Bony - 14 - Batchelors of Broken Hill

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Do you remember that woman?”

  The bookmaker scowled, sat down, and glared at the half-consumed cigar.

  “Not much. She was getting on. Fiftyish—nearer -one than -nine, I reckon. Had a white hat, I recall that. Dressed——”

  A man entered and gave a paper to Abbot, who passed it over the desk to Bony. Bony read: “Doctor telephones is reasonably sure cup has contained cyanide and that blotting paper is saturated with it. Confirmation promised within forty minutes.”

  “The woman was dressed—Mr O’Hara?” Bony prompted.

  “White hat. I think she was wearing a brown sort of dress.”

  “What kind of hat—big or ordinary or small—felt or straw?”

  “Straw. Bit floppy on one side.”

  “Spectacles?”

  “Don’t recollect,” replied O’Hara. “You see, I was talking to me friend. Wasn’t takin’ no notice of anyone else.”

  “And she stopped to pat the dog, you say?”

  “Yes. She went round my friend to do that, as Dublin Kate was standing in the gutter to keep out of the way.”

  “Did she have a handbag?”

  “Yes, she had a handbag. I remember seeing that. Tucked under her arm when she patted Kate. Blue hand­bag with red handles.”

  “What kind of handles?”

  Mr O’Hara was hurt. This questioning seemed so futile.

  “Kind of handles?” he returned. “Why, ordinary floppy sort of handles, of course. Looked like leather or something.”

  “Abbot! Middle-aged woman. White straw hat, brown dress, blue handbag with red handles or drawstrings. Probably still in Argent Street.”

  Abbot sped down the corridor. The bookmaker was decidedly pale. Bony was as smooth as ever when he said:

  “Mr O’Hara, I want you to go home and stay there until I call for you. Name of the man you were talking to?”

  “Ted Rowe. Licensee of Camel Camp Hotel, North B.H. Why do I have to stay at home? Races tomorrow. Must be there——”

  “Then drink nothing unless out of a bottle.” Bony made for the door. “Come on! Off you go!”

  “But what’s it mean? What’s the idea?”

  Bony took the man by the arm and urged him out to the corridor.

  “You heard about Sam Goldspink? Go home and stay there.”

  There were men in the public office. Pavier was with them. Bony edged Patrick O’Hara past them. He had to open the door for the bookmaker. Having closed the door, he turned about to hear the Superintendent giving orders. Two men to examine every tram leaving Argent Street at the south end and two to examine trams leaving by the other. Men to visit every shop on both sides of the street, and others to ‘go through’ every hotel. All left together, Pavier and Bony with them. It was a full hour since Dublin Kate had died.

  There would be other police in the street to be alerted. A blue handbag with red drawstrings in possession of a woman in a white ‘floppy’ straw hat. White hats are noticeable, and so are handbags having red handles—drawstrings. But Bony was not hopeful. After attempting that murder the woman would be unlikely to linger in the city.

  Bony walked smartly down Argent Street. The number of women wearing white hats—felt, straw, small, large, stiff, floppy—was remarkable. Blue, red, white, green, grey handbags, but not the blue bag with the red draw­strings. Halfway down Argent Street he saw Mary Isaacs outside a hotel. She was obviously excited, almost ‘dancing with excitement’. Seeing him, she ran to meet him.

  “She’s in there. I saw her go in,” she cried, and clung with both hands to Bony’s arm. “A customer wanted an article in the window, and I went outside with her to see what it was. Then I saw the woman with the blue bag with red strings. She was coming this way and I hurried after her. I left the customer and followed her. I don’t know what Mrs Robinov will say. She went in there—that woman.”

  “See her face?”

  “No. All I saw was her back. Brown frock. White hat. Seemed taller than I remembered. It was the bag, In­spector. I’m sure it was the bag.”

  “You return to the shop,” Bony said, and had to remove her hands from his arm. “Leave it to us. Mrs Robinov will understand.”

  Beside the main entrance there were four bar and lounge doors, and Bony remained with his back to the traffic to watch all of them. Minutes passed before two plain-clothes men approached, and Bony stopped them and related what he had been told.

