The Widows of Broome

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Old Dickenson had provided a splendid lead and, if handled rightly, might give others. This lead might break the wall confronting the man who now sat and smoked a cigarette in Mrs. Eltham’s lounge, the man whose maternal forebears had bequeathed him patience which has no limitations.

  Had one of Mrs. Eltham’s men friends killed her? There were nine listed by the police, but the list could not be accepted as complete. No one of these nine men had visited Mrs. Eltham immediately prior to the night of her death. That was proved by the finger-print expert. He found no male finger-prints, and according to the domestic, she had, with Mrs. Eltham’s assistance, cleaned and polished the entire house the day before Mrs. Eltham’s death. Each of the nine men knew nothing whatever of the interest in Mrs. Eltham of the other eight. That proved she had been an excellent diplomat. There was nothing whatever among the dead woman’s papers pointing to any other man in Broome. The homicide people were satisfied with the statements and integrity of those nine men, and the Broome police who knew them personally were equally satisfied.

  The homicide men had gone through this house like soldier ants through a native village. They had removed all letters and other documents, and they had taken the nightgown found beside the bed to be tested at the headquarters laboratory for finger-prints. Other than the prints of the dead woman and the domestic who had washed and ironed the garment, there were none. That the murderer wore fine rubber gloves was considered certain.

  This house contained four rooms. There were no connecting doors, each room opening to the veranda. One was unfurnished. Two were furnished with a single bed. Mrs. Eltham’s room was large and well furnished, and contained a double bed. Each room had the usual glazed window, in addition to which was the universal fly-screen on the inside fastened with a snap lock.

  The door of Mrs. Eltham’s room was closed, and Bony tested the handle for prints and found it clean. Within was sufficient light enabling him to locate the electric switch, and he operated that with the point of a match. It, too, was clean of prints. Bony re-closed the door and stood with his back to it.

  Beyond the bed was the window with its fly-screen closed and its lace curtains drawn aside. The bed was exactly as when the body had been found on it, the top sheet folded over a blanket and counterpane and the whole partly turned back as though the woman had been on the verge of getting into bed when attacked. On the door side of the bed was a small woolly mat, on the far edge of which was a pair of embroidered slippers. Over the bed’s foot sprawled a floral linen dressing-gown, and on one of two chairs lay a flecked tweed skirt, a lemon-coloured sweater, a satin brassière and slip, and silk stockings.

  When Bony moved, the dust-filmed mirror reflected his actions as he bent over the bed, when he opened the door of the wardrobe and saw the packed dresses on hangers, and when he gazed upon the dressing-table appointments and noted the dust on them and on the glass surface. There were no signs that a struggle had taken place in this room, or elsewhere in the house. There had been no signs of a struggle in Mrs. Cotton’s bedroom, either. The murderer had had time enough to remove all signs of a struggle in Mrs. Cotton’s room, and here he had much more time to do so. But why? The killer could have caught the women by the neck and could have possessed sufficient strength to prevent any disorder. But why the laying-out of the body on this bed after the nightgown had been ripped from neck to hem?

  Bony sat on the vacant chair and made another of his extraordinary cigarettes. He scrutinised every point of the picture illumined by the light falling from the briar-pink shade. He tried to recreate the dreadful drama of that night of May 5th, tried to feel the woman’s growing alarm and swift horror when she heard the stealthy steps on the veranda or within this dark room. There was no cord switch with which to switch on the light without leaving the bed. To do that she needs must leave the bed to reach the switch beside the door. Had she seen her murderer? He had choked her from in front. Had she been caught and strangled before she could reach the light switch? Or had she left the room to investigate the stealthy footsteps when attacked? Questions! The answers would have made the picture much clearer.

  For what had the man, seen by old Dickenson, come into this room? This was a question having much more of urgency than those others. Find its answer and a great step would have been taken by this patient and relentless tracker of men towards his quarry.

