Batchelors of Broken Hill b-14

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Bony rang Pavier.

  “What were your impressions of Mrs Dalton?” he asked.

  “Quite good,” replied Pavier. “Slightly older than Lodding but still attractive. Was positive that her sister hadn’t a man friend in Broken Hill. I pressed the matter further, went back to the years before they came here, and Mrs Dalton was equally emphatic that Lodding had never shown interest in any man. Used to tax her about it, warn her she’d become a sour old maid.”

  “So I see from the transcript, sir. Extraordinary setup.”

  Bony read the statements obtained from the sweethearts. Time and circumstances and identification of the man as far as it went were identical in both statements. That made by the girl gave more, but not much more than the records would provide.

  Staff Records did not help much.

  Muriel Lodding and her sister arrived in Australia from London in June 1936. They had lived in Sydney from that date until transferring to Broken Hill in November 1938. In Sydney the dead woman worked for a firm of wool brokers and station agents, and the transfer to Broken Hill had been dictated by the Broken Hill office of the same firm. She had remained with the Broken Hill office for two years, left to work for a solicitor, and finally joined the clerical staff of the Police Department, subsequently ranking as senior policewoman only for salary.

  Next morning before eleven Crome came into Bony’s office with a substantial package.

  “Just arrived from Melbourne by special air freight,” he announced, and proceeded to remove the covering to disclose a pair of shoes and a long official envelope.

  “Those casts,” snapped Bony.

  Crome brought them, surprising Bony by his swiftness of movement. They were compared with the shoes, and there was triumph in the sergeant’s eyes when they met the gleaming blue eyes over the laden desk.

  “Tuttaway, all right,” Bony stated. “I’m expecting a great friend of mine at any moment. He’ll clinch it, I’m sure. Open the report.”

  There was a covering letter, which Crome put aside pro tem. The report was detailed, and the gist of it ran thus:

  Tuttaway was born in Birmingham, England, in 1880. The son of a hardware merchant, he had been educated at Winchester and Cambridge. Became prominent in vaudeville in 1907, was associated for several years with the Great Martini, and shortly after World War I formed a company of his own which he took on tour through Europe and North and South America. He had disbanded the company in 1937, in which year he had come to Australia. The following year he bought a property at Doncaster, Victoria.

  The property was valuable, the house being large and built in a previous era, and the grounds extensive. There he lived the life of a recluse, keeping no staff and no outside domestic help. First evidence of a disordered mind was when he had twenty acres of valuable fruit trees cut down for no apparent reason.

  A girl aged sixteen disappeared from the nearby district of Lilydale, and eventually she was found in Tuttaway’s house, where she had been confined in a cellar for five months. On being rescued, she was physically healthy and clean, but mentally prostrate. Under nursing care she was able to tell the story of her abduction and imprisonment.

  Tuttaway, the once famed Great Scarsby, hammered incessantly to make her a magnificent magician, told her that he would present her to the world as such. It mattered nothing to him that the girl didn’t want to be a magician. When she failed to master simple tricks and refused to practise, he caned her, twisted her arms, and sometimes forced her to stand on her toes with her thumbs noosed to the wall.

  He ranted at her stubbornness and raved about her beautiful, useless hands.

  When the police found the girl he threw himself at her feet and implored her to remain with him and become the greatest magician the world had ever known. The verdict was inevitable.

  His behaviour in gaol was exemplary, and progress of the mental illness appeared to be arrested. Consequently he was granted a measure of freedom.

  The break had been effected sometime in the afternoon of 27 September 1949. He was not missed until five-fifteen and had not since been sighted with certainty as to identification.

  “It’ll be him,” confidently asserted Crome. “Must have come in by road,”

  “All the police on those road exits?”

  “Too right. If he didn’t clear out immediately after murdering Lodding, then the only way he can get out now is through the scrub. And he’s no bushman.”

  “We’ll see if my friend is waiting,” Bony decided, and rang the public office. Mr James Nimmo was waiting. Jimmy appeared, escorted by a uniformed constable. To Jimmy’s relief, the constable withdrew, but this was counted out by the glimmer of recognition in the small grey eyes of the large man he had taped a policeman long ago. Jimmy was elegantly attired in grey tweed with a faint red stripe.

