The Sands of Windee. Arthur W. Upfield
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near the homestead in an effort to pick up tracks near the car. The parties were out more than a week. The blacks could pick up no single tracks. In fact they knew, by the nature of the ground, plus the windstorms, that it was a waste of time looking for tracks.”
“The trackers’ names, please,” requested Bony softly.
“Moongalliti, the king, and Ludbi, one of his sons,” Morris answered.
“Had you ever had occasion to use them before?”
“Yes. Once a stockman’s child was bushed. They found her, but too late. The mite was dead.”
“In comparing their activities on the two occasions, would you say that on the second the trackers were loath to work?”
“Well, yes,” Sergeant Morris admitted. “You see, they knew when Marks left Windee, knew that six days had passed before his abandoned car was found, and remembered those two windstorms. They wouldn’t move and I can’t blame them.”
“Well, well!” murmured the half-caste, rolling his fifth cigarette with slim, pink-nailed, black hands. “Go on.”
“As I stated, the horse parties were out more than a week scouring the country, and they found absolutely no trace of Marks. Considering the nature of the country, ridges of sand a dozen miles all round, excepting in the direction of the homestead, ridges which a windstorm— and there were two of great velocity and of hours’ duration—will move several yards, it would really be improbable for them to have found any trace of Marks.
“Although it was not hot weather, Marks would have circled and circled until he dropped, and if he died at the foot of a ridge on its eastward side, the wind would have blown the ridge on him and buried him beneath tons of sand. Circle he doubtless would do, being a city man.
“To me the only mystery is why he drove his car off the track for ninety yards before he abandoned it. But it may be explained by the fact that he looked an habitual drinker, and in fact got drunk one night in Mount Lion.”
“What condition was he in when he left Windee?” Bony asked.
“Well—slightly drunk,” the sergeant replied disapprovingly. “At lunch Mr Stanton produced a bottle of port, and Marks drank most of it. Drink, I believe, is the foundation of the whole affair. I think he went to sleep in the car, and it ran off the road, just missing two trees, and was eventually stopped by the heavy sand. He probably slept till dark, woke up wondering where he was, and looked about for the track. Forgetting to turn on the headlights in his muddled state, he lost touch with his car and wandered away in a fruitless search for it.”
“Humph!” Bony smoked reflectively.
“That was the only solution at which I could arrive,” Morris concluded, “and Headquarters were entirely in agreement with me.”
“How far from the homestead was the car found?”
“Two miles.”
“Only two miles? Generally that distance from a homestead would be within a night- or horse-paddock, where one or more of the hands would be riding almost daily.”
“There you are right. The car was abandoned in what is called the South Horse Paddock, which is only three miles square. But Mr Stanton had used it temporarily for sheep during shearing, and it had been eaten bare. So there was no stock of any sort in the paddock at that time.”
“Could the car be seen from the track?”
“No. When it left the road it took a wide curve, and stopped close to a large pine-tree. It was discovered by the station bullock-driver and his mate, when they went into that paddock to get pine posts.”
“On the face of it, the case is one of simple death by exposure in the bush,” Bony said slowly. “That is, from your written report. My attention would not have been drawn to that report had it not recently been disclosed that Marks was a member of the New South Wales police attached to the Licensing Branch. His real name was Green. A week or so after he left Sydney several members of the Licensing Branch were examined by a Royal Commissioner on charges of accepting and demanding bribes. You will have heard of it. Green’s name was brought into the examination, and he was missing. The description of your Marks tallies exactly with that of the policeman Green, and the registration particulars of Green’s car are identical with those of Marks’s car.
“Now the policeman Green had served several years at the station of Wilcannia as a mounted trooper. He was an experienced bushman. The day he left Sydney is known. It was the second day of his annual leave, and it was the day after he had drawn the sum of thirteen hundred and seven pounds from his bank. A week before that he had sold house property to the tune of several thousands. Knowing the crash was imminent, he realized all his assets and cleared off with the cash, and doubtless securities as well.
“You see, Sergeant, we now have a horse of a different colour. It is unlikely that Marks, or Green, would have become bushed, even though drunk. Again, we may almost be sure that he had a lot of money and negotiable securities with him. Here we have a motive for murder. Even without your photograph of the abandoned car the case would be attractive enough to me. The photograph, however, is the crowning point, the basis of my conviction that Marks was murdered, not by the bush, but by some white man.”
“And you arrive at that theory from my photo of the car?” exclaimed Morris in amazement.
“Precisely,” Bony said slowly. “When you photographed the car you also photographed evidence of murder which to me is almost irrefutable.”
With obvious delight Bony watched the effect of his bomb. No less than his illustrious prototype did he revel in dramatic situations and startling denouements. His expression then was one of amused satisfaction. He went on:
“This is a case, Sergeant, worthy of my attention. I start my inquiries two months after the crime was committed. Nature has obliterated all tracks, and has had ample time to bury all clues deeply in sand. There is no corpse as a fingerpost to the murderer, as there is in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases in a thousand. Even if I find a corpse, the ants and crows will likely enough have picked the bones nice and clean. There will be no fingerprints; no autopsy is possible; and, because of all this, poor old Bony is going to have a really enjoyable time.”
“But the photograph?” interjected Sergeant Morris.
“I have studied all the famous cases of murder,” Bony proceeded gaily. “Murders committed in Australia, Great Britain, France and America during the last hundred years. My wife, who like myself is an educated half-caste, reads and enjoys dozens of crime mysteries expounded in modern novels——”
“The photograph——”
“In real life and in fiction as well as in stage plays, there is always a fresh corpse lying around for the detective to work on. All so sordid and all so simple to a man of my intelligence! I shall be shocked and disappointed and disillusioned if Mr Luke Marks is still living.”
“Yes, yes. But what of the photograph? What have you learned from it?” demanded the tantalized sergeant.
Bony reached into his unrolled swag and produced a copy of Sergeant Morris’s picture taken with a cheap camera, and handed it to his interrogator.
“Look well!” he cried softly. “You see the car. What else?”
“Nothing but the trees in the background,” the sergeant admitted.
“Ah! But cannot you see in that near tree a bleached sheep-bone attached to a bundle of sticks arranged like a woman’s fan?”
“Yes—I can. By gad!”
“That is a blackfellows’ sign which reads: ‘Beware of Spirits! A white man was killed here!’ ”
Chapter Three
The Boss of Windee
Jeffrey Stanton was a squatter of the blunt, downright type that lived and