The Bachelors of Broken Hill

by Arthur Upfield

  “An artist, eh?” Bony gazed over the girl’s head and beyond the window. “Would he help us, d’you think?”

  “He—— I think so—if I asked him to.”

  “Would he come to see me at the Western Mail Hotel tonight, say at eight?”

  The chin jutted a mere fraction.

  “I’ll see that he does, Inspector.”

  Chapter Six

  The Art Patron

  BONY WAS working in his office the next morning when his desk phone demanded attention. It was Superintendent Pavier.

  “Morning, Bonaparte! Care to run in for a few minutes? I want to talk.”

  “Yes, all right, Super. Anything new on the board?”

  “No.”

  “May I bring Crome?”

  “Certainly.”

  Bony sighed and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette. If Pavier expected results thus early, if Pavier was to prove himself another ‘boss’ wanting a daily progress report, then he, Bony, would have to be firm. He lit the cigarette and pounded on the wall behind his chair. He heard Crome’s chair being thrust back, and then Crome was standing before his desk.

  “The Chief wants to see us,” Bony explained. “Have you found out who murdered Goldspink and Parsons?”

  Sergeant Crome began a smile and froze it at birth.

  “He gets that way sometimes,” he said. “Me, I’ve got beyond worrying. I’ve had it. One of the girls is typing the report of your interrogation of Goldspink’s cashier. You want it?”

  “No. Let’s go along.”

  Bony led Crome down the corridor, turned left at the junction, passed through the rear of the public office and into the room occupied by the Superintendent’s secretary. He smiled at her and passed on to the door of Pavier’s office and entered without knocking. Crome closed the door.

  “Ah! Sit down, Bonaparte. And Sergeant Crome.” The Superintendent indicated chairs. What was on his mind was concealed by the mask of a face, and there was nothing in his voice to betray his thoughts. The white hair crowning the long head toned out the colourless complexion. “How have you been getting on, Bonaparte.”

  “Oh, so-so,” Bony replied. “I’ve been studying the groundwork done by Sergeant Crome and ruined by Inspector Stillman. I’ve been expecting another cyanide murder, but so far nothing of the kind has been reported. However, I remain hopeful.”

  This rocked Superintendent Pavier.

  “I may misunderstand you, Bonaparte,” he said coldly. “We certainly cannot permit another cyaniding in Broken Hill.”

  “I can see no way to avoid it, Super,” Bony countered. “One successful murder begets another, and the second will beget a third. I wasn’t here when the first was done, nor was I here when the second was committed. I have had to make myself au fait with the background of two murders, and for that I am given a fairly good survey by Sergeant Crome and witnesses whose minds have been blacked out by an arrant fool, a puny jumped-up would-be dictator, a conceited, empty-headed idiot of a man raised to a position of—— But what’s the use? You say you cannot have another cyaniding in Broken Hill. You should have said you would not have a second one, but you did. And you will have a third, because what trails were left of the first two have almost vanished beneath the clod-hopping feet of the great Inspector Stillman.”

  Superintendent Pavier sat with his eyes closed.

  “The two victims are beyond my interest, excepting to the extent that bodies are effects,” Bony proceeded. “My interest is solely in the person who is the cause of the effects—two dead bodies to date, with a probable third in the near future.”

  Bony ceased, and Crome expelled caught breath. Pavier opened his eyes, and still his face and voice were without expression.

  “It would seem, Bonaparte, that you misunderstood me,” he said. “Being the officer in charge of this South-Western Police Division of New South Wales, I am amenable to public opinion. Hence my anxiety that a third murder will be prevented.”

  “I concede the point, sir. And when I declare that I am not in the least degree influenced by public opinion, that I don’t care two hoots for public opinion, that all I do care about is hunting down a murderer, there need be no misunderstandings on either side.

  “Actually, I am pleased that you called us in conference this morning. You will gain insight into our problem, and I hope you will convey these problems to your Sydney headquarters—with the suggestion that should there be a third murder, a fourth, or even a seventh, they will refrain from sending here any one of their several alleged detectives.

