“It’s like this. You receive a report that a lubra away out in the desert has been murdered. Offgoes Pedersen and his tracker. The tracker knows all about the killing, and all about the victim. He even knows who killed the woman, although no one could possibly have told him in any spoken language. We know this is so, but we keep to ourselves our beliefs how such intelligence is broadcast because of fear of ridicule by educated fools. Your tracker, then, is familiar with the killer. He is taken to the scene of the crime, and then he isno more nor less than a super-bloodhound who has been allowed to smell something to which clings the scent of the hunted. In the case of a white killer you have to describe him to the tracker: the way he walks, his approximate age and weight, and his probable height.”

“But, sir, we didn’t know what this white killer is like,” protested Sawtell.

“Conceded. It will be my job to create a facsimile of the murderer from tiny bits and pieces. I have to obtain a picture of him from the very dust of Broome, so that I’ll see his mind, and I’ll know his probable age, and his trade or profession. And then I’ll look for his tracks, being myself independent of your black trackers. In me is enthroned the white man’s power of reasoning and the black man’s gifts of observation and patience. The only cause of failure in this case would be if your murderer has left the town. Would you both be kind enough to grant me a favour concerning a matter I’ve already mentioned?”

“Most certainly,” Inspector Walters hastened to say. The personality of this man, in addition to his words, made him feel a junior in his own office.

“Please omit the ‘sir’. My immediate chief, even my Chief Commissioner, invariably calls me Bony. My wife and my three sons name me Bony to my face. I’ll wager you don’t know what your children call you behind your back.”

The stiffness fled from the inspector. He chuckled, and Bony warmed towards him.