Batchelors of Broken Hill b-14

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Mrs Lucas, who was thinking she had taken second place to Mrs Wallace, got in first.

  “Henna is used to brighten the hair and make it look like red hair. But the woman’s hair wasn’t properly red. Just tinted.”

  “Otherwise, dyed to appear what it isn’t?” questioned Bony, and Mrs Wallace giggled.

  “Two out of every three women do something like that to their hair,” she said, and looked almost affectionately at Mrs Robinov, who brought in afternoon tea. She called Mrs Robinov ‘luv’ and ‘dearie’ and thoroughly enjoyed herself. And Bony, well pleased, walked with Abbot back to Headquarters.

  “Seems that we’ve got something at last,” Abbot said. “We should be able to find that woman now.”

  “Should!” echoed Bony. “We shall!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Honours to Nimmo and Abbot

  JIMMY NIMMO sat in a saloon bar and was unhappy. Superficially there was nothing to cause him unhappiness, for he had plenty of money, clothes which satisfied him, and proximity to a plentiful supply of cooling beer. It was the threat of hidden forces and not material things which fretted him.

  He ought to be in this pleasant saloon bar reading a paper and enjoying the best cigarettes with long ‘butchers’ of beer. Outside was Argent Street, and if not now, then very soon there would be gimlet-eyed men walking up and down Argent Street who would recognise him, and one of them might be his arch-enemy, Inspector Stillman.

  And this at the time when he was becoming increasingly interested in the stone-built two-storeyed house offering so much promise. The third poisoning would be bound to stir up the entire police force and interfere with the routine of the night patrols with which he had made himself familiar.

  Jimmy hadn’t to be told the police set-up. He knew that Bonaparte was a Queenslander-seconded to New South Wales to investigate a series of poisoning cases-and he knew also that the Queenslander would not be permitted to undertake in addition the case of Policewoman Lodding. She had been a member of the Police Department, and nothing stirs up a police department more than the killing of one of its own. Therefore, if Crome and his boys failed to ring the bell, the Sydney mob would barge in, pronto.

  Following four murders, Broken Hill was no place for a respectable burglar.

  Jimmy wanted to leave ‘toot sweet’, and this he dared not do without Bonaparte’s permission. It was just too bad, for there were two strong attractions for him in Broken Hill: one, that two-storeyed house, and the other for whose sake he might even retire from his profession. The major problem was that the lady for whom he yearned expected him to take her to cinemas and other places of amusement and would wonder why he kept to his room by day as well as by night.

  It was Tuesday, too, and the policewoman was found late on the Sunday night. The bar clock said fourteen minutes past eleven, and any action was better than being a sitting shot.

  Jimmy went out and found a telephone.

  “Mornin’, Inspector! How’s things?” he asked Bony.

  “Tip-top, Jimmy. And how are you?”

  “Pining to associate with the ruddy police. What about a chin-wag?”

  “Certainly. Have lunch with me. See you at the Western Mail at one.”

  Jimmy returned to the saloon bar and ordered more beer. For the tenth time he read the latest on the Lodding murder. There was something he might use to wangle permission to leave Broken Hill by the Adelaide Express that evening. At five past one he was seated at a table with Inspector Bonaparte.

  “Been getting around?” inquired Bony.

  “Yes and no. You been busy?”

  “Very. Not able to relax like you, you know.”

  Jimmy tried to see behind the bland blue eyes, failed, and set to work on the fish. Bony was kind.

  “I’ve brought a picture to show you before we leave. Tell me, since being here have you noticed many elderly men with food-stained shirt fronts?”

  “One-or two. You meet ’emin pubs sometimes. Any reason?”

  “Only that the three poisoned men were like those I’ve described.”

  Jimmy declined to look into the blue eyes and feigned interest in the cut from the sirloin.

  “Had a letter from an aunt down in Adelaide,” he said. “Pretty sick. Plenty of dough. Wants me to run down and visit her.”

  “She will doubtless recover.”

