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  The Widows of

  Broome

  ARTHUR W. UPFIELD

  EDEN PAPERBACKS

  All characters in this book are

  entirely fictitious, and no reference

  is intended to any living person.

  EDEN PAPERBACKS

  an imprint of Angus & Robertson Publishers

  Unit 4, Eden Park, 31 Waterloo Road,

  North Ryde, NSW, Australia 2113, and

  16 Golden Square, London W1R 4BN,

  United Kingdom

  This book is copyright.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the

  purposes of private study, research,

  criticism or review, as permitted

  under the Copyright Act, no part may

  be reproduced by any process without

  written permission. Inquiries should

  be addressed to the publishers.

  First published by

  William Heinemann Ltd in 1951

  First Angus & Robertson Publishers edition 1972

  Reprinted 1981, 1984

  This Eden paperback edition 1988

  Copyright Bonaparte Holdings Pty Ltd 1951

  ISBN 0 207 15847 9

  Printed in Australia by The Book Printer

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter One

  The Magnet and the Filing

  SITUATED on the barren, inhospitable coast of the north-west of Australia, Broome’s only excuse for existence is pearl shell. Before Japanese aircraft put a stop to the industry some ten million pounds’ worth of the finest-quality shell had been raised from a thousand miles of shell beds, pearls of exquisite lustre and size being the plums which attracted adventurers from all parts of the world. Following the drastic restrictions imposed by war and its resultant economic conditions, millions upon millions of dollars’-worth of shell is now maturing and just waiting to be picked up and despatched to hungry markets.

  Prior to the events which attracted Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte to Broome, the majority of the people walked with somnambulistic tread and day-dreamed of the glorious past when booze was cheap, when money was as plentiful as the dust, and when ribs were tickled with knives and craniums caressed with sandbags … over the rape of pearls.

  The first of two murders having several points of similarity mildly stirred the people of Broome. The second crime, however, inoculated them with an energy serum. They waited expectantly for the police to produce the murderer, but nothing happened. They stared at the homicide squad flown up from Perth, and became really annoyed when still nothing happened. Actually, the people of Broome should have been proud that one among them was alert enough, and clever enough, to commit two murders without leaving a clue indicating either himself or the motive.

  The senior police officer stationed at Broome was an administrator, not a detective. His job was keeping general law and order over a land area of about a third of a million square miles, not tracking down an intelli­gent murderer. He was assisted by juniors—one of whom was an expert in the bush and the handling of trackers—and when they failed to uncover the murderer of the first victim, and met with no quick success following the murder of the second, he washed his hands and called for the C.I.B.

  A detective-sergeant accompanied by a photographer and a finger-print expert arrived from Perth. They remained two weeks. Thereafter, Sub-Inspector Walters continued with his administrative duties, and the mur­derer continued to stroll about Broome in the cool of the evening.

  At four o’clock on the afternoon of June 25th, Inspector Walters sat before a typewriter in the station office, grimly determined to write a private letter in official time. He was two inches under six feet, lean and tough. His greying hair was stiff, and authority gleamed in his dark eyes and was stamped on his thin-lipped mouth.

  The envelope he rolled into the machine was ad­dressed to: “Mr. Sylvester Rose, Headmaster, Cave Hill College, Broome.” The letter which followed the enve­lope ran thus:

  Dear Sir.

  Reference my son Keith Walters. I have regretfully to draw your attention to what appears to be a con­spiracy among a section of your boys to which my son belongs. I am aware that in these modern times handwriting is considered of small importance and that spelling is an art no longer necessary to be culti­vated. You will, I am sure, agree with me that sound pronunciation of our language must be, with force if necessary, inculcated in the rising generation, that English shall not deteriorate to the gibberings of baboons.

  I have repeatedly heard my son pronounce the word “just” as “jist”; for “I am going to” or “he is going to”, he persists in saying “I’m gunner” or “he’s gunner”. Vocal reprimand being unavailing to cor­rect this fault, I have administered corporal punish­ment … still without result. Cross-examination has elicited the fact that a number of your boys in col­laboration deliberately invent these horrible distortions which, when practised, become permanent in their speech.

  Knowing how much you have the boys’ welfare at heart, I am confident that you will bring your very wide experience to bear on this problem, the solution of which appears to be the detection of the ringleaders of this conspiracy.

  I remain as always, my dear Mr. Rose,

  Yours very sincerely,

  Henry Walters. Inspector of Police.

  Having signed his name in calligraphy appearing much like helmets on the heads of tin soldiers, Inspector Walters sealed the letter, stamped it and tossed it into his “outward” basket.

  The police office was, save for himself, deserted. Sergeant Sawtell had gone to the airport to meet the inward plane from Perth. Constable Pedersen was out in the barren McLarty Hills with one of his trackers seeking a wild aborigine who was wanted for wife-maim­ing, and Constable Clifford was making inquiries con­cerning the indentures of a Malay shell-diver.

