Bony - 13 - The Widows of broome Page 10

  “Well, well, well! You’d make a hell of a good temperance reformer.”

  “Alas, I may have made a rash promise. I promised old Dickenson that when we have nailed our murderer he and I will get blind blotto at the Dampier Hotel.”

  “I might be with you, too. Now I think I see through a brick wall. The evening before you visited Mrs. Eltham’s house, you and old Dickenson went out on a bender to the Dampier Hotel. Now lemme think. Four days after the Perth mob left Broome, old Dickenson was taken off to hospital suffering from acid poisoning. He could have got the battery acid from Mrs. Eltham’s car. He could that night he stole the battery acid have seen …”

  “You’re destined for the C.I.B.,” Bony said with a chuckle, but Walters remained serious.

  “What did old Dickenson see? Go on, tell, Bony.”

  Bony related Mr. Dickenson’s adventure on that night he “borrowed” Mrs. Eltham’s battery acid.

  “Clicking teeth, eh!” pounded Walters. “Faulty dentures, might be.”

  “Or action resulting from great mental disturbance. I’d like to make our Mr. Arthur Flinn intensely angry.”

  “Otherwise it doesn’t get us anywhere?”

  “It may eventually. It’s a big piece among my bits and pieces. Ah, here comes the post-boy.”

  The youth having departed, the inspector sorted the mail, flicking several letters across his desk to Bony. He spent two minutes with the contents of one official envelope and on returning his attention to Bony found him gazing at the ceiling. Bony said:

  “C.I.B. reports that no one of the three men sent up here is suffering from psoriasis. That reduces a problem still further, for the chemist’s list of sufferers is confined to two women, a boy of sixteen, and a man who has been away with the pearling fleet for eight or nine weeks. My own office in Brisbane reports that the finger­prints on that glass I purloined at the Dampier Hotel are those of Ronald Locke.”

  “Is … that … so?” Walters drawled. “Is … that … really … so? Sawtell! Our Richard Blake is Ronald Locke.”

  The sergeant came to his feet as though actuated by invisible wires.

  Chapter Twelve

  One Monday Evening

  SO Richard Blake was Ronald Locke, and every police­man in Australia saw red when he thought of Ronald Locke. Bony was no exception when walking through Broome after dinner.

  Ronald Locke was, in 1940, the head steward in an exclusive club. Although only twenty-six years of age, he was remarkable for his charm of manner and per­fectibility as a gentleman’s gentleman. At his trial witness after witness testified to his excellent character. He was tried and convicted and sentenced to death for strangling a girl of eighteen because, to use his words—“she nagged at me to marry her before the baby was born.” It so happened that a few months before this trial the Executive Council in another state had commuted a death sentence to life imprisonment because “the murderer had a low intelligence.” That produced severe criticism by the Press, but it was much more severe when the Executive Council of the State in which Locke com­mitted his crime reduced the death sentence to ten years’ imprisonment … “because of his previous good character.” To make matters worse Locke was released on probation after serving only half his commuted sen­tence … and promptly disappeared. In an editorial of a metropolitan newspaper, quoted in every Police Gazette all over Australia, it was stated: “Justice is mocked when, following a fair trial conducted by a learned Judge before a jury of intelligent men who find the accused guilty, politicians commute the sentence because the murderer has a low intelligence or had, previous to his crime, a clean record. Are murderers to be hanged only if they have high intelligence or have been previously convicted for stealing apples from an orchard?”

  Bony’s interest in a murderer swiftly waned once he had finalised his investigation of the crime, but even he had been exasperated by the interference of vote-catch­ing politicians with the course of justice. His sympathies were ever with the victim, and the victim’s dependents, and now that he had this Ronald Locke in reach, he was in no haste to have him brought in and charged with breach of parole. Locke couldn’t get away, not far, in this North-West so pitiless toward the fugitive

  It was natural for both Walters and Sawtell to jump to the belief that Locke had killed Mrs. Cotton and Mrs. Eltham, but this youngish man of only thirty-two did not fill the frame into which Bony was building with his bits and pieces the murderer he sought. The barman at Dampier’s Hotel would not, however, be ignored.

