“What kind of shows were staged by the Great Scarsby?” he asked.
“Scarsby!” Luke shot a swift glance at his father, as though for permission to discuss ‘shop’. “The Great Scarsby, and the Great Martini, and the Great Lafayette depended largely on spectacle to achieve effects. For instance, the Great Lafayette had an easel put up and a canvas placed on it. He smashed a hole in the canvas, and from behind the easel a Nubian thrust his face into the hole. Lafayette slapped whiskers on the black man’s face, painted him with white and pink wash, and stood back to reveal a portrait of Edward VII. Then he went behind the easel—and the Nubian stepped away and came round to the front, tore off the whiskers and wiped his face, and there stood Lafayette himself.”
“Clever,” agreed Bony. “He could, I suppose, change his clothes quickly—and that kind of thing?”
“Walk behind a mirror and emerge as a woman wearing an evening frock, disappear and come again as Queen Victoria, go round once again behind the mirror and reappear as a well-known statesman. And he wouldn’t be behind the mirror longer than it would take him to walk from one side to the other.”
“You saw this act?”
“Oh no. I was only a kid when Lafayette died in a theatre fire in Edinburgh—trying to save a wonderful white horse. Some say that Scarsby was his equal, none that he was superior to Lafayette in the show business.”
Following dinner Bony left with Pavier, who wanted to return to his office. Luke accompanied them to the car, and it seemed that he felt he could talk shop outside the house.
“That picture you have,” he said to Bony, “it recalled to mind someone I knew, and I couldn’t place her. Remember?”
“Of course.”
“There’s something about that woman strongly resembling a woman who acted in my play and who I thought was the best of the lot of us. The name’s Goddard, and she lives at Number 1 Willow Street.”
“In what particular does she resemble the picture?” asked Bony, and Pavier stood motionless.
“Mouth and chin. Mean anything?”
“What were you doing late this afternoon?”
“Been home since four. Why—Mr Friend?”
Bony laughed, and the Superintendent said:
“Thank heaven for that.”
Chapter Eighteen
Inspector Bonaparte to Jimmy Nimmo
AT THE time Mrs Goddard boarded a tram in Argent Street, Mary Isaacs was following a woman carrying a well-remembered handbag. Superficially that proved that Mrs Goddard was not the woman seen and followed to the hotel by Mary Isaacs, and had it not been for the doubt in the mind of Mrs Wallace after meeting Mrs Goddard, and for the resemblance to Mrs Goddard, Luke Pavier saw in Mills’s picture done under the supervision of both Mrs Wallace and Mrs Lucas, Bony might have been satisfied.
He telephoned for Jimmy Nimmo, and within half an hour Jimmy was seated before his desk.
“There are people named Goddard, man and wife, no family, in business at Number 1 Willow Street, South Broken Hill. You don’t happen to know them or of them?”
“Of them, yes,” replied Jimmy. “They run a grocery store and fuel yard. House behind the store. Big wood-yard. Every Saturday night they come to town to go to the pictures, leaving two lights on in the house to bluff poor innocent burglars.”
“Ah! You have surveyed the scene, it would appear.”
“Had it mapped out before luck wiped me.”
“When was that, Jimmy?”
“When we met down Argent Street.”
“Come now, don’t be so unkind,” Bony objected. “You have on several occasions referred to the ‘attraction’. Surely that was not brought about by lack of luck.”
“It comes into it,” protested Jimmy. “I’m getting married some time soon, and I’ll have to retire to keep the peace. Couldn’t bear to be in the jug and another fella taking my missus around. Women oughta have a man handy to keep them straight.”
“Too bad, Jimmy. Because I want you to undertake a little burglary for me. Being Saturday, I want you to enter Number 1 Willow Street and search for a navy-blue handbag with red drawstrings, a baby’s dummy, and a quantity of cyanide. I shall be working here late tonight to receive your report before going off to bed.”
“Supposin’ I get pinched? All me good intentions gone west, and married love done in the eye.”