  “Then make a new will leaving me out of it-if I don’t kiss her on the sick-bed.”

  “What part of her would that be?”

  Jimmy scorned Bony’s question, saying:

  “Met a man who was elderly, well set-up, fairly well dressed. Food spots on the front of his double-breaster. The paper reminds me of him.”

  “Good of you to get away from the sick aunt. Mustard?”

  “No, thanks. Leave me to a chunk of think.”

  They were eating the sweet when Bony remarked:

  “You mentioned a chunk of think, Jimmy.”

  “Yes, so I did. You still guarantee I’m not pinched if I walk up and down Argent Street with me chest thrown out like a real big man?”

  “There’s no need to question that-or to discuss it. Let’s have that chunk of think in connection with something you’ve read in the newspaper.”

  “Well, it pans out like this-and I’m relying on your guarantee.” Jimmy waited for additional assurance and, not receiving it, resignedly continued. “Yesterday and today the papers say that the spooning pair who saw the Lodding wench on Sunday night say they think that the man she was with was tall and smartly dressed. They saw him and Lodding as they passed beneath a street light, but where they were standing was too far from the light to see clothes colours.

  “The girl with her Romeo says she recognised Lodding but not the man. He was wearing a felt which shadowed his face. His arm was linked through Lodding’s, and they looked real matey-like. And they say thefella was wearing gloves-dark gloves. That right?”

  “All that is correct, Jimmy.”

  “About a week ago I was out for a stroll in the cool of the evening,” proceeded Jimmy, and did not add that he was strolling about the locality of the two-storeyed house. “Passing one of those corner eateries, I saw a man I’d met once before: bigfella, well rigged, carrying black gloves. I recognised him by his strut and by his dark grey mo. The first time I saw him he had a goatee to match. I take a good eyeful of anything I meet in the streets and I haven’t seen anyone else sporting gloves in Broken Hill.”

  The coffee was served, and Bony rolled and lit a cigarette before he prompted:

  “You saw this man prior to this meeting?”

  “I did. I saw him buying black leather gloves at Goldspink’s shop, and I’m pretty sure that the gloves he carried that night were the same gloves. But that night he didn’t have a beard. He had a different suit on too. When I saw him in Goldspink’s he was wearing a grey double-breaster. It was a swank suit and fairly new. I remember thinking that the dirty blighteroughta have it cleaned.”

  Bony jotted the notes on the back of a menu card and gained further items concerning the man who had bought gloves. The man’s eyebrows and moustache and beard were closely described by one self-trained in the difficult ‘art’ of observation. Jimmy mimicked the voice, and, when again in the street, Bony said:

  “Thanks, Jimmy. Keep in mind that you’ll be a gone coon if you leave Broken Hill without my knowledge. Don’t permit thought of the boys from Sydney to upset the gastric juices after that pleasant lunch. You are working for me, and no one will break your employment. Get around. You know where I am if you spot that man again, or a woman like the picture I’ve shown you.”

  Now feeling much better, and free to concentrate on the two-storeyed house and the lady he referred to as ‘the attraction’, Jimmy decided on a game or two of billiards, and Bony pensively sauntered back to Headquarters.

  Crome was not in his office, and he rang for Abbot.

  “The sergeant and several of the men are in conference with Superintendent Pav
ier, sir.”

  Their gaze clashed, and both men understood that conference more often than not is spelled c-h-e-c-k-m-a-t-e.

  “You can manage a typewriter, I suppose?” Bony said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Type this description in triplicate, and let me have it when done. Don’t let anyone else see it. Oh, and have this head of our woman nailed to the wall beside the other pictures. See to it that every uniformed man studies it.”

  Abbot departed. Bony rolled six cigarettes, lit the first, and pushed back his chair that he might rest his feet on the desk. He sought for and failed to find any connection between the murder of a policewoman and the murder of three elderly bachelors-save food-spotted clothes. The butts of four of the six cigarettes had been added to those in the saucer ash tray when Abbot returned.