  “Glad to see you, Jimmy,” Bony said smoothly. “This is Detective Sergeant Crome. Meet Mr Nimmo, Crome.”

  Before the sergeant realised it, he held out his hand, saying:

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr Nimmo.” Jimmy awkwardly accepted the offered fist, smiled faintly, as though amused, sat down in the indicated chair, and regarded Bony reproachfully. Nonchalantly Bony said:

  “Ever seen this man, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy accepted the official pictures, appeared to edge a fraction farther away from Crome, who sat beside him, and examined the pictures of George Henry Tuttaway.

  “Yes, that’s thefella I saw at Goldspink’s,” he said without looking up. “When I saw him he had a grey moustache and goateeziff. It’s easy.”

  “Sure?” asked Crome from force of habit.

  “Like ourselves, Crome, Mr Nimmo is a professional observer of faces,” Bony cut in. “As you see at the foot of the pictures, Jimmy, the man’s stage name is the Great Scarsby. Remember the case?”

  “Yes, I do,” answered Jimmy, memory vivid of being seated in a heavy truck and hearing two drivers discuss the escape of Tuttaway. “First time I seen his picture, though. Supposed to be batty, wasn’t he?”

  “Is,” corrected Bony. “Well, thanks, Jimmy, for coming along. See you again sometime. Leave you to find your way out.”

  Jimmy got up, nodded to Crome, smiled at Bony, and vanished. Bony waited for his footsteps to die away before saying:

  “Good man, that. Ought to have been a detective. Now that we are sure that your murderer is the escaped Tuttaway, I suggest we give Luke Pavier the entire story for publication tomorrow. If Tuttaway is still in Broken Hill, that will make him bolt, and one of the road patrols will nab him. If you don’t sight him within three days, you can accept the fact that he cleared out before the roads were blocked.”

  “Fair enough, sir. Meanwhile I’ll keep this set of fingerprints and other data close to hand. I’ve men hunting antique shops and others where the knife might have been sold to Tuttaway. By the way, I’ve seen your Mr Nimmo before.”

  “Without doubt, Crome. My friend has been in Broken Hill for several months. On holiday, you know, but not averse to doing a small job now and then. He’s a burglar, and on several occasions I have found him invaluable.”

  “A burg-” Sergeant Crome broke off and gave a low respectful whistle, saying: “Perhaps I can now see through a brick wall, and the recovery of that loot from three break-and-entries.”

  “There were no breakings, Crome. Justenterings.”

  The sergeant’s face reddened. He almost gaped, caught himself in time, and stood stiffly to attention.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, almost as though he agreed.

  “I may have to use Mr Nimmo again, Crome. That is but one of his names and not the name he uses when in Sydney. What is theft compared with homicide? My friend is an expert burglar, almost an artist. I admire experts, no matter in what field, and I never hesitate to use such talent in my search for a killer.”

  “But a burg-”

  Crome began to laugh, checked himself, really laughed, and Bony gravely advised:

  “Keep your eyes
on a star, and let not your gaze be diverted by lesserilluminants. Use the lesser luminaries to light your way to reach the star. Your star is the Great Scarsby.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Many a Slip…

  TWO DAYS passed, yielding nothing. Men questioned and probed: and Superintendent Pavier forgot the date terminating Bony’s association with his police division: and the Great Scarsby remained elusive.

  The murder of Policewoman Lodding almost overshadowed that of Hans Gromberg, owing in distinct measure to Luke Pavier, and Wally Sloan reported there was no falling off of lounge trade. The public were wholly absorbed in the hunt for the Great Scarsby.

  Friday afternoon came round again, and Patrick O’Hara went walking with Dublin Kate. The day was brilliant, clear and hot, and as both were putting on weight, they decided to walk to the city and meet their friends down Argent Street.

  Patrick O’Hara was tubby, red, volcanic. He knew everyone and was known to all for a downright honest bookmaker, and since it was the day prior to the weekly races, he could not avoid the business thrust upon him. He drank much beer, and although Dublin Kate did not approve of strong drink, she followed O’Hara in and out of pubs and patiently waited for him when he was stopped in the street.

