Murder Must Wait b-17 Page 11

  “No, decidedly not.”

  “In the report by Detective-Sergeant Moss it is stated that you said, on finding the cotempty, that you assumed Mrs Bulford had taken the child with her. The other day you told me you assumed that your wife had taken the child to the cocktail party.”

  “Well… Now wouldn’t that be natural?” countered the manager. “I went upstairs, and I found the baby’s cot empty, and naturally I assumed that my wife had taken it with her.”

  “Neither to Detective-Sergeant Moss nor to me did you say that, finding the cot empty, you rushed to the bedroom where your wife might well have put the infant before going out.”

  “But she always left it in the cot and, I repeat, it was natural for me to assume she had taken it, even though I knew she was going to a cocktail party, and even though I knew she had never done so before.”

  With deliberation which even Mr Bulford realised was due to mental activity, Bony rolled another cigarette and then, as deliberately, tamped the tobacco into the paper with a match. He ignited the match, placed it to the tip of the cigarette, held the flame and gazed at the bank manager. Deliberately, he gave Mr Bulford time to organise his mind to meet an attack. It was delivered.

  “The other day you said that Mrs Rockcliff did not have an account with your bank.”

  The shutters fell before the hazel eyes, which never wavered.

  “That is true. Mrs Rockcliff did not bank with us.”

  “You said, too, that prior to seeing her name in the local newspaper as the victim of homicide you had never heard of her.”

  “That is so, Inspector.”

  “I recall that I asked you that question when we were upstairs and your wife was present. Mrs Bulford is not now present.”

  The hazel eyes moved to focus their gaze on the cigarette-box. A white pudgy hand hovered over the box and took a cigarette, and when the match was struck the sound was distinct. The match was blown out and dropped on to the tray. And the hazel eyes again met the ice-cold blue ones watching him.

  “I had met Mrs Rockcliff,” he admitted quietly.

  “You met her in the Library?” asked Bony, and subsequently often remembered a bad mistake.

  “Apparently you know that.”

  “Were you with Mrs Rockcliff at the Library during the period or part of the period when your son was stolen?”

  “I’m afraid so. I left here ten minutes after my wife, and I returned at half past five. Obviously I couldn’t mention the matter before my wife.”

  “What were the circumstances of your first meeting with Mrs Rockcliff?”

  “It was in late October. I was in the Library and overheard her discussing books with the librarian. The subject also interested me… and the librarian, well, made the introduction easy. I found her intelligent and pleasant to talk to, and often after that we met and talked. About books I can assure you.”

  “Not about herself?”

  “No, other than that her husband had been killed in an accident, and that she had lived in Melbourne for several years.”

  “And you felt that your wife would disapprove?”

  “You have met Mrs Bulford, Inspector.”

  “Mrs Rockcliff had no place in your social crowd?”

  “There were reasons barring Mrs Rockcliff from our set. Stupid, of course. Worse, they were snobbish reasons. Ye Gods! Humanity makes me sick. With the exception of Mrs Marlo-Jones, there isn’t a woman in Mitford the equal of Mrs Rockcliff in intelligence.” The manager waited for the next question, and when it did not come, he said:

  “Being the manager of a country branch is very safe and respectable, but I have for years had moments of rebellion. I mentioned Mrs Marlo-Jones. She and her husband, a retired professor of anthropology, are both charming and clever. Yet their range of subjects is sadly narrow, and after a time they become boring. Outside those two, the rest are mean-spirited, unaware of the world beyond their social rope. I belong with them. The bank says I must. My wife says I must. And what the bank says I must not do, must not know, my wife prohibits, too. For me there is only one road to mental freedom, the road paved with books telling of people who are free, or were free when they lived. Yes, I came to know Mrs Rockcliff very well. She was never inquisitive about my personal affairs, and I never attempted to probe into hers.”

  “I appreciate your frankness,” Bony murmured and lit another cigarette. “I appreciate, too, your moments of rebellion. We are all slaves to one master or another: you to convention, I to a power much stronger. Were you in love with Mrs Rockcliff?”

