The sergeant eased his slightly emphasised paunch, opened his shoulders and lit a cigar.
“As the inspector says, the Eltham woman had character as well as good looks. She liked parties, and at the parties in her own house she always behaved well. Her gentlemen friends were carefully chosen. She dressed well, never flashily. When we went through her house we found pictures and paints and things, pictures signed with her initials, and books, dozens of the best books. It added up to what we learned about her afterwards.”
“That she lived that way because she rebelled against society, following three years or four of freedom in one of the Services?”
“That’s about the strength of it. She had no domestic living with her. A woman reported every morning at eight, and left again at six. This woman usually found the kitchen door open on her arrival in the morning. If it was locked, she would go home and return again at midday.
“On the morning of May 6th, she found the kitchen door locked. When she returned at noon it was locked. She went away and came back again at four, and the door was still locked. The milk, delivered at seven in the morning, was on the doorstep. She came to us, and I went along. I broke in through the kitchen door. There was no key in the lock, and the key was never found. All the fly-screens on the windows were fastened on the inside. The remains of Mrs. Eltham’s supper was on the bench at the kitchen sink and the house was in perfect order. We don’t know how the man got in.”
“We think he crept into the house and hid himself before Mrs. Eltham closed it for the night, or he could have been admitted by Mrs. Eltham and when leaving, in his excitement, he took the key of the kitchen door after locking it,” supplemented the inspector.
“One or other of those things happened,” Sawtell agreed. “I found Mrs. Eltham lying on her bed. The clothes were pushed back as though she had either left the bed or found the clothes too warm and folded them back herself to sleep on top of them. The body was unclothed; the nightgown tossed beside the bed was ripped from top to bottom. The doctor said she had been strangled in the same way as had Mrs. Cotton. The neck, however, was not broken.”
“Pedersen was here then and he took Abie along...”
“One moment, please. Do you think that the murderer tidied Mrs. Eltham’s bedroom after he had killed her, or was there evidence that he held her down on the bed as he strangled her?”
“We think that he tidied the bedroom. We think he removed the nightgown from the body and for some reason or other ripped it and left it on the floor beside the bed. You’ll remember that Mrs. Cotton’s nightgown was found beside her body.”
“You have photographs?”
“Yes.”
“Pedersen being home, where was the tracker he had away with him when Mrs. Cotton was murdered?”
“On spell with his tribe,” replied Sawtell. “Abie was on hand, and Pedersen is confident of Abie. Anyway, the boong didn’t have much of a go because all around the house are cement paths, and a man could walk in from the street and amble around without once putting his feet on soft earth.”
“Abie reported nothing?”
“Nothing. Pointed to the cement and laughed.”
“Was he taken inside the house?” pressed Bony.
“No. Why?”
“With what are the floors covered?”
“Small mats here and there. The floors are linoleum-covered. There was one peculiarity, however. The electric power was turned off at the master switch which is on the outside wall of the house ... at the front.”
“The house, has it been reoccupied?”
“No. Nothing much was touched in it by us or by the Perth men. We have the keys here.”
“Good!” This item definitely pleased Bonaparte. “The doctor seems certain that the same man killed both these women. There appears to be no connection between them, nothing to unite them on any point save that they were both widows.”
“Both still attractive widows.”
“And both had money.”
“Mrs. Cotton’s estate hasn’t yet been submitted for probate. It totals many thousands.”
“Who benefits?”
“The boy. He gets the lot save five hundred pounds left to Black Mark, who was made the boy’s guardian.”
“The barman sounds interesting. Tell me about him.”