  “The Super and the senior’s on the other side of the street, sir,” one said.

  “Bring them over.”

  The man hurried across the street, and to the other Bony said:

  “A back entrance, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir. Into a lane running parallel. Shall I block it?”

  Bony nodded, and the man vanished into a doorway. Pavier and Abbot arrived, and to them Bony repeated Mary’s story.

  Leaving the plain-clothes man outside, they went through the lounges systematically, and even the bars. Accompanied by the manager, they searched the upper rooms. The manager’s wife and two maids searched the retiring rooms. Even the domestic quarters and rear yard buildings were searched. No woman as described by Patrick O’Hara.

  From the hotel to Goldspink’s shop was about a hundred yards, and when the shops either side the hotel had been investigated, Bony proceeded to interview Mary Isaacs. The shop was full of customers, and he was discreetly conducted to the fitting-room and Mary brought to him.

  “You didn’t see her face, you said, Mary?” Bony asked.

  “No sir. Did you find her?”

  “Not a sign of her. How far behind the woman were you when you followed her?”

  “Only two or three yards.”

  “She didn’t turn to see if she were being followed?”

  “No. But she might have seen me following her by looking in the shop windows. I was frantic. I couldn’t see a policeman to tell.”

  Bony patted her shoulder and managed to chuckle.

  “They say you never can find a policeman when you want one. Well, it was a good try. You did fine, and the police will catch her before she leaves Argent Street. I won’t keep you. Mrs Robinov will need you in the shop—they’re so busy.”

  It was nearing six o’clock—O Dreaded Hour! The pavement was packed, the street traffic heavy. A trifle despondent, Bony sauntered back towards Headquarters.

  It would be stupid to doubt that a lunatic walked Argent Street: and all things were possible to lunatic Tuttaway—the famed magician, the quick-change artist, the master of female impersonation. Dressed as that woman, had he seen reflected by the shop windows the girl from Goldspink’s shop, recognised her, noted her agitation? Had he walked into the hotel, gone directly to a retiring-room, and emerged with his clothes reversed, the trick handbag reversed and the straw hat crushed within it? The evidence was against this, but …

  A man fell into step with him.

  “Just got word, sir, that the wanted woman has been picked up and taken to Headquarters.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Stage with Coffee

  “THIS IS the life! Be ready in two ticks.”

  Mrs Wallace did remarkably well, just under ten minutes, and she settled herself in the back seat of the police car as though off to a civic reception. Seated with her, Abbot talked of the weather.

  Meanwhile Bony faced a difficulty with Superintendent Pavier, in whose office sat the woman brought in by two detectives who had worked the trams. The woman was dressed as described by Patrick O’Hara, and her handbag was blue. But the red handles were of thick cord, and the bag was not the drawstring type.

  Moreover, the woman readily admitted stopping at the street fountain and patting the unfortunate dog. She gave her name as Sandra Goddard, living with her hus­band in South Broken Hill, where they conducted a grocery and wood-and-oil store.

  “We’ve made a bloomer,” Pavier stonily admitted.

  “How old do you think she is?” asked Bony.

  “Un
der forty, I’d say.”

  “Any children?”

  “Didn’t ask her. Important?”

  “Could be. I’d like to see the contents of her handbag. You come along and leave the questions to me.”

  On their way, Bony learned from Pavier what infor­mation had already been gleaned, and when they entered the Superintendent’s office the new secretary rose from her chair to leave at a nod from her Chief.

  Only in figure was Mrs Goddard similar to the woman described by Mrs Wallace, supported by Mrs Lucas. She was certainly not more than forty. Bony was presented as Inspector Knapp, and, having become seated, he pro­ceeded to soothe.

  “We are really regretful, Mrs Goddard, at having in­convenienced you,” he said, presenting a box of Bond Street cigarettes.

  “Well, it’s a beastly nuisance,” the woman fumed. “Besides being dragged here like a criminal. I don’t know what my husband will have to say about it. Thank you.”

