Then followed an amazing mass of detail relating to Green, alias Marks. As a dossier it was creditably complete, and Bony expressed his satisfaction by seizing his pannikin of tea and drinking the health of theN.S. W. Police Force.
“The report seems to please you,” observed Morris.
“It does, Sergeant! It does!” smiled the gratified Bony. “Now I want you to make dossiers of some other people.”
He rose, and for some little time was absent in his room. On his return he carried several letters and a package, as well as some loose sheets of paper.
“Post these letters and register this package for me, please,” he requested. “You see, I cannot post anything at the office here, excepting letters to my wife. Now here is a list of every white person known to have been within a radius of ten miles of Marks’s abandoned car the day he left Windee homestead. All these people are as fish in my net. Among them is the sting-ray for which I am looking. By my peculiar method of inductive reasoning I have identified all but seven as harmless fish. Among the remaining seven, therefore, is the sting-ray. I wish you to render me a comprehensive report of everything you know and can ascertain of these seven people. Here are their names.”
With quickening interest Sergeant Morris read the list: Jeff Stanton, Young Jeff Stanton, Mr. Roberts, Jack Withers, Ned Swallow, Dot, Dash.
“But I think I’ve told you the history of most of these people,” Morris objected.
“No matter. Get it down in chronological order. One of these seven men killed Marks or Green-we’ll stick to Marks-and one or more of these seven disposed of Marks’s body. If I possess the pasts of these unidentifiable fish, I may dig out of the cemetery of the past one little bone which will ally itself with the sting-ray. Do you think that Headquarters would bring here from North Queensland a very old friend of mine?”
“I don’t know. What do you want him to be brought here for?”
“Not to kiss him,” said the bland Bony. “I want to introduce him to friend Moongalliti.”
“What the deuce for?”
“Because I am sure he will like Moongalliti.” Then Bony became serious: “I intend trying to obtain certain information from Moongalliti,” he explained, in his way of imparting what seemed much but which amounted to little. “My efforts, however, will, I think, be without result. My friend’s method will, I am positive, be more successful. He is a charming person, although I believe he has not washed for sixty-seven years, which is his age. I want you to instruct Headquarters in Sydney to send a man to Burke, in North Queensland, there to get in touch with a tribechiefed by Illawalli. He is to tell this chief that Bony wants him, and is to bring him to me as fast as aeroplanes, trains, and motors can bring him.”
“Instruct Headquarters?” Sergeant Morris gasped.
“No less. If you prefer a request it will be delayed. They’ll want to know why I want Illawalli. Tell them what I have said as though you were the Great Corsican himself. Tell them that if they refuse or delay granting my request I shall throw up the case.”
“Do you often instruct your own Headquarters?” Sergeant Morris asked with forced calmness, although his worship of discipline writhed under this irreverent handling.
“I have found during my career as an investigator of crime that if one wants a thing one has to issue a demand and not seek a favour,” Bony explained calmly. Then with superb vanity he added impressively: “My Headquarters know that I have never failed in a case, and that I am the only detective who has not failed and failed repeatedly. They also know my views about delaying and wasting time.”
Sergeant Morris burst into hearty laughter. He really could not help it. “I will forward your instructions,” he promised, with a purple face.