  Gradually, Bony came to feel that there was a flaw in the picture of the room. When fully conscious that there was a flaw, he sought for it and could not see it. There was nothing wrong with the bed. There was no significance in the arrangement of the dressing-table appointments. The woman’s clothes lay over the other chair in the order in which she had removed them. The small clock on the bedside table had stopped at 2.34. Whether it had stopped in the morning or the afternoon could not be proven. There were no pictures on the walls, and all the personal photographs had been removed by the police.

  Presently, Bony’s restless eyes were directed to the bowl of dead flowers on the chest-of-drawers. On wilting to death, the flowers doubtless had changed the position they had occupied when alive. The stalks were not of the same length.

  Those flowers had been originally arranged by a woman and, moreover, a woman with artistic tastes. Most women are expert in arranging flowers. Marie, Bony’s wife, spent a goodly portion of her time with flowers, and he had often watched her bringing a kind of orderly symmetry from chaos.

  The dead flowers ought not of themselves to have fallen into a compact mass towards one side of the bowl. When the homicide men came, the flowers would not have been dead. They might have lifted the flowers to ascertain if anything had been dropped into the water. They might have moved the bowl to examine it for finger-prints. It was then that Bony recalled upsetting a vase of flowers on his own dressing-table whenever a drawer was rebellious.

  He examined the dust on the surface of all the furniture, leaving the chest-of-drawers till last. The evenness of the dust film on the chest convinced him that it had been wiped after the finger-print men had left.

  On pulling out the right-hand top drawer it stuck slightly and the dead flowers spilled from the bowl. He went through the contents of all the drawers, comprising bed and table linen, curtains and towels. All but the towels had been ironed. The ironed articles had been opened out, for the folds were not exactly as ironed, and that could have been done by the investigators, who also could have disarranged the flowers, or even upset them.

  There were drawers fitted to the dressing-table and he looked into them. Other than face creams and powder, wads of handkerchiefs, packets of cigarettes and stockings there was nothing to interest him. Within the wardrobe, in addition to the rack of frocks there were several hats on a shelf, a drawer containing gloves, and a compartment containing shoes. Nothing of interest there.

  Again in his chair, he made another cigarette and again examined the over-all picture of the room. There was something wrong, and patiently he sought to locate it. Being a woman’s room, although a married man of many years, it defeated him. He wished that his wife were there, sure that she would have seen or understood what was wrong with it, what made it incomplete. Being merely a man, he was puzzled by something which to a woman would have been glaringly obvious.

  “Give!” he murmured. “Give!”

  Not the least important, there was still the floor. He took from his case a powerful torch, and began on the floor about the chest-of-drawers. The floor was less dusty than the veranda spaces without. He found innumerable flower petals at one side, proving that they had been swept off at one end of the chest. He found a bobby pin near the foot of the bed table, and he found a flaky object which at once captured his interest.

  It was not easy to lift from the floor, but having done so he rose to his feet and stood directly under the electric light to look at it on the palm of his hand. It was like a large fish scale, but had nothing of the fish scale’s polished surface and strength. When he dented it with a thumbnail, the dent remain
ed. When he pressed hard with the nail, he could not divide it. The surface was pitted as though with a fine needle. It was a dull white in colour.

  Fully thirty minutes he spent crawling around the floor. He found two more flakes, another bobby pin, a number of long hairs, five spent matches, parings from a pencil, and shreds of silk. These objects he placed in specimen envelopes from his wallet.

  Again on his feet and contemplating the bed, he knew what was missing from this woman’s bedroom. The clothes-laden chair shrieked it. He looked down on the floor between the door and bed, for there he had found the wisps of silk. There was no silk in the chest-of-drawers. He rolled back the bed clothes and lifted the multi-spring mattress. There was nothing beneath it save the canvas sheet protecting it from the wire bed mattress.

  The murderer had ripped Mrs. Cotton’s nightgown from neck to hem and had left the garment beside her body. He had similarly torn Mrs. Eltham’s nightgown and left it lying on the mat beside her bed. What had he done with Mrs. Eltham’s underwear?

