Bony - 09 - Death of a Swagman

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “You should read ‘The Rape of Lucrece’, a poem written by Shakespeare. Old Shakespeare was a good criminologist. In that poem he describes the growth of an idea of the crime in the criminal’s mind before the crime was committed. Very often the crime of murder is the effect of thought extended over a lengthy period. In other words, the actual act of the crime is the effect of long and careful planning, following an idea which has become an obsession.

  “If we assume that Kendall’s death was due to insane blood lust, we may be sure that the satiation of that lust was not accomplished on the spur of the moment. We may assume that, even were we ignorant of what we do know of the murderer’s efforts to escape detection.

  “There is in this district no one sufficiently insane to kill without a motive. However, there may be one or even two people in this small community sufficiently insane to kill from the motive of satiating the blood lust. And, believe me, Mar­shall, the lust to kill is in itself a terrible thing. It is more ter­rible than killing for revenge or for gain, for it makes of a man a human tiger, a ravening human tiger whose thirst for blood is never quenched.

  “This type of killer is invariably super-cunning, and also invariably super-vain. His vanity is enormous, so much so that when he is brought to trial he craves to read the news­paper reports and to wallow in the temporary fame he has achieved. Do you think the Rev. Mr James is a super-vain man?”

  “No. He has never struck me that way,” Marshall replied.

  “Mr James is a loafer, and he is cunning enough to be a quite successful vampire man,” Bony continued. “He is a supercilious and intelligent man, and I should say that his mental make-up comprises twenty per cent cunning, thirty per cent sheer stupidity, thirty per cent tiredness, and but twenty per cent vanity. If we assume that the murder of Kendall was the result of the lust to kill, we must go cold on the idea that James is the killer, despite all the circumstances against him.

  “There is also further evidence tending to remove James from the suspicion of having killed Kendall. We have through the effluxion of time made a great advance on Redman’s in­vestigation. We know that the man who killed Kendall was not one of Kendall’s class, working all over the state and seldom remaining in any particular place for long. Kendall’s murderer never left this district, because he was here when the swagman was killed, and he was here last night.

  “He lives here in Merino. It might be, of course, that the killing had its genesis many years ago in some other place, and that after years of separation killer and victim happened to come together again here in Merino. If we accept that hypothesis, our friend James is ruled out still further. Ken­dall, remember, was a bushman and James was a city man. Kendall was just a rough, roaming man; James is the son of a minister of religion, and his life has been lived in the religious confines of home, church, and college.

  “It is possible, of course, that Kendall accidentally discovered a criminal weakness in James, or another here in Merino, and attempted blackmail, and was murdered because of it.”

  “That seems likely, come to think of it,” Marshall put in.

  “Yes, I agree. But I warn you again not to allow your imagination to be fed by personal dislike. There is some­thing else in this investigation which has inserted itself into my mind even against a degree of mental resistance. That thing is … windmills. You are justified in wanting to ask what windmills have to do with this killing of Kendall. It is what I would like to know.

  “Kendall was killed on a night when the moon was at full and when the wind was blowing at an estimated velocity of twelve miles an hour. Last night the moon was at full and the wind blew. There was no wind that night the swagman was killed, and we must not forget that the time of that death was dictated by the swagman himself.”

  “The moon at full may have an effect upon insane persons, but I think we can rule this out of our probings, although we must keep in view the fact that the light of the moon might be the factor behind these murders.

  “Why did the fellow with sacking about his feet and a hood over his head ride to within a few miles of Sandy Flat, tether his horse and walk to the windmill, release the mill to the wind, climb up the ladder to the floor of the reservoir tank, stay there for at least forty minutes, and then come down to the ground and brake off the mill, and finally set off back to his horse? When we can answer those questions we shall know the motive for the murders.”