  The month being June, and mid-winter, the tempera­ture of the office was moderately low, and now the shadows of the palm trees were long across the open space between the large bungalow-styled station house and the roadway which it fronted. The storm shutters were raised high, and the entire front wall was open and fly-netted. When a flashing new car swept in through the open gateway and drew to a stop before the steps leading to his office, Inspector Walters almost snarled. He was pretending to read a report when through the swinging fly-netted doors came a woman. Under forty, and wearing honey-coloured slacks and a peasant blouse, she was still vivid and markedly self-possessed.

  “Good-afternoon, Inspector,” she said, her voice brittle. Her bold brown eyes were hard as she faced Walters, who had risen to his feet. “I’ve called to give you a piece of my mind. Have you any objection?”

  “This department is always at the service of the public.”

  “Well then, it’s my considered opinion that when two defenceless women are murdered and no one is arrested for it, it’s a shocking disgrace to the Police Force
. I don’t understand it. No one in Broome understands it. What kind of policemen are you people? Tell me that, instead of standing there like a dumb cluck. You can catch a poor Chinese for smoking opium, but you can’t catch this person who strangled two women. Two women, mind you, not one. You can tell that gang of ruffians who came up from Perth that I’ll make their thick ears burn if they don’t produce results.”

  A second car drew up outside the station, and Inspec­tor Walters attempted to assure the lady that the Perth homicide men would make an arrest when they were ready, that another detective was coming north to con­tinue their investigation.

  “Well, we people of Broome want results,” went on the woman. “You policemen think you’re the bosses of Broome, and you are going to learn your mistake … all of you. … from the Chief Commissioner downward. I’m the boss of Broome, and don’t you forget it. Mind you, I’m talking officially. Privately, I consider both your wife and you as my friends. What was the name of that fool from Perth?”

  “You are referring to the senior detective?”

  “You know I am.” The woman turned to glare at two men who entered the office: one wearing official uni­form, the other in smartly cut civilian clothes. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You tell him from me that if he doesn’t stop these murders I’ll expose his fool doodling in the West Coast News, and in case you don’t know it, Mr. Walters, I own that newspaper … and the Perth Saturday Record … and about half of the Perth Daily Reporter. Is Esther at home?”

  “Yes. She’s somewhere in the house.”

  “No, no! Don’t bother. I’ll find her.” The woman turned from the still rigid Inspector Walters. She nodded to the second policeman, who had sat down at a desk and was taking up a pen. The civilian had his back to them. He was studying a wall map of Broome and the surrounding district, and as though conscious of being examined, he turned to meet the angry brown eyes with eyes as blue and as bland as the Indian Ocean that day.

  “Who are you?” demanded the lady.

  “My name is Nap.”

  “Spell it, please.”

  “K . . n . . a . . p . . p.”

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “Er … a kind of policeman. I am a psychiatrist.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I heal, or try to heal, sick minds.”

  The woman frowned. This stranger was distinctly dark. Colour in him somewhere. She was glad she had taken the stand with him that she had done. Then she didn’t feel glad at all when he smiled.

  “By whom am I addressed, Madam?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m Mrs. Sayers. A healer of sick minds, you say.” She almost giggled. “You’ve come to the right place. They’ve all got sick minds around here. Someone killed two defenceless women and they can’t catch him.” She swept towards the house door and there turned to survey the stranger with eyes no longer furious. “What kind of medicine do you give sick minds, Mr. Knapp?”

  The stranger bowed slightly, and smiled.

  “Hemp,” he murmured. Mrs. Sayers did giggle. They listened to her high-heeled shoes impacting the linoleum within the house, and then Inspector Walters advanced with proffered hand.

  “Bit of a tartar when she’s roused,” he explained, “otherwise nice enough. Women! They always beat me. Glad to meet you, Inspector Bonaparte.”

  “And I to meet you. Permit me to present my credentials.”

  Sub-Inspector Walters read the order from Perth to give Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte every assistance in the investigation of the murder of Mrs. Elsie Cotton on the night of April 12th, and the murder of Mrs. Jean Eltham on the night of May 5th. There was more of it, and when done, Walters looked up to observe the stranger in Broome seated at the opposite side of his desk, rolling a cigarette.

  “Well, Inspector, all of us here will be glad to co-operate,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Bony lit his cigarette. “I like that word, co-operate. True doctors co-operate when the G.P. calls in a specialist for consultation on a difficult case. Regard yourself as the general practitioner, and me as the specialist. A specialist I am. I specialise in homicide. I know little of general police procedure or administration. So it’s every man to his profession. By the way, I’d like to be known as Mr. Knapp. All my friends call me Bony. Might I be honoured by including Sergeant Sawtell and yourself among my friends?”

  Faint warmth spread over the iron-hard face of the inspector, and Sergeant Sawtell, who had met Bony at the airport, expressed his pleasure.

