“Are you busy this evening?” he asked.
“Couple of functions to cover. Could tell the boss to go to hell.”
“Avoid the first and refrain from the second. I am throwing a party at the Western Mail. Six-thirty. You will remember that I promised to let you in at the death. Your own word, meaning finale.”
“I’ll be right on the dot,” chortled Luke. “Want a hand?”
“With what?”
“Stillman. I could bash while you held him.”
“I’ll bash him my way. Expect you at dinner. Don’t mention it at home.”
“Okey-doke.”
Bony rang Sloan, asked for a secluded table and the very special favour of occupying that table for perhaps an hour after dinner. Wally Sloan granted the favour and bestowed another. He would himself wait on Bony and his guests.
Bony replaced the instrument on the desk, not on its cradle—and waited. Ten minutes elapsed. The instrument spluttered, died, and he guessed that Pavier wished his attendance at his office. With his chair pushed back, he rested his feet on the cleared desk, and placed to one side a pile of cigarettes.
Stillman came in.
Of Detective Inspector Stillman someone had said he had the address of a film star, the voice of a radio ace, and the mind of a weasel.
“Ah! Afternoon, Bonaparte. The Super was wanting you on the mat.”
Bony waved a hand towards a chair, but Stillman elected to sit on a corner of the desk. He produced a gold cigarette case monogrammed in blue, lit a cigarette, and casually wafted smoke towards Bony.
“I heard of your arrival,” Bony said softly.
“Had to come, you know. The Heads insisted. You are leaving us, I understand.”
“I am remaining in Broken Hill for another week, perhaps a month. Interested in mines and might write a book about them.”
“They have been written up so often, don’t you think? Better return home. Your people are becoming annoyed. Anyway, my aboriginal friend, I am taking over, and you will be wise to return to Brisbane by plane tomorrow. The bush is your spiritual home, Bonaparte. Tracking white criminals in a city is evidently not your mêtier.”
“The pronunciation of the French is defective, Stillman.”
“I have never boasted of my education,” Stillman lisped. “You are finished here, so get out. Unfortunate, of course. Can’t have that fellow Tuttaway running about Broken Hill. Might murder someone else while you and Crome are practising for the movies. As I inferred, these city-bred birds fly too high for persons like you. I never did believe in the reputation you have so carefully built up. To fall down on that cyanide murder right under your nose and in the very pub you are staying at doesn’t surprise me.”
“The information we sought from London should assist you.”
“Yes, perhaps. I brought it with me. Pavier says you have made slight progress regarding Tuttaway.” Stillman slid off the desk. “Well, I must get down to it, Bonaparte. Don’t let me keep you. The relevant files and case reports are about somewhere?”
“Doubtless, Stillman.” Bony rose from the desk chair and took up briefcase and hat. “As you pointed out, I am finished here, so that files and reports are of no interest to me. You’ll know where to find them. Having the information from London, however, you should not need them.”
At the door Bony turned. Stillman was watching him. Bony smiled, and Stillman found nothing warming in it. Quietly Bony passed out and closed the door, leaving Stillman in an empty office, and proceeded to Pavier’s room.
“It would appear, sir, that I am to go,” Bony said stiffly.
“Thought you were out. Been trying to get you. You’ve seen Stillman, obviously.”
“Yes.”
Pavier stood, saying earnestly:
“I received no prior notification from Sydney. Stillman walked in and presented an instruction terminating your seconding, with an order to you to return at once to Brisbane. Personally, I’m liking it less than you. It hasn’t been done correctly, but the excuse was that Stillman would arrive before air-mail delivery.”
“Why Stillman? We have discussed Stillman, but why send here a man who failed before and wriggled his way back to Sydney?”
“Knowing the Chief of the CIB, sending Stillman might have been prompted by the wish that he fail again. Enough rope … Anyway, this termination of your association with us wasn’t done by Sydney. Letter here from CIB Chief explains that. Read it.”
“Not now. You are only imagining you are talking to me. You tried to contact me and found I was out. You will see me tomorrow at nine, and then you will execute the Order of Boot. Clear, sir?”