  Bony passed to the wardrobe and removed the frocks and suits, and in a far corner he found a large bundle wrapped about with blue silk. His eyes were as blue as the silk covering of the bundle, and he broke it open on the bed and disclosed scraps of silk of several colours: cream, black, daffodil-yellow and green. He could see where a knife had sometimes been employed to start the rip completed by hands.

  He sorted the pieces into the respective colours, his mind thrilling with the ecstasy of the hunter who has come within range of the hunted. Having smoothed the pieces of black silk, he proceeded to place them in position to prove the type of garment they had once been. He worked on the cream pieces with the same result, and troubled no further with the remaining scraps of silk.

  There was no mention of this bundle of torn silk in the reports compiled by the Broome police, nor was mention made of it in the General Reports compiled by the men from the C.I.B. Had the bundle been in the wardrobe when the police went through the room, they could not have missed it.

  After the homicide men had left and the house was finally shut up, the murderer had returned. Motive! It was coming ... coming from the little bits and pieces ... coming from these desecrated items of silken underwear ... a strange and terrible motive for murder.

  Chapter Nine

  Medical Inspection

  IT was four o’clock when Bony entered the police station by the rear door and discovered Mrs. Walters baking scones. He sniffed with exaggerated noise, saying:

  “Ah! Hot buttered scones! And strong hot tea!”

  “Where have you been all day?” Mrs. Walters asked accusingly.

  Bony placed the sugar sack he had brought with him on a side table.

  “Merely pottering about. Plenty of butter, now.”

  “You haven’t had lunch?”

  “It wasn’t convenient. I’m glad now...” and sniffing again loudly, he sat down at the floured table. “Six buttered scones and two cups of tea, and I won’t want any lunch. Who would?”

  “Did your mother have any more like you?” asked Mrs. Walters, buttering hot scones.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “You see, I was abandoned by her and found under a sandalwood tree. You get along with that baking. I’ve something to show you.”

  “Have you?” Mrs. Walters looked at him intently. “This is the last tray to go into the oven, and I’ll clean up in no time.”

  “Good! I want to ask a question and not be slapped for it. Promise not to slap?”

  “I promise.”

  “All right. Do you wear silk underwear?”

  “What a question! Very often. Why?”

  “I’ll tell you in a moment or two. Excuse me.”

  With a scone in one hand and a tea cup in the other, and his mouth whitened by flour, Bony hurried along the passage to the office door. He made sure no member of the public was doing business, and was pleased to find both Walters and Sawtell, with a third policeman, working at their desks. He had already been introduced to Constable Clifford.

  “Mrs. Walters wants you, Inspector, and Sergeant Sawtell ... at once,” he called from the doorway.

  “What the hell...” Walters began to explode, but Bony had vanished. He and Sawtell left their desks like dutiful children and obeyed the summons. Bony closed the door.

  “I understand,” he began, “that when Lily Mallory, Mrs. Eltham’s domestic, reported that she couldn’t get into the house, you, Sawtell, went there and broke in. Almost immediately afterwards you telephoned Walters, and he joined you in the house. Did either of you then or subsequently examine the floor of the wardrobe in Mrs. Eltham’s room?”

  “No. We waited for the Perth men to get here,” replied Sawtell. “But I was present when the C.I.B. man stripped the wardrobe of all its contents from top shelf to floor. Why?”

  “Did you see a bundle of rags pushed into a far corner?”

  “No. There was nothing of the kind there.”

  “I find that satisfactory,” murmured Bony as though to himself. “Now look ... all of you.”

  From the sugar sack he took the bundle wrapped in blue silk and opened it out on the side table.

  “Examine those pieces of silk, Mrs. Walters, and tell me what you think about them.”

  She handled the coloured pieces, lifting a strip of lime-green silk to which was a hem of fine lace. The three men silently watched her fluttering hands, the eyes of both Walters and Sawtell hardening as they understood the significance of this wilful destruction.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Walters. “Oh, what a shame! Such lovely undies, too. Why, it’s almost new.”

