The Sands of Windee. Arthur W. Upfield
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with the bridle reins hanging to the ground.
“If you please—Bony,” urged the softer voice.
Sergeant Morris turned. Then he smiled quizzically.
“Bony—if you prefer it.”
“You see, everyone calls me Bony,” the detective explained. “My three children do. So does my chief. Even a State Governor and a British peer have called me Bony. Although I am the greatest detective Australia has ever known, I am unworthy to polish the top-boots of the greatest emperor the world has ever known. I often think, when the humorous matron named me, that she slighted the Little Corporal.”
“He was certainly a wonderful man,” agreed Morris, lighting the twigs placed around the billy. The sergeant’s back was turned towards the other, yet he did not smile, although Bony’s simple vanity tempted him. It was by no means empty vanity, if only a fraction of the half-caste’s activities which had drifted to him through official channels were true. Then: “Are you here, by any chance, to investigate the disappearance of the man Marks?”
“Precisely. Here are my credentials.”
The sergeant stood up, turned, and took from Bony a long blue envelope. It was addressed to him, and, opening it, the enclosure read:
Sydney,
10-10-24
Sergeant Morris,
Mount Lion.
After perusing your report on the Marks case Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte is convinced that it is more serious than a simple bush disappearance. Please render him any assistance for which he may ask. In this matter he will take precedence in authority. Report superintendent.
(Signed) J. T. TOMLINSON,
Chief Commissioner, N.S.W.
Placing the document in a pocket of his smart blue tunic, Sergeant Morris produced a tobacco-pouch and papers and made and lit a cigarette before voicing a comment. He was not free from a feeling of annoyance, for he had thought that the mysterious Marks case was satisfactorily disposed of. The whole affair had occasioned him much arduous labour, and if the result had been indefinite it had given satisfaction in that there could have been no other. The feeling of annoyance was engendered by the fact that his conclusion had a loophole called doubt, and that here was a man who had found the loophole and would probably disagree with all that had been done and require the case to be investigated over again. And then annoyance gave way to pleasant anticipation of seeing this noted sleuth at work; for not only was Sergeant Morris an administrator, he was also an enthusiast in the science of crime detection. The tea made, and poured into an enamelled pannikin and the billy-lid in lieu of a second cup, he seated himself opposite Bony, saying:
“Marks disappeared two miles out from the homestead of Windee Station. Rain obliterated tracks, but the surrounding country was well searched. He had a motive for disappearing. What is your theory?”
“I think it quite probable that Marks was murdered,” Bony replied seriously. “If eventually I discover he is not murdered, I shall be bitterly disappointed.”
Then he laughed at the expression on the sergeant’s face, and went on:
“I have taken charge of perhaps two dozen murder cases during my career, and of that number only four were really worthy of my brains. As a general rule, murderers are the most stupid of criminals. Almost invariably they leave a corpse to damn them. A few murderers cut up their victims for the police to discover. Never yet was a perfect murder, but this affair of Marks I am hopeful will come near to it. Consequently I am interested. Nowadays, if there is a corpse in the roadway, or on the doorstep, or lying on the library floor, it fails to interest me. It is too simple—too banal.”
Chapter Two
Disappearance of Luke Marks
I happened to be at Police Headquarters in Sydney recently on the Cave versus Black cattle-duffing case,” Bony explained in his soft, musical, drawling voice. “There I was shown your report and photograph concerning this Marks affair. Although your report was comprehensive, it failed to answer one or two obviously important questions. Your chief was agreeable to my coming, but my chief ordered me to return to Brisbane.” “And you’re here?” Sergeant Morris said with faint interrogation.
“I wired my chief saying that I had come across an interesting murder case, and again asked his permission to take it up. Again he ordered me to return. Sometimes, Sergeant, I am annoyed by people thinking that I am a policeman to be ordered about like a private soldier, whereas I am a crime investigator.”
Bony chuckled. Morris was frankly perplexed.
“Well?” he urged.
“I wired my immediate resignation, adding that I would demand reinstatement when I had finalized the case to my satisfaction.”
As a disciplinarian the sergeant was horrified. He was acquainted, however, with the facts relating to Bony’s joining the detective force of Queensland, which he did with no less a rank than that of detective-sergeant. He was badly needed in Queensland, first for his supreme tracking powers, and quickly afterwards for his bush knowledge and reasoning ability. He demanded the high rank, and his terms were granted, and within a very few years he had justified his rank and on special occasions his services were eagerly sought by and loaned to the police chiefs of other States.
One of the half-caste’s few vices was a prodigious vanity. Yet this vanity was based on concrete results. His record was something to be vain of. His particular vice, however, was sometimes a source of irritation to his chief, for unless a case possessed unusual features Bony refused to take it up. For this reason his resignation had been demanded and tendered a dozen or more times, invariably to be followed by a request to resume his position when the next baffling bush tragedy took place; whereupon his superiors were only too glad to condone his indifference to authority and red tape for the sake of his unique gifts in the clearing up of crime.
“You think, then, your commissioner will reinstate you?” Sergeant Morris countered.
“Decidedly.” Bony laughed gently. “Colonel Spender will turn blue in the face and swear worse than a bullock-driver, but I am what I am because I do not stultify my brains on ordinary policeman’s-beat cases. Now detail to me this Marks affair. I will question as you proceed, entirely forgetful of your report.”
“Very well,” Morris assented. For a few moments he was silent, whilst he drew a rough plan on the red sandy ground with a small stick. Then:
“On August seventeenth a fellow calling himself Luke Marks arrived at Mount Lion in a Chevrolet car, and put up at the only hotel in the place. He gave out that he was a Sydney business-man engaged on a motor holiday trip. He said he was an old friend of Mr Jeffrey Stanton, owner of Windee Station, and would visit Mr Stanton before he went on south to Broken Hill. I saw Marks only once—when I went through the hotel after hours to see that only genuine travellers were on the premises. He was thick-set, about five feet ten, brown hair and eyes, aged about fifty. He stayed at Mount Lion two days before driving off to Windee in the morning. It is only eighteen miles, and he arrived there at twelve-fifteen. He lunched with Mr Stanton, and left at half-past two to go to Broken Hill.”
The uniformed man prodded his stick into the ground. “Here is Mount Lion. Here, eighteen miles south-west of the township, is Windee homestead. To go to Broken Hill from Windee it is unnecessary to turn back through Mount Lion. The Broken Hill track branches from the Mount Lion track two miles from the homestead, going direct south-east. The junction of the tracks is ten miles from the south boundary, and about the same distance from the east boundary, of Windee.
“Six days after Marks left the homestead his car was found four chains off the road north of the junction. It was in perfect order. There was no sign of Marks. The country all about is a maze of low sand-ridges on which grow pine trees with a sprinkling of mulga.
“I was notified by telephone and went out at once to the abandoned car. Of tracks there were none, for