“It is a terrible thing,” Dugdale said, and thankfulness filled his heart that the rain had come.
“It is. But we can do nothing for him. Go along to the men’s quarters and ask some of them to come and carry the body to the carpenter’s shop. Lay it on one of the benches and cover it. Think you can feel your way in this damned darkness?”
“Yes, I believe so. But stay a minute with your light on till I get to the pumping-engine, will you?”
“All right.”
Guided by the ray from the squatter’s torch, Dugdale at last reached the engine, where the going became easy, since he was then on a beaten path. He shouted that he was all right; and Thornton, satisfied that his sub was beyond danger of slipping down the now dangerously greasy bank of the river, made his way back to his office.
There he telephoned to the police at Wilcannia.
“Good evening, Sergeant,” he said, when the senior officer answered his call. “Great rain we’re having.”
“What! Raining up your way?” ejaculated the gruff-voiced sergeant.“Quite fine here, Mr Thornton.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I was hoping it was a general rain. Must be only a local storm. In any case, we have had a murder.”
“Excuse me! A what?”
“Am-u-r-d-e-r,” Thornton spelled slowly.
“Oh, is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough for you? I’m not joking.”
“You’re not? When did it happen? How did it happen?”came the rapid and now seriously-asked questions.
The squatter answered them in sequence, and reported that he had ordered the body to be removed to the carpenter’s shop.
“I don’t think there’s anything more for me to do, is there?” he inquired.
“No, I think not,” agreed the policeman, adding: “I’ll ring up later to find out if it is still raining your way. If it is, I’ll be obliged to ride a horse. I’ve got so used to a motor that I don’t fancy sixty miles on horseback. Damn the rain!”
“Now, now!”Mr Thornton reproved. “Remember that I’m a Justice of the Peace.”
“Sorry, Mr Thornton,” the sergeant chuckled. “But why the devil couldn’t the black get himself murdered some night that was fine?”
“I couldn’t say. Ask him when you get here tomorrow.” And, chuckling, the station-owner rang off-to ring up George Watts and transmit an item of news to news-hungry people.
Later, Frank Dugdale entered. “We shifted the body,” he reported.
“Good!” The squatter nodded to a vacant chair. “It would be as well,” he said, “as you are-or will be-the most important witness, for me to take down in writing the incidents which led to your discovery. Tell it slowly, and try to miss nothing, Dug.”
Frank Dugdale retold his story of the significant sounds he had heard when in the boat and when mooring it. When he had finished, Thornton leaned back in his chair, selected a cigarette, and pushed the box across the desk.
“It seems,” he said thoughtfully, “that the killing was just at the time you were mooring the boat.”
“Yes. It’s my belief that the sickening thud I heard was the striking of the blow.”
“You saw nothing?”
The two were looking straight at each other. Dugdale said, without hesitation:
“I saw nothing, nor did I see anyone.”
“It is surprising that the murderer could have got away in the time. What space of time do you think it was between the sound of that blow and the moment you saw the corpse in the lightning?”
Dugdale pondered for a moment or two. He felt elated at having told one of the few lies in his life. His gaze, however, was centred on the brass inkstand.
“Difficult to estimate,” he said slowly. “It might have been only a minute, or it might have been three minutes. Certainly not more than three.”
“Humph!” The older man added something to the written details. “The police-sergeant wanted to know why the black couldn’t get himself murdered on a fine night. I would like to know, too, why that black selected my station, and close to my homestead, to get himself murdered. It will cause a lot of inconvenience. It’s one of my unlucky days. Even the rain is stopping.”
Chapter Six
The Inquiry
“Now, Mr Thornton, after that very excellent lunch we will examine the men.” The khaki-breeched, blue-tunickedsergeant of the New South Wales Mounted Police paused with the squatter outside the office. Near by, in waiting, was a group of seven men, while on the barracks veranda stood Dugdale, Ralph, and a jackeroo named Edwin Black.
The sergeant was conducted to the office, where the two men seated themselves on the far side of the wide desk. The uniformed man filled his pipe, and, seeing that he did not intend to open his examination at once, Thornton took a cigarette, saying meanwhile:
“Thought you’d want to examine the scene of the murder first.”
“I might have done, had the rain not fallen last night and wiped out tracks,” the dapper, grey-moustached official rejoined. “As it is, we will start to get the story ship-shape, beginning with you.”
“With me!”
“With you.”
“What do I know about it?”
The sergeant smiled. “Don’t know yet. I’ll soon find out. What time did Dugdale tell you of his discovery?”
“At nineteen minutes to nine,” was the unhesitating answer.
“You are sure of the time?”
“Positive.”
“What sort of condition was Dugdale in?”
“He was drenched to the skin and, I think, a little upset.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. But was he out of breath? Were his clothes disarranged, torn?”
“No, to both questions.”
“Very good. Now, how many men do you employ here?”
“There are seven at present working about the homestead or riding the near paddocks.”
“Is this the list of their names?”
“Yes. Added to it are the inmates of the barracks and the name of my son.”
“Then I think we will first see Dugdale.”
“Call Dug, Mortimore, please,” the squatter said to his bookkeeper.
When the sub-overseer appeared the sergeant appraised him with a fixed stare, motioning with his hand to a vacant chair.
“I am told that you found the body of an aboriginal last night between the garden and the river,” he said in his most official manner. “You made the discovery on your return from a fishing expedition. Tell me just what happened from the moment you entered the boat to go fishing. Take your time, and miss nothing.”
When Dugdale paused at the end of his narrative, he was asked:
“Do you know the native?”
“No, I have never seen him before,” Dugdale replied quietly.
“You say that as you were nearing the bank on your return you heard a peculiar whining sound that ended in a sharp report. Why a peculiar sound?”
“Because never before had I heard such a sound, unless it reminded me of the whirr of ducks flying close overhead.”
“Ah! That’s something.” For a moment the interrogator gazed pensively out of the window. Then:
“After the sound, when you were ashore and mooring the boat, you heard someone gasp for breath. Was that gasping sound caused by a man being out of breath from struggling?”
“I think not,” the sub replied slowly. “It was like that of a man who had dived deep into water and, having been down some time, filled his lungs with air on reaching the surface.”
“And you saw no one?”
“It was dark.”
“I know that. But did the lightning reveal anyone?”
“No.”
“Sure?” suddenly barked the sergeant, for his penetrating eyes observed a slight flush about Dugdale’s cheekbones.
“Quite sure.”
“Very well. That will do for the present. Send Mr Ralph Thornton in, please.”
When Ralph entered the office the sergeant was writing on a slip of paper. Pushing it across to the squatter, he nodded affably to Ralph to be seated. On the slip of paper which Thornton read was the sentence:
“The lightning revealed someone to Dugdale.”
“How did you put in the evening last night, Mr Ralph?” the young man was asked in a much kinder spirit.