“Any proved or probable motive?”
“No. The girl had neither money nor jewellery on her person. Although she was pretty and popular, she had no known enemy. Her character was very good.”
“Who conducted the investigation? You?”
“I did what I could. Sergeant Simone, from Broken Hill, took over the case. He failed.”
The grim lines about Lee’s mouth prompted Bony to ask: “Is this Simone a live man?”
“Well, he’s a good policeman, I think.”
“Ah, but a bad detective, eh? You said that the girl’s maternal tribe was camped beside the waterhole. I assume that their gift of tracking was put to full use.”
“Yes, but the blacks hadn’t a chance to work. As I said, the night of November the tenth was like last night, and November the eleventh was even worse than it has been today. The wind blew away the face of the earth. And then Simone didn’t use them right. He wasn’t tactful with ’em. They sneaked away a day or two later and they never came back. They got to fear Simone worse than the blue devil, or the banshee, or whatever they call the evil spirit of the bush.”
“So neither you nor Simone found one clue?”
“No … not a blessed lead.”
“Well, then the second crime, please.”
“The second murder was committed during the night of March the seventeenth this year. There was a young fellow named Frank Marsh, who had returned to Carie the year before, after having served his time to a tinsmith. He turned out to be a good tradesman, and he found plenty of work in this district. At the time of his death he was making water-tanks for Fred Storrie, the selector, and then was camping with the Storries. On the evening of March the seventeenth he visited Carie, and on his way back to the selection he was attacked and strangled to death. Thinking he had stayed in Carie for the night, Storrie didn’t worry about his not turning up for breakfast. A swagman found the body about half past nine the next morning. It was lying between the two back gates on the Common fence.”
“This time, of course, there were no blacks to call on to track?”
“No. As I mentioned, they had all cleared out. And if there had been any handy to work for us they would have been no good.”
“Oh! Why?”
“The weather conditions were exactly the same as when Alice Tindall was killed.”
“Is that so! Who investigated?” Bony asked sharply.
“The same officer—Sergeant Simone.”
“Results?”
“None! The young fellow had been killed just as the girl had been killed and just as senselessly.”
“And last night, or early this morning, in precisely the same weather conditions, this Storrie girl was almost murdered in exactly the same manner?”
Constable Lee nodded gloomily.
“That’s it,” he assented. “She went with her brother to a dance in Carie last night. The brother and the truck were missing when the dance broke up, so she walked home with her sweetheart. On the way they had a tiff, and they parted when half-way to the creek. This morning one of the coach passengers saw her lying several yards off the track. She had been almost strangled to death and she had suffered a severe blow on the forehead, which has rendered her unconscious ever since. If she lives, she’ll be lucky.”
“You have communicated with Broken Hill?”
“Yes,” answered Lee. “If they send Simone again, they should get their heads read.”
Bony chuckled. “If they send anyone—which probably they won’t, knowing I am here—we will hope it is Sergeant Simone. Why don’t you like him?”
It might have been the fact that Bony was not a member of his own State Police Force that made Lee unusually candid when he replied:
“Sergeant Simone may be a good detective in a city or large town, but he’s not the shadow of one when dealing with a bush case. He is too overbearing with bush people. You can’t get anything out of bush people by bullying them.”
Bony nodded approvingly.
“My opinion of you, my dear Lee, is becoming quite favourable,” he said smilingly. “You know, I think I shall thoroughly enjoy myself whilst on this investigation. My thanks are due to you, Mr. Borradale, for drawing my attention to these murders through my revered chief, Colonel Spendor. The Colonel said, ‘Bony, the son of an old friend of mine is being annoyed by a blackguard whose vice is strangling people. Go and get him.’ I said, ‘Do you refer to the blackguard or the friend’s son, sir?’ and he said, ‘Damn you, sir. Don’t you try to be humorous with me’.”
Lee’s mild eyes now were opened to their fullest extent. He was staring as though his ears were faulty, and Bony chuckled.
“This strangling person uses his brain,” Bony went on. “Only the rare murderer does that. In general, murderers are the most stupid of criminals, prone to commit a hundred mistakes. They are more stupid than embezzlers. I believe that it is the fear of the rope which upsets the average murderer and makes him make mistakes. Even the really clever murderer, the odd one in the hundred, will make at least one vital mistake. Not always, however, does the investigator see, or recognize, the mistakes, so that it is always the investigator who fails to sheet home a crime and not the cleverness of the criminal to get away with it. Now permit me.”
Bony pushed back his chair and rose. On moving the cigarette-box, he commanded half the table surface.
“We have here excellent sketching materials,” he murmured as with a finger point he drew on the dusty surface of the polished table a rough map of the locality. He was as facile as a lightning-sketch artist, and both Martin and the policeman were astonished by his accuracy.
“When were you last in the district?” asked Lee.
“I have not been here before, but when in Broken Hill I studied several large-scale maps. Now please point out to me on this sketch where the three victims were discovered.”
With a grimy finger Lee did so.
“Ah!” Bony murmured, and then stood back as though to admire a hung masterpiece. “Yes … very interesting … very. I am glad I came. Thank you, Mr. Borradale. You have put me in your debt. I admire clever murderers immensely—almost as much as I admire myself. Officially I am always delighted to order their arrest. Privately I would like to let them go so that they could commit another murder without making the same mistakes.”
Constable Lee’s face was a study of outraged law. He glared glassily at the now laughing detective. The twinkling blue eyes beamed on Martin, and the squatter could not forbear to chuckle. He had heard of Bony through intimate friends, and he knew the half-caste’s reputation.
“I’m glad that Colonel Spendor consented to get you to lift this horrible shadow from us,” Martin said soberly. “Anything we can do to assist you in your investigation will be readily done. The entire community will be grateful to you if you can apprehend this strangling brute.”
“Without public collaboration a detective’s work is made trebly difficult, Mr. Borradale, and I thank you for your offer of assistance. First, I want my name and rank suppressed. I will work for you, Mr. Borradale, as a casual hand under the name of Joseph Fisher. You can take