  “Yes. I knew that only after she was murdered.”

  “You would not like your friendship with her to become known, of course.”

  “I would not. And yet…”

  “Well?”

  “If it did become known, and the worst happened that I was reprimanded by the bank and threatened with eternal nagging by my wife, I might walk out on everything and carrya swag into the bush. If I did that, went looking for a bush job, I believe I would know greater content.”

  “H’m! When your two boys have grown to independent manhood, you may be able to do just that… and perhaps be very wise. Now for a direct question. Did you have any affection for your baby?”

  “No. It wasn’t permitted.”

  “Was not permitted by your wife?”

  Bulford nodded, seeing himself as Bony was seeing him, writhing with self-contempt, being roasted by a damned half-caste.

  “Did your wife have any affection for the baby?”

  The picture of himself vanished and was replaced by that of his wife, and the simmering anger of years erupted.

  “None,” he replied loudly.“None whatever. It came late, unwanted. She said everyone was laughing at her, and she hated the baby because of that, and she hated me, too. And now I hate her… for all of it.”

  Mr Bulford buried his face in his hands, and Bony rolled and smoked another cigarette before Bulford regained composure, himself swayed by sympathy, his patience unaffected.

  “Let us go back to Mrs Rockcliff,” he said, coldly, and thus succeeded in assisting Mr Bulford back to normal poise. “Mrs Rockcliff leased the house from Martin amp; Martin, to whom she paid the rent. Who actually owns the property?”

  “The bank does.”

  “Not a Miss Cowdry?”

  “Miss Cowdry would own it if she paid off her overdraft. Before she left for Europe last year she agreed to let the bank have full control of the property, meet its interest on the OD, and apply the balance to the reduction of the OD.”

  “You did not know Mrs Rockcliff before she rented the house, I think you said.”

  “No, I did not. Mr Martin recommended her, and I agreed to the rental when she offered three months’ rent in advance.”

  “She always paid the rent in cash. She always paid her bills in cash also, Mr Bulford. She never drew money from a Mitford bank or the Post Office. Did she have an account here?”

  “I’ve answered that question before… in the negative.”

  Bony sighed, and settled himself as though prepared to stay for a week. He said, slowly:

  “All other things being equal, I have the idea I could forget to include in my final reports your platonic friendship with Mrs Rockcliff. If, Mr Bulford, you could forget that you are the manager of a bank… out of business hours.”

  Mr Bulford regarded Bony steadily.

  “I would like to know what you want me to do, Inspector.”

  “Does the firm of Martin amp; Martin bank with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Mr Martin have his private account here, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you examine those two accounts for any abnormality?”

  “Yes. Give me half an hour.”

  Bony nodded agreement and the manager passed from the parlour to the banking chamber. Thereafter occasional sounds reached Bony, who relaxed in this comfortable parlour where so many money problems had been discussed. Outsid
e the bank, the world passed by, even the little world of Mitford, a community of hurrying ants, each carrying its load, but, unlike the ant, trying to drop its load to take up another.

  There was Bulford trying to escape life, and knowing he never would. There was Alice McGorr trying to run away from her feminine instincts, and heavily laden with inhibitions created by adolescent environment.

  Inhibitions have sunk more human craft than any other agency. Inane ambition has sunk countless others. Only a Napoleon Bonaparte, by sheer will power and determinedly trained intelligence, has the strength to fear nothing, not even death, and no one save himself.

  Could Bulford really drop his load and escape to the bush-lands without having to take up another? Could he, Napoleon Bonaparte, jettison his career and be swallowed by the vast interior of this continent, and be free of the load he carried?

  The manager came back and thus terminated these somewhat pointless cogitations.

  “I think I might have what you want, Inspector,” he said, having seated himself in his chair of importance. “On the 11th of every month, beginning last October, Mr Cyril Martin cashed a cheque for fifty pounds. The money was paid by the cashier in one-pound notes. On February 11th, that is this month, the cheque for fifty pounds was not presented.”

