Winds of Evil. Arthur W. Upfield
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suggested; never ordered.
“Did anyone ring up this morning—or call?” she asked, reaching for the cigarettes.
“No, Miss Borradale. Oh—but then, of course, he wouldn’t count. A swagman came about eleven asking to see Mr. Borradale. Cook told him to go and camp till the wind dropped, as she wasn’t going to have Mr. Borradale disturbed a day like this.”
“Poor man,” Stella said feelingly. “Did cook give him anything to eat?”
The maid shook her head.
“Oh, well, Mary, bring tea and toast. I will slip along to Mr. Borradale and see what he would like.”
Stella found her brother standing before the windows gazing out upon the red fog which now completely masked the orange-trees but a few yards distant. Her quick glance found his dressing-gowned figure instantly, noted the unusual orderliness of this most masculine room, its quiet furnishing, the occupant’s day clothes neatly folded and hung over a chair-back. Like all other rooms in the house today, the air in this was stale and clammy. At her entry Martin turned.
“Hullo, old girl! Just plain hell outside, isn’t it?”
“Just that, dear,” she agreed. “I am going to have tea and toast for lunch in consideration for cook and her difficulties—especially her temper.”
“That will suit me. Might I have it here? I don’t feel like dressing yet. Anyone telephone?”
“No. A swagman called at eleven, and cook told him to wait till the storm had died down. He wanted to see you.”
“Oh! Wants a job, I suppose.” Martin sighed. “Well, thank the Lord I’m not a swagman.”
Assured that her brother had recovered from the exertions of the previous evening, Stella returned to her room and suggested to the maid that a tray be taken to Mr. Borradale.
The afternoon was worse than had been the morning. When many women would have reviled the country and the temporarily uncomfortable conditions, Stella Borradale felt concern and sympathy for the stockmen in their rough huts, the team of dam-sinkers in their unprotected tents, and the two boundary-fence riders who patrolled the netted frontiers of this nine-hundred-thousand-acres kingdom called Wirragatta. She thought particularly of one of these fence-riders, Donald Dreyton, a man who mystified her, and she pictured him crouched in the only shelter provided by stacked camel-saddles.
Yet there was one man who compelled his horse to face the blast of hot, sand-laden wind and ride to Wirragatta shortly after four o’clock. When the maid entered Stella’s room with afternoon-tea she informed her mistress that Mounted-Constable Lee desired to see Mr. Borradale.
“This afternoon!” exclaimed Stella, glancing at the windows. “On an afternoon like this! Tell cook I would like her to offer Mr. Lee tea and cakes in the morning-room. Cook will be unable to expose the butter.”
Remembering not to frown because of two vertical lines which would appear between her brows, understanding that the cause of the policeman’s visit must be serious—otherwise he would have telephoned on a day like this—Stella again entered Martin’s room, to find him stretched on his bed reading. What he instantly saw in her eyes caused a tightness at the corners of his mouth, and as she spoke she watched this tightness grow tauter still.
“Lee called?” he cried sharply. “Where is he?”
“Making the best of what cook is able to provide. Will you have some tea before you see him?”
“Yes. I’ll dress at once.”
He was trying to keep the horror out of his eyes, but she saw it and whispered:
“Do you think—again? Those other two were killed in weather like last night.”
For ten seconds both stared at the other. Then Martin’s body relaxed, and he said with forced calm:
“Let’s hope not. By God, let’s hope not.”
When, half an hour later, the dust-grimed policeman was taken to the study he found Martin newly shaved and dressed in flannels.
“Ha, Lee! What on earth has brought you here on a filthy day like this?” inquired the squatter, indicating a chair flanking the writing-table. A silver box of cigarettes was set between them, and Lee accepted one. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
Mounted-Constable Lee was phlegmatic. He grinned at Martin, but without humour. Only after his cigarette had been lit did he answer.
Lee was a large, lean man. His hair was sandy in colour and thin, and his clipped moustache was like his hair. Pale blue eyes seemed always to regard the world with wonder, as though his slow but tenacious brain failed to understand why men troubled themselves to break laws.
“Sir,” he began, and paused. “Carie has been stirred up again, and remembering how you, as a sitting justice, kindly assisted me with sound advice when Alice Tindall was murdered two years ago, and when young Marsh was murdered last March, I thought you wouldn’t decline to advise me about one or two points regarding this last crime.”
“Certainly, Lee. What has happened? Not another murder?”
“Early this morning the girl, Mabel Storrie, was nearly strangled to death. This time the Strangler didn’t complete his foul work. Before I relate the facts I’d like you to answer a question or two.”
“Very well. Carry on. What is it?” demanded the squatter, his eyes narrowed.
“What time did you and Miss Borradale get home last night?”
“I don’t really know. Some time after midnight, I think.”
“Perhaps Miss Borradale would know,” suggested Lee, exhibiting that mental tenacity which his wife termed pig-headedness. “I’d like to know for certain.”
“I will ask her. I’ll not be a moment.”
During Martin’s absence Constable Lee produced a long notebook and went over the notes he had made since the arrival of the mail-car from Broken Hill that morning. He was thus engaged when the squatter returned.
“My sister says that we got back at twenty-five minutes after twelve,” Martin announced, dropping into his chair and selecting a cigarette.
“Humph! You came to town in the car last night. Which way did you return home?”
“By the direct track.”
“That’s to say, you took the Broken Hill road to the Common fence, then came through your own gate on to your own country and so direct here?”
“Yes. Why are you so interested in our movements?”
“I wanted to know the way you came home last night because if you had followed the Broken Hill road, to Nogga Creek, turned in there through your boundary gate, and so come home along the creek, you might have seen someone or something of a suspicious nature.”
“We saw no one. The last person we saw was yourself standing under the door light of the hotel.”
Lee sighed and put away the notebook. Martin could see that he was laboriously marshalling his facts, and that to hurry him would be worse than useless. Even then the constable had to jerk his heavy body upward and the hem of his tunic downward before he spoke.
“Just after eight o’clock last night,” he began, “Mabel Storrie and young Tom drove to Carie on their father’s truck. When the dance broke up at one-thirty this morning Tom Storrie and the truck were missing. This being so, Barry Elson undertook to escort Mabel home on foot. They were seen to leave the hall, and I saw them pass the hotel shortly after one-thirty.
“When they got a bit beyond the Common gate they fell into argument. Mabel objected to her boy kissing her because he had been drinking. She told him she didn’t want his escort, and, in a huff, he left her to go on alone when they were half-way to Nogga Creek.
“Fred