Bony - 13 - The Widows of broome

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Mr. Flinn inside?” he enquired.

  “Went in an hour ago,” replied the old man.

  “How are you standing up to it?”

  “Standing up to it? Good! Gives me something to do.”

  “I’d like to switch you to a more important assign­ment,” Bony said. “They’ve brought in Locke, and he’ll be taken down to Perth tonight. The newspaper correspondent thinks that Locke is the man wanted for these murders. Now, Mr. Dickenson, I’m more in need of your co-operation than ever. I cannot be everywhere at the same time.”

  “Well, whatever I can do …”

  “I appreciate your help, Mr. Dickenson.” Bony broke off to light a cigarette. The old man gazed across the street at the busy hotel, and his expression revealed the price he was paying to assist Bony. Inherited instincts and the early influence of the class of society from which he had fallen were still with him.

  “I think we’ll let up on Flinn for the time being,” Bony went on. “Having to send Clifford to Perth with Locke will make us still more short-handed. I’d like you to undertake another assignment this evening, an all-night one.”

  The old man removed his gaze from the drinkers on the hotel veranda to regard his bench companion.

  “I can see quite well in the dark,” he said. “I have seen much of Broome life after dark.”

  “Much, I think, which I might find of value. Could we meet, say at seven o’clock, this evening? Outside the post office?”

  “That would be convenient to me.”

  “Well, then, it might be as well to get a little sleep this afternoon.” Bony stood up, and Mr. Dickenson said:

  “I’ll do that. Do you think it permissible to take a little relaxation before I turn in?”

  Bony did not betray his doubt of Mr. Dickenson’s will-power to withstand much longer the siren voice of Mr. Barley­corn. However, he acted with wisdom.

  “I do think it permissible. We have both earned a couple of sustainers.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Forces Organised

  THE police station office was closed. Walters had gone off to receive Dr. Mitchell’s post-mortem report and to attend the funeral of Mrs. Overton. He expected a large number of people to be at the graveside. Sawtell, having spent the morning in the murdered woman’s house test­ing for finger-prints, was at his own ill-equipped laboratory at home, and Clifford was making enquiries concerning Mrs. Overton’s domestic arrangements.

  Before Bony was a list of five names headed The Widows of Broome. An ink line ran through the name of Mrs. Overton, and the ink line appeared to magnify the remaining four names—Sayers, Clayton, Watson and Abercrombie. With Clifford’s departure for Perth and Constable Pedersen still away in the bush, the police strength in Broome this coming night would be only two.

  The horns of dilemma continued to prod Bony and make him extremely uncomfortable. The build-up of the murderer was so tenuous, so vague, that it was difficult to see his picture. The psoriasis clue was in­definite because even had Dr. Mitchell been ordered to inspect every man and woman in Broome it would achieve only the identity of every sufferer and not indicate the one among them who strangled women in their homes. First establish the murderer, then the sloughed skin found in the homes of two of his victims would be added proof of his guilt. The four women must be guarded every night henceforth, but if the mur­derer discovered the precautions taken he would not walk into any parlour.

  However, there were four widows, and there must be four guards: Walters and the sergeant, himself and old Dickenson. He could hope for time and luck, and he would certainly need both. Meanwhile, he had letters to write for Perth, and was making a request to the superintendent in charge of the C.I.B. when he heard someone knocking on the back door.

  Mrs. Walters’ footsteps sounded in the kitchen, and quite clearly he heard her exclaim:

  “Why, Mr. Percival! Will you come in?”

  Then Mr. Percival’s voice:

  “Thank you, Mrs. Walters. Just for a moment or two. Mr. Rose delegated to me the matter of your husband’s complaint regarding some of our boys’ slovenly pronunciation, and I thought I would call in about it.”

  Mrs. Walters explained that, the front-office door being locked, she regretted having to ask the visitor to walk through her kitchen to reach the lounge, and Mr. Percival said Mrs. Walters was not to bother as he could not stay more than a minute.