  “We’re both very glad you are here,” Walters said. “We have enough normal work on our hands without the addition of investigating murders which don’t have any possible motive. Been a worrying time. One con­stable away in the bush after a blackfellow, and the other’s just out of hospital with a knife wound received down in Chinatown. Have you made arrangements about accommodation?”

  “No, not yet. I understand there are five hotels here.”

  “There are, but perhaps you’d consent to put up here. The wife and I would be glad to have you.”

  “That’s kind of you. I would like that. And I’d try not to put Mrs. Walters to great inconvenience.” Bony smiled his thanks in addition to the words. “We could then go into conference at any time suitable to yourself and Sawtell. I know enough about these police-adminis­tered districts to understand the thousand and one calls on your time. Yes, that would be an excellent arrangement. I could be a civilian friend staying with you.”

  A car engine burst into restrained power, and the inspector raised himself to look beyond the fly-netted veranda front.

  “That’s Mrs. Sayers leaving. Ought to get a cup of tea now she’s gone.” He stood up and Bony also rose. “Fine woman but volcanic.”

  “A local power?”

  “The local power. Owns one of the stores, two of the hotels, six of the luggers, and fifty per cent of the houses in Broome. Her father was a pearl dealer. Her husband was a store owner, shell dealer and lugger owner. She has more money than the King … and spends it faster than Rockefeller did.”

  Bony was conducted from the office to a tastefully and sensibly furnished lounge, was left there a moment, and then was being presented to Mrs. Walters. She was slight and dark, and he liked her at first sight.

  “So you’re Inspector Bonaparte,” she exclaimed. “Well, I am glad you have come up from Perth. I’ve a sister, you know, in Brisbane … married to Detective-Sergeant Knowles … and we’ve heard much about you from her. I’m so glad my husband suggested you stay with us.”

  “It’s really delightful of you both.”

  “Not a bit. Why, we’ve been terribly anxious about these murders. People are asking who will be murdered next. It’s been dreadful for everyone. And not a clue … not a single clue pointing to who committed them and why. Seems that he just killed for the pleasure of it. You will have a cup of tea?”

  “That is a question I never answer in the negative,” replied Bony, and Walters offered cigarettes.

  It was plain that these two people had been suffering strain, for their pleasure at his arrival was unmistakable. Walters was in the unenviable position of being the senior police officer in a small town where everyone knows everyone else, a frontier town where people must associate or mentally perish, a town in which the senior police officer is the most important personage and one whose power of protection against criminals is assumed to be unassailable. The success of a murderer in escaping detection was a slight both to their social and their official standing.

  Mrs. Walters brought afternoon tea, and Bony said:

  “I must make one small condition to accepting your hospitality, Mrs. Walters. I insist on being treated exactly as any member of your family … and I understand you have two children to look after in addition to your husband. You see, I know what guests mean, the extra housework, the extra washing up. D’you like washing up, Walters?”

  “Damned if I do,” exploded the inspector.

  “Damned if I do, either, but
when at home I’m damned if I don’t. Hullo!”

  In the doorway appeared a schoolboy, his case in one hand, a cap of black-and-white rings in the other. His eyes sparkled with excitement, and when his father asked sharply what he wanted, he answered in the gruff tones of early adolescence.

  “Abie’s taking the petrol cure, Dad. He’s down be­hind the gum tree in the compound.”

  The inspector jerked to his feet and made for the door. The “petrol cure” being a new one to Bony, he excused himself with Mrs. Walters and hurried after the inspector and the boy, who led the way through the kitchen and out across the rear veranda. Ahead was a space of some several acres, bordered on one side by stables and out-houses, and on the other by a row of ten or a dozen cells. A hundred yards from the house grew a solitary gum, and as they approached the tree so did the boy and his father walk stealthily. Silently, the three moved round the trunk.

  With his back to it and reclining at ease was a booted and overcoated figure, identifiable only by the hands as an aborigine. The head was enveloped by an exceed­ingly dirty dress shirt from which arose the smell of petrol.

  With swift action the inspector whisked away the shirt. Gripping the man by the coat collar, he stood him up as though he were a straw. The round face was vacant. The dark eyes rolled in their sockets. With his left hand the inspector slapped the black face and shouted:

  “Where did you get the petrol, Abie? Come on now … tell!”

  “Bin milk-um jeep. Lemme lo.”

  “Coo! All right, my lad. I’ll attend to you after you come round.” Walters lowered the almost insensible man to the ground, and his son knelt and made Abie’s head comfortable on the battered felt hat. “He’ll be all right in an hour. Can you beat the blacks for finding out new ways of getting drunk!”

  “One of your trackers?” inquired Bony.

  “Yes. Not enough work for two, and this one’s a lazy devil. Always in mischief when Pedersen’s not here to keep his eyes on ’em.”