  “Firstly, let us look at the scene of these two poisonings. A city deep in the bush, cut off by hundreds of miles of open bushland, a city made enormously rich by the world’s demand for silver and lead and subsidiary metals. You have no gangsters here, no habitual criminals, no underworld, and because of that you have little need for a vice squad.

  “Secondly, let us look at the murderer who drops cyanide into tea cups. That person isn’t concerned with vice or gambling. That person isn’t a cracksman, an alley thug, a sex maniac in the real sense of the term. That person’s motive isn’t gain, jealousy, or anything so normal. Here in Broken Hill is a person influenced by a motive or motives which lie within the mind of the near insane.

  “Thirdly, let us regard the two murders already committed. We know little of the victims. We know that both were unmarried, both were elderly, both were physically heavy men. Can we say that the person who murdered them is actuated by a phobia of bachelors, or of elderly men, or of fat men? As yet we cannot.

  “And lastly, let us consider the investigator. He arrives on the scene precisely eight weeks after the second of the two murders. He is given nothing of any importance with which to begin his investigation. He is given a mass of conflicting reports and much senile theorising. He has to be unnaturally polite with witnesses made rampantly hostile, and he is forced to waste time in studying these otherwise helpful witnesses and employ expert psychology to bring them to the point of assistance. Given time, he may succeed in covering all the past police failures with the success of locating the murderer. I don’t believe he will be given time to prevent a third murder, and that won’t be his fault, nor will it be to his discredit.”

  The calm and precise voice stopped. Pavier shot a glance at Crome, but the sergeant was gazing stoically at his boots. Pavier was shocked less by Bony’s assertions than by the justice of them. He saw the uselessness of treating this half-caste as a subordinate, and had sufficient sense to realise Crome’s limitations and his own.

  “Well, I was hoping for a crumb, but it appears I have to starve,” he said, and after a pause permitted the hint of a smile, which swiftly vanished. “Speaking personally, if there should be a third murder, the public outcry will be terrific.”

  “Then the public must not know about it,” calmly said Bony.

  “Not know!” Crome burst out. “How in hell is the public to be prevented from knowing?”

  “There are ways and means, Crome. First things first. The third murder hasn’t been committed.” Bony looked at the wall clock. “Ten past noon, and I’ve to see a man about a picture. You must excuse me, Super. I am a patron of the arts—among other things.”

  Crome stood stiffly, waiting for dismissal. Pavier faintly shrugged. Bony smiled at him and strode to the door. He left without the sergeant, and Pavier stared at his senior detective and again faintly shrugged.

  “The only thing we can peg our hats on, Bill, is the fellow’s reputation. Get out.”

  Bony passed into the public office and asked the constable on duty if there was a Mr Mills waiting to see him. The constable called the name, and a young man who had been seated on a hard bench rose and came forward. Bony slipped under the counter flap to meet him.

  “Sorry I wasn’t able to call at your hotel last night, Inspector,” the young man said nervously, and Bony told him to forget it, as Mary Isaacs had telephoned about his sick mother, and he expressed the hope that Mrs Mills was much
better.

  “Come along to my office. I won’t keep you long.”

  He sat Mills in the visitor’s chair and produced a packet of cigarettes. Mills was perhaps a little older than nineteen, fair and fresh-complexioned, lean and alert and, as Bony was instantly to learn, modest.

  “It’s generous of you to come and see me, Mr Mills, after the very bad impression made on Miss Isaacs by a detective we won’t bother to mention,” he began. “Miss Isaacs told me you are a lightning cartoonist. Would you work confidentially for me?”

  “Yes, I’d be glad to,” replied Mills. “I hope Mary didn’t boost me too much, though. I still have a lot to learn and a lot of study ahead. If I can help, well, I’ll do my best.”