“You won’t be pinched—unless you should disobey my orders by lifting money or some article of negotiable value. You will be working for me, Jimmy, and I am the police.”
“Well, can I tell me wench I’m workin’ for the police—meaning you? I got to square off for not taking her to the pictures.”
“Can she keep a secret?”
“Good as I can. Not the sort to let her right know what her left’s doing—like me.”
“Very well. That’s agreed. I’ll see that you are not apprehended, but you will take as much care in entering and leaving as though ten policemen were on the lookout for you.”
“Righto! I’ll be seein’ you.”
Bony went along to Crome’s room, where he asked for the file on Tuttaway, and mentioned that it would be helpful of Inspector Hobson if between 8 and 11 pm his man on patrol in the vicinity of Willow Street would not approach Number 1. Crome said he would fix it.
“Any line on Tuttaway, sir?” he asked, presenting the required file.
“Afraid not,” replied Bony. “I think he may be walking about Broken Hill in the complete freedom of a perfect disguise. What are you doing this morning?”
“I’m taking out those three trackers to have another look around for the haft of that glass knife.”
“Good! I won’t detain you.”
Bony took the file back to his room. It was fairly sketchy before the crime for which Tuttaway had been imprisoned, giving date of birth and biographical details of his career. The medical history was equally vague prior to the conviction, and this pre-trial information had been supplied by London.
Tuttaway was the second of a family of four sons and four daughters. Two sons had taken over their father’s business, and one had subsequently suicided. Of the four daughters, one had married a minister, another an artist, yet another had married an architect and within a year had to be certified. The remaining daughter had been associated with the magician brother. All the Tuttaways had inherited much money.
Bony regarded the picture taken by the prison authorities. It was a strange face, the tottering mind emphasising and revealing. Nobility and evil, ruthlessness and generosity, humour and arrogance. Being an actor, a showman, a man controlled utterly by his own egotism, Tuttaway’s greatest enemy was Tuttaway. He must have occupied a place, great or small, in the life of the woman he murdered. She must have known him at some period of her life prior to coming to Broken Hill or leaving England. That must be it: prior to leaving England in June 1936.
Yet her sister had repeatedly affirmed that Muriel Lodding had not been interested in men. Mrs Dalton had …
“Mrs Dalton is here, sir,” said Senior Detective Abbot. “She wanted to see the Super, but he’s out, and so’s Sergeant Crome.”
“Tell her that I will be pleased to do what I can for her,” purred Bony.
Bony blew cigarette ash off the desk top, slid the Tuttaway file into a drawer, and swiftly rearranged papers. He was standing when Mrs Dalton was shown in, and he was presented to a woman instantly pleasing. Brown hair softly rolled at the nape of her neck, and the narrow upturned brim of the small hat added even more expression to the expressive grey eyes. Her nose was Grecian, and the makeup not obvious, save the lipstick, which reflected the cyclamen shade of the printed frock beneath the flowing black coat. Her accessories were all black.
“Mrs Dalton! Do sit down. I am Inspector Knapp. Perhaps I can be of service?”
Her eyes registered momentary surprise and then approval.
“I called to see Superintendent Pavier about my sister,” she said. “Muriel left all h
er small estate to me and also appointed me her executrix. I received a letter from Superintendent Pavier concerning salary and accrued leave pay owing to her. I’ve brought the will. Her solicitor’s name and address are shown on it.”
Bony accepted the proffered document.
“I’m sorry the Superintendent isn’t in,” he said, noting the name and address of the solicitor and returning the will. “The department will communicate with your sister’s solicitor. Opinion here of Miss Lodding was very high, Mrs Dalton. I didn’t have the opportunity to know her very well, but Superintendent Pavier feels he has suffered a personal loss.”
“She loved working here: said the work was much more exciting than in a broker’s office.”
“She—you have no relatives—in Australia?”
“In Australia, no. In England there are several cousins, but neither of us corresponded with them. My husband died years ago, and we have no children.”
“You have, I understand, lived in Broken Hill for several years?”
