Bony’s Cramp
FOR BONY and his companions, sound continued, but sight did not. The storm had approached with a low humming, reminding the detective of a child’s top at a distance. For a few moments the vast wall of sand towered above menacingly, threatening to bury them by toppling forward. Then its dark base swept upon them with a gentle hiss, and at once daylight vanished.
To cry out was impossible, for to open the mouth meant to draw into the lungs the choking sand particles. Even to talk was out of the question. After a period of staggering about in search of escape, Bonylay full length on the ground, and by pressing his mouth against his outstretched arms filtered the air a little.
Day was turned into blackest night. All about him, Bony heard a faint, persistent hissing sound, as though of escaping steam. It was caused by the incessant rain of sand particles falling like hard snowflakes.
Softly at first and then gradually submerging the faint hissing, there came to Bony’s ears the low hum of motor engines, a humming which rose and fell rhythmically. Surely no one possibly could drive a car through this sand cloud! Ah-it was no car! It was an aeroplane. There could be no doubt about it. An aeroplane aloft in this sand cloud! It seemed almost impossible. Poor devils-lost, without doubt! It was only a matter of time when the sand would choke the engines, and then there must be a fatal crash.
For long minutes he lay still, breathing carefully through his nostrils. When he did move his head he felt the electric trickle of sand slide off his neck. It was his first expedience of such a storm, but he had heard of this extremely rare phenomenon, and, provided he was not suffocated to death, the unpleasantness would be a small price to pay for the extraordinary nature of the experience.
Bony was still triumphant over the discovery of the fibres of wool. He now had definite proof that some person, wishing to prevent his passage through the bush being discovered, had used sheep’s wool on his feet in place of feathers. Probably the person had worn slip-over boots of sheepskin with the wool on the outside. Bony himself had adopted this method more than once. The trouble taken to baffle possible trackers most certainly pointed to a deliberate act of incendiarism. Yes, this case was certainly yielding to his assault on it. Then there was that boss stockman. He certainly was a puzzle. A likeable enough fellow and evidently half in love with his employer’s daughter. And yet there was his apparent failing for alcohol. There was something behind that trip to Gurner’s Hotel for a bottle of whisky and Bony’s old friend, intuition, warned him that all was not right in that quarter. Why had Ted Sharp deliberately told him a lie about having gone to Mitchell’sWell? Why, when he could have admitted having gone to the hotel for whisky and then asked the detective not to divulge the fact to his employer? He must have known that his confidence would have been respected.
There was no necessity to tell a lie about so unimportant apoint, and further to cover the lie by telephoning to Ned Hamlin to endorse it. It was a thread that would have to be followed to the end…
The aeroplane up aloft seemed to be constantly circling as though desperately searching for a landing ground. Time went on, and yet after all it was not long before the darkness lightened, despite his tightly-closed eyes. When he did open them and raised his head, Bony saw the world bathed in blood: it was like looking on it through crimson-coloured glasses. The sun was blood-red and of gigantic size. Its light was crimson. Above, the long streamers of sand were deep red against the lighter red of the clear sky westward of them. When the two blacks stood up they looked as though they had waded through a river of blood. The trees were drenched with blood.
The hum of the aeroplane engines became a thunderous roar, and, looking upward, Bony saw the machine, a large twin-enginedbiplane. It came sliding from above the sand streamers into the clear sky, a thing of superb grace and power.
And now, second by second, the light was changing in colour from crimson to yellow, from yellow to natural daylight. Bony waved to someone who waved from the plane, and then stood watching it flying to the south towards Emu Lake. It finally disappeared beyond the southern scrub.
“Cripes, Bony!” laughed the fat Shuteye. “You look like you bin sleep in a dog’s kennel.”
“You look as bad,”chuckled Bony. “And so do you, Bill Sikes. Well, our tracking is at an end, and there is nothing more to do here. You can both go home. I will return after I have visited Emu Lake to see who was in that aeroplane. And not a word, mind, about finding those fibres of wool. Not even to Ned Hamlin. You understand?”
“Too right!” assented Bill Sikes, and was echoed by his mate.
Bony stood and watched them riding away, theirhorses hoofs kicking up the superfine dust laid by the storm. He wetted a handkerchief from the water-bag and sponged his own horse’s dust-rimmed eyes and nostrils, and then, having taken a long drink, he mounted and rode at a jog-trot to Emu Lake.
The bush presented an extraordinary picture. On every projection provided by tree and shrub and grass and debris the red-brown sand lay like coloured snow. It thickened tree boughs and twigs, while the finer particles of sand dust clung to the leaves and grass stems. The few general colours of the bush were now overlaid by the uniform reddish-brown of sand. The air was motionless, and when, ahead of him, two crows settled in a leopard-wood tree, the slight vibrations set up by the birds so dislodged the settled sand that the tree seemed to shed some kind of vapour.