  “There mightn’t be much money for your work,” Bony warned. “But you may eventually receive much helpful publicity. I am after the person who poisoned old Goldspink, and no one, not even your Mary, can identify him or her. We’ll say it’s a woman, but we must not talk about it—outside. Agreed?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “Good! Take this sheet of paper and draw me.”

  Mills produced his own pencils from a top pocket and fell to studying Bony’s features, the point of a pencil poised above the paper. Then without his looking at the paper for a second, the pencil worked with incredible speed. The paper was passed back to Bony, who regarded it with astonishment and carefully placed it in a drawer, intending, on the instant, to have it framed and hung in his own study.

  “I envy you your gift, Mr Mills,” he said, and meant it. “Have you done any colour painting, if that is the right term?”

  “Water-colours. I’m studying that now.”

  “Excellent! Now I have here the description of a woman your Mary served that afternoon Goldspink was murdered. I have obtained the description partly from Mary and partly from the cashier. No other at the shop can help us. The details are vague, incomplete. I am hoping that with the limited details I can give you might be able to build, as it were, a picture of that woman. You will have to employ your imagination, perhaps make two or even three pictures, so that when shown to certain people, including Mary, they may assist those people to recognise the original. Will you try?”

  “Certainly. What are the particulars?”

  “The woman wore a grey suit and a grey felt hat having the brim turned up all round. She wore the hat straight—like a man wears a hat, not to one side. The hat had a pale blue band.”

  Bony waited for Mills to jot down these items before proceeding:

  “The woman’s face was neither thin nor fat. She was slightly above average height, and as she stooped a little she was probably well above average. She had the trick of inclining her face downward and peering as though used to looking above spectacles. Draw her with and without spectacles, if you will.”

  “Not much to go on,” Mills observed, looking up from his notes.

  “That’s true. But do the best possible with what you have. Give me more than one full length figure, and also a series of faces both full face and profile. You may hit on just the right type to be identified.”

  “All right, sir. I’ll do them to-night and let you have them first thing tomorrow.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mr Mills. Grant me an added favour. Do not permit your Mary to see them. Leave that for me to do. Clear?”

  “Certainly. I’ll leave the sketches here for you at about eight in the morning. Glad to be helpful, sir. Rotten business, these cyanidings.”

  “Horrible.” Bony rose and accompanied the young man to the outer office. “Not a word about this to anyone, remember.”

  “That’ll be OK, Inspector.”

  Mills departed. Luke Pavier appeared from nowhere and laid a restraining hand on Bony’s arm.

  “Anything of a break yet, Mr. Friend?” he asked, and the constable moved closer. Bony smiled and led the reporter to the public bench, where he invited him to be seated.

  “Would you like to play on my side?” he asked.

  “Sure. I’ll team with anyone who’ll play with me.”

  Bony steadily regarded Luke, the son of Louis.

  “All set, I lead. You have my word for it that, if you cooperate, you will be given the opportunity of being in at the arrest. My demands on you may, however, be heavy.”

  “Suits me, Mr Friend.”

  “Good! Dine with me tonight?”

  “I drink—a lot—with my dinner.”

  “At six. At my hotel.”

  They parted, Bony returning to his office and telephoning for lunch to be sent in to him. He worked until four and then went out and down Argent Street to Favalora’s Café, where he enjoyed tea and toasted raisin bread with Jimmy the Screwsman. He returned at five and ‘barged’ into Superintendent Pavier’s office.

  “Hoped to catch you before you left, Super,” he said, slipping into a chair and nursing a small package. “Often found it wise practice to rest the mind from a major investigation by indulging in a minor one. Kind of a busman’s holiday. Felt I had to do something whilst waiting for what appears to be the inevitable third cyaniding. You have no objections?”

  Pavier merely stared at him.

  “On November tenth last year, the wife of a mine manager suffered the theft of jewellery which she valued at sixty-five pounds. The licensee of the Diggers’ Rest swore that he lost four hundred and seventeen pounds from his safe on the night of December second. And a woman racehorse owner lost the sum of one hundred and eighty pounds from her cache inside her mantel clock sometime about January ninth.