“He’s been up here in the North-West all his life,” Sawtell obliged. “He’s been a drover, a gold prospector, a sea captain, a lugger owner, a diver, a hotel licensee, a storekeeper, and many other things. He’s black of hair and eyes, and he could strangle a big man with one hand almost ... although he must be getting on for fifty. He owns property in Broome, and I wish I was as high as he is from the bread-line. Told Pedersen once that he wanted to settle down and where better to settle down than at Dampier’s Hotel? Said he must have something to do, and why not run a bar? Seems to have given Mrs. Cotton every satisfaction. He never married, and he seems to have taken charge of her and the boy. We have nothing against him. If it wasn’t for the say so of two identities who were in the bar that night and provided Black Mark with an alibi, I’d think seriously about him.”
Bony suppressed a yawn and rolled another cigarette.
“The finger-print man gained nothing from Mrs. Eltham’s house,” he said. “According to her domestic, no one of her friends paid her a visit for almost a week prior to her death, and the house was cleaned and dusted daily. Respectable woman ... the domestic?”
“Yes. What d’you reckon about those nightgowns? That seems to be a common denominator in the two crimes,” put in Inspector Walters.
“It does,” Bony agreed. “Another is the tidiness of the victim’s bedrooms. They are not, however, common denominators of the two women, but of the one killer. The fact that both women were widows may or may not have significance. I cannot see any. One woman was rigidly moral, according to the official summary, and the other was not rigidly moral. One victim lived alone. The other was surrounded by her staff and her guests. The Perth homicide men certainly went deep into the background of these two women, and they could not dig up a motive for killing them. They state, however, that in view of Mrs. Eltham’s gentlemen friends all being ‘loaded with tin’ as the phrase goes, it is possible that she rebuffed an admirer who was not blessed with this world’s goods. If that should prove to be right in fact, then his name will not be among those listed. By the way, have you a list of her friends?”
“Yes, I have,” answered the sergeant. “I’d like to compare it with the C.I.B. list.”
“We’ll do so tomorrow. We will also compile a list of the attractive widows of Broome. It would be too bad if another widow were strangled.”
The paper-weight of rainbow stone being toyed with by Inspector Walters crashed to the desk.
“Unless your murderer has cleared out of Broome he will almost certainly strike again,” Bony went on. “Having struck twice, he won’t be able to prevent himself. At this very moment, he is puffed with vanity. He has tasted supreme power, and that is a draught of which he will never be satiated. No motive? Oh yes, he has a motive. The gratification of hate, the gratification of the lust to kill, is a motive. That motive is an effect, and when I have discovered the cause, I shall have discovered his identity.”
“Meanwhile, he may murder another woman?” Walters said, sharply.
“Yes, meanwhile he may do so. In these two murders he has superbly covered himself, and yet he has begun to spin the web about himself, despite all his cunning. His unconsciously performed work in that respect is not, unfortunately, sufficiently advanced for me to view the plan of the web he will inevitably make clear with, say his sixth or seventh murder.”
“Damnation!” exploded Walters, and Sawtell stopped in the act of lighting another cigar. “Six or seven murders! Here in Broome!”
“Easier for such a tiger-man to get away with six or seven killings here in Broome than down in Perth, or in London or New York. Here, everyone knows everyone. Here almost everyone vis
its almost everyone. Were the floors of Mrs. Eltham’s house swept and the dust and debris sent to Perth for analysis? No, they were not.
“So what? We are placed on the horns of a dilemma. If we safeguard all the attractive women of Broome from attack, the killer bides his time till the safeguards are removed. If we do not take every step to guard the attractive women of Broome, he strikes at will until he gives us a clue to his identity, or, gentlemen, until I can build his identity with my own discoveries and my own methods. Should he claim another victim, I shall be hurt about it.”
“So will the victim,” Sawtell said, his face a mirthless grin.
“I am being neither coldly selfish nor facetious,” Bony said, severely. “You people were on the job when these two crimes were committed. The homicide men from Perth were on the job within twenty-four hours after the second murder was committed. Neither you nor they located a clue, can put forward a reasonable motive, or have by deduction thrown the searchlight of suspicion on any person.