  “The three copies of the man,” he said, placing the typed sheets before Bony. His expression was normal, but the manner in which he finger-combed his fair hair betrayed excitement. “The man’s description struck a chord, sir, and I went into Records. Brought out George Henry Tuttaway.”

  Abbot presented two official pictures of a man who had not voluntarily posed for them. He was big-boned, handsome, clean-shaven, and at the foot of each picture was the name ‘George Henry Tuttaway’. Abbot presented a card, and Bony read:

  “Tuttaway, George Henry: Indicted Melbourne 1940 for abduction and illegal confinement. Sentenced to be held during Governor’s pleasure. Escaped from Ballarat Gaol 27 September 1949. Professional magician internationally known as the Great Scarsby. Conduct in gaol good, but thought could be dangerous. Declared mentally abnormal.” There was appended a description which roughly tallied with the man seen twice by Jimmy Nimmo.

  “Crome should be happy,” Bony said, but Abbot wanted confirmation.

  “Think your man is Tuttaway, sir?”

  “More than possible. My man was seen in Goldspink’s shop buying black kid gloves. He was seen subsequently by the same person one night and was then carrying the gloves. The Great Scarsby. I can’t recall the name. Must have been in the interior when he was sentenced. You know anything of him?”

  “Not much, sir. Don’t remember if he came to Australia as the Great Scarsby. Remember, of course, seeing the report of the escape when it came in.”

  “A magician!” murmured Bony. “Quick-change artist, and that kind of thing. Wonder if, in spite of what those women said, our prisoner is a man got up as a woman. Declared mentally abnormal. Ah, conference ended.”

  The pictures and the card dealing with Tuttaway, Bony slipped under the blotter. Men were approaching along the corridor. They heard Crome go into his office. The second man came on, entered. It was Pavier. Without invitation he sat down and lit a cigarette.

  “How are you getting on?”

  “Slowly, Super, slowly,” replied Bony, and Abbot went out. “How is Crome?”

  “Stopped. What are your impressions of my late secretary?”

  “Efficient. Humourless.”

  “I found her so, and very reticent. Never attempted to probe into her private life. Instinctively felt that she was highly moral and not interested in men. The married sister-a Mrs Dalton-says she had neither men nor women friends. The girl standing inside the gate with her sweetheart says she worked with Muriel Lodding for some time-for a firm of stock and station agents-and even then Lodding exhibited no interest in men. We can’t trace any contact between the murdered woman and a man, and yet she was seen on Sunday night walking arm in arm with one. And, Bonaparte, those two lovers can’t give us anything like a clear description of him. I feel strongly urged to call on Sydney for assistance.”

  “Tell me, why did you come to see me and not send for me?”

  “Because I don’t want to do what I feel I must do. Will you give Crome a hand? I know it isn’t fair to ask, but you might find a lead for us to follow. What Crome wants is one per cent of your confidence. It’s what I need too. The confidence we did have has been bashed to pulp.”

  “I’ll call Crome,” Bony decided, and, leaning back, thumped the partition wall. Crome came in, stood stiffly erect.

  “Sit down, Bill,” Bony invited, and the sergeant blinked. To Pavier, Bony said:

  “You always inspect incoming and outgoing trains and aircraft, but you have ignored road traffic. Think you could have every truck and car leaving Broken Hill inspected?”

  The Superintendent said they could.

  “It might be too late, but I think not,” Bony proceeded, and took up Abbot’s typescript. “The man you want answers to this description.”

  Presenting each with a copy, he leaned back and watched them. Then one man followed the other in looking up at him, expectantly, hopefully.

  “That is the description of the man who might be able to tell you something about the murder of Muriel Lodding,” Bony said. “Fortunately for us, and the public, the great majority of murders spring from common causes such as jealousy, greed, frustration. Murder actuated by passion, the unpremeditated murder, is easy to finalise and never worthy of my attention.

  “Murder, however, which has its genesis in the mind bordering on insanity presents a much greater problem to the investigator because the two minds don’t motivate alike. The only major weapon to be used by a sane investigator in his battle with a near-insane killer is, my dear Pavier, patience. The patience of the tiger cat-of Death-of Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  Pavier would have spoken had not Crome cleared his throat.