  Presently they came to a drinking fountain erected at the kerb-side in memory of a civic father who had owned ten pubs and a distillery. If you must drink water you could press a button and direct your mouth to a spurt of water from the basin, or you could fill a metal cup from a tap. You couldn’t take the cup home, pretend it was pewter, and fill it with beer, because it was chained to the fountain.

  At the foot of the fountain was a small drinking trough served by a tap below the basin, but long ago a drunk had assaulted the tap, since when it had never functioned.

  Patrick O’Hara was about to pass this fountain when Dublin Kate made known her objection to dying of thirst. So he filled the metal cup and emptied it into the trough, and Dublin Kate, knowing nothing of Oliver Twist, asked for more.

  Having filled the cup a second time, Patrick O’Hara was about to empty it into the trough when he was accosted by a client, and the bookmaker poised the cup on the edge of the basin. An occasional pedestrian accidentally bumped him and apologised, although O’Hara should have stood on the kerb. These apologies were properly acknowledged, and the bookmaker continued to talk with his client for something like five minutes.

  When his client moved on O’Hara emptied the cup of water into the trough and was about to fill it for the third time when again he was saluted by a would-be punter.

  “What about Silver Star for the third, Pat?”

  “Fives to you,” replied O’Hara.

  “Suits me for atenner. Hi! What’s the matter with your dog?”

  Dublin Kate was slewed sideways as though suffering from a stitch, and abruptly she collapsed into the dry gutter. The astounded O’Hara dropped the cup into the basin, stooped over the body, and swore loudly. A uniformed policeman materialised out of thin air and asked what was going on.

  “Can’t you ruddy well see?” demanded O’Hara. “Me dog’s been poisoned, that’s what’s going on. I give her a drink of water from the fountain and now look at her.”

  The policeman happened to be he who had been called by a frantic barman to look at Hans Gromberg, and his actions now obliterated his failure to see the woman who had sat next to Mrs Wallace. He took position with his back to the fountain, and his feet were angled to guard the moisture in the trough. He ordered the people to move along and then demanded harshly:

  “Whatd’you mean, poisoned?”

  Two plain-clothes men took charge. The bookmaker related the facts. One detective dissolved into the crowd, and a minute later reappeared from the taxi which drew up beside the fountain. The dead animal was lifted into the taxi and O’Hara told to get in with it. The uniformed policeman went with him to Headquarters.

  One of the plain-clothes men guarded the fountain, while the other obtained two files and a wad of blotting paper. The moisture in the trough was mopped up by the blotting paper and the files used to detach the cup from the chain. The foot traffic down Argent Street flowed once again.

  Abbot took charge of Patrick O’Hara and the body of Dublin Kate. He listened to the bookmaker’s story, his assistant recording it in shorthand. He heard the report of the uniformed man and that of the senior plain-clothes man. It was then four-thirty and Dr. Hoadly’s surgery period. A plain-clothes man was sent with the metal cup and the blotting paper, with the request that Dr Hoadly telephone his opinion even if not substantiated.

  Patrick O’Hara was introduced to Bony by Abbot, who placed the statement and the reports on the desk. The bookmaker was told to smoke if he wished, but was so infuriated that he broke four matches in lighting a cigar, and his breathing was a whistling noise in his bulbous nose. He was wearing a single-breasted light grey suit, old but clean. The striped silk shirt was thrust into the background by a brilliant green tie. The shirt was clean, but the tie was stained by what could be tomato soup.

  “What age are you, Mr O’Hara?” Bony asked.

  “Age!” gasped the bookmaker. “Why, sixty-four, maybe -five.”

  “Married?”

  “Yes. Twice. Why? What’s being married got to do with-”

  “Let’s take it easy, Mr O’Hara. Is your second wife alive?”

  “No. She died eleven years ago. I’m living with me daughter by me first wife.”

  “Now I’m going to ask Senior Detective Abbot a routine question which you must not allow to annoy you,” Bony went on. “What is Mr O’Hara’s reputation?”

