“I’ve fished often enough in the Pacific, but I’ve never seen green and blue gulls until today,” remarked Bony. “They must reflect the colour of the sea.”
“That’s so,” agreed Bill Lung. “I’ve never noticed it before. Be good for trade if some of the pearl shells was coloured like that.”
They fished for an hour and caught nothing. Then Bony’s line was taken away despite all his efforts. He had fastened the end of the strong hand-line round the thwart, and the line became taut and then snapped asunder.
“That feller too big, eh?” laughed Johnno. “He’s a sting-ray, perhaps, or a shark. Good-bye line and hooks. Good-bye everything.”
At the end of a further hour, during which Johnno landed a small flathead and nearly went overboard in his excitement, Bony knew he would have to sleep. There were many questions he had wanted to put to Bill Lung, but these would have to wait. Sleep he must. He slid off the thwart for the bottom of the boat and slept.
The renewed uproar of the engine awoke him. He felt refreshed and surprised by the setting sun spraying the sea with crimson lacquer. The cloud canopy was now salmon-pink and the dunes of Broome were white. Bill Lung pointed upward at the flying gulls. They were crimson.
On the way home, Johnno sat up in the bow and sang, and Bony sat with the Chinese at the tiller.
“Thanks for the trip,” he said. “I’ll remember it, and the gulls.”
“Like Broome?”
“Very much. Should be all right now the strangler has been caught.”
“Think he has?” shrewdly parried Lung.
“Don’t you?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Remember the ripped nightdresses left beside the bodies. Don’t tally with a young man.”
“Then what kind of a man would he be?” asked Bony.
Lung continued to gaze towards the mouth of Dampier’s Creek now opening to them amid the mangroves.
“Well?”
“I’ve often tried to imagine killing someone,” he said. “And I haven’t succeeded. I can’t even imagine the frame of mind I’d have to be in to kill a man, let alone a woman. The killer here, I’d say would be about as old as you and me. As my father would say: ‘The wise man feasts in the morning, for the night will bring gall to his palate.’ ”
The sun had set when they stepped ashore. Johnno hurried away to his lodgings to eat preparatory to the night’s work with his taxi, and Bony sought Mr. Dickenson. Having found him with the aid of two coloured children, he gave his orders for the night, and walked briskly to the police station.
“I do really regret being late,” he told Mrs. Walters. “Normally, I’d have no excuses.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “We’ve just finished washing the dishes. I’m breaking Harry in good and proper.”
“You’ve set a terrible example,” complained the inspector. “And then you leave me to it and go fishing. Catch anything?”
“No, but I’m going out fishing again tonight.”
“Must be nice to be in a Criminal Investigation Branch.”
“There are advantages,” admitted Bony, and sped away to shower and change. When he sat down to dinner, Walters sat by the window.
“Any alteration of duty for Clifford and Bolton?” asked the inspector.
“No.”
“Sawtell reports that it looks as though Mrs. Sayers’ washing will be left out all night.” He thought he was imparting an item of news missed by this detective who wasted time on a fishing trip.
“Mrs. Sayers is splendidly co-operative,” averred Bony. “I have but to suggest anything to her. I shall be on hand.”
“You working to a plan?” Walters asked, and Bony admitted to it. Mrs. Walters sat at the table with him, and noting the faint evidence of strain under his eyes, she said:
“Why not a night in bed? Harry or Sergeant Sawtell could watch that line.”
He smiled at her provokingly.
“I had three hours’ sleep this afternoon,” he said. “I went fishing that I should sleep, and now I’m very much awake and ready to fish all night.”
“Better have someone with you in case you get a bite too heavy to land,” urged Walters.
“Oh, I won’t land him tonight. I want only to feel him nibbling. Once I know he’s nibbling I’ll prepare a bait with a dozen hooks buried in it. That will be a bait he’ll take, and he won’t get away.”
“Do you know who he is, Bony?”
“Now, Mrs. Walters, what d’you expect me to answer to that? If he nibbles at the line tonight, I’ll know who he is, although it will be so dark that I’ll see only the blurred shape of him. As I told you, he has been drawing a sketch of himself, and if he steals a garment from Mrs. Sayers’ line tonight he will have added the final and vital feature of identity.”