  Bony was unconscious of whither his legs were taking him, and he was unconscious of the resplendent car which glided to a halt beside him, until the vibrant voice of Mrs. Sayers came like a soft blow:

  “Hello, Mr. Knapp! What’s she like?”

  “Oh! Good-evening, Mrs. Sayers. To what lady do you refer?”

  Mrs. Sayers was seated beyond the lowered rear window, her eyes mischievous, her hair not quite as auburn as on Activities Day. Behind the wheel lounged a man uniformed with distinct nautical flavour. He was chewing hard, and looking straight ahead, and his lean and weathered face was as crinkly as a prune.

  “The lady you were dreaming about, of course.” Mrs. Sayers giggled. “But I won’t pry. When are you coming to tea? I’m dying to find out what’s behind those big blue eyes.”

  Bony chuckled.

  “You remind me of Red Riding Hood,” he said. “I would be happy to call tomorrow afternoon, if con­venient.”

  “Do. About three. Bring Esther with you. I want to make up for abusing her husband for not catching the murderer. Nice old stick, but I like ’em pliable.”

  “You will find me pliable, I think. Like the elm, I bow to every storm.”

  “Was I …” Mrs. Sayers again giggled. “Was I a storm that afternoon in the police office?”

  “Perhaps a little one … in a tea-cup. Harry Walters has been greatly worried lately, and, after all, he is not a common detective.”

  “No, of course he isn’t. Well, bring Esther tomorrow, and I’ll make it up. Good-bye!”

  Bony stood back and, being hatless, bowed. He watched the car glide along the road without a pang of envy.

  Recalled now to the business in hand, to make himself au fait with the lay-out of Broome, he continued on his way, passing the gate through which Mrs. Sayers’ car had dis­appeared. The house was particularly spacious. Set well back from the road, it was almost surrounded by wide lawns on which, each side of the house, grew a huge palm tree. Beyond the right-hand palm could be seen a clothes line.

  Bony passed on to enter Chinatown by a different route and came to the Seahorse Hotel, which, were it not for the iron shacks across the street, would have looked out over the entrance of Dampier’s Creek to Roebuc Bay. On a seat at the edge of this sidewalk sat Mr. Dickenson, the old man appearing to be asleep. Ignoring him, Bony passed up the hotel veranda steps, and on the veranda was accosted by a man whose accent betrayed his northern European origin.

  “Have a leetle drink, sir? Me and the flies don’t agree.”

  “One with you and one with me,” Bony dictated, and they entered the empty bar. To the left was a lounge furnished with tables and chairs, and there several Asians were entertaining their lady friends.

  “Vot you have?” asked the man who couldn’t drink with the flies.

  “Beer, please.” The drinks came up.

  “You yust visitor here, eh?”

  “Yes. Peculiar place, Broome. What’s wrong with it?”

  “Vong mit it? It’s all vong. No boats. No men. No shell … only leetle. Look!” Bony was urged to look out through the doorway. “Millions of dollars … down in the sea … and no boats, only few, to peek up dose dollars. One time plenty boats, plenty divers … Jap divers. Now no Jap divers. Now only few southern Asians, and some of dose now go back to their countries because Government don’t like ’em. The Government say no dollars. Short of dollars. No dollars—no petrol. No dollars——no houses. Millions of dollars out dere …
you know Kalgoorlie? I vork in Kalgoorlie gold mines. More dollars in sea dan in all Kalgoorlie gold mines.”

  “Well, then, what’s wrong with the people?” Bony pressed, being uninterested in economics or politics. The lean and sunburned man chuckled ironically.

  “Der people! Look you, the price of shell today ees five ’undred and fifty pounds a ton. Before the var a hundred pounds a ton. Der people here don’t vant more boats, more men, more divers. No nous. No, vot you say? No brain. Dey think if too much shell brought in der market go bung. You go into lunatic place and ask vot’s vong with them. Same thing.”

