The Widows of broome b-13 Read online

  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 nauticalflavour. 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 ’empliable.”

  “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 himselfau 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 aleetle 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.

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

  “Beer, please.” The drinks came up.

  “Youyust visitor here, eh?”

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

  “Vongmitit? It’s allvong. No boats. No men. No shell… onlyleetle . 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 southernAsians, 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 outdere… you know Kalgoorlie? Ivork in Kalgoorlie gold mines. More dollars in seadan 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.

  “Derpeople! Look you, the price of shell todayees five ’undredand fifty pounds a ton. Before thevar a hundred pounds a ton. Der people here don’tvant more boats, more men, more divers. No nous. No, vot you say? No brain. Deythink if too much shell brought inder market go bung. You go into lunatic place and askvot’svong 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 andamazement, 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: Java
nese, 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 thejists 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?” askedSawtell:

  “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 of 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 scatteredti -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.

  “Have either of you a gun?” Bony asked.

  Walters shook his head and Sawtell said he always relied on his hands. The sergeant stood before the door, raised a foot and shot it forward with such force that the door crashed inward and was almost torn off its hinges. It seemed that the three men entered at the same instant.

  Bony jumped to a window and let up the spring blind. They were in an ordinary kitchen off which was the bathroom. A passage ran through the centre of the house, and beyond the far end could be seen the battens enclosing the front veranda. The kitchen was small and tidy. On the floor lay
a smallpomeranian dog, its flanks working, and from its mouth issuing the noise like water draining away from a bath. There was blood on the patterned linoleum beneath its jaw, and its eyes were partially closed.

  Sawtell looked into the bathroom and followed the inspector and Bony into the passage. Bony opened doors. The first two gave entry to small bedrooms. The left front-room door was open. It was the lounge. The door opposite was closed. Gripping the door-handle only with the tips of forefinger and thumb, Bony opened the door and pushed it inward.

  The interior was dark. Bony struck a match, and the tiny flame revealed a white bed. He edged round the door-post and found the light switch, and with the corner of the match-box pressed upon the small knob. There was no resultant light.

  “The master switch,” he directed, and heard one of the policemen run to the veranda. Waiting in the darkness, he flailed his mind for evidence of failure in himself, for having omitted something which should have been done, and which might have prevented what he thought he had seen in the flickering light of his match.

  The fight blazed on, and behind Bony the inspector cried thinly:

  “He got her! The swine!”

  The room was made to appear smaller than it was by the furniture, of which there was too much. There was a three-quarter-size bed. The bedspread was rose-pink, and it, with the blanket and top sheet, was folded back. Lying on the bed was a woman. Her body was naked. She was lying on her back, her legs straight, her arms close to her sides. The face and neck were in sharp contrast to the whiteness of the rest of the body, and the white pillow was equally as sharp in contrast with the woman’s rather long black hair. She must have been in her late twenties, and quite good-looking.

  That the woman was dead was obvious. Beside the bed was the woman’s nightgown. Bony stooped for it. It was ripped from neck to hem, and with it he covered the body.

  “In the wardrobe, Sawtell,” Bony said whilst gazing upon the outline of the pathetic figure masked by cream-coloured silk. “No disorder in the room. The arrangement of the bedclothes precisely the same. She must have been off the bed when he strangled her, or if he strangled her on the bed then he removed the body to tidy the bedclothes. He is controlled by habits which are powerfully dominant when he’s mentally normal… if he is now ever normal, which I much doubt. I see him as a man unable to tolerate untidiness. Have you found the bundle, Sawtell?”