  “You know, Mrs. Walters, boys are boys all the world over,” he said with his clear enunciation. “I’ve been with them all my life, and I know them inside and out. When thrown together as they are at school, they are both faddists and copyists. You have without doubt noticed that Keith takes up something with enthusiasm, and with equal enthusiasm drops it to take up something else.”

  “Oh yes, Keith is like that. Nanette is different.”

  “Yes, I suppose she is.” Mr. Percival cleared his throat. “The point I am trying to make is that this deliberate mispronunciation of which your husband rightly com­plains is probably the result of one boy showing off, as we call it. It’s extremely silly, but it’s merely a fad which is bound to pass. When I was at school we gave certain words an entirely different pronunciation from that in normal use. We thought it clever, and no doubt our boys think this clever, too. I lectured the entire school on the subject the other day, and the staff has received instructions to correct the fault whenever it is heard.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Percival. My husband …”

  “I feel sure he will understand,” proceeded Mr. Percival. “I’ve learned that the great majority of our problems are not after all so very serious if dealt with with a degree of mental detachment. It is so easy to permit a problem to magnify itself. We at the college have made the training of boys almost a science. We endeavour to accomplish an ideal, which is why the boys at a public school appear to be turned out from one mould. We are very proud of our boys, Mrs. Walters, and we shall not be disappointed in your son.”

  “It’s nice of you to say that, Mr. Percival,” Mrs. Walters said, happily.

  “Well, I must be getting along. Mr. Rose is attending the funeral of poor Mrs. Overton. It is all very dreadful. She was such a fine woman, and we shall miss her. Always ready, you know, to assist us with our social activities. The boys thought a very great deal of her. Gloom hangs over the entire school. Am I correctly in­formed that the murderer has been arrested?”

  There was no hesitation by Mrs. Walters, and Bony silently applauded.

  “Well, a man has been arrested. Constable Clifford is taking him down to Perth this evening. My husband tells me very little about his official work, you know. Says I’m not to be trusted.”

  “A generality, of course. I am relieved … we all must be … that the perpetrator of these horrible crimes has been apprehended. We should, however, withhold personal judg­ment even in such time of stress to which we have been subjected. We have reason to be proud of the ethics and procedure of our British criminal courts. By the way, I have not seen Constable Pedersen recently. Is he still out in the bush?”

  “Yes. We can expect him only when we see him,” replied Mrs. Walters.

  “Ah, yes, yes. Our boys hero-worship him. His talks on bushcraft and the wild natives have made him extremely popular. Well, thank you, Mrs. Walters. I am glad that the little matter of the gunners and jists has been ironed out. We have been hoping to welcome Mr. Knapp at the school. Mr. Rose and I met him down at the store, and he almost promised he would call on us one afternoon.”

  “I will remind him. I’m sure he won’t have forgotten.”

  “Thank you. I trust he is enjoying his stay at Broome.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Percival.” “Tell him I’m leaving shortly,” willed Bony. “Tell him … tell him … tell him.” Mrs. Walters said: “We shall be sorry when he leaves us.” “Shortly … shortly … shortly,” willed Bony, but Mrs Walters said: “Good-bye, Mr. Percival. It was nice of you to call.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. W
alters,” and Bony knew he was then beyond the kitchen doorway. “Good-bye!”

  Bony permitted his wrist-watch to mark off a full minute before he left his “office” for the kitchen. He said nothing to Mrs. Walters and she was astonished to see him sink to his knees and squint across the surface of the linoleum just inside the doorway. Size eight were the shoes on Mr. Percival’s feet.

  “When talking to you, where did he stand or sit?” he asked.

  “He stood just there,” replied Mrs. Walters, indicating a point midway between the door and the kitchen table.

  “A broom, please.”

  She brought him one, and he swept the floor and care­fully retrieved the flotsam accumulated since it was last swept. The envelope containing it he marked with the letter P. Mrs. Walters looked her astonishment.