  With difficulty, Bony left the Seahorse Hotel. On the sidewalk he pretended to trip, looked down at his shoes, and crossed to the seat, to which he raised a foot to tie the lace.

  “Flinn inside?” he asked softly.

  “Went through to his room a half-hour ago,” mur­mured Mr. Dickenson without moving. “He took lunch at the Port Cuvier, and afternoon tea with Mrs. Sayers. Left when Mrs. Sayers went out in her car.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dickenson. By just keeping a general eye on him, we’ll finally get his background.”

  Bony walked along the street running parallel with the creek, passing sheds and tiny houses seemingly full of coloured women and children. He took a turn left and came to the general store owned by Mrs. Sayers. The light of the westering sun tinted with gold the ugly iron buildings, and beyond the marsh skirting the creek the white gulls circled. Seated in his car parked outside the store was Johnno.

  “Good-day!” he shouted long before Bony could halt at the car window. “You take a walk, eh? How you like Broome?”

  “Reasonably well,” conceded Bony. “Doesn’t anyone ever go out fishing?”

  “Fishing! You want to go fishing?” With flashing teeth and sparkling eyes, Johnno expressed his delight and amazement, that anyone like Bony would want to go fishing. “All right! You tell me you like to go tomorrow, the day after, and we go. I have nice friend with motor-boat. We always arrive, but some­time the fish they are sleepy. Never mind. We have sleep, too.”

  “I’ll remember that,” promised Bony. “Where are all the pearl buyers?”

  Johnno almost choked with laughter.

  “Pearls all finish,” he managed to get out, and, having regained breath, he went on with his usual volubility: “One time plenty pearls. One time plenty divers. One time this place full up with people: Javanese, Malayans, Japanese. All plenty money.” Shoulders and dark arms worked overtime within the confines of the car. “Gamble all night. Drink up all night. Eat up and drink up. Pearls, sometimes. Now, no pearls. Maybe one, maybe two in season.”

  “Then the pearl dealers don’t do any business now?”

  “No pearl dealers. All gone … back home.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Flinn a pearl dealer?”

  Johnno made a face and shrugged. … Bony shied off Mr Flinn.

  “Well, I’ll be getting along, Johnno. I’ll let you know about the fishing, eh?”

  “You tell me, and I tell my friend, yes,” assented Johnno, and Bony passed on from the car to enter the store, which was about to close. He had gained the veranda when through the doorway came Mr. Rose and Mr. Percival.

  “Remind me, Percival, that we contact Leggit on Wednesday morning about that special order,” Mr. Rose was saying when he saw Bony. Both men were dressed in white drill and wore sun-helmets and canvas shoes. Mr. Rose regarded Bony with a frown, but it vanished when Bony greeted him.

  “You really have the advantage of me,” Mr. Rose said, genuinely embarrassed. “You know, I’m such a fool. Where did we meet?”

  “This is Mr. Knapp,” interposed Mr. Percival. “Mr. Knapp came to our Activities Day with Mrs. Walters.”

  “Ah! Of course, yes. I must be growing old.” Mr. Rose smiled broadly. “We are so apt to do that. Are you enjoying your stay in Broome, Mr. Knapp?”

  “Very much so,” Bony replied. “It has the atmosphere of the Orient, don’t you think? I hope to remain another week.”

  “Splendid! We would be pleased to see you at the school one afternoon, wouldn’t we, Percival? About half-past four. Take you round and we’ll plead with the matron to give us tea. By the way, Percival, remind me that I reply to Inspector Walters’ complaint about the jists and gunners.”

  Mr. Percival, large and florid, gave no indication that he heard this request. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were very much alive as he watched Bony’s reactions to Mr. Rose. Bony expressed his delight with the invitation to the school, and following the adieus, went on into the store, to stand behind a mound of dress lengths and watch the departure of the two masters in Johnno’s service car.

  An odd pair, he thought. The headmaster serenely omnipotent; the senior house-master silent and watchful. Bony made his purchases and was the last customer to be let out of the store for the day.

  The police station office was closed, too, and he re­turned to find Walters reading a newspaper in the kitchen. On his entry the inspector put down his paper and eyed Bony sternly. Bony proceeded to roll a cigarette.