“Yes, since 1938. I never liked Sydney, too frightfully humid, and when my sister was asked to transfer to the Broken Hill office of her firm, I came with her. We both like living here, although cultural interests are few. Do you happen to be investigating my sister’s death?”
“Well, yes, I am working with Detective Sergeant Crome,” Bony answered. “We shall, of course, find Tuttaway.”
“You are certain it was he who killed her?”
“Quite. Your sister must have known him, surely. Probably when you were living in England.”
“Yes. That’s my second reason for coming to Superintendent Pavier. Although the man’s name was familiar—for who hasn’t heard of the Great Scarsby?—I didn’t recall that my sister had had any contact with him.
“You see, Inspector, it’s all of fourteen years since we left England, and I’m not sure but I think Tuttaway was then in America. And then when he was imprisoned for abducting that girl, we were living here, and my sister evinced no great interest in the case, excepting to recall that at one time or another she had done some work for him. But I suppose that won’t be of much help.”
“On the contrary, Mrs Dalton, it may be of extreme importance. Do go on.”
“Well, then, I must tell you something of our life before we left London. Do you mind?”
Mrs Dalton produced a cigarette-case from her handbag, and, when holding a match in service, Bony murmured:
“London! I’ve always wanted to see London. Once I had the opportunity of exchange duty, but it didn’t come off. What part of London did you live in?”
“Ealing. Quite close to the Underground—Gosport Grove. Far enough from the city to be out of the traffic noises and yet within easy reach. My husband left me comfortably well off, and Muriel had no need to work, but she insisted on doing something. She then worked for several authors, typing their manuscripts and assisting them generally, and she would never discuss her work or her clients other than to mention their names.
“It wasn’t as though they came to my house. Muriel either went to their houses or brought their work home, and I never sought to know more of them than she cared to tell me. I was thinking about this last night when I remembered that my sister once did work for the Great Scarsby, and the name came to my mind only because Muriel mentioned that his work was more difficult than the other. And now——”
“We are convinced that it was Tuttaway who was seen with your sister that last evening of her life. We know for certain that Tuttaway was in Broken Hill that night and think he is still in Broken Hill. Can you recall anything more of that association of your sister with the Great Scarsby?”
“No, I’m afraid not, Inspector. You see, it’s all so very vague, and at the time so unimportant. What I am sure about is that there was no love affair between them. Why, she must have been twenty or twenty-five years his junior.”
“Can you recall when, what year, your sister did work for George Henry Tuttaway?”
“Well, it must have been before he went to America in 1934. I don’t know—it could be—no, Inspector, I’m afraid I cannot answer your question.”
“You have no reason to fear he might be, shall we say, interested in you?”
“In me! Why should he be? I am a little afraid, however, that when caught he may tell highly coloured stories about Muriel. Why he killed her, and all that. I’m sure the police wouldn’t take notice of a madman’s ravings, but the newspaper people might, and I dislike publicity. Muriel was so—so uninterested in men as men. She used to tell me she was born to be an old maid.”
Bony stopped doodling on his blotter and smiled encouragingly at Mrs Dalton.
“You need have no cause for concern,” he told her. “Tuttaway, having been certified and having escaped from custody, will not be charged with murdering your sister, because he is unfit to stand trial.”
“He will merely be returned to the prison?” Mrs Dalton asked bitterly, and rose to leave.
“That will be the result of his apprehension.”
“I hope you will prove him guilty. It won’t lessen my loneliness, but I want to know the truth.” Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears. “I miss my sister very much and think I won’t be able to stay in Broken Hill. We understood each other so completely, and all our interests were the same. Do you think that Scarsby is also responsible for those other murders?”
“It’s possible, Mrs Dalton, but we have as yet no proof. Just leave the worrying to me. We’ll find him. We always get our man, you know.”
“I hope so. But the police didn’t catch Jack the Ripper, did they?”
“Ah! But I wasn’t in London.”