  Marshall poured himself a second cup of tea. It was almost cold. He heard Bony say softly:

  “Windmills! Windmills have an important place in this puzzle, but where they fit in beats me so far. Er—I think I shall have to do something which is distasteful to me. It is not the first time in my career that passion for investigating crime has warred with my instincts as a gentleman—the mean­ing of the word ‘gentleman’ being in its widest sense. Were it not for the fact that our killer might kill again before we can unearth him, I would not even contemplate doing this thing which I find distasteful.

  “Well, now, here it is. There is here in Merino a person who could tell us something about windmills, or, for us, could add a significant something to this subject of windmills. That person, however, is under a bond of silence. With her fingers crossed she promised someone not to tell something about windmills. At the time I took but little notice of it, but it has grown to importance since last night.”

  Sergeant Marshall sat bolt upright.

  “You are not referring to our Florence, are you?” he de­manded.

  Through a haze of tobacco smoke Bony regarded the ser­geant.

  “I happened to tell Rose Marie that Lawton-Stanley’s father was a maker of windmills in Brisbane,” he explained slowly. “She was keenly looking forward to meeting Miss Leylan’s fiancé, and she became upset by the thought that Lawton-Stanley would want to sell his father’s windmills in Merino. When I pressed her to tell me why she was afraid of such a thing as that, she told me that she had promised not to tell—with her fingers crossed.”

  “Oh, that be blowed!” exploded Marshall. “I’ll soon get that out of her.”

  “One moment, Marshall. That might seem an easy road, but it is one which I will not take until every other avenue is explored. Rose Marie is a sweet child, and when she makes a promise she stands by it if the promise is made when her fingers are crossed. Neither you nor I are going to force her to break that promise because there are all too few people in the world today who place any value whatsoever on their given word.”

  “But, as you just mentioned, another poor devil might well be murdered if we don’t nail the killer pretty soon,” objected the sergeant.

  “Nevertheless,” Bony persisted, “we will allow ourselves to persuade her to tell us what she knows by putting to her such questions, and in such a manner, that she will not know she is telling us what she promised with her fingers crossed not to tell. I think I can manage to do that. She is your daughter but she is not to be forced to break a promise so solemnly made. I hope that you agree with me?”

  Marshall nodded, and his affirmative reply was spoken softly:

  “She’s a great kid,” he said, and in his mind ran another thought: “And you’re a fine man.” Bony was saying:

  “It is a little early, even now, to wake Rose Marie, but I should get back to Sandy Flat. I’d like to talk to her before I leave. You go and ask her to come here to me. Tell her that Bony wants to see her. And you stay out and get dressed. You’re a disgrace, in pyjamas at seven-thirty in the morning.”

  Marshall heaved himself to his bare feet and passed out of the office to pad along the passage to the rear of the house. Bony swung round in his chair. Through the window he could see the front fence, the pepper-trees, and a portion of the roof of the butcher’s shop all painted with the light of the risen sun. As though in the background of his mind, he heard Marshall padding about somewhere in the rear of the house. He heard Mrs Marshall’s voice raised in surprise. Then he heard her husband’s voice outside the station house, shou
ting the name “Florence”.

  Several minutes passed, and then he heard Marshall’s heavy feet again in the house, and his voice loud, in keeping with the raised voice of his wife. The big man came running along the passage and entered the office as though he sprang across the threshold. He strode to the table desk and, glaring down at Bony, shouted:

  “She’s gone. Our Florence has vanished. She knew too much about windmills, and that killing swine has taken her. Her bed’s cold. She’s been gone for hours.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Bony Holds Audience

  “WELL, what have you got to say, Inspector Napoleon Bona­parte?” Sergeant Marshall demanded in a tone of voice which, had Bony heard it from another policeman, would have as­tounded him. “You’ve been dawdling on this case, waiting for time or Providence or something to drop the clues into your open hands. Evil never triumphs, eh? You never rush about like Tom, Dick, or Harry Redman, do you? You take every­thing calmly, and just wait and wait and wait, until another poor devil is murdered and the killer can hand you another clue or two. You never allow emotion or even humanitarian thoughts to sway you when you’re on an investigation, do you? You proceed calmly and without undue haste, don’t you? You don’t care two hoots if a dozen persons are murdered, do you? Not even when a little girl is murdered for knowing something about windmills? Why the hell didn’t you tell me that Florence knew something about something vital to that killing swine? I’d have got it out of her—quick.”