The children came in from the compound to work at home lessons and Walters departed for the office. He was faintly irritated by Bony’s evasiveness: at one moment feeling high confidence in him and in the next assailed by doubts and the gnawing fear that a fourth widow would be strangled.
When Bony closed the kitchen door and stepped down to the compound the night was dark and fragrant with the scent of ozone, eucalyptus and roses. The clouds were thinning, and two widely separated stars were tired and pale.
Ten minutes later Bony joined Mr. Dickenson, who was seated with his back to the wide trunk of one of Mrs. Sayers’ two palm trees. The old man was correctly sober and very much awake.
“All quiet,” he said, softly.
Having settled beside Mr. Dickenson, Bony surveyed his skylines. He could see the outline of the house, and the outlines of Briggs’ cottage and the garage. He could also see the futuristic pattern made by the garments on the line. There was a light on the front veranda, and another in the lounge, and because it was a quarter to ten, Bony knew that Briggs would now be returning from the hotel and that Mrs. Sayers would be seated in her lounge and facing the door.
The proof he had provided that she could, without warning, be strangled had impressed Mrs. Sayers. She had accepted Bony’s orders covering this night as willingly as her henchman had done.
Old Dickenson had gained his position under the palm tree before Briggs left, and he was able to watch the rear door. He had reported that he had seen nothing moving except Briggs. There was a dog chained to its kennel at the rear of the garage, and Briggs had fed the animal before leaving for the hotel. Its value as a watch dog was established when it voiced no protest at the arrival first of Mr. Dickenson and then of Bony.
Punctually at ten, Briggs could be heard coming in from the front gate. Skirting the house, he entered the rear door. A few moments later he closed the storm shutters and fastened several windows, and twenty minutes after, he left by the rear door. The watchers heard the key being turned in the lock and withdrawn. Then the veranda light was put out and that in the lounge. Mrs. Sayers’ bedroom was on the far side of the house, and Bony was confident that she would obey orders and lock her bedroom door despite Briggs’ search of the entire house.
Satisfied that all these precautions had been taken, Bony settled to wait for the fish. He had sat here through several nights, accepting the additional precaution against an attack on Mrs. Sayers with patience, and patiently awaiting this particular night when there was reason for clothes to be left on the line.
The hours passed. At eleven the Seahorse Hotel closed, and thereafter the raised voices in that direction weakened into the silence. Now and then a dog barked, but never did Mrs. Sayers’ dog so much as yelp in a dream. A night bird flew into the palm tree and for a little while preened its feathers. The sound of it could be heard by the two men. From the direction of the airport the noise of a car leaving town continued to dwindle for a long time before it was submerged.
Unfortunate Abie. And fortunate Mr. Dickenson. The murderer had struck at Abie swiftly and surely when the tracker had attempted blackmail. There was no doubt in Bony’s mind of blackmail. The price of s
ilence … at least a half-bottle of whisky … had been paid. The price had been paid under that tree opposite the entrance to the airport. Having paid the price, the murderer withdrew that he would not by chance be discovered with a dying aborigine. Subsequently, having given the poison in the whisky time to do its work, he went back to move the body to the culvert and there had arranged the body and the petrol-soaked cloth over the face. Clever? No … stupid. He had repeated mistakes … the old mistakes. When wearing rubber gloves, he had wiped clean door-handles, and he must wipe clean the petrol bottle before leaving it at Abie’s side. And the cork … it might never be known why he tossed it so far away.
Yes, fortunate Mr. Dickenson. He had, indeed, been fortunate when finding Abie during the period the murderer was absent, for had he seen the murderer with Abie, his life would have been cut off abruptly. There were other aspects. …
The night bird flew out of the tree and vented its long wailing cry. The sound roused Bony from meditation, and thirty seconds afterwards a cold finger touched the nape of his neck and moved rapidly upward into his scalp. Again that extra sense inherited from his maternal ancestors gave its warning, and he reached out and pressed lightly on Mr. Dickenson’s arm.