  “Good as far as we know, sir,” replied Abbot.

  “I been in business for twenty-nine years and never at any time-”

  “Of course not, Mr O’Hara. We’ll discuss the circumstances concerning the death of your dog. Was it a valuable dog?”

  “No value. Too old, but I thought a lot of her. Won a lot of races in her day. Ruddy shame, poisoning her like that. Don’t get it.”

  “We’re not certain that she was poisoned,” Bony said. “We’ll have the report soon, and meanwhile tell me-are you sure that your dog showed no distress after lapping up the first cupful of water?”

  “Yes, because it was some time after that I gave her the second cup. A pal of mine bailed me up.”

  “And you held that second cup of water for some time?”

  “Yes, held it on the edge of the basin for two or three minutes. Could have been longer.”

  “Just show me.” Bony moved the inkstand to the edge of the desk. “This is the fountain, and the desk is the roadway. Stand in the position you were when talking to your friend.”

  The bookmaker complied, and Abbot was placed where the friend stood. The fountain faced to the pavement, and O’Hara’s position was partly to one side. He demonstrated how the filled cup had rested on the edge of the basin, and Bony said:

  “Naturally, the street being so busy, people bumped you, I suppose?”

  “Yes, some of ’emdid,” agreed O’Hara. “You see, I was caught sort of in a bad position. A bloke bumped me arm and went on, and then another bloke bumped me and gave me a dirty look. After all, it was me own fault. Then a woman sort of knocked me and said she was sorry, and she patted Dublin Kate and said something to her and went on.”

  “Do you remember that woman?”

  The bookmaker scowled, sat down, and glared at the half-consumed cigar.

  “Not much. She was getting on. Fiftyish-nearer -one than -nine, I reckon. Had a white hat, I recall that. Dressed-”

  A man entered and gave a paper to Abbot, who passed it over the desk to Bony. Bony read: “Doctor telephones is reasonably sure cup has contained cyanide and that blotting paper is saturated with it. Confirmation promised within forty minutes.”

  “The woman was dressed-Mr O’Hara?” Bony prompted.

  “White hat. I think she was wearing a brown sort of dress.”

  “What kind of
hat-big or ordinary or small-felt or straw?”

  “Straw. Bit floppy on one side.”

  “Spectacles?”

  “Don’t recollect,” replied O’Hara. “You see, I was talking to me friend. Wasn’ttakin ’ no notice of anyone else.”

  “And she stopped to pat the dog, you say?”

  “Yes. She went round my friend to do that, as Dublin Kate was standing in the gutter to keep out of the way.”

  “Did she have a handbag?”

  “Yes, she had a handbag. I remember seeing that. Tucked under her arm when she patted Kate. Blue handbag with red handles.”

  “What kind of handles?”

  Mr O’Hara was hurt. This questioning seemed so futile.

  “Kind of handles?” he returned. “Why, ordinary floppy sort of handles, of course. Looked like leather or something.”

  “Abbot! Middle-aged woman. White straw hat, brown dress, blue handbag with red handles or drawstrings. Probably still in Argent Street.”

  Abbot sped down the corridor. The bookmaker was decidedly pale. Bony was as smooth as ever when he said:

  “Mr O’Hara, I want you to go home and stay there until I call for you. Name of the man you were talking to?”

  “Ted Rowe. Licensee of Camel Camp Hotel, NorthB. H. Why do I have to stay at home? Races tomorrow. Must be there-”

  “Then drink nothing unless out of a bottle.” Bony made for the door. “Come on! Off you go!”

  “But what’s it mean? What’s the idea?”

  Bony took the man by the arm and urged him out to the corridor.

  “You heard about Sam Goldspink? Go home and stay there.”

  There were men in the public office. Pavier was with them. Bony edged Patrick O’Hara past them. He had to open the door for the bookmaker. Having closed the door, he turned about to hear the Superintendent giving orders. Two men to examine every tram leaving Argent Street at the south end and two to examine trams leaving by the other. Men to visit every shop on both sides of the street, and others to ‘go through’ every hotel. All left together, Pavier and Bony with them. It was a full hour since Dublin Kate had died.