“No blame is attachable. The circumstances are such that a psychologically cunning maniac has got away with two major crimes. Doubtless, he would have baffled even me. He might strike again and still baffle me, but if he does strike a third time, I shall at least be right on his tracks. We have five or six days to prepare for that next strike.”
The coldly level voice ceased. Sawtell asked why the five or six days’ grace.
“Because the murderer struck on both occasions when there was no moon. He doesn’t accept a chance of being observed. We have time to formulate plans. We have time to prospect for the diamonds of truth. Our killer doesn’t accept a chance. We must. And the responsibility will be all mine.
“Devote yourselves to your normal routine, and continue to accept me as your guest. I have faced problems as difficult, and have carried responsibility as great. No man ever rose to greatness who feared responsibility. I have never feared it ... which is why I am now Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte. You, Walters, and you, Sawtell, have had to climb gates to reach your positions. I have had to claw my way over Everests.”
The voice which had contained a note of ringing triumph died away, and in the silence the two men smoked with stoically concealed embarrassment. They had discussed this half-caste before his arrival, food for discussion having been provided by Mrs. Walters’ sister, married to a detective-sergeant in Bony’s own department. A little luck, a discerning mind, a charming manner, were the ingredients, they had decided, which constituted the recipe of the fellow’s success. They knew better now. They recognised the giant, the giant who had burst asunder all the bonds placed upon him, through the accident of his birth, by the Lilliputians of custom, privilege, snobbery and jealousy.
He was smiling at them, now on his feet.
“It’s ten-thirty,” he said. “What about sneaking quietly to the kitchen and boiling the kettle for a brew of tea?”
Chapter Four
Medical Opinion
BONY slept soundly that first night at Broome, and he was reading the reports and statements gathered by the Perth detectives when he heard Mrs. Walters calling her children to breakfast. They came racing in from the compound, where they had been watching Abie breaking-in a horse; the boy’s eyes were alight with admiration for the aborigine, and the girl’s face glowing with admiration for the horse.
“Now eat your breakfast and don’t talk too much or you’ll be late for school,” Mrs. Walters told them. But they were anxious to tell Bony about the horse and the breaker, and he nodded encouragingly.
“How far away is the college?” he asked eventually.
Two miles, he was informed, the journey being done by the boy on his bicycle. The girl walked to her school, which was much nearer. She told Bony that she liked her school, and the boy said that his was not bad, as though he were a connoisseur of public schools.
“We’re having our Activities Day on Sat’day,” he announced with pleasure. He nodded acceptance of his mother’s correction of his pronunciation of the word Saturday, and hastily went on to tell more of Activities Day. “Will you come? Pop’ll be driving Mum and Nan, and there’ll be plenty of room in the car. Good afternoon tea on the lawn an’ all that. Old Bilge’s bound to do a bit of spruiking, but he isn’t too bad.”
Bony looked his doubt, and Nanette entered the lists.
“Yes, do go, Mr. Knapp. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Won’t he, Mum?”
“Mr. Knapp will be too busy, I expect,” replied Mrs. Walters, although the invitation was confirmed in her eyes.
“On Saturday, is it?” asked Bony. When assured that it was, he nodded, saying: “Since the forty-hour week came in and no one works on Saturday, why should I? Yes, I’ll be delighted to go. I assume there will be an exhibition of hand-crafts?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Knapp,” both children answered. “Stacks of all sorts of things. But the afternoon tea’s the best. It’s a beaut. You can eat as much as you want.”
Inspector Walters came in and sat down to breakfast. The boy and girl rose from the table and each removed their chair to back against the wall. Mrs. Walters smiled at them, and the inspector said:
“You get down to work, Keith. You’ve been slacking lately. And ride that bike on the road and not on the sidewalk ... or else.”
“All right, Pop. Say, Mr. Knapp’s gunner go to Activities Day on Sat’day.”