Bony experienced a pleasurable sense of elation when riding briskly southward to Emu Lake. The sun announced the time as being about three o’clock. His mind was busy creating theories and even fantasies based on the established fact that some person had taken every care not to leave his tracks when he had visited the red monoplane for the purpose of setting fire to it-he could have had no other object in mind.
To begin with, the theft of the aeroplane at Golden Dawn had not been actuated by the motive of gain-possession of the machine or its value in money. The drugging of the woman passenger implied that it had been stolen for the purpose of taking her somewhere from some place. The pilot had schemed either to land her in some selected spot, or to leave her to crash with the machine over country he knew was not being used for stock. There was a third supposition that might hold the water of plausibility. While journeying to some previously noted destination the engine might have ceased to function, and knowing that in the dark a forced landing was certain to be accompanied by grave danger, the pilot might have deserted the plane by parachute to save himself.
With Sergeant Cox, Bony keenly regretted the omission of John Nettlefold to search the machine before he and his daughter left with the drugged young woman. They might have found her handbag, or an article of clothing giving a clue to her identity. There certainly was something in or on the machine to have made its destruction so important. What was it the incendiarist had feared? If it was the discovery of something that could easily have been moved the destruction was senseless. He destroyed the plane because on it and its controls were his fingerprints.
Whose fingerprints? Those of the pilot, the person who had stolen the machine from Golden Dawn. Then the pilot was either a local resident or one well known to the police in a general way. More than likely a local resident, because, having heard that the machine was resting quite undamaged on Emu Lake, he had walked to it in the dark. That certainly indicated that he was a local resident and one, moreover, who new the country very well. Yes, if the girl herself was unknown to Cox and the Coolibah people, the pilot of the stolen aeroplane certainly was not. There must be living in the Golden Dawn district a man other than the doctor and Kane who possessed the requisite knowledge and experience expertly to handle an aeroplane.
It was a pretty problem, one that satisfied even Bony, who was seldom satisfied. In this case there was only one disturbing element-the grave physical condition of the girl at Coolibah. Bony liked to spend plenty of time on an investigation but here the situation called for haste, because Knowles had said that if the cause of her singular condition were not cleared up, it might be impossible to find a cure in time to save her life.
It might be that only the clearing up of the matter of the stolen aeroplane would give the medico the information he needed. After all, it is difficult for any doctor to cure a complaint of that kind, when he has no idea of its cause.
So engrossed was Bony by these thoughts that the four-mile ride passed without the usual interest being taken in it He failed to note that his horse left a trail of fine dust hanging in the air, and tracks of exceeding clarity on the ground. He failed to notice the rabbit that sped across the ground before him and flung up a trail of dust in miniature, much like that raised by a car speeding along a dry track. He had ridden down the low bank edging the lake before he realized that he had reached it.
Having secured the horse to a tree, he hurried with eager steps to the aeroplane, and the two men engaged among the debris of the burnt machine. So absorbed were they that his approach went unnoticed, until he said: “Good afternoon!”
Mr Cartwright and the airman straightened up and faced round to see a poorly-dressed, slightly-built man on whose arms and face clung particles of red sand, and whose worn shirt and trousers were stained red.
“Hullo!” returned Loveacre. “Where did you come from?”
Bony smiled. “I am just out for an afternoon ride. Who, may I ask, are you?”
The captain’s browsrose a fraction. The voice and style of speech were singularly at variance with the appearance of this blackfellow-or half-caste, or whatever he was. The insurance assessor offered a shrewd guess.
“Are you, by any chance, Mr Napoleon Bonaparte?”
Bony bowed gravely. “I am. You gentlemen have the advantage, it seems.”
“My name is Cartwright, and this is Captain Loveacre.” announced the interested fire assessor. “I was hoping to meet you, as I believe you are in charge of this extraordinary matter. I have been sent by the Air Accidents Investigation Committee to ascertain if this fire was caused by incendiarism or by an act of God.”
“Then, naturally, Captain Loveacre is even more interested in the wreckage.”
“I am extremely interested, Inspector,” Loveacre assured Bony with emphasis. “If ever you find out who did it, I would be eternally grateful if you just mention his name and give me a few minutes with him in private.”
“Have you discovered any leads yet?” asked Cartwright.
“Tell me, first, whatyou have discovered,” said Bony cautiously.
“Well-er, my report has, of course, to be submitted confidentially to the Air Accidents Committee. Doubtless, in due time-”
“You are, I presume, a civil servant?” suavely inquired Bony.
“No,” replied Cartwright. “I am a fire insurance assessor employed by an insurance company.”
“Pardon! My mistake is natural. I had no idea that red tape was so prominent a feature of the insurance world.”
Cartwright chuckled. The dusty face and clothes, which seemed to indicate that Bony had been sleeping in a dog kennel, were so much at variance with the detective’s keen, twinkling eyes and cultured accent that it was hard to imagine that they all belonged to the same man. Leaving the strewn wreckage, he stepped to Bony with extended hand.