  “I think we’ll forget about the information from Brisbane,” he said. “For a little while, anyway. It would be just too bad to pull that fellow in for evading con­ditions of his probation, send him back to the east, and let slip through our fingers the man who did murder those women.”

  “He strangled one woman,” Walters said, coldly. “He could have murdered the two here.”

  “Quite so, but we have no evidence against him … yet. I remember the trial quite clearly. There was no evidence that Locke collected women’s nightgowns and destroyed their silken underwear. I have another reason for keeping Locke in cold storage.”

  “How are you going to explain the delay in returning him to his State?”

  “Explain!” Bony looked at Walters with pained eyes. “Explain to whom?”

  “You damn well know who. The Department, of course.”

  “The Department! Oh, don’t let that bother you. It will be my kettle of fish, as they used to say when my grandfather was alive. My dear man, if I bothered to make explanations to my superiors, why, I’d require the services of two stenographers to answer the ‘Please explains’. Hullo, Sawtell!”

  Bony, noting the smallness of the sergeant’s eyes and the tightness of his wide mouth, knew that the blow had fallen. Sawtell strode to the two men seated at the table, and from a side pocket drew a scrap of pink silk, which he placed on the table. He began to speak as though giving evidence in court.

  “I was passing along the laneway at the rear of Mrs. Overton’s house, and I thought I saw something brightly coloured lying near the back door. I could see that the back door was closed. There was no smoke rising from the chimney. In view of the plan set out this afternoon concerning five women, I did not proceed to the back door from the rear lane, but passed on round the block till I came to the front of the premises. Near the front gate, which was closed but not locked, there is a small letter-box. The morning delivery of mail was still in the box.

  “I thought I had better investigate. I knocked at the front door and no one answered. It was locked. I then proceeded round the house to the back door, where on the ground I found this piece of torn silk. I knocked on the back door and received no answer. I tried the door and found it locked. Under the circumstances, I thought I’d better report before investigating further.”

  Bony turned over the relic of silk. It was about ten inches in length, and two inches at the narrow end widening to three inches.

  “I hope we’re all wrong,” he said, softly. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Same Pattern

  “What about Abie?” asked Sawtell:

  “Leave him until we know more,” Bony replied, his voice sharp and unusually authoritative.

  They met Keith coming in from the street and, without halting, the inspector told him to tell his mother they would be late for dinner. Walking abreast, with the slighter figure o
f Bony in the centre, an observer would think he was being taken to jail, for the expression on the three faces was wooden and no man spoke. Other than a few children and two women, the street was empty.

  Arriving at the front gate to Mrs. Overton’s house, Bony felt satisfaction on seeing that the driveway was composed of cinders. There he saw many footprints, in­cluding those made by Sergeant Sawtell. There were the prints of a woman’s shoes, those indented by a boy, the prints made by a man’s naked feet, and those left by shoes size eight. The insides of the heels were worn, and there was a circular object adhering to the left sole.

  The bungalow was smaller than average. Along the front the storm shutters were raised. The front of the veranda itself was enclosed by narrow painted battens making a small diamond pattern. The house either side this property could only barely be seen beyond the ornamental trees and the division fences of board.

  “Front or back?” asked Walters.

  “Back. No answer to our knocking, we break in.”

  A cinder path skirted the house and Bony asked his companions to walk off it. The same tracks he had seen on the drive were on this path. He noted that there was no veranda along this side of the house, and therefore no shutters. At the rear the cinder path ended at a cemented area between the house and what appeared to be a combined wood-shed and laundry. Beyond the cement, another path wound onward to disappear among scattered ti-tree bush.

  Bony pounded on the kitchen door.

  “Let me push it,” urged Sawtell when no one responded.

  “Wait.”

  Bony bent down and placed an ear to the keyhole. He was then sure that what he thought he heard was fact. Within the house was a peculiar noise, a sound not un­like water gurgling down the outlet of a bath. For ten seconds, Bony listened. The noise continued, and there was strange rhythm in it.