Bony - 05 - Winds of Evil

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “I will do that,” Bony said simply.

  “Thank you, inspector. Now please go,” Martin said sharply. “You will get up from the chair and march to the window. You will pass out to the veranda and then shut the window. I would like to do what I must do away from the house, but I had to call you here to explain matters and ask you to grant those few requests.”

  Slowly Bony stood up. He stood then with his hands stiffly at his sides, less from fear of the revolver than from a per­haps unwarranted respect for the man before him. When he began to speak his voice almost failed.

  “Mr. Borradale, yours is the most terrible story to which I have ever had the misfortune to listen,” he said. “I am in the position to believe every word of it. I leave you of my own free will. To arrest you, assuming I managed to do so, and to thrust you into the torturing vortex of a murder trial, with its inevitable result, would be beyond me. I shall not make any attempt to bar your way of escape. At this moment I thank God I am not a real policeman, mindful of his oath, a Javert, a Sergeant Simone. I feel honoured by knowing you—a man who can think of others at this moment, and a man who sees clearly the road he should take and who has the courage to tread it.”

  Martin’s mouth quivered.

  “Thank you, inspector,” he said, almost whispering.

  Bony’s eyes were shining.

  “My friends call me Bony,” he said.

  “Thank you again, Bony!”

  “Good-bye!” sighed the detective who was not a real policeman.

  At the window he turned to look back to see the squatter still standing beyond the table, the flickering lamp light giv­ing a marble-like passivity to his agonized face. The revolver was no longer pointed at him as he said with his hand on the window catch:

  “I am going straight across to the office, Mr. Borradale. The garden is large and the wind is loud. A shot here may frighten Miss Borradale. You may trust me, for I am a man of honour.”

  Bony bowed, opened the window, left it invitingly open, and walked direct to the picket fence, jumped over it and so crossed to the office building. In the office he found Con­stable Lee talking with Dreyton. Dreyton stared hard at him, and Lee said:

  “I am glad you have come in. Can I now speak to you officially before Donald Dreyton?”

  “Yes,” Bony said very, very softly. He appeared to be list­ening, and Dreyton thought it peculiar. About them the storm roared and whined. Beyond the windows was nothing but a blank wall of red sand.

  “Very well, sir. We have found out that Hang-dog Jack’s hands are not burned with that paste stuff. Elson swears that the Strangler got his hands pressed to the iron collar. Ser­geant Smithson reckons that we made a mistake.”

  “The sergeant should reckon that he made a mistake, not us,” Bony pointed out. Still he listened, and still Dreyton regarded him curiously. Lee was addressing this half-caste as sir, whom he had known as Joe Fisher.

  Bony expelled his pent breath. Then he said, still very, very softly, “If, my dear Lee, it is not the cook, it must——”

  Above the yelling of the wind there came to them the sound of the shot.

  “—— must be the cook’s master,” Bony whispered.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Dreyton shouted.

  Lee and Bony were staring at the featureless wall of sand-dust sliding eastward beyond the opened office door. Bony turned to the frigid constable.

  “From now on, Lee, you will exercise extreme reticence,” he said with unexpected firmness. “Do you understand?”

  Constable Lee stood at attention. His eyes were full of knowledge.

  He replied, “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The End—And A Beginning

  CARIE’S ONE STREET with its flanking buildings, the flock of goats passing the police station, old Smith standing at the door of his shop, and Grandfer Littlejohn holding audience with two men and three women: the distant line of trees bordering Nogga Creek, the far sand-dunes, and the nearer Common gates—everything and everyone was seen this evening by Mrs. Nelson as though in her spectacles were red lenses.

  Above the township and the bluebush plain hung vast red cloths black within their deep folds. The wind had dropped almost to a calm, and it was coming, cool and sweet, from the south. The sun was setting and its oblique rays were being filtered through slowly falling sand-mist to strike full upon the celestial draperies now being majestically drawn away to the east.

  When Mrs. Nelson, who was standing at the south end of her topmost veranda, held out her hands for inspection she saw them to be as though recently dipped in blood. There was no escaping this colour out of doors. It even transmuted the diamonds and sapphires in her rings into rubies.

  Only now had she been able to leave her rooms in which she had been imprisoned for two days by the sun-lifted and wind-driven sand. She stood straight and sturdy, thankfully breathing the cool air, wonderingly watching the amazing sky above her coloured world. The soul of this woman was stirred, and she suffered vexation when a light step behind her broke a train of thought.

  The man she knew as Joe Fisher stood before her when she turned. His blue eyes were soft, almost appealing.

  “Madam, I am the bearer of sad news,” he said gently. “It is of your son about whom I have come to speak.”

  Instantly the dark eyes widened and the fragile lips were compressed. For three seconds she stared up at him before saying sharply, “My son!”

  “Your son, Mrs. Nelson!”

  For the first time Bony saw this woman shrink.

  “My son! What do you know? Who are you?”

  “I am an investigating police officer. Will you not sit down and invite me to bring a chair from the sitting-room?”

