"Winds of Evil" - читать интересную книгу автора (Upfield Arthur W.)

Chapter Thirteen

A Dangerous Man

THE DAY FOLLOWING that evening when Harry West, mounted on Black Diamond, had so perturbed Mrs. Nelson and Detective-Inspector Bonaparte was Sunday. There was no faintest wind this day, but the sky was tinged with an opalescent white, hinting at wind within a few days.

The quietness which governs a city on Sunday also governs a station homestead, especially during the afternoon. Even the birds seem to respect the Sabbath. The morning had been spent by Bony and the other hands washing clothes and cutting hair, and then, although Hang-dog Jack said he did not believe in cooking on Sundays, he presented the noonday meal with the air of a man quite ready to accept congratulatory remarks as his due.

There was no afternoon smoko tea for the hands on Sundays, and, having made his own tea and shared it with Bill the Cobbler and Young-and-Jackson, Bony quietly gathered together the Wirragatta weather reports, a writing-pad and a pencil, and crossed the river to thecamelman’s hut on the far side.

This was a small corrugated-iron hut, but fortunately a drop-window in the wall, opposite the door, when opened provided a cooling draught of air. Under the window was a roughly made table, and along each vacant wall was a roughly made bush bunk. For a seat at the table there was an empty petrol-case. Bony found this hut, occupied only by the two fence-riders when at the homestead, to be an excellent retreat.

With the hundred and twenty monthly weather sheets before him, the detective began to continue his study of them. Each sheet duplicated data supplied to the State Meteorological Bureau, and each day of every month the station book-keeper-in-office had entered the number of points of rain fallen, if any, and general remarks on the conditions of the weather. From all these records Bony completed the plotting of a graph showing throughout the ten years covered by the reports the incidence of wind-storms; and, as he expected, the index curve rose to its highest point in late October and early November. After these two months the number of wind-storms was greatest in September; then in March, and least of all in February.

It will be recalled that the three crimes now occupying Bony’s attention were committed-the first during the night of 10th-11th November, the second during the night of 17th-18th March, and the third during the night of 30th-31st October-all during a period of twenty-four months.

On each of these dates the wind had blown with hurricane force, and Bony’s conclusion from this, as well as from his observations among the Nogga Creek trees, was that the significance of the dates might have been produced not by the activities of the Strangler so much as the opportunities presented him by a chance victim. The fellow could go out in the weather conditions he evidently liked fifty or a hundred times and meet with a victim but once.

On the other hand, and this appeared the more likely, he might well have known the approximate time when a victim would pass a certain way. Quite a number of people would know that Alice Tindall spent her last evening of life in the kitchen of the Wirragatta homestead and that she would be walking back to the camp at Junction Waterhole. Quite a number of people knew that Frank Marsh was in Carie that last night of his life, that he was working for and living with theStorries, and that he would be walking to the selection from the township.

An even larger number of people knew that Mabel Storrie was at the dance in Carie, but all these people knew she had been escorted from her home by her brother on the truck, and all these people thought that she would return home on the truck with her brother. Only when the dance was over were Tom Storrie and the truck missing. Only by chance, or seeming chance, did Mabel part from her lover when half-way home, to go on alone.

Sergeant Simone certainly had some grounds for arresting Barry Elson, but Bony considered them not nearly sufficient. That the lovers did part company, that Mabel did go on alone and Elson return to the hotel, Bony was morally certain.

Heproceeded a step farther. A man knew that Alice Tindall would be returning to her camp from the homestead late one night. Weather conditions promised another day of wind and dust to follow. Knowing the character of the girl, this man knew she would refuse an escort. Therefore, pre-knowledge and not chance had given him the opportunity to strangle her. The same reasoning could be applied to the murder of Frank Marsh committed in the identical weather conditions. But in Mabel Storrie’s case it must have been chance, not pre-knowledge, which had presented the Strangler with his opportunity to attack her.

Two of these three cases, therefore, were alike with regard to presuming that the murderer had pre-knowledge of his victim’s actions. It raised again the possibility that the attack on Mabel Storrie had been done by an imitator of the murderer of the other two, but telling against this possibility was a third fact. Alice Tindall and Mabel Storrie had been attacked from the branch of and under a tree along the same creek, whilst Marsh had been killed three-quarters of a mile from a tree, near the Common gates.