Mrs. Walters uttered the beginning of an exclamation. Her husband nodded his interest. Keith, who realised his error, reddened, and deflatedly left by the rear door, the girl taking the passage through to the front. Walters chuckled:
“Young feller is in for a surprise today,” he remarked. “I wrote a complaint to Old Bilge about Keith’s ‘gunners’ and ‘jists’. What the devil we are paying terrific fees for, I don’t know. Just as well the boy isn’t boarding and out of our reach for a term at a time.”
“I hope you weren’t too sharp with Mr. Rose,” said Mrs. Walters. “He has a very big job with all those boys, and he does take a tremendous interest in them.”
“Don’t worry, Esther, I was polite enough. I don’t expect the headmaster, or even the form masters, to be listening all the time for errors of pronunciation, but when it becomes a conspiracy to distort and torture the language, then they should know about it.” To Bony he said: “You gunner be ... Oh damn!”
They broke into laughter, and for Bony the day began well. He said he was going to be very busy, and might even ask for a portion of Sawtell’s valuable time. All the morning he spent studying the reports and statements compiled by the Broome police on the two murders, and checking them with those he had brought with him from Perth. After lunch, he began the compilation of his Case History, and at four-thirty he called on Dr. Mitchell, by appointment.
Dr. Mitchell was short, rotund, red of face and rapid in speech.
“Sit down, Inspector. If I can help in any way ... Ah, I must remember. Inspector Walters said you wish to be known as Mr. Knapp. A drink? Or will you wait a moment for tea?”
“You are very kind, Doctor. Tea, if it’s no bother.”
“None at all. It’s on the way. I’m delighted at meeting you. Heard of you from a pal of mine, Dr. Fleetwood. He was concerned in the case of that author feller being murdered with coffin dust. I took him up on the point. Don’t believe it can be done, but he says that Professor Ericson is sure it can, following his series of experiments. Now, I suppose, you want to talk about strangulation, eh?”
“That is the reason for my call on your time,” Bony gravely agreed. “I have studied your report, and I find there are one or two points concerning which I would like further information.”
“Righto! Go ahead.”
“Thank you. Perhaps question and answer will serve best. It is correct that death from strangulation may occur instantaneously?”
“It is. Sudden and violent compression of the wind-pipe often causes immediate insensibility and death. I am not certain, but I think it probable that those two women strangle
d here in Broome died without a struggle, such was the brutality with which they were slain.”
“Your report states that they were killed by the hands of the murderer, and not by a rope or string or anything of that kind. Would you say that the murderer’s hands were exceedingly powerful?”
“Without hesitation.”
“Another question, Doctor. You describe the precise injuries suffered by those women, and I am not concerned so much by that as by the answer to this question. Were the hands of the murderer short-or long-fingered? I admit your difficulty.”
Dr. Mitchell took thirty seconds.
“I cannot be definite,” he said. “I’m sorry. A guess any good?”
“It would help.”
“I might have been able to be sure about it had the question been asked before or immediately after the postmortem. My guess is that the man’s hands are neither long-nor short-fingered, and that the palm is longer than average. Meaning that the measurement from finger-tips to the base of the palm is longer than average. Is that clear?”
“Quite. Now with reference to the man’s finger-nails. Can you tell me anything about them?”
“They were trimmed. I’d say they were well kept.”
“That is not your guess?”
“No. It is my opinion based on the areas of ecchymosis.”
The door was opened by a lubra who brought in a tea-tray. She wore a white cap and apron over a brown frock, silk stockings and flat-heeled shoes. She regarded Bony with momentarily startled large black eyes, set down the tray on a table at the doctor’s elbow and retired.
The doctor poured the tea, and Bony regarded his hands. They were sun-tanned, large and capable hands. He rose and walked to the door, opened it and re-closed it.
“Pardon my rudeness,” he murmured. “I thought the girl had left the door ajar, and I want our conversation to be confidential.”
“That’s all right,” the doctor breezily conceded. “That lubra can hardly understand a word of English. Take sugar?”
The Widows of Broome Page 3