The void below the skylines remained featureless. No dog barked. No motor hummed. The silence was heavy as Bony waited for the warning to materialise. Presently it did in the sound as of paper being rubbed lightly on paper.
This sound ceased. Taut nerves were struck a blow by the shrill crowing of a rooster in the neighbouring garden. The crowing died in a gurgle as though the bird realised its silly miscalculation of the dawn. Again the sound of paper rubbing on paper … this time louder. Someone was walking on the lawn, sliding his feet forward as though to prevent tripping over one of Mrs. Sayers’ croquet hoops.
Then Bony saw the figure silhouetted against the featureless backdrop of the cloud-covered sky. It was growing slowly larger. It was coming to the palm tree. Then it vanished when it entered the black void beneath the branches of the tree just beyond Mr. Dickenson. It would be just tragic luck if the intruder fell over Mr. Dickenson’s legs.
Bony accepted a big risk of being discovered. He found Mr. Dickenson’s knee, placed his hand under it and the other about the ankle and lifted the leg until the knee almost touched the old man’s chest. Mr. Dickenson, realising what was meant, soundlessly lifted the other leg. Bony followed suit.
Nothing emerged from the limitless silence. Precisely where the unknown man was standing could not possibly be determined. That he remained within the blackness beneath the wide-spreading fronds of the palm tree was certain. Even had Bony not seen him enter that darkness, the icy finger continuing to run up and down the nape of his neck was sufficient acknowledgement of the menace. Softly, and yet dreadfully distinct, there came to Bony and Mr. Dickenson the sound of tapping teeth.
The temptation to spring forward and blindly seek to reach and arrest this teeth-clicking man Mr. Dickenson had both seen and heard leaving the house of murdered Mrs. Eltham had sternly to be resisted by the taut Bonaparte. What the old man was thinking and feeling Bony could imagine, and during those moments of suspense he felt admiration for the self-command of Mr. Dickenson. Not a tremor evinced itself in the arm Bony lightly was grasping.
Although the man could not be seen, he could continue to be heard. Bony could “feel” him standing within a foot or two of his companion’s bunched legs. He was probably waiting to be sure of his next move, assessing the odds in his favour. He was like the swordfish leisurely following the bait-fish trolled behind the angler’s launch, “eyeing” it, “smelling” it, waiting to be sure before striking. The greatest fish Bony had ever raised was now following the bait on that clothes line, not the clean, fighting swordfish but the stalking mako shark, the shark that can hate and will endeavour to leap into the boat to get at the angler.
The teeth-clicking stopped. The next minute was as an hour, Bony motionless in the stern of his launch and waiting, waiting for the shark to make up its mind to strike at the bait.
Abruptly the arc of lesser darkness toward the clothes line was blotted out, and then it returned to frame the shapeless mass of the unknown as he left the darkness beneath the tree and went forward slithering his feet over the grass. The fish was coming after the bait. In two seconds, one second, it would push its fearful snout out of the ocean to seize it.
Bony went forward to lie prostrate and seek the sky-line above the hanging clothes. He saw the clothes against the sky jerk and struggle as though alive. He saw the shapeless mass of the “shark” at the bait, witnessed the “shark” slip down into the sea of darkness towards the house.
Bony turned, sought for and found the Vandyke beard and drew Mr. Dickenson’s head forward to him.
“Don’t move away,” he breathed.
On hands and knees, he “ran” towards the house over the lawn. He heard the sound of paper rubbing on paper, and then soft footsteps on the driveway. The murderer was leaving by the front gate and the triumphant Bony wanted to shout his name.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Baiting The Hook
IN accordance with wishes expressed in Bony’s note discovered on the kitchen table the following morning, Inspector Walters roused Bony at eleven with a cup of tea and a biscuit.
“Ah … good-morning,” Bony greeted him. “Sawtell here?”
“Yes. Did the fish nibble?” asked Walters with ill-restrained eagerness.
“He did. Fetch Sawtell and we’ll discuss it.”
