of a fallen coolibah tree, they sat and waved back the flies with sprigs of leaves.

  “Why were you so anxious to get in touch with me?” asked Bony. “Is there something important?”

  “Yes. I found a swagman who heard an aeroplane fly over about two-fifty-five on the morning that Captain Loveacre’s machine was stolen. It was flying west.”

  “Ah!” Bony sharply exclaimed. “Where was he when he heard it?”

  “He was camped at the junction of the Coolibah track with the St Albans-Golden Dawn road.”

  “Indeed! Now that is most interesting. The stolen machine passed that road junction flying west at five minutes to three. Good! We can now roughly plot its course. At twenty minutes to two that night the machine is stolen from the rear of the hotel at Golden Dawn. It reaches and passes by the road junction at five minutes to three. At half-past three it passed above two aboriginal dog-trappers who were camped beside a small waterhole approximately two miles north of Emu Lake. Now, from the doggers’ camp back here to the road junction is approximately seventy miles. The cruising speed of the machine is about one hundred and thirty miles an hour—about two miles a minute. From the junction to the doggers’ camp the time and the mileage covered agree roughly with the known speed of the machine. Then from the junction to the hotel at Golden Dawn is eighty miles, covered by the machine—apparently—in ninety-five minutes, which is much less than one mile to the minute. You see, Sergeant, don’t you? From Golden Dawn to the road junction the machine travels at less than one mile to the minute, but from the junction to the doggers’ camp it travels at its normal speed of two miles to the minute. On the first stage it should have taken forty minutes, but it takes ninety-five minutes, giving a balance in time of fifty-five minutes. Now where did it go, and what did the pilot do during that fifty-five minutes?”

  “Search me!” said Cox hopelessly. “Did you get any clues outback?”

  “Quite a number. Listen carefully.”

  Graphically Bony related the finding of the wool fibres and then went on to describe how he had subsequently found two black dingo-trappers who were camped beside the small waterhole on Tintanoo on the night of 27-28 October.

  “One of them owns a watch of which his is very proud,” Bony went on. “He states that he and his companion were awakened at three-thirty by the sound of an aeroplane engine. The machine was flying high. Two days after that night one of them, when visiting his traps, found extraordinary markings on a low sand-dune. Extraordinary, because he could not understand them. They covered an area of several yards. At my request he drew on sandy ground marks something like them, and what he thought was to scale.

  “I went with him to that place. The sand cloud, of course, had wiped out the markings, but after a long search I found two more fibres of wool. I am convinced that the markings were made by a man, wearing sheepskin boots, who landed there by parachute. Having gathered up the parachute, he walked with it northward to the main road, where he was met by an accomplice in a motor car. The following night one of them burned the machine, and the other poisoned the patient’s brandy?”

  “And he took the girl out over near Emu Lake and jumped from the machine, leaving her to crash in it?” said Cox.

  “That is exactly what he did, Sergeant. Our man is cool and calm and without nerves. He must have strong reasons for so determinedly trying to get rid of Miss Double M. The machine landed somewhere out from or between Golden Dawn and the road junction to pick up the young woman. At least it appears so on the evidence at our disposal. Did you trace the swagman’s movements?”

  “Yes. He walked south along the east side of the river. He had been working up on Monkira, and he had money with him. Consequently, when he arrived at Golden Dawn, he at once went on the booze. He was quite orderly, and I could not get an excuse to lock him up for his own good until he had spent all his money and was kicked out of the pub. By that time he was in a bad state, and the information came out quite by chance after the wife and I had cured him of the dingbats.”

  “Oh! So you take care of drunks, eh?”

  “More or less,” Cox replied carelessly. “Can’t stop a man spending his cheque if he keeps peaceful and quiet, you know. But many of them drink all day and half the night and never eat, and then when their money is gone out they go on to the track in the horrors. Since one poor devil perished on the Common I have always locked up a man well the worse for drink, and my wife cures ’em with soups and things. On being ready for the road, I go along to the pub and demand to know how much he has spent. On the quiet, I make Allard, the licensee, give me back ten per cent of what the drunk has spent, and I buy tucker for him with it, and perhaps a pair of boots for the track.”

  “And this particular swagman? You have him still-locked up?”

  “No. He left for Yaraka the day before yesterday. I took his name, of course, and, because of what the wife did for him, he promised to report at every police-station he passed in case he should be wanted. I warned him to keep his mouth shut.”

  Bony warmed to this very human policeman and his wife. He had suspected the kind heart beneath the stiff exterior, but now suspicion had become fact.

  “Make a note to get that man back again to Golden Dawn, and when you have him keep him locked up,” he directed.

  “But we have got nothing on him!” expostulated the sergeant.

  “Never mind. Get him back. Frighten him with what might well be a real danger—that his having heard the aeroplane that night makes him dangerous to dangerous men. I want to see him. Feed him well. Supply him with a bottle of beer now and then, if necessary. Tick it up to me. It can go into my exes account. Now, who in your district would have nitro-glycerine in his possession?”

  “No
one that I know of. If I remember rightly it’s very dangerous stuff to handle.”

  “Yes. It certainly is. We will discuss that again later on. Meanwhile I want you to telephone to Golden Dawn a telegram to be dispatched to the Commissioner. We will go back to the house now, and you can fix it.”

  “Very well,” agreed the sergeant, producing note-book and pencil.

  “Address it to: Colonel Spendor, Church Avenue, Nundah, Brisbane. Say:

  Urgently require services of Illawalli, out from Burketown, North Queensland. He was of service in Windee case, you will recall. Have this aboriginal chief brought down by aeroplane and deliver Golden Dawn without delay. Personal felicitations. Bony.”

  Looking up after writing down the message, the sergeant regarded Bony with disapproving grey eyes.

  “Do you often couch a request in such terms as these?” he asked sternly. “I thought the chief was a strict disciplinarian. And this telegram! You want it sent to the Commissioner’s private residence?”

  “I do, Sergeant. And the chief is a strict disciplinarian,” Bony agreed, smiling. “I have found in my experience that the greater disciplinarian a commanding officer is the more ready is he to be himself subject to a little disciplining. Again, I have learned this simple lesson. If you want a thing, demand it. Never ask that it may be granted. Textbook knowledge of psychology is ever an asset. If I sent that request to the Commissioner at Headquarters it would be opened and first read by Clarke, his secretary, and Clarke would place it before the Commissioner with disapproval writ plain on his pasty face, and venting little grunts and snorts. Whereupon the colonel would pound his table and damn and blast me for being disrespectful.

  “By sending the telegram to his private house this evening, and as his delightful lady will probably be with him, he will do the damning and blasting under his breath, and without doubt she will ask him what it is which so depresses him. He then will chuckle and give her the telegram to read, and tell her how that confounded Bony feller will never be cramped by rules and regulations. He’ll say: ‘No, madam. I tell you he won’t be subdued by red tape. He’s like me. Hates it like poison. Good man, Bony! Always gets there. Like me! He knows his own mind. Like me.’ And he will be so pleased with himself that he will ring up Ross and order him to dispatch a plane to Burketown to fetch Illawalli here. And if Ross hums and haws about the expense he will be damned and blasted, too. Yes, a smattering of psychology is most useful. It enables one to know exactly how the other fellow will jump. The next time you ask for a transfer, my dear Cox, do not request it, demand it.”