  With singular deliberateness Bony stood up, stood up to meet the blazing brown eyes of Sergeant Marshall, still in­congruously dressed in pyjamas. Feeling in his own body had drained away so that he was conscious of having no physical feeling at all, save a sensation of terrible cold in his brain.

  “You are right, Marshall, and you are wrong,” he said. “As a father you are right: as a policeman you are wrong. Take a hold on yourself. What’s Gleeson’s telephone number?”

  “He’s out in the yard, searching the outbuildings. But what’s the use? They’ll find her body. Oh, they’ll find that. I’m going to have a word or two with that snivelling par­son. I’ll fix him for a start.”

  “You will leave the parson to me, and you will continue to follow my instructions. You don’t know nearly so much as I know about this investigation. You will now conduct me to the bedroom occupied by your daughter, and then you will get dressed and start work.”

  Marshall swung round. He opened his mouth to say some­thing, snapped it shut, and walked to the door. Bony followed him along the passage to a room opening off it just before the kitchen was reached.

  Over the foot of the bed the clothes were tossed in disarray. On a chair beside the bed the child’s school clothes were laid, neatly folded, and upon them was a plate on which a peeled orange had waited for the child to eat on awakening.

  “Go and dress,” Bony snapped.

  “I’ll see you——”

  “Sergeant Marshall, go and dress and then report back to me.” Bony glared upward into the furious brown eyes. “Take a hold on yourself. Until we find Rose Marie is dead, I for one will believe she still lives.”

  The anger began to fade out of the brown eyes, and into them crept a new expression, one of painful surprise, for Marshall found himself looking upon the Mr Hyde of kindly Napoleon Bonaparte. He was gazing into eyes which appeared to glow with a bluish fluorescence, and underneath those eyes was a mouth, lipless and filled with clay-white fangs. The usual carefree and debonair expression had vanished, giving place to one of ferocious hate. And that new face which he had never seen before gave him comfort, for what he saw in it matched all that was in his own heart.

  Bony strode to the open window. It faced to the north. Beyond it, some twenty feet away, was the paling fence bordering the north side of the station compound. He bent forward and thrust his head beyond the sill and noticed the fine red sand being whisked over the hard ground by the wind. He said something for which Lawton-Stanley would have fined him a full twenty shillings.

  From the window he returned to the bed, where he stood for a few moments quite motionless. The mattress still con­tained the depression made by the child’s sleeping body. The depression made by her head was still upon the pillow. Then, abruptly, he leaned over the bed and sniffed with his nose but a fraction above the linen cover.

  There was a square of carpet between the bed and window, and this he picked up and held to the light, squinting his eyes to stare all over it, square inch by square inch. The carpet he rolled and pushed beneath the bed. He closed and fastened the window, and then left the room, closing and locking the door and placing the key in his pocket.

  Mrs Marshall was sitting on a chair beside the kitchen table. He went to her, brought his head down to the level of hers, and said:

  “I do not believe Rose Marie is dead until it is proved. You must not think of it, for you have work to do. We all have, every one of us. Slip out and tell the Rev. Lawton-Stanley that I want him, urgently. Will you do that?”

  Slowly she turned her head and stared at him with tear-dimmed eyes. She nodded in assent. Her gaze fell away from his eyes and rested upon his brown hand laid lightly upon her forearm.

  “I love Rose Marie too,” he told her.

  Abruptly he turned and walked swiftly to the door, to the passage and back to the office. He noted the time by the clock. It was twenty minutes to eight. He took up the tele­phone.

  “Hullo!” said a dreamy feminine voice.

  “Dr Scott, please.”

  “Number, please?” came the dreamy voice.

  “This is Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte speaking from the police station. I want Dr. Scott. You know the number. If not, look it up.”