  Mrs. Nelson nodded, her face white, her eyes anguished. When Bony became seated a little to her front she said softly, “My son! Tell me, please.”

  “When I was told that old man Borradale wept when he read the service over the body registered as your child I knew that he wept over the body of his own son, Mrs. Nelson. You must prepare yourself for a great shock. Your son, known as Martin Borradale, is dead.”

  “Dead!”

  Bony averted his gaze from her stricken face.

  “Dead,” he repeated. “He died this morning a brave and an honourable man—by his own hand.”

  Swiftly Bony related everything he had that morning been told by the young man in the Wirragatta bedroom, and of the trap prepared to ensnare the Strangler.

  “I did not enlighten your son regarding his parentage,” Bony continued. “The only people who know that are Miss Borradale, Dreyton, Doctor Mulray, and our two selves.”

  “Tell me all you know,” the woman commanded.

  “Your son was born on the third of January, 1910. Doctor Tigue attended you and Mrs. Littlejohn nursed you. The following day Mrs. Borradale’s baby was born, and it died. Mrs. Borradale and her husband had been eagerly looking forward to the coming of their first born, and so ill was the lady that Dr. Tigue feared to tell her it was dead. Mr. Borra­dale and old Grandfer Littlejohn——”

  “Yes, yes!” Mrs. Nelson interrupted. “Mr. Borradale thought of me and my baby and of John, whom he had caused to be locked up for safety’s sake. Mrs. Borradale was crying for her child … and it was dead. Mr. Borradale and old Littlejohn brought the dead baby to my little home. He pointed out to me that my child would be badly handi­capped by his drunken father, and he offered me five thou­sand pounds to make the exchange.

  “You and the others who know, and the world who will know, must not be too hard on me. It wasn’t all on account of the money. My husband was fast being ruined by some­thing other than drink. His father was mad before him, and my John was mad, too. We were very poor, but up to the time my son was born I didn’t mind that so very much. Underneath everything, despite his goings on, my John was a wonderful man. But … there was the creeping madness and the drink. Mr. Borradale offered my baby a life filled with op
portunities if I consented to the exchange. He paid me five thousand pounds and Mrs. Littlejohn another thou­sand pounds. And I am glad I allowed the exchange. I am glad, glad, glad that I sold my baby for five thousand pounds. I have watched him grow up a fine man, a wealthy squatter, a Justice of the Peace.

  “When Dr. Tigue died without kith or kin, he willed me all his few possessions. I already owned the house and fur­niture. From his books I tore out the page relating to the babies, and I tore out the page concerning the neck injuries I got when poor John nearly strangled me in one of his fren­zies. His father was put away because he almost strangled a woman.”

  “That injury left scars, did it not?” Bony said. “When Mabel Storrie accidentally saw them you closed her mouth with the gift of an expensive ring.”

  Mrs. Nelson nodded.

  “You seem to know everything,” she said. “Yes, my poor John was always queer. Before Martin was born he nearly strangled me one night when he returned home. He was perfectly sober, I know. He very nearly killed me after we had taken over the hotel, and it was then that I got these scars. Ah, me! What chance did Martin ever have, what with his father and his father’s father back of him? What chance did he have for all his wonderful upbringing? Som­nambulism! It was something much deeper than that—an inherited evil which came with the wind.

  “Yes, I knew who killed Alice Tindall and Frank Marsh, and who almost killed Mabel Storrie. It could have been none other than John Nelson’s son, my baby, whom I sold for five thousand pounds.”

  The small, blue-veined hands were being twisted over and over each other. The little china-white face was kept turned to Bony, and the small, dark eyes, anguished and tear-filled, began suddenly to search his.

  “What could I have done?” she asked plaintively. “Could I denounce my own son? Could I give up to the police my own child? I didn’t, anyway, and I’m glad, glad, glad that I didn’t. As for poor John! No woman ever loved a man as I loved him. Even when he was the cause of selling my baby I didn’t cease to love him. But I bought this hotel in order that he would die before he was taken away to an asylum, if he didn’t murder me. I have made money, my friend, but I have done a little good with it. I have worked and suf­fered, but I have been repaid with years of peace and hap­piness watching my son grow to splendid manhood. I … I. …”

  The small voice trailed into silence.

  “He is to be buried tomorrow, and Miss Borradale thought you might like to see him,” Bony said gently. “Per­haps we could arrange a secret visit to Wirragatta tonight.”

  “That is kind of Miss Borradale. She takes after her sainted mother. But … but I will not see Martin. I want to remember him as he was—the Squatter of Wirragatta.”

  Bony noted her pride in the fact that her son had become a squatter. In her young years squatters had been like powerful princes of the bush.

  Then Mrs. Nelson said, “So you are a policeman. What are you going to do with me?”

  “Do with you? Why, nothing,” he replied, astonished. “For Barry Elson’s sake, as well as for the peace of mind of the people here, it must become public that Martin was responsible for these tragedies. Nothing, however, will be made public concerning Martin’s parentage, for no good to anyone could be derived from such a disclosure. You will accept my very sincere sympathies, will you not?”