  “If you apprehend a man answering to that description,” Bony said, “I feel sure he will be the man you want for the murder of Muriel Lodding. Further, due to Abbot’s astuteness, I am strongly of the opinion that his name is George Henry Tuttaway, known on the other side of the world as the Great Scarsby.”

  Detective Sergeant Crome forgot the Superintendent. He leaned over the desk, and, eyes flashing, exclaimed:

  “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Assist and Be Assisted

  WITH CROME, Bony went over the scene of the Lodding murder. He was shown the light standard beside which Muriel Lodding and her escort had been seen by the lovers and the gateway inside which they had stood. He was taken to the end of the street, which terminated at the belt of waste ground extending to the large mullock dump at the foot of the broken hill.

  The story told by the aboriginal trackers had to be reconstructed, for they had begun at the middle and had to work backwards and then forwards to its completion.

  The end of the paved street was fifty-seven yards beyond the last of the houses, and near where one stepped from the made road to the sandy waste was the scene of the killing. It was here that the story told by the trackers actually began.

  When the man stepped off the hard pavement he was carrying the woman. Behind him the nearest street light, that under which he had been seen with his victim, was approximately two hundred yards distant. Before him was the blacked-out sand waste, beyond which the superstructure of the mines stood sharply revealed by floodlights. Against the foot of the broken hill and grey mullock dump could not be seen at night.

  The murderer had carried his victim for nine hundred-odd yards before that mullock dump loomed ahead of him, and then he had dropped the body and stood hesitant about his next move. That had been to trudge back across the sand waste towards the distinctive lighting of Argent Street.

  It was Crome’s theory that the story told by the trackers indicated that the murderer was a stranger to Broken Hill, for every man working at the mine beyond the dump would know that path tramped hard by their feet and used daily by dozens who rode a bicycle to and from work. Having arrived at the end of the street, the man had killed his victim, intending to dispose of the body among the mine machinery and thus divert suspicion in the mind of anyone who had chanced to see him with the woman. Faced by the steep wall of the mullock dump, he had not seen the path and, wearied by the trek across the sand, he decided finally to drop the body the
re.

  This theory was supported, as to the stranger in Broken Hill, by the fact that no miner would be unaware of what aborigines can read on impressionable surfaces, and no other resident of Broken Hill would be ignorant of it, either. In all of this Bony concurred, and Crome’s confidence rose a fraction of the percentage Pavier said was needful.

  Again at Headquarters, Bony was shown the knife blade. It was seven inches in length, fluted in triangular shape to within an inch of the fine point. That it had been partly filed through close to the haft was evident, and the purpose had been effectual because the wound had not bled. After that came the plaster casts of the murderer’s footprints made by shoes size eight, worn slightly at the back of the heels and at no particular edge of the soles.

  “Certainly a large man and heavy,” Bony said. “He struts in the manner of the egotist, head up, shoulders squared. It’ll be Tuttaway without doubt. Telegraph Melbourne for all available information concerning the history of the man, as well as the medical history, and ask if the gaol authorities have a boot or shoe worn by Tuttaway. Urge prompt despatch by air, Crome, for I cannot spend too much time on this case.”

  “I’ll do it at once-and thank you, sir.”

  Left alone, Bony perused the transcript of notes taken by Crome of Pavier’s interview with the dead woman’s sister. It was quickly seen that the conversation was confined to the immediate past, for Pavier would have known, and the Staff Records would include, the details of Policewoman Lodding’s previous employment and places of abode.

  It could be accepted with certainty that the murdered woman knew her companion of that night, for she was as remote from the pick-up type as platinum is from lead. And yet her sister had declared repeatedly to Pavier that Muriel Lodding had no male friends with whom she was sufficiently intimate to walk arm in arm at night. The two women lived quietly. Both disliked the cinema but often went to a concert or a lecture. Their interests were identical, and men were not included.