  “The number is Merino 14,” came the now pert voice.

  “Ring me when you get the doctor.”

  As Marshall had done, Bony strode to the window. He saw Mrs Marshall reach the gate and turn westward towards where the evangelist’s truck was parked. A doubt cast a shadow over his mind. Had he been in error, had he always been wrong in accepting the death of human beings by violence in the cold academic manner of the scientist, and not with the righteous indignation of a warm human being? Murders he had always accepted as food for his mind, the victims meaning nothing to him save as the foundation upon which to raise the scaffold to hang the killer. As Marshall had justly pointed out, an additional killing or two meant little whilst his Providence dropped clues into his hands. Had he dawdled? Had he failed in his duty to humanity? Had he permitted his pride to overrule his own humanity?

  Had he …? Oh hell! It was a different proposition when the probable victim of murder was a little child whom he had come to love, a winsome little girl whom young Jason had named Rose Marie. He had scoffed at the Redmans for per­mitting their emotions to trouble them, had boasted of his own scientific coldness. Had Marshall been right?

  The telephone bell shrieked at him.

  “Dr. Scott here,” the staccato voice announced.

  “Good. Bonaparte speaking. Will you come right along to the police station?”

  “Certainly. Has the child been found? Housekeeper just told me about it.”

  “No. I want your assistance—urgently.”

  “Be there in a minute.”

  Bony cut the connexion and then rang the exchange.

  “Is the postmaster on the phone?” he asked the girl.

  “Yes. His number is——”

  “I want him. Get him.”

  “You might be a little civil, Inspector,” she said.

  “I am. Your ears would burn were I uncivil. Get the post­master quick. I’m in a hurry.”

  He slammed down the receiver, then spun about to see standing in the office doorway little Mr Watson and two men standing behind him.

  “Morning!” said Mr Watson smilingly. “You cleaning up here? Where’s the sergeant?”

  “Out. What d’you want?”

  “Oh, just a friendly call on Marshall. These
gentlemen are city colleagues up here to get a little news about the murders. Is it possible that Marshall’s child has been kidnapped, d’you think?”

  “Nonsense. She has walked out in her sleep. Proved sleep­walker.”

  “Interesting,” remarked one of Mr Watson’s companions.

  “Yes, isn’t it!” Mr Watson agreed. “Let me introduce you. This is a friend of mine, Mr Burns—Bony to his friends.”

  “Eh!” ejaculated the other of his companions. “My hat.”

  “Yes. I am Inspector Bonaparte. I have no news for you gentlemen this morning. When I have I shall be happy to impart it to you. Call again at six o’clock this evening.”

  He returned to the shrieking telephone. On lifting the re­ceiver, he heard Marshall’s voice out in the passage, and, plac­ing a hand over the instrument, he called to the sergeant:

  “Show these gentlemen out, Marshall. I am expecting Law­ton-Stanley and Dr Scott.”

  One red hand at the extremity of a large uniformed arm seemed to encircle the three newsmen and draw them out through the doorway. Then the door was slammed shut.

  “Lovell here, the postmaster.”

  “Ah … morning, Mr Lovell. I am Inspector Bonaparte speaking from the police station, and I rang to ask you a favour. It is that you come along here as quickly as possible. I haven’t met you, but I understand that you are a family man, and I am sure you would be only too glad to render all assistance in a most urgent matter.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be right along.”

  Three seconds after he had disconnected, the sergeant and Lawton-Stanley entered the office, followed by the hesitant Mrs Marshall.

  “Got rid of those newsmen?”

  Marshall nodded. To the evangelist Bony said:

  “You have heard that Rose Marie has disappeared. You can do a big part in the search for her. I know you will do it. Listen! Marshall and Gleeson and I are policemen, and we are controlled by far too much damned red tape. Sorry! Here’s your shilling.” As he went on speaking he pulled coins from his pocket, selected a shilling piece, and placed it on the table before Lawton-Stanley, who, without comment, placed it in his collecting box, the pocket of his open-necked shirt.