  The white-haired head nodded and sank forward, to be supported by the beringed hands. Bony stood up.

  “I must leave you now,” he said. “Is there anything I could do?”

  “No, thank you, excepting to ask Tilly to come to me.”

  And so Bony left her. In the dining-room he found Tilly.

  “Tilly, your mistress wishes you to go to her. She has had bad news, but she will want you not to question her.”

  Tilly’s plain face bore an expression of anxiety.

  “All right, Joe. Did they—have they had any news of Harry out there at Westall’s? That sand——”

  Bony said firmly, “Harry will be coming back in the near future to become boss stockman at Wirragatta, and to marry a certain young lady. Good-bye, Tilly, and life-long happi­ness.”

  On his return to Wirragatta Bony asked to see Stella Borra­dale, and was shown into the morning-room, which already had been cleaned. Stella greeted him bravely enough, but the signs of tears were still evident.

  “Will you sit down?”

  “Thank you, Miss Borradale,” he said. “I have been talk­ing to Mrs. Nelson and she confirms my history of Martin’s birth. She does not wish to see him, wishing to remember him as he was. That part of this very sad and terrible case will never be made public. She was very brave about it. Now that we know everything we must admit her sterling qualities.”

  Stella compressed her lips to stop their trembling.

  “I will go to her … after … tomorrow evening. I shall always remember him as my dear and splendid brother. Oh Bony! He was so fine and generous. It wasn’t … it wasn’t really Martin who did——”

  “No, Miss Borradale. The man who left his bed to climb among trees was not Martin Borradale, but Martin Nelson. The man we knew was Martin Borradale. The other was born during a raging sand-storm. He inherited his father’s mental disease and was controlled by the peculiar condi­tions of these wind-storms, which affect his mother and many others as well. The man we knew took the brave and the honourable course by slaying that evil born in a sand-storm.”

  “My brother Martin! I can’t help it, Bony.”

  Bony continued to talk to her for some little while, tell­ing her of Martin’s wish concerning the advancement of Harry West, and of Hang-dog Jack, whose injuries were not as serious as had at first been thought, and which would permit him to return to work in a few days.

  “I have a long report to write,” he said, presently, rising to stand at her side. “Donald Dreyton wishes to see you. May I ask him to come here?”

  It was strange, he thought, that Stella Borradale should be seated just as Mrs. Nelson was seated when he left her.

  Stella nodded, saying with forced calmness, “Yes, I will see him here.”

  The brilliance of the stars was remarkable. Without being conscious of it, Bony filled his lungs with the cool fragrant air several times during the crossing to the office building where, at his table in the office, Dreyton was found, his pipe forgotten, his eyes expressive of anxiety.

  “I thought you would not object to me writing a long report here, Mr. Dreyton,” Bony exclaimed. “There is, too, a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

  Dreyton nodded.

  “Very well, Mr. Bonaparte.”

  Bony drew a chair to the opposite side of the table at which Dreyton sat, and at once began the manufacture of cigarettes.

  “You have not been very helpful, Mr. Dreyton,” he began, “but then you did not know I was supposed to be a police officer. Had you confided in me as you did in Mr. Borradale—for we will always refer to Martin as Mr. Borradale—about that piece of cloth you found in the tree and one or two other discoveries you made, I would have been saved a portion of mental labour. However, I think none the less well of you.

  “I have just left Miss Borradale in the morning-room. Naturally she is still profoundly shocked, but she is think­ing of Saint George and the Dragon. Er—in the course of my investigation I found it necessary to know all about you. I want you to read this document. It concerns you.”

  The other’s blue-grey eyes stared from the detective to the pinned pages of typescript slipped across the table. Without speaking, Dreyton accepted it and began to read. Bony, with a cigarette between his lips, lay back in his chair and found much of apparent interest in the lamp suspended above them. He heard Dreyton exclaim. He heard the papers rust­ling. Then he heard Dreyton sigh. When again he encoun­tered the blue-grey eyes he saw in them a great hope.

  Bony said, “Before Martin Borradale shot himself he in­formed me about a matter I have not mentioned to anyone. He said that he had long desired to have you in th
is office, and for several reasons. He wanted you here because he felt he was losing his grip on affairs generally, and because he liked you very much, and his sister liked you, too. He had a particular idea concerning his sister and you, and in his will he has bequeathed you his half-share of Wirragatta.

  “Wait, please. Your preference for the fence-work over this office work, with its accompanying privileges, mystified me not a little. Even now I am not absolutely sure of that reason. However, I rather think that the reason was worthy of the nephew of Admiral Sir Reginald Dreyton, and the son of Captain Dreyton. Pardon my seeming impertinence—I may be excused, for I am serving the dead—but I be­lieve now that the reason no longer exists. When I left Miss Borradale I told her you wanted to see her at once. She is waiting to receive you in the morning-room. My dear man, if ever a woman needs comforting——”

  With a clatter, Dreyton’s chair was pushed back, and he was on his feet. He looked like a man gazing on a glorious vision.

  “You are a strange fellow,” he said, and almost ran to the door.

  “And you,” loudly asserted Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, “are another!”