“Something coming to the boil, eh?”
“When events delay, one must hasten them. Super, I must not fail, ever. I want only twelve hours.”
Superintendent Pavier nodded slowly. Gazing at a point above and beyond Bony’s head, he said:
“Glad I can’t obey that instruction till Bonaparte reports.”
He continued to gaze above Bony’s head, and Bony turned and went out. Other than the duty constable in the public office, there was a plain-clothes man. Of him Stillman was demanding to know where the detective staff were. Bony sauntered by to the door, and he heard the detective say:
“Don’t rightly know, sir. All out on duty, I suppose, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Bony’s Party
IT WAS an excellent meal despite the rush service occasioned by the determination of the Australian staff to be finished as quickly as possible after seven—or else.
Of Bony’s guests, Jimmy the Screwsman floundered beyond his depth. Luke Pavier was entirely at ease. Sergeant Crome was slightly diffident, and Senior Detective Abbot a trifle awed. Alert for the welfare of his guests, Bony controlled the conversation, breaking down barriers and making them feel that all were his friends. Even Jimmy Nimmo eventually mellowed.
Wally Sloan cleared away and brought coffee and a bottle of his finest brandy. The ‘sir’ was tailed to every sentence. When he had gone, Bony said:
“It’s as well Inspector Stillman is holding the official fort. He was, however, somewhat perturbed to find that all but one of the detective staff were out on duty.”
“Ah!” breathed Crome. “Which man was there, d’you know?”
“Not his name. Tall, fair-haired young man.”
“Simmons. Idiot. I told him to keep clear,” growled the sergeant. “Told ’em all to get out and keep out and lock up everything before they went. I’ll have something to say to Simmons.”
“Stillman left holding the bridle without the horse?” commented Luke hopefully.
“He hasn’t even the bridle,” Bony said. “I brought it with me. Sloan has locked it in the hotel safe. However, we’ll mount him tomorrow, or when you gentlemen of the Detective Office return to duty. Tonight is ours.”
Crome stared at his host through cigar smoke. Abbot appeared expectant. Luke saw a vision of the stiff-backed Crome and the efficient Abbot, with Bony and himself and this strange Nimmo fellow, making merry and ‘burning up’ Argent Street. And then he remembered that this dinner was the prelude to serious stuff and concentrated on Bony.
“You will recall, Crome, that we asked Sydney to obtain certain information from London,” Bony said. “That information Stillman has with him. Declined to pass it on.”
“What the swine would do,” Abbot said without ire.
“I’m reasonably sure that the information, if added to my knowledge, would enable us to finalise these murders within a few hours,” Bony proceeded. “I am left to guess what that information is, and I intend to gamble on guessing correctly. Without knowing what I know, the London information will not give Stillman anything like a clear picture.
“I have information for you, and a proposal to make. Stillman brought from Sydney an instruction addressed to Superintendent Pavier, who is to inform me tomorrow that my service with the New South Wales Police Department is terminat
ed. At nine tomorrow I shall have no authority in New South Wales. Stillman will be in full charge, and I do want that Stillman find himself in charge of exactly nothing.
“You, Crome and Abbot, know that these recent murders were extremely difficult to probe. Each murder scene was instantly cluttered by the crowding feet of men and women. There could be deducted not one reasonable motive, so that it was not possible to determine whether the murders were premeditated or committed on impulse.
“With the murder of Lodding, however, we came on the Great Scarsby, and almost in spite of our efforts on the cyanide cases they have become linked with the killing of Muriel Lodding. The strength of the link, I cannot even now assess.
“I cannot find a reasonable answer as to why those three men were selected murder victims. Insane hatred of elderly bachelors could not have been the reason for their selection by the murderer, because Patrick O’Hara, who barely escaped being poisoned, had twice been married.
“Those four men yet had one thing in common. Each one of them was a careless eater. It was the one thing which united them in the mind of the poisoner. Consider the state of mind wherein is born the fury to murder a man for a habit which creates in the sane mind merely a feeling of disgust. Then consider Tuttaway.