Here, however, there was room for argument. Marsh had been found close to the Common gates, but there was no shred of proof that he had been strangled to death where his body was found.

Bony’s mind went back to the first two cases, those of murder. These bore similarity and favoured pre-knowledge. The prevailing weather was an inducement to people to stay at home. Assuming that the murderer did have pre-knowledge of his victim’s movements, he must have been at Wirragatta homestead the evening of that night Alice Tindall was killed, and he must have been either at Storrie’s selection or in Carie the evening of the night Marsh was murdered.

Now if it could be established that someone resident in Carie or at Storrie’s selection was visiting Wirragatta when Alice Tindall was murdered, or if it could be established that a resident at Wirragatta had visited Carie or theStorries the evening that Marsh was murdered, then the name of a man, or men, who knew the movements of both these unfortunates could be regarded as that of a person having the pre-knowledge the murderer almost surely had.

Bony came to favour this pre-knowledge theory at the expense of that which assumed that the murderer obtained his victim only by blind chance, like a thug waiting at a dark street corner for the casual pedestrian to come within striking distance of him. The chance of meeting a lone walker on such nights was so infinitely small as to be put aside in argument as unworthy of consideration. Only in the case of Mabel Storrie had chance given the killer a prospective victim, and again only through chance had she escaped death.

Bony felt he was on safe ground to reason thus. He must find if there were any visitors to Wirragatta the night Alice Tindall was murdered, and if there were any visitors to Carie or to Storrie’s selection from Wirragatta the night that Marsh was murdered. Anyone out visiting on either of these two windy nights could be held gravely suspect.

Outside the hut wherein Bony was pondering these theories awilly -wagtail shrilly chirped its warning call, and, thus warned of someone’s approach, he quickly stacked the weather reports and was wrapping them in their brown-paper covering when Stella Borradale appeared in the open doorway. From Bony, now on his feet, her cool gaze fell to the table.

“Do I interrupt you?” she inquired pleasantly.

“An interruptioncan be much appreciated,” he replied, advancing to her. “Might I be of service?”

“I saw you come here an hour ago, and I have suspected that you make this hut your writing-room,” she said smilingly. “Would it, do you think, be permissible for me to enter? I have a message for you.”

“Back in 1900 it might not have been. In this year, certainly, Miss Borradale.” Bony turned back and rearranged the petrol-case seat. “If you will be seated-I am sorry I cannot offer you a cigarette. I make my own, and badly, too.”

“I have cigarettes, thank you.” Stella became seated and Bony held a match for her use. “I have had quite a long letter from Marion Trench, and she and her husband and Mr. Stanton all wish to be remembered to you. I hope you did not mind me mentioning to her that you are here?”

“By no means-if you stressed the fact of my incognito. I recall many pleasant incidents of my stay at Windee*. There I achieved my greatest success-and sacrificed it.” *The story is told in Mr. Upfield’s novel, The Sands of Windee.

“Oh! How, may I ask?”

“I cannot, of course, speak of the case, which was delightfully baffling. Miss Marion Stanton, as she was then, is both physically and mentally a beautifully woman. For the sake of her happiness I confessed to my colleagues my first and only failure to finalize a case.”

Stella Borradale was regarding the detective pensively.

“Marion and I have been friends for years,” she said. “Some time back she hinted that her present happiness was due entirely to you. They ask me to tell you how much they hope you will call at Windee before returning to Queensland.”

“That would be like the people at Windee. Did Mrs. Trench mention Father Ryan?”

“Yes. She said she thought you would like to know that Father Ryan always talks of you when he and they meet. Are you a Catholic?”

“No. But I admire Father Ryan immensely. He is a wonderful man-a splendid man.”

Through the smoke of her cigarette Stella watched the dark face now animated and lit with the lamp of enthusiasm. She tried very hard to keep out of her own eyes her increasing interest in this half-caste who behaved and spoke as well as any man she had ever known. His vanity was obvious, but her interest was not based on his fine face and modulated, cultured voice. Just what it was based upon puzzled her.

She said impulsively, “May I ask why you are continuing your investigation after the arrest of Barry Elson?”

At once Bony’s face became a mask.

“You are asking a conjuror to show how he does his tricks,” he said chidingly, the smile again lighting his eyes. “But I will answer your question-in strict confidence. I am almost, but not quite, certain that Barry Elson did not attack his sweetheart.”