“Of course not.” Mrs Dalton tried to smile. “I forgot you were never in London. Well, goodbye. You’ll tell Superintendent Pavier I called?”
“Oh yes. And about the money owing your sister’s estate. Goodbye, Mrs Dalton. I am so glad the Superintendent was out.”
Chapter Nineteen
Unprofessional Conduct
THE LODDING case now gave promise of breaking, but the poisoning cases refused to give.
The connection between Muriel Lodding and George Henry Tuttaway, established by Mrs Dalton, was a distinct advance. The murder had been prompted by a reason born in the past and was not the result of swift passion or blood lust. Therefore the odds were against another murder by the Great Scarsby.
Bony discussed Tuttaway with Crome late that afternoon.
“Had a visit from Mrs Dalton this morning,” he said, offering a slip of paper. “That’s the name and address of Muriel Lodding’s solicitors. You might pass it on to Finance Section.”
“What do you think of her?”
“Mrs Dalton? Cultured. Very much alive. The sister knew Tuttaway in England.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed Crome with great satisfaction.
Bony related what Mrs Dalton had told him, and Crome pounced on the fact that, Tuttaway’s motive having been born in the past, it was unlikely that he had stayed one unnecessary moment in Broken Hill.
“Think we could lift those road blocks now?” he suggested. “Bit of a strain on the department.”
“Wait, Crome. For the time being we’ll act on the Emperor’s advice: ‘When in doubt do nothing.’ Meanwhile, make a few notes.
“In 1934 Tuttaway took a company on tour through the United States. At that time Muriel Lodding was living with her sister at Gosport Grove, Ealing, London, and was engaged by several authors in preparing their manuscripts. Note that Lodding did this work at Mrs Dalton’s house and that she visited her clients and not they her. An additional client was Tuttaway, and, like the writers, he did not appear at the house.
“Two years after Tuttaway went off to America the sisters came to Australia, and in the following year Tuttaway also came to Australia, having disbanded his company. That was in ’37. The next year, in November, the sisters left Sydney and came to Broken Hill—we understand because a be
tter position became available here in Lodding’s firm.
“That may be the reason behind the move to Broken Hill, or it may have been dictated by the appearance of Tuttaway on the Lodding Sydney scene. The point will have to be checked. Did Lodding ask for that transfer to Broken Hill, or was it offered her? Ask Sydney to check up with the wool firm and dig out all that can be obtained concerning the two women. Records have the addresses.”
Crome was faintly perplexed.
“Suppose it’s necessary, sir?” he asked. “Considering that it was Tuttaway who killed Lodding?”
“I think so,” Bony replied coldly. “Further, have Sydney ask London for the number of the house in Gosport Grove, Ealing, occupied by Mrs Dalton prior to 1936, and for any information re the lives and associations of the two sisters.”
“Very well, sir,” Crome said stoically.
“We could obtain most of this from Mrs Dalton, but we won’t bother her too much just now. The life of Muriel Lodding before coming to Broken Hill is most important, and it will give Sydney something to think about and remove the idea from their minds that Broken Hill is doing nothing.
“You still hold the ball,” Bony went on. “Until we know to the contrary we must think Tuttaway is in Broken Hill. By the way, when making your report to the Super, keep in mind that you are acting on your own initiative and that I am fully occupied by the cyanide murders.”
Crome flushed, nodded grateful understanding, and left. Like many another man, Bill Crome had emerged from rigorous training as an efficient member of a machine oiled by regulations and fuelled by directives. He dared never thumb his nose at those higher up, for he lacked independence and the instinct of knowing the right moment. As a member of a team, he pulled his weight, which is why teamwork is of such value in modern crime investigation.
Bony slipped the top sheet from the blotter, regarded the doodling he had done when listening to Mrs Dalton, and tossed the sheet into the w.p.b. He collected his hat and sauntered along the corridor to the general office of the Detective Branch, spoke to Abbot, and stood before the black-and-white drawings of the woman described by Mrs Wallace and Mrs Lucas. A trifle despondent, he walked to his hotel for dinner.
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