  “I am cram-full of suspicion of everyone,” he said, a clear twinkle in his eyes. “Mr. Percival wears the same size shoe as worn by the murderer of Mrs. Overton, but his shoes are not worn along the inner edge of the heels.”

  “They oughtn’t to be, anyway. Mr. Percival’s shoes were almost new, I should think,” argued Mrs. Walters. “Oh, he couldn’t be …”

  “He could. So could Mr. Rose, or one of the other masters. Any man wearing a size eight shoe could be the man I cannot drag forth from black obscurity. Look! If you permit that kettle to boil much longer it’ll boil dry. D’you know what happens when a kettle boils dry?”

  Mrs. Walters laughed outright, and turned to take a teapot from the cabinet. Having made the tea, she said:

  “Now I think back, it does seem that Mr. Percival asked a lot of questions, doesn’t it?”

  “Did he?” asked Bony innocently.

  “You know he did. You couldn’t help but hear what was said.”

  “I did hear something about the boys. You’re not accusing me of spying, are you?”

  “Oh no. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.”

  Bony smiled, and went off for the tea-cups. It seemed to Clifford, who entered at that moment, that Inspector Bonaparte did nothing else but serve him with cups of tea.

  “Any results?” Bony asked him.

  “Yes. Mrs. Overton did not employ anyone to help her with the housework. Ah Kee, the laundryman, said he collected Mrs. Overton’s washing every week. When I asked him if he laundered her silk things, he said no.

  “All right! Anything further?”

  “Nothing,” replied Clifford. “I made enquiries of Mrs. Overton’s neighbours on whether they had seen anyone lurking about at night, and they all replied that they hadn’t. None of them said they had ever lost any­thing, although I hinted that we’d received reports of petty thefts.”

  “Good work,” approved Bony. “Well, I suppose you want to make ready for your trip south. You’ll find the sergeant at home. Report to him. Did you pass the cigarettes to the prisoner?”

  “A large packet when I took his midday meal to him.”

  “Done much air travel?”

  “Fair amount, sir.”

  “You will please me by returning as quickly as possible. We’re short-handed. I’ll have a communica­tion for you to present to the Chief of the C.I.B., who will facilitate your quick return. I’d like you to be in at the death.”

  That made Clifford smile appreciation of the compli­ment, and Bony returned to his office. He was still there when he heard the inspector’s voice in the front office, and he waited five minutes before joining him. Walters was in dress uniform, and he looked bigger and even more efficient.

  “The entire town was there,” he said. “Some of ’em made it plain how pleased they were I had caught the murderer. I’ll be lynched if another murder happens.”

  “That shall not happen. Will you guard Mrs. Watson’s house all night?”

  “No need. She and her children are leaving for Perth on the plane tonight. Be down there for a month.”

  Bony sighed his relief.

  “I shall watch over Mrs. Sayers, and I’ll get old Dickenson to keep his eyes on Mrs. Clayton’s house for the night. That leaves Mrs. Abercrombie, who has a woman living with her. They should be in the least danger.”

  “You’d say so if you saw the companion. Grows a moust­ache. Sawtell and I will take care of them. We’ll take shifts. But what about you? Like us, you didn’t go to bed last night.”

  “I’ll manage. When d’you expect the relief constable from Derby?”

  “In the morning. And Clifford should be back by tomorrow night.”

  Bony transmitted Clifford’s report of his enquiries and left the inspector at his desk. He sought Mrs. Walters, from whom he learned that dinner would be at six. He asked to be called punctually at six, and lay down on his bed for two hours’ sleep. He slept at once and woke refreshed, and at seven he joined Mr. Dickenson on the bench placed well in the deepening shadows of the trees outside the post office. Without preamble, he said:

  “Now let us to the plough and furrow straight towards the distant who-and-how. Tonight I want you to plant yourself close to Mrs. Clayton’s house, and stop there till dawn. Only if you observe a man trying to enter, or gaining entry, will you give the alarm. D’you know how to manage a Webley?”

  “I am acquainted with concealable weapons,” the old man said. “This walking-stick I brought in case …” He snapped back a catch and withdrew the handle for about two inches to reveal the blade of a sword.