“I am sure he didn’t,” she said emphatically.“But… but could you not have prevented his arrest?”

“I could have done, I think.”

“Then why didn’t you? Think of the state of his mind at this moment if he is innocent, as I am sure he is.”

“Barry Elson admitted to me, MissBorradale, that he did a caddish thing when he left Mabel Storrie to walk on home alone, most especially after those two terrible murders. He must learn his lesson and then, perhaps, he will be given the opportunity to re-establish himself with theStorries and with everyone else who knows him. I regret that I cannot enlighten you further on this matter.”

“Well, will you appease my curiosity by telling me if you have made any progress in your investigation? We seem to agree that this strangling beast is still at large. Sometimes, chiefly at night, I become horribly nervous. One never knows when that terrible person will again attack and kill.”

“I can assure you that I shall not return to Brisbane and my family until I have located him. I wonder, now-would you assist me by frankly answering a few questions I would like to ask, in strict confidence?”

“Most certainly.”

“I do not think it absolutely essential but I believe it will be of assistance to maintain my slight deception on the people here,” Bony said in some kind of preface. “Nearly everyone will talk more freely to a private individual than they will to an investigating police officer. Why, I don’t know, but it is so. Other than to Mrs. Trench, you have not revealed my identity?”

“I passed you my word about that.”

“I stand reproved, Miss Borradale. Now may I begin the inquisition? No one will disturb us, as my sentry is on duty.”

“Your sentry!”

“Awilly -wagtail. He informed me of your coming. Now for my first question. Please go back in your mind to the night when Alice Tindall was murdered. Were both you and Mr. Borradale at home that night?”

“Yes. I remember it quite well.”

“Alice Tindall left the homestead for the blacks’ camp shortly after eleven o’clock, did she not?”

“The time she left was settled for ever by Sergeant Simone,” replied Stella. “It was twenty-five minutes after eleven. It had been a dreadful day, and about nine o’clock it began to thunder and lighten badly. There was no rain, but we expected it, and Alice stayed with the cook and the maids until the thunder had passed on.”

“Were there any visitors at Wirragatta at that time?”

“No, no one.”

“I suppose you cannot recall who the men were then working at the homestead?”

“Not all of them. Hang-dog Jack was here, of course, and Harry West and Young-and-Jackson. Mr. Dreyton had just gone into the office as book-keeper.”

“Ah, yes! Mr. Dreyton is a man of breeding and education. He reminds me constantly of Mr. Trench at Windee.”

“Oh! In what way?”

The expression of pensiveness on the dark face was banished by the slow-growing smile.

“When first I met Mr. Trench,” Bony said, “he was a rabbit-trapper and kangaroo-shooter on Windee. As you would know, that is not a trade for a man of refinement to follow. Mr. Trench provided me with quite a little mystery, and I think I run no risk of breaking a confidence when I tell you that the reason he was a fur-and-skin getter was due to the condition imposed on him by Mr. Stanton. Wishing to prove him before accepting him as his son-in-law, Mr. Stanton made it the condition of his consent that Mr. Trench should apply himself to the hardest work on the run for two years.

“There is a certain similarity between Mr. Trench and Mr. Dreyton. Both are gentlemen and both are English. Their manner and speech prove rearing and education above that of the average man. Can you tell me why Mr. Dreyton prefers working on a boundary-fence to working in an office?”

The abrupt question, following the reference to Trench proving himself for love, caught Stella’s breath. Try as she might, she could not conquer the betraying blush, and Bony felt he had been indelicate.

“Forgive me!” he exclaimed. “Do not, please, answer that impertinent question.”

“But I must,” she said quickly, breathlessly. “There is nothing like that of the Trenches between Mr. Dreyton and me. Neither my brother nor I know why Mr Dreyton prefers the fence work. Or rather we do. We wanted him in the office because he is such a good tennis player and bridge player, and then the other day, when my brother made a direct appeal to him, he explained that living with us, even as the book-keeper, reminded him too acutely of the status in life he had enjoyed and lost before coming to Australia.”

Bony now was sitting motionless, gazing absently out through the drop-window.

“Don’t you believe me?” Stella Borradale asked coldly.

“Er… of course, Miss Borradale. I fear I am being very rude.”Again the quick smile. “I am often rude when I am thinking. Now let us come forward in time to the murder of Frank Marsh. Can you recall that night?”