When the sergeant saw Bony’s striking silk pyjamas, his eyes widened but he made no reference to them. Invariably conservative in clothes, Bony was excused by the discerning Sawtell now seated at the foot of the bed as the inspector occupied the only chair. Damn it! A man was entitled to have one outlet for a love of colours.
“How did the fishing go?” he asked, and being Sunday morning, he lit one of his favourite cigars.
“The fish nibbled. He detached Mrs. Sayers’ silk nightgown from her clothes line. Same man Dickenson saw leaving Mrs. Eltham’s house. Clicked his teeth as though extremely cold.”
“Who is he?” asked Walters.
“It was too dark to identify him.”
“Did you trail him?” persisted the inspector.
“As far as to be sure he made no attempt to enter the house. The risk of arousing his suspicions was too acute. He’ll come again, and he won’t throw up the hook we’ll bait for him.”
Walters was grim.
“Why fish for him again?” he objected. “You said that if he attempted to strangle Mrs. Sayers, you would know who he is. If you know him, let’s go after him. Possession of those four nightgowns will be evidence enough for the Crown Prosecutor.”
“I agree with you … if we found those four nightgowns in his possession. But we cannot be sure they are in his possession. When he stole that nightgown last night, he completed his sketch of himself.” Bony lit an alleged cigarette, and the two men impatiently waited for him to continue. “I can now see him, but if he has destroyed those nightgowns, the remaining evidence I hold would not be sufficient. And further, there would be a row if we acted now on a search warrant and did not find those garments in his possession. I have sufficient evidence to convince you, to convince the Crown Prosecutor himself, but not sufficient clear-cut proof to induce the Crown Prosecutor to take action. We are left with no alternative but to catch the murderer in the very act.
“Who is he?” bluntly asked Sawtell.
Seeing the slow smile on Bony’s face, both men knew they were butting their heads against a brick wall. Bony pressed on, an edge to his voice:
“He murdered Mrs. Cotton presumably because she sold liquor. He murdered Mrs. Eltham presumably because she sold her affections. On the face of it, he murdered Mrs. Overton presumably because she gave herself to good works. Doesn’t make sense, does it? When you detect why he attempts to murder Mrs. Sayers you will have in the motives behind the attac
ks on the four women the inner motive: for actually there is only one motive, and it presents a clear picture of the man.”
“Wouldn’t that evidence of motive be good enough for the Crown Prosecutor, even though the stolen nightgowns weren’t found in his possession?” argued Sawtell.
“Not good enough for the Crown Prosecutor to advise action on a capital indictment. Assuming I had apprehended this fellow after he had removed the garment from the line, with what could he be charged? With the theft of a garment, to wit, a woman’s nightgown. Admittedly, we could have applied for a warrant to search his house. If we did not find those other three nightgowns in his house, he, being a first offender and neither an Asian nor a poor white, would certainly be discharged on a bond of good behaviour. I’m not going to gamble on the chance that he has retained the four nightgowns.”
“Catching him in the act would certainly clinch the job,” admitted Walters. “How d’you propose to do that?”
“I shall be right inside the room where he attacks Mrs. Sayers.”
“In her bedroom?”
“In her bedroom.”
“Jumping cats!” purred Sawtell. “She stand for that?”
“She will. I haven’t asked her yet, but she will.” Bony left the bed and from the wardrobe took a dressing-gown. Sawtell audibly gasped when he saw it, a creation of pastel blue with yellow collar and cuffs and a large bright red pocket. The sergeant couldn’t remove his gaze from it when it encased the striped yellow and green pyjamas. Bony snatched up a towel, saying: “The slightest incautious move on our part will frighten off this mako shark from the hook I’ll bait with Mrs. Sayers.”
Walters stood up to regard Bony with cold pensiveness.
“Have you calculated the danger to Mrs. Sayers?” he asked.
“I’ve already worked out the finer points,” Bony replied, brightly. He turned to Sawtell: “In your private laboratory, have you a camera fitted with an automatic flashlight?”
The sergeant nodded. Then he burst into low laughter.
Bony - 13 - The Widows of broome Page 18