  “I do think, Mrs Goddard, that when I’ve explained the circumstances you will forgive us. Could I ask you to treat in strict confidence what I would like to tell you?”

  A secret! A secret to a woman is like fish to a starved cat. A favour sought by a debonair, good-looking man with wonderful blue eyes and such a voice! Then Bony smiled, and annoyance vanished.

  “Of course, Inspector. I promise.”

  “Well, it is this. The dog you petted at the fountain died a few minutes after you left. She drank water from the trough at the foot of the fountain, and the water was poisoned. The owner of the dog is a Mr Patrick O’Hara, who, being fond of the animal, was very aggrieved. He remembered you patting the dog, and we thought you had something to do with its sudden death. An unfor­tunate mistake, but one brought about by over-zeal. By the way, you live at Number 1 Willow Street, South Broken Hill. In business there, I understand?”

  “We are. I manage the grocery store and my husband runs the wood-and-oil business. We’ve been there for eight years now.”

  “Family, I suppose?”

  “No, we haven’t any children—not living. I had a little boy, but he died when he was two.”

  “A sad blow, Mrs Goddard. Being the father of three boys, I can offer sympathy with sincerity. I won’t keep you more than another minute. Would you like to be taken home in one of our cars?”

  “It would save time, and my husband will be wanting his dinner.”

  “Being a mere policeman,” Bony went on, “there are occasions on which I cannot be a gentleman. Suspicious to the very end, and all that kind of thing. No doubt you have already allied the death of the dog this after­noon with the death of several men.”

  “I couldn’t help but do that,” Mrs Goddard admitted, a frown deepening the lines between her eyes.

  “I do dislike having to ask you,” lied Bony. “Would you let me look into your handbag?”

  Mrs Goddard offered no objection—and the handbag. It was, of course, navy blue. The handles were of red cord, and the bag was fastened by clips. The contents were normal and limited. There was certainly no cyanide—and no baby’s dummy. Bony carefully restored the articles, closed the bag, and proffered it to its owner.

  “I am thankful that nasty little suspicion of mine is smashed,” he said smilingly. “And very grateful indeed for your generosity in return for our silly mistake. Permit me to conduct you to the car.”

  Superintendent Pavier came round his desk to offer his hand and also expressed his regrets, and Mrs God­dard, obviously mollified, left the office with Bony. In the Public Office they had to pass Mrs Wallace, who, after one swift glance at the navy-blue handbag, said:

  “Why, Mrs Goddard! How’s things? Haven’t seen you for ages.”

  “How are you, Mrs Wallace? No, I don’t get out much during the day. The shop keeps me tied.”

  Bony paused while the women chatted for a few moments and then led Mrs Goddard to the waiting police car drawn up behind that which had brought Mrs Wallace. The driver opened the door. Mrs Goddard smiled, and Bony bowed.

  “Au revoir,” he murmured. “Should I think of any way in which you could assist me, you would call again?”

  “Certainly. We are law-abiding citizens, you know,” replied Mrs Goddard. “You’ll find our number in the tele­phone book.”

  Bony stepped back and the car moved off.

  When he returned to Mrs Wallace she said conspira­torially:

  “That can’t be her, Inspector. I’d have spotted Mrs Goddard in that lounge. She and that woman are the same height, same build, and she’s got the same hennaed hair like that woman. But … But it couldn’t have been Mrs Goddard.”

  “You have known Mrs Goddard long?”

  “Couple of years, I suppose. Haven’t seen her for six months before today, though. But it couldn’t have been her, Inspector.”

  When she had gone, Pavier appeared.

  “Hoadly’s analysis proves it was cyanide in that metal cup and on the blotting paper,” he said. “Come home to dinner and talk.”

  “Thanks, Super. I’d like to.”

  “All right. Car’s at the back.”

  “Just how far have you progressed?” Pavier asked when they were on the road. Bony hesitated, and the Superintendent said with strange inelegance: “I won’t cook your pork and beans.”

  Bony gave in.