  “Excellent!” murmured Bony. “However, under the circumstances I’ve outlined, it will be essential to raise the alarm. Take this revolver and raise the alarm by firing rapidly. Either the inspector or Sawtell will be watching Mrs. Abercrombie’s house, and whoever it happens to be will join you in a couple of minutes.”

  “Supposing I shoot the fellow instead?”

  “It would be against the fool law. You see a man breaking into a house in the dead of night and you can prove … what? That he’s a murderer? Why, it takes about ten eye-witnesses to prove that he is breaking a window for the purpose of entering.”

  Bony rapidly itemised his many difficulties, accepting the old man into his confidence because of his innate decency and his will to fight for the remnants of his self-respect. Unfortunately, eighty-two is badly matched against forty and fifty, even against sixty.

  “Tell me about Abie,” he urged. “You mentioned having seen him walking about bare-footed at night.”

  “I have so,” said the old man. “Before proceeding with him, I want to say how greatly I appreciate your attitude to me in view of my present social position. Now for Abie. For several years I have suffered from insomnia, and I’ve sat long hours of night on these seats, observing much and pondering on the frailties of man and the deceitfulness of woman. I have on several occa­sions seen Abie prowling about at night without foot-covering and without the overcoat which gives him such pride to wear. I have seen him entering and leaving house gardens, and I have been interested by the fact that no robberies were reported.”

  “Strange. What do you think of the theory that Abie was trying to trail someone?”

  “Then I never saw the man being trailed.”

  “Very well, let’s leave him for another person—Mrs. Sayers. From what you said the other day, you know something of her history. She sleeps alone in her house at night?”

  Mr. Dickenson vented a soft chuckle.

  “I’ve known her since she was eating pap in old Briggs’ arms. She’s a toughie, and I’ll warrant she would give this strangling gentleman a run for his money. Still, even the toughies can be caught with one foot off the ground. If old Briggs slept inside the house, you need have no concern for Mrs. Sayers.”

  “He sleeps in a place near the garage, I understand.”

  “Yes. Both of them are ruled by routine. Every night, including Sundays, Briggs leaves for the Port Cuvier Hotel dead on nine o’clock. At the hotel he has two glasses of beer and purchases a bottle of gin. He returns to the house exactly at ten. If Mrs. Sayers hasn’t visitors, he closes the storm shutters and
locks the front door, looks to the windows to be sure they’re fastened, and leaves by the back door, which he locks and takes the key to his room. And before he gets into bed, he’s lowered the tide in his bottle down to an inch.”

  “You appear to have studied him rather closely,” observed Bony.

  “It’s given me something to do. Look at Broome during the daytime. Hardly anyone is abroad. Sit and watch Broome at night and you will be astonished by the number of people. I could write a book about Broome. I might even be able to write two. Oh yes, I’ve watched them. I’ve been watching ’em for years.”

  “Has Flinn been on visiting terms with Mrs. Sayers for long?”

  “No. About a year. He doesn’t call on her often,” replied the old man. “As I told you, he’s a flash. I suppose you know he was one of Mrs. Eltham’s mid­night friends?”

  “I did not know.”

  “Oh, yes. So was that schoolmaster at the college.”

  “Indeed! Which one?”

  “Percival.”

  “Interesting.”

  “There’s another point.”

  “Proceed, please.”

  “One night about a month before Mrs. Cotton was murdered Percival and Mrs. Sayers had a hell of a row. What about, I don’t know. He called on her when old Briggs was away at the pub, and he hadn’t been inside more than five minutes when I could hear her shouting at him to get out and keep out. Those were her words. She can be as vulgar as a fish-wife.”

  The dusk was deepening, and the stars were emerging to make their nightly bow. The western sky gilded the plane passing over the town, and neither man spoke of it nor of its passengers.

  “Having known Mrs. Sayers all her life, do you think her a woman capable of working with us?” Bony asked.

  “She has brains, I must admit,” replied the old man.