“Easily. Sergeant Simone questioned us all enough to make us remember it all our lives.”

“Then I owe something to the redoubtable sergeant,” Bony said laughingly, and his smile was so disarming that it made Stella momentarily forgetful of that dangerous ground to which he had led her. “Tell me, please. Who slept at ‘Government House’ that night other than the cook and the maids?”

“Only my brother and I. Mr. Allen, who was then bookkeeping here, occupied the book-keeper’s room in the office building.”

“There were no visitors?”

“None.”

“At that time Mr. Dreyton was fence-riding. Was he here at the homestead or not?”

“Yes, he was. He was camped in this hut,” Stella answered, obviously trying to perceive the objective of Bony’s questions.

“You are being very patient with me,” she was told. “You had no visitors when Alice Tindall was murdered, and you had none when Frank Marsh was murdered. Did you go out the night that Marsh was killed?”

“No. It was a bad night.”

“Did you play bridge?”

“No. My brother was away part of the evening. He went to theStorries to discuss with Fred Storrie a deal in sheep.”

“Can you tell me what Mr. Dreyton did that evening?”

“Yes… due again to Sergeant Simone. Mr. Dreyton visited Carie, where, for some time, he played chess with Dr. Mulray. But tell me! Surely you do not think that Mr. Dreyton-”

Bony chuckled.

“You will be accusing me of thinking that either Mr. Borradale or Mr. Dreyton is the Strangler. Men like they do not commit murder without a sound motive. Besides, you can tell me, I am sure, what time they returned to the homestead. In your brother’s case at least.”

“Yes. He returned shortly before ten o’clock. He had been poorly all day and he went straight off to bed.”

Bony rolled and lit another cigarette.

“I have, of course, a reason for asking all these questions, and when you decided to come here this afternoon with Mrs. Trench’s message you let yourself in for them. You see, I have to solve a jig-saw puzzle, and my questions can be termed the pieces of the puzzle. Would you be able to forgive me if I were very candid with you?”

She could, subsequently, never understand how this man swamped her natural reserve to the extent of compelling her to tell him that he could be as frank as he wished. He went on:

“I find it difficult to believe Mr. Dreyton when he says that his reason for preferring the fence to the office is the pain he feels when in contact with luxury, comparative to his previous financial and social status. I find it difficult, too, to believe that your brother’s desire to have him in the office is due to Dreyton’s social accomplishments.”

Quite slowly Stella expelled her caught breath. She was become fearful that she would once more betray herself. To prevent this she hurried into an admission.

“I also find it difficult to believe that,” she said, and Bony did not fail to note that her coolness of demeanour was temporarily shattered. “I have long suspected a stronger reason than bridge and tennis and good company. I think that sometimes my brother feels the responsibility of running this property too heavy to bear, and I think his load is lightened for him when he can discuss his difficulties with Mr. Dreyton. As you know, Mr Dreyton is only a few years senior to my brother, but he is decades older in worldly experience. Martin takes after our mother in many ways. Our father was much more rugged and hard than is Martin.”

“Hem! I can understand that running Wirragatta successfully is not an easy task. And then your brother left school to return home direct to manage this property, and therefore missed that hardening process induced in one’s character by what is cynically called sowing one’s wild oats.”

“If you do not believe Mr. Dreyton’s reason for preferring the fence life, what do you think could be his reason?”

The indifference with which this question was put was not genuine, and Bony’s sharp ears detected it. Stella now was semi-masking her face by lighting a cigarette from the match he held in service, but having guessed the secret of her heart he knew her reason for asking the question.

“I will not attempt to answer your question, Miss Borradale,” he told her as his eyes twinkled. “It may be that Mr. Dreyton is being very foolish. As to that I cannot say.”

For the second time this afternoon Stella Borradale felt the warning heat creeping to her face, and she was not alone in blessing Hang-dog for beating on his triangle at this moment. They rose together. Bony gallantly escorted her to the door of the hut, but despite the cook’s interruption and the detective’s gallantry the blush would betray her.

In a frantic effort to overcome it she said laughingly, “I think you are a very dangerous man, Bony.”

It made Bony laugh delightedly, and when they stood one on either side of the doorstep he said, “Dangerous, Miss Borradale? Never, never dangerous, I earnestly assure you.”