  “So?” mused Bony. “Mr Martin cashed a cheque for fifty pounds on the day before Mrs Rockcliff rented the house, and after she was murdered, on February 7th, Mr Martin did not cash the usual monthly cheque for fifty pounds.”

  Mr Bulford sat quite still, waiting. Bony rose.

  “Thank you, Mr Bulford,” he said. “I hope our little trade will lighten your load.”

  The manager didn’t move. He gave no evidence that the load was eased.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Enemy Strikes

  ALICEMCGORRand Essen tapped for admittance to Bony’s room shortly after seven, when the sun-god was losing his grip on the world and showing his anger by splashing the sky with blood. Indoors, room corners were beginning to melt into shadow and the mosquito that had forced an entry during the day was now lusting.

  They found Bony slumped in his chair, on the desk his notes and reports. He was minus his coat and the white linen shirt looked as though recently donned.

  “Come and sit down, both of you. After such a hot day you must be tired. Light up and relax.”

  “I came in after I got back from the hospital, and you weren’t here,” Alice said, and proceeded to remove her gloves and produce a cigarette-case and lighter from her handbag.

  “I was calling on the elite.”

  “A woman?” she asked, suspiciously. Essen chuckled.

  “Free and easy, aren’t we?” he mocked. “We could be reminded about our place.”

  “I don’t need to be reminded,” snapped Alice. “We were both told to call him Bony. He said all his friends call him Bony, and that we were his friends. Now, didn’t he?”

  “He did,” agreed Essen, lighting his pipe. “Still, we are lowly constables and he’s a DI. Wonder if he ever wears all the doings… braided peak hat, striped pants, gold-mounted tunic, etc.”

  “The wife has the lot, including a sword, wrapped in tissue paper and in her treasure chest,” Bony said proudly, and then joined in the laughter againsthimself.

  “And now, my friends, with your permission, a few questions.”

  Alice and Essen looked at each other, challengingly.

  Bony spoke: “Competitor Number One. What did you think of the hospital, Alice?”

  “Hospital first-rate. Got everything, from what I could judge. Nine babies in the Infants’ Ward. Those boy twins! Gorgeous kids… well worth the effort. But, anyone could sneak in at midnight and pinch the lot. Ward is wide-open to a fly-netted veranda, and the door in the veranda’s never locked. I told Constable Essen about it at dinnertime.”

  “Sister on duty all night through?”

  “Yes, but she has other duties which take her away from the Infants’ Ward, although not so far that she couldn’t hear a baby cry.”

  “And you, Essen? What have you done?”

  “I spent a couple of hours with the Registrar of Births and Deaths and obtained the addresses of all parents with children under three months.”

  “Did you make a note of the sex of the children?”

  “Yes.”

  “Concentrate on the safety of the male children. Have you plans?”

  “Yes, I think I can cover it. The reinforcements from Albury are due in at half-past eight. The Sergeant says I can have Robins, who knows the town, and two of the Albury men. Robins is now visiting the homes of all the male infants to warn the parents. We’ll guard the infants at the hospital and, with the other men, take general duty in the town. You got a hunch the kidnappers will try again?”

  “History has produced one kidnapping per month,” replied Bony. “I am taking these measures to satisfy Superintendent Canno, and to rid myself of mental distraction created by the possibility of another kidnapping. Do you think it possible that Sergeant Yoti instructed your tracker, Fred Wilmot, to trail me today?”

  “Trail you! Lord, no.”

  “How long has he been employed by the Department?”

  “Oh, some three years, I think.”

  “Mrs Rockcliff was murdered last Monday night. The next morning Wilmot came here to work. I am wondering if that were coincidence or arrangement made by Yoti or yourself.”

  “Don’t think. I’ll ask the Sergeant.”

  Essen departed in some haste, and Bony slid over the desk top a print made by a glove finger which had been repaired.