  There was indignation in her dark eyes when she turned to Bony.

  “I found that bundle in a corner of Mrs. Eltham’s wardrobe,” he said. “Thank you for your confirmation of what it represents. It’s expensive material, is it not?”

  “Very. I very much doubt that it was purchased here in Broome ... not since the war.”

  “Black-market goods, perhaps,” contributed the inspector. “Could have been brought in by a lugger. What’s it all mean?”

  “That Mrs. Eltham’s murderer destroyed all her silk underwear. Can you spare an hour to run out to Dampier’s Hotel?”

  “Certainly. What’s breaking? Come on, out with it.”

  The inspector’s face was almost ferocious.

  “D’you know what happened to Mrs. Cotton’s personal effects?” persisted Bony.

  Walters referred to Sawtell, and the sergeant replied:

  “I believe all her personal effects were stored in her bedroom and the room locked up.”

  “Good! We’ll run out there at the first opportunity. Was Constable Clifford ever inside Mrs. Eltham’s house ... after she was found, of course?”

  “Yes. He was often there with us.”

  “Ah! This case is beginning to break,” Bony cried, and none had seen him so excited. “I’m glad I came to Broome on two counts. One because I am your guest and the other because you gave me a real puzzler of a case. Now, Walters, do something for me immediately. Ring up Dr. Mitchell and tell him your wife has taken a bad turn and to come at once.”

  “But Esther’s all right,” objected Walters.

  Bony sighed, and Mrs. Walters snapped:

  “Go and do what he asks, Harry. I’m having a real bad turn.”

  The inspector stamped away. Sawtell grinned, and Mrs. Walters looked impishly at Bony. They said nothing but could hear the inspector at the telephone in the office.

  “Have you ever charged anyone with destroying women’s clothes?” Bony asked Sawtell.

  “No, and I’ve been here fifteen years.”

  “I’ve known of it but not in connection with homicide,” Bony said. “This fellow is exceptionally clever. He works with silk or rubber gloves. No finger-prints. We’ll send these remnants down for expert examination, but I think they’ll find only my prints or those of Mrs. Walters: How long has Constable Clifford been with you?”

&nbs
p; “Almost two years.”

  “Married?”

  “No.”

  “Well, engaged?”

  “I don’t know that one,” averred Sawtell. “He’s efficient and ambitious. We’ve found him a good bloke. He boards with us.”

  Inspector Walters returned to say the M.O. was on his way.

  “I’m sitting back. You can make the explanations,” he said to Bony.

  Three minutes later, Bony began the explanations to Dr. Mitchell, who was certainly astonished to find Mrs. Walters looking quite sweet in her cooking apron.

  “Inspector Walters brought you here under false pretences, Doctor,” he said. “However, I believe that the real reason will prove to be of such interest that you will readily forgive him. You see, we’re so positive that you will assent to help us in clearing up these murders at Broome.”

  “Naturally. Anything I can do. Lead me to it,” pleaded Dr. Mitchell, setting down his bag.

  “We thank you, Doctor,” murmured Bony, producing his pocket wallet. “I believe I know what these objects are, but I require that they be definitely identified. Look!”

  From the specimen envelopes he shook free on to the table the three small flaky objects he had retrieved from the floor of Mrs. Eltham’s bedroom. The doctor bent over them. He tested one with a finger-nail.

  “They are particles of human skin,” he announced. “They come from a person afflicted with psoriasis, a disease of the skin for which there is no known cure.”

  “Is its incidence rare or otherwise?”

  “Neither common nor rare,” replied Dr. Mitchell. “It’s more prevalent in southern climes than in the tropics, I think. I know of four cases of it here in Broome. Patches of skin become dry and flaky and can be rubbed off or will fall off. It’s not a notifiable disease, for it’s not contagious. In fact, many doctors tell the sufferers that they will outlive their medical advisers, for it occurs much more often than not in healthy people.”