  “The oddities are so many that the pattern will not emerge clearly, Super. And with all the forces you have placed at my service I am unable to make it emerge. Two men have been poisoned in the same way. They were both elderly and both unmarried. There is a third similarity, which is that both men were murdered on a Friday afternoon.

  “The poisoning of the third man gave much and strengthened confirmation of theories. It gave us a des­cription of a woman who could have dropped cyanide into the man’s beer. Like the first two, the third victim was also unmarried and elderly, but the third man wasn’t poisoned on a Friday afternoon. Finally we have the attempt to poison O’Hara on a Friday afternoon. But O’Hara was twice married. The two common de­nominators are that those four men are elderly and they are not careful of their clothes when at table.

  “Leaving out the O’Hara case, a woman seems to be associated with the three poisonings. In two of those cases we have a particular type of handbag to support the belief. Through a glass darkly, therefore, we see the dim shape of a woman.

  “Motive? Apparently there isn’t one. But of course there is a motive. There must be. As I pointed out to Crome or Abbot, it could be that the series of murders is meant to hide the motive for the murder of but one man. So far we have nothing to prove or disprove that idea.”

  “You aren’t sure that the poisoner is a woman?” in­terposed Pavier.

  “I can be sure of nothing,” admitted Bony. “I am inclined to the belief that it’s a woman.”

  Pavier purposely drove slowly, and presently Bony said:

  “After Goldspink was poisoned, Crome and his men tapped all the sources of supply of cyanide in Broken Hill. After Parsons died, Crome and his men doubled their efforts and were spurred on by Stillman. Since Gromberg was poisoned, all that work was done over again. Results nil. As you know, commercial cyanide is sold to stations and country stores in two-, three-, and seven-pound tins, and our poisoner would require much less than a two-pound tin to start operations.

  “We think a woman is the poisoner, but after today I am inclined to consider that it might be a man. Tutt­away escaped on September twenty-seventh, and Goldspink was murdered a month later, that murder being the first of the series.

  “The woman followed by Mary Isaacs entered a hotel which we searched five minutes after she went in, and she had vanished. The Great Scarsby could have rung the changes with clothes and handbag, having seen his follower reflected by shop windows. And yet, artist though he was, I doubt if he would have deceived a woman like Mrs Wallace, an ex-barmaid who knows all the answers, as the saying goes. Simple isn’t it?”

  “Still, you have made decided headwa
y,” Pavier said approvingly. “You’ve got far beyond where Stillman left off.”

  “That is to be expected,” blandly agreed Bony. “The final touch of confusion is that Tuttaway is also careless at table.”

  “What!”

  Bony avoided explanation on this point, saying:

  “I hope you will continue to approve of the road blocks?”

  “I’ll keep them there until you ask for their removal.”

  “Thanks.”

  A few minutes later Bony was being presented to Pavier’s sister, who managed his house, and then Luke appeared, to suggest a ‘snort’ before dinner.

  That dinner was to linger in Bony’s memory. The red glow of the sunset seeped through the open windows to gleam on the cutlery and crystal and tint faintly red the solitary diamond on his hostess’s finger. Birds chirped in the pepper tree beyond, their voices triumphant over the rumble of the distant mines.

  There was no ‘shop’. The elder Pavier talked books, and the son almost shyly admitted to writing plays.

  “Haven’t been successful so far,” he said candidly. “But I’m hoping.”

  “But you have,” argued his aunt. “You had a play staged last August.”

  “That’s not success,” Luke argued, and explained to the guest that one of his plays had been twice performed in aid of charity.

  “It was so well done, Mr Bonaparte, that several hun­dred pounds were raised,” the aunt declared. “The local talent is very good. Everyone thoroughly enjoyed it. I’m sure Luke will show you his miniature stage after dinner. It’s fun. I help him move the various characters about.”

  The stage was brought in with the coffee and set up on the table. The technique was explained to Bony, who was interested in any subject presented by people knowing something of it. It was evident that Luke’s knowledge of plays and players was extensive, and that his enthusiasm was hot, but after half an hour Bony was dismayed by his own ignorance.