  “Those robberies were never cleared up, Crome tells me. Won’t do, Super. Only encourages more burglaries. I have here the sum of six hundred and sixty-two pounds, being the recovery of the losses sustained. You might fix it up for me.”

  Pavier accepted the package, slit it open with a paper knife, and disclosed the packed wads of treasury notes.

  “Make an arrest?” he asked quietly.

  “Oh no. Couldn’t do that. I never arrest a pal.”

  “Will you do me a favour?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Come home to dinner with me tonight so that I can tell you in my own unfettered manner just what I damn well think of you.”

  “Another time, Super. This evening I am dining with your son.”

  Chapter Seven

  At Morning Tea

  THE DESK was littered with sketches of women. Among them were three full-length coloured drawings of a woman in a grey suit and wearing a small grey hat with the brim turned up all round. In each picture the face was different. There were several sheets of paper, each having half a dozen feminine faces presented at every angle, some with spectacles, many showing the eyes peering above the spectacles. David Mills had done an excellent job, and Bony was pleased, for in every sketch Mills had depicted the probable age of the possible poisoner.

  There were three girls who might recognise in one of these sketches a living woman. They were Mary Isaacs, the cashier at the shop, and the waitress at Favalora’s Café. If only one of those girls could say: “That picture is like the woman,” then the entire police personnel could be put to hunt for her.

  It was quarter to ten. Bony rang Switch and asked to be put through to Superintendent Pavier’s secretary. Almost at once a strange voice said:

  “Policewoman Lodding.”

  “Oh! Miss Lodding,” Bony exclaimed, and mentioned his name and rank. “I haven’t been presented to you. You have been away ill, I understand. May I come and talk to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bony hung up, a quirk at his mouth. The voice was coldly efficient, not unlike Pavier’s voice. Recalling Crome’s impolite description of Policewoman Lodding, Bony left his office for her domain.

  She was not quite as the sergeant had labelled her, and she stood as Bony approached her desk, flanked on one side by a typewriter and on the other by a card-index cabinet. In height she was above average, Bony estimated five feet eleven inches. Instead of uniform she was
wearing a navy-blue pleated skirt and a tailored white blouse. Her hair, as black as Bony’s, was dressed severely, which accentuated the sharp lines of the cheek-bones. The complexion was sallow, entirely unadorned. The mouth was not inviting, and the dark brown eyes held nothing akin to big velvety pansies. A female iceberg—aged forty winters.

  “I am Inspector Bonaparte. Happy to meet you, Miss Lodding.”

  He smiled, with calculated attempt to melt the ice, and almost succeeded. She could not prevent the flash of interest in her eyes, and in that split second he thought he saw a different woman.

  “Anything I can do for you, Inspector?”

  “Well, yes, there is. Miss Ball told me that you prepared the morning and afternoon teas. That is so?”

  Her voice was pleasing, and Bony waited for it.

  “Very few young girls can make tea properly, sir. I generally do it.”

  “Well, the situation is this, Miss Lodding. I am going to have a party this morning. Three young ladies from whom I am hoping to receive valuable assistance are calling on me. I want them to be perfectly at ease, to have no feeling of being within the clutches of the law.”

  “I could see to it, Inspector.” The dark brows lowered a mere fraction. He thought they were hostile to his suggestion. They were not. “I’ll have Miss Ball take in the tea when required. Having been away, I’ve a great deal of work to catch up on. You understand?”

  “Quite. And thank you.”

  Policewoman Lodding made to sit down, and Bony, feeling a little chilled, left her. He found Senior Detective Abbot with Sergeant Crome and invited them to his office where he showed them the sketches and explained their purpose.

  “I assume there’s an official car available?” he asked Crome.

  “’Fraid not, sir. One’s being overhauled, the other’s out.”

  The sergeant detected the hardening of the blue eyes.