“Sixteen years ago, Muriel Lodding did secretarial work for Tuttaway, and after Tuttaway went on tour to the United States, Muriel Lodding and her sister, Mrs Dalton, came to Australia. They were living here in Broken Hill when Tuttaway was indicted and put away during the Governor’s pleasure. Then Tuttaway escaped and came to Broken Hill, the obvious reason being to murder the woman who had worked for him in England.
“Mrs Dalton at first said there was no man in Lodding’s life. Then she said that her sister had worked for Tuttaway. Tuttaway never came to the house. She knew next to nothing about Tuttaway. She and her sister had not discussed at length Tuttaway’s career. And yet she did not hesitate to tell me that Tuttaway went on tour in the precise year we knew he did. That, I believe, was a slip.
“The handle of the glass knife which slew Muriel Lodding was found inside Mrs Dalton’s gate. For some considerable time the butcher has been delivering daily eight pounds of steak to Mrs Dalton. There are no pets to account for the meat. Mrs Dalton and her sister did not entertain, and we know that an elderly woman who wore glasses and a younger woman were seen to enter the house or leave it. An elderly woman is thought to have poisoned Goldspink and a younger woman to have poisoned Gromberg.
“Then we know that firewood has been delivered to Mrs Dalton by a man named Goddard and, further, that in Goddard’s wood-yard office are several tins of cyanide. We know that Mrs Dalton’s dog died suddenly. We know that a man went round her house testing doors and windows in the early hours and that Mrs Dalton watched him from an upstairs window. Although there is a telephone, she did not communicate with the police.”
Bony ceased speaking, and rolled another cigarette. Luke Pavier said:
“A madman’s riddle.”
“The answer must be in Mrs Dalton’s house, but there isn’t sufficient evidence to ask for a search warrant. In any case, it is now too late for me to apply for one, and I can assure you that Stillman hasn’t a fraction of what we have. Which brings me to what lies right under his supercilious nose.”
Bony related the dates of Lodding’s absences from duty owing to sickness, pointed out that the periods between the first and second and the second and third were approximately the same, and added the dates of the three poisonings.
“At first study we might assume that Lodding suffered severe headache, sought for and obtained leave of absence, and within forty hours after returning to duty went hunting a victim with cyanide,” Bony continued. “But we know that Lodding was at work at Headquarters when those three men were killed, and we know that when O’Hara’s life was attempted Muriel Lodding was dead. Question: ‘When Lodding asked for sick leave, was it actually for herself?’ Again, Mrs Dalton’s house may provide an answer.
“Now for my proposal. It will be dark in less than an hour, and if the evening sky was read aright it will be very dark. Almost immediately Jimmy and I will set out for Mrs Dalton’s house, and we will enter it to see what we can see and hear what we can hear. I would much like you, Crome and Abbot, to come with us as far as the garden, conceal yourselves, wait and watch, and be ready for a signal. And I would like you, Luke, to be with Crome to observe and take notes for your paper. I think it likely that the man watched by Mrs Dalton last night will make an entry tonight. We shall permit him to enter, to learn his purpose, to overpower him if he should attack Mrs Dalton. And I think that man is Tuttaway.
“On consideration, if you think that you would rather not be associated with this somewhat unethical procedure, I feel sure you will just forget about it and go home to bed.”
“Too early—for bed,” Abbot pointed out.
“Not too early for me to get going, Mr Beaut Friend,” chirped the son of Superintendent Pavier.
Jimmy Nimmo was gripping the edge of the table. A lunatic killer, an insane poisoner, and now a madman detective. Was he coming in or going out? Abbot was faintly smiling. Crome sat stolid, his grey eyes small and sharp. It was he who broke down a wall of silence.
“I been in the department twenty-three years. This job could be the finish of me.”
“I’ve been in the department for eleven years, and I don’t care a damn if it is the finish of me,” Abbot said. “Could you tell us more, Inspector?”
Bony sipped brandy and drank the remainder of his coffee, cold. Luke thought it should be the other way about, but gave it up.