  “Would you say that sewing was done by an expert or by a woman not really proficient?” he asked Alice, and then silently watched her.

  She took the print to the window, wasn’t satisfied and switched on the light, standing directly beneath the globe.

  “Finely darned and evenly spaced,” she said. “Yes, the person who did the mending is an expert.”

  “Would you be able to recognise her work on another garment… from memory of that print?”

  “I might, but I wouldn’t guarantee it. Alice continued to study the print. “I’d say that the person who mended the glove was used to doing a lot of sewing, and also that she was used to making her things last as long as possible, not being one of the idle rich.”

  Essen came back to report, that Sergeant Yoti had certainly not put Fred to shadow Inspector Bonaparte, and further that the arrangement made with Fred to act as police tracker had been elastic. Fred often failed to come to work for days and even weeks unless sent for. He had not been sent for when he came to work on the previous Tuesday. Hisjob was to keep the yard tidy, scrub out the cells, cut the wood for Mrs Yoti, and accompany an officer when required.

  “You sure he was tailing you?” asked Essen, and Bony replied at zero.

  “Of course. Marcus Clark tailed Alice. Now Frederick Wilmot tails me. There is the robbery from the Library, a large slab of rock on which an aborigine has made a crude drawing. It would not surprise me if the rock drawing was stolen to prevent me seeing it.”

  “No one seems to know what the drawing means, according to Oats, the librarian,” Essen said. “Not even oldMarlo-Jones, and being a professor of anthropology he’d know most things about theabos.”

  “Mr Oats told me that the Professor believes the drawing has something to do with rain-making,” Bony continued. “Oats knows nothing about the drawing, where it came from, or who gave it to the Library Museum. I must pay a visit to the Mission Station tomorrow.” Bony lit a cigarette he had been toying with for several minutes. “There is in these baby thefts something of the aborigine, and, so far, nothing of the whites. And by the way, Alice, you and I have been invited to a sherry party tomorrow afternoon. What is a good antidote for Australian sherry, d’youknow?”

  “A drop of battery acid, my old man used to say,” replied Alice.

  “H’m! I remember hearing that one before,” Bony said, faintly disappro
ving. “I have a less drastic formula. Well, here is the invitation. Reads: ‘Sherry at five. Marlo-Jones. Do come. Inspector Bonaparte and Cousin.’The last written in green ink in a style rarely seen these days. Cousin! Knowledge from gossip, Alice. You cannot escape.”

  “I’m not going,” Alice declared. “I won’t drink plonk.”

  “You will accompany me, Alice,” Bony ordered, the smile leavening the flat evenness of authority. “You will drink plonk with me. I will have at hand an efficient antidote so that neither will suffer… much

  … in performance of duty.”

  “There’s nothing in the Oath of Allegiance about having to drink plonk,” argued Alice, tossing her head and having to re-tighten the roll of hair.

  “You won’t drink plonk for a reason other than to please me,” soothed Bony. “I must accept the invitation. I must be supported by someone, decidedly you for preference, and if eventually we swing down Main Street arm in arm and minus decorum, well…”

  “I don’t like it,” Alice continued to protest. “Could I take a bottle of gin or something?”

  “I fear not,” Bony gravely told her. “Our hosts would feel insulted. So, sherry it must be.”

  “I hate the filthy stuff.”

  “They say you get to acquire a taste for it,” Essen observed. “Don’t mind it myself.”

  “You’re not going; I am,” announced Alice… all objection banished by the thought that Bony might substitute Essen for her.

  A few minutes later Bony dismissed them for the day and, having gathered his papers and locked them in his case, he strolled into the warm and balmy night to call on the Reverend Mr Baxter, who received him with smiling friendliness and kept him talking for an hour.

  Nothing came of that interview additional to the sparse information already obtained from the Methodist Minister, and for a further hour and a half Bony walked the streets of Mitford, feeling within his mind a growing restlessness, which sprang from intuitive promptings that forces were gathering against him rather than from impatience with the progress and speed of his investigations.