Winds of Evil. Arthur W. UpfieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
“It was one of the passengers on the coach who saw the girl lying about twenty-odd yards off the track. The coach brought the girl into the town, as she was alive, and Dr. Mulray took her into his house, where she is now being nursed by her mother and the doctor’s housekeeper.”
“Horrible, Lee. Damnable. How was the unfortunate girl when you left this afternoon?”
“Bad. Not only has she been almost strangled to death, she has received a severe blow to her forehead. She hasn’t yet regained consciousness. According to her mother, a swagman called at the house yesterday afternoon, got some meat, and said he intended camping at Catfish Hole. He hasn’t reached town yet, and when I visited Catfish Hole to interview him he wasn’t there.”
“Probably the man who called here this morning,” Martin cut in. “Wants to see me about a job, I think. He was told to wait until the wind subsided.” The young man abruptly leaned towards the policeman, his face expressing angry determination. “This strangling swine has got to be caught, Lee.”
Lee sighed.
“I wired Broken Hill about it this morning,” he said, in his voice a hint of despair.
“We can only hope they will send a keener man than last time. Shall I call for this swagman?”
“I wish you would, sir. He may be able to tell us something.”
In answer to Martin’s ring a maid appeared, and she was asked to cross to the office building and request the book-keeper to find and bring the swagman to the study. When the door had closed behind her, Martin said slowly:
“Two months ago I recalled the fact that the present Commissioner of the Queensland Police Force was an old friend of my father’s. I wrote him a long description of the two murders committed here, and asked him if he could have a really first-class man sent from Sydney. In his letter to me he said he would send a man, by arrangement with the New South Wales Commissioner, when that man could be released from a case. Now matters have come to such a pass that no man or woman is safe after dark.”
Chapter Four
Joe Fisher
The door of the study was opened to admit two men, the first of whom was the Wirragatta book-keeper. Martin and the constable both ignored the dapper man and concentrated their attention on the swagman. When the door closed behind the retreating book-keeper, the swagman surveyed those at the table. He was of medium height, very dark of skin, very bright-blue of eyes. When he smiled his white teeth emphasized the colour of his skin, and when he spoke Martin’s brows lifted a fraction.
“Gentlemen, you wished to see me?” said the swagman.
“Yes, we do,” Lee growled. “Sit down on that chair. I’ve a few questions to ask.”
The swagman brought the chair indicated and became seated so that he faced both Martin and the policeman.
“I am an adept at answering questions,” he stated lightly, and then, as though prompted by an afterthought, he added, “And at asking them, too. May I smoke?”
At this effrontery Lee frowned heavily and glanced at the squatter. Martin placed the silver cigarette-box nearer the swagman, who took one and lit it, saying:
“Now and then I like a Turkish cigarette, but I have never been able to conquer the habit of rolling my own. My tastes, I fear, are plebeian.”
“Never mind your tastes,” shorted Lee. “Where did you camp last night?”
“At the lower extremity of a sheet of water called, I think, Catfish Hole.”
“What time did you get there?”
“Having no watch, and being unable to see the stars, I cannot reply with accuracy, but it would be about six o’clock. Not later than seven o’clock.”
“What did you do when you got there?”
“I made camp and grilled chops I cadged from a young lady at a selector’s house. After darkness had fallen I rolled my swag in such a manner as to mislead any evil person into thinking I was sleeping there. Then I stole away and sat with my back against a tree all night. It was most uncomfortable physically, but mentally it was comforting.”
“Why did you do that? There are no wild blacks in this State.”
“Yesterday I ate lunch with a fellow swagman who had camped the night before in your jail. In consequence of information received concerning an unknown killer, I decided that a nice big tree-trunk at my back would be a blessing.”
“Oh! What’s your name?”
“Joseph Fisher.”
“I don’t want your nom-de-track. I want your real name.”
“Alas, it is one which humbles me. I am unworthy to bear it, but the responsibility is not mine.” The twinkle in the blue eyes puzzled Martin and angered Lee. “I am Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.”
Lee’s annoyance was swept away by an expression of astonishment.
“Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte!” he almost gasped.
“If you kindly address me as Bony it will be sufficient. I am not a real policeman, at least not at heart. You are, I take it, Mounted-Constable Lee, and you, sir, are Mr. Martin Borradale. I have a letter for you from Colonel Spendor of Brisbane and an official one for you, Lee.”
The contents of the blue envelope apparently were short, for Lee laid it down and stared at Bony until Martin had read the Colonel’s much longer one.
“It has become obvious, Lee, that you are officially interested in me as a swagman. Why? Proceed with the questions you intended to ask.” Lee remembered himself and stood up. “No, no. Please be seated. As Colonel Spendor delights to impress on me, I am not a real policeman. I will take charge after you have completed your questions.”
“Very well, sir. Did——”
“I insist upon being called Bony,” murmured the swagman.
Lee’s jaw firmed. Then he said:
“Bony it is, sir. Did you hear anything out of the ordinary during the night?”
“Er—no. Nothing not quite ordinary. At what I think was about eight o’clock, a car or truck passed along the road over the creek going towards Carie. I reasoned that it was the young lady from the selection and her brother, as she told me she was going to the dance at Carie when she gave me the meat. A car or truck returned from Carie about two o’clock this morning. I assume it was the same people returning from the dance.”
“You heard nothing more; saw nothing?”
“No.”
“You didn’t hear a woman scream or cry out?”
“No—o. But wait. Before the day was utterly gone a curlew screamed as it passed over my camp. Then, about an hour before the car or truck passed on its way south, I heard the curlew again. It seemed then to be near or on the road. That second cry might have been a woman’s scream. The two are not very dissimilar. Why do you ask that?”
“Because the girl, Mabel Storrie, was strangled almost to death near the road where it crosses the creek, less than a quarter of a mile from where you were camped.”
Bony’s long brown fingers ceased all movement when rolling a cigarette.
“Indeed! So the third crime of a similar nature has been committed. But please wait. I would like to have the particulars of them in chronological order. Begin with the details of the first.”
“You have, then, not seen the letter I wrote to Colonel Spendor two months ago?” Martin asked.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Borradale. I would, however, like to hear all the details from Constable Lee. Now I am all attention, Lee.”
“Well,