“Let us consider more of Tuttaway,” Bony went on. “After what was reported to you last night, or early this morning, Crome, you are bound to place men on watch for that window-testing man. Assuming he behaves tonight as he did last night, and you arrest him and discover him to be Tuttaway, what have you on him? Murder, you answer, and rightly, and Tuttaway is returned to Victoria to gaol. What next? Will Tuttaway oblige by telling why he attempted to enter the house? It is doubtful. You have gained something, but far from what could be gained if Tuttaway did enter the house and if it was found that someone else in the house was responsible for poisoning three men. Are you going to apply for a search warrant, or are you going to ask Mrs Dalton for permission to search her house? Why should she not grant permission when you hold the murderer of her sister, the man who tried to break into her house to murder her?
“Let us assume that Jimmy and I enter the house and find nothing incriminating, nothing suggesting that anyone living there could have poisoned Goldspink and Company. We leave, and there is no harm done. We will assume that Jimmy and I are discovered by Mrs Dalton, who raises blue hell and rings for the police. You need not be the police, but quietly return to your homes. Jimmy and I clear out—or take the knock. Having been pessimistic, let us be optimistic. We take Tuttaway, and we put on him or another responsibility for the death of those three men; we present the completed investigation to the Super in the morning—and Stillman can go back to Sydney on the first plane.”
Again silence. Luke studied Jimmy Nimmo, with whose profession he was not acquainted, and wondered why Jimmy looked green under the pale yellow lights. He studied Abbot and Crome, and his lips lifted slightly in a sneer for men hesitating to accept such a splendid opportunity. Then Abbot said:
“I’ll be with you, Inspector.”
“You have my assurance that neither Jimmy nor I will pinch anything from the house,” Bony aimed at Crome. “All I ask is that you won’t pinch us.”
The grimness about the sergeant’s mouth faded. The lips twitched. He began to laugh softly, and the sound rose in pitch till it rumbled around the room. Pushing back his chair, he attempted to get to his feet, seemed frozen in the act.
“It’s funnier than you’d read about,” he declared. “I’ll still be laughing if I’m chucked out of the department. Let’s go.”
“Sloan will be w
aiting to take us burglaring in his car,” Bony said happily.
They rose together. Luke wanted to shake hands with everyone.
And Jimmy Nimmo was positively sure he wasn’t as sane as he had been when he came to Broken Hill.
Chapter Twenty-five
Jimmy’s Mecca
A FULL quarter mile from the two-storeyed house, Wally Sloan was asked to pull into the cavern beneath the branches of a pepper tree and put out the lights of the car. The nearest street lamp was a hundred-odd yards away.
“If you are investigated by a patrolling policeman, Sloan, you must invent your own explanation,” Bony said. “It’s barely half past nine, and you may have to wait many hours.”
“That’ll be OK with me, sir. I’ll wait till the band plays.”
“Now, Jimmy, you and I will go to it. You others know what to do. Much depends on you. Be wary, although it’s unlikely that Tuttaway will be in the garden before you, and don’t interfere with him unless sure he is leaving the place.”
Crome crossed his fingers and, with Abbot and Luke, prepared to wait thirty minutes. Jimmy and Bony slid out into the void, and the car door was silently closed. Three minutes later they entered the lane passing the rear of Mrs Dalton’s house.
“I’m not as familiar with the grounds as you are,” Bony admitted. “But I have a general picture of the place. You take the left side of the house and I’ll take the right, and we’ll meet at the pine tree at the front. Clear?”
“Okay. What do we look for?”
“Anything unusual. First to survey. Second to plan. Third to operate.”
“Who’s the burglar, me or you?”
Bony chuckled and patted Jimmy’s arm.
“If ever we go into partnership, Jimmy, there’s no policeman living who would catch us.”
Jimmy was first to arrive at the trysting tree, and there he stood with his back to the trunk as he had done the previous night. It was so dark the ground was invisible and the house without form. Two illumined windows on the upper floor were like golden plaques. Waiting for Bony, he watched for him and flinched when a hand gripped his arm. The voice was familiar, like a voice in the memory.
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