“I am delighted to meet you, Inspector,” he said. “Sergeant Cox told me I was to call you Bony.”
“I am indebted to Sergeant Cox. I dislike being addressed either as Inspector or Mister, and I hate red tape, the god of the civil service, with all my soul. There is only one other man who hates that god more passionately than I, and that is my revered chief, Colonel Spendor. You were about to tell me how Captain Loveacre’s machine was destroyed?”
“Actually, I was about to do nothing of the sort,” Cartwright corrected, laughing frankly. “However, I will tell you that Captain Loveacre’s aeroplane carried a high explosive when it was destroyed by fire. The explosion of petrol in the tanks could not have been of sufficient force so completely to disintegrate the structure. It could not have flung the heavy engine so far forward, the wings so far from the fuselage, and the fragments of both wings and fuselage so far outward from the central point.”
“That is what occurred to me when I reviewed the wreck earlier to-day,” Bony said in agreement. “Do you think that the machine was burned and wrecked by the explosive, or was the explosive detonated by the fire consuming the machine? Possibly I am abstruse.”
“I understand your point. Yes, I think that the explosive was detonated by the heat of the fire consuming the aeroplane.”
“Thank you.” Bony pinched his nether lip with fore-finger and thumb. Then: “Perhaps you could give the explosive a name?”
“Well-er-”
“Please answer me,” Bony urged sharply.“Could you?”
Cartwright nodded.
“But,” he said, “I would like you to understand that I have been instructed not to divulge the result of my examination outside my report to the Air Accidents Committee.”
“I understand that quite well, Mr Cartwright,” Bony responded earnestly.“In due time I shall have the gist of your report through my department-probably a fortnight hence. In two weeks’ time your report will be quite valueless to me, because I shall know what I now want to know. At Coolibah homesteadlies a young woman who is so helpless that she is unable even to raise or lower her eyelids. Dr Knowles says that if she cannot be cured of that strange paralysis she will shortly die from starved tissues. To me-and I think you, too, Mr Cartwright-the life of that young woman is of greater importance than the dignity of all the thousands of civil servants in this country. Until we know by clearing up the mystery of this burned aeroplane what has been done to that young woman she will be slowly dying. Again I ask you for the name of the explosive which shattered Captain Loveacre’s monoplane.”
The stubborn expression on the assessor’s face slowly faded.
“Under the circumstances, I will tell you. The explosive was nitro-glycerine.”
“Thank you, Mr Cartwright!” Bony said warmly. “You may be sure that I shall treat your confidence with great respect. In return, I will tell you what I know. Have you discovered how the aeroplane was fired?”
“No. I can obtain no definite proof. Have you that proof?”
“Yes, I have proof that a man walked through the bush, set fire to the machine here, and then walked back through the bush to the main Golden Dawn-St Albans road. Have you found anything that may be called a clue among the debris? Clothes buttons, for instance, or fragments of a woman’s handbag?”
“Nothing. I cannot understand, or even imagine, the motive for destroying the aeroplane.”
“I can.”
“What?”
“Fingerprints. Either the man who stole the machine did not think he would have to abandon it, or he did not believe it possible to escape destruction when he did abandon it. The presence of nitro-glycerine in the machine points to the fact that he deliberately abandoned it so that it would crash with the passenger and be wiped out by the explosive. You cannot account for nitro-glycerine being in your red monoplane, Captain Loveacre?”
The captain shook his head.
“If he did what you say, then why?… Why should any man take that girl up in my machine and dump her with a wad of nitro-glycerine? Can you answer that question?”
“I feel cramped,” Bony said provokingly.
Loveacre stared at him in blank surprise.
“Cramped? Well, what about a bottle of beer?” he suggested.
“Beer won’t remove the cause,” declared the detective. “Like Mr Cartwright, I am cramped with red tape.”
Captain Loveacre looked startled. Then he grinned boyishly.
“I get you,” he said. “Go on.”
“Tell me,” Bony urged persuasively. “How far, in your opinion, would your machine have flown after the pilot left it?”
“Now you’re asking me. In still air it might have flown miles, or it might immediately have stalled.”
“Well, being familiar with the machine, could you have fixed the controls with wire or something to make it self-flying until the petrol was used up?”
“I think that I might do that in still air, but when I jumped the sudden redistribution of weight would not be automatically countered without a human brain at the controls. On the other hand, the machine might not be disturbed by the pilot leaving it. It was an easy bus to fly, and it was possible for me to fly it at times ‘hands off’-that is, without touching the controls.”
“My last question. Assuming the thief fixed the controls, hoping that after he left the machine it would fly some considerable distance before crashing, and that he shut off the engine before he jumped, what most likely would have happened?”
“Anything-even whatdidhappen. The bus at once, began to lose height, but strangely enough did not lose flying speed. By a remarkable fluke it made a perfect landing on this lake when for miles around lies scrub and broken sand-plain country.”