The Widows of broome b-13 Read online

  Before Bony was a list of five names headed The Widows of Broome. An ink line ran through the name of Mrs. Overton, and the ink line appeared to magnify the remaining four names-Sayers, Clayton, Watson and Abercrombie. With Clifford’s departure for Perth and Constable Pedersen still away in the bush, the police strength in Broome this coming night would be only two.

  The horns of dilemma continued to prod Bony and make him extremely uncomfortable. The build-up of the murderer was so tenuous, so vague, that it was difficult to see his picture. The psoriasis clue was indefinite because even had Dr. Mitchell been ordered to inspect every man and woman in Broome it would achieve only the identity of every sufferer and not indicate the one among them who strangled women in their homes. First establish the murderer, then the sloughed skin found in the homes of two of his victims would be added proof of his guilt. The four women must be guarded every night henceforth, but if the murderer discovered the precautions taken he would not walk into any parlour.

  However, there were four widows, and there must be four guards: Walters and the sergeant, himself and old Dickenson. He could hope for time and luck, and he would certainly need both. Meanwhile, he had letters to write for Perth, and was making a request to the superintendent in charge of the C.I.B. when he heard someone knocking on the back door.

  Mrs. Walters’ footsteps sounded in the kitchen, and quite clearly he heard her exclaim:

  “Why, Mr. Percival! Will you come in?”

  Then Mr. Percival’s voice:

  “Thank you, Mrs. Walters. Just for a moment or two. Mr. Rose delegated to me the matter of your husband’s complaint regarding some of our boys’ slovenly pronunciation, and I thought I would call in about it.”

  Mrs. Walters explained that, the front-office door being locked, she regretted having to ask the visitor to walk through her kitchen to reach the lounge, and Mr. Percival said Mrs. Walters was not to bother as he could not stay more than a minute.

  “You know, Mrs. Walters, boys are boysall the world over,” he said with his clear enunciation. “I’ve been with them all mylife, and I know them inside and out. When thrown together as they are at school, they are both faddists and copyists. You have without doubt noticed that Keith takes up something with enthusiasm, and with equal enthusiasm drops it to take up something else.”

  “Oh yes, Keith is like that. Nanette is different.”

  “Yes, I suppose she is.” Mr. Percival cleared his throat. “The point I am trying to make is that this deliberate mispronunciation of which your husband rightly complains is probably the result of one boy showing off, as we call it. It’s extremely silly, but it’s merely a fad which is bound to pass. When I was at school we gave certain words an entirely different pronunciation from that in normal use. We thought it clever, and no doubt our boys think this clever, too. I lectured the entire school on the subject the other day, and thestaff has received instructions to correct the fault whenever it is heard.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Percival. My husband…”

  “I feel sure he will understand,”proceeded Mr. Percival. “I’ve learned that the great majority of our problems are not after all so very serious if dealt withwith a degree of mental detachment. It is so easy to permit a problem to magnify itself. We at the college have made the training of boys almost a science. We endeavour to accomplish an ideal, which is why the boys at a public school appear to be turned out from one mould. We are very proud of our boys, Mrs. Walters, and we shall not be disappointed in your son.”

  “It’s nice of you to say that, Mr. Percival,” Mrs. Walters said, happily.

  “Well, I must be getting along. Mr. Rose is attending the funeral of poor Mrs. Overton. It is all very dreadful. She was such a fine woman, and we shall miss her. Always ready, you know, to assist us with our social activities. The boys thought a very great deal of her. Gloom hangs over the entire school. Am I correctly informed that the murderer has been arrested?”

  There was no hesitation by Mrs. Walters, and Bony silently applauded.

  “Well, a man has been arrested. Constable Clifford is taking him down to Perth this evening. My husband tells me very little about his official work, you know. Says I’m not to be trusted.”

  “A generality, of course. I am relieved… we all must be… that the perpetrator of these horrible crimes has been apprehended. We should, however, withhold personal judgment even in such time of stress to which we have been subjected. We have reason to be proud of the ethics and procedure of our British criminal courts. By the way, I have not seen Constable Pedersen recently. Is he still out in the bush?”

  “Yes. We can expect him only when we see him,” replied Mrs. Walters.

  “Ah, yes, yes. Our boys hero-worship him. His talks on bushcraft and the wild natives have made him extremely popular. Well, thank you, Mrs. Walters. I am glad that the little matter of the gunners andjists has been ironed out. We have been hoping to welcome Mr. Knapp at the school. Mr. Rose and I met him down at the store, and he almost promised he would call on us one afternoon.”

  “I will remind him. I’m sure he won’t have forgotten.”

  “Thank you. I trust he is enjoying his stay at Broome.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Percival.” “Tell him I’m leaving shortly,” willed Bony. “Tell him… tell him… tell him.” Mrs. Walters said: “We shall be sorry when he leaves us.” “Shortly… shortly… shortly,” willed Bony, but Mrs Walters said: “Good-bye, Mr. Percival. It was nice of you to call.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Walters,” and Bony knew he was then beyond the kitchen doorway. “Good-bye!”

  Bony permitted his wrist-watch to mark off a full minute before he left his “office” for the kitchen. He said nothing to Mrs. Walters and she was astonished to see him sink to his knees and squint across the surface of the linoleum just inside the doorway. Size eight were the shoes on Mr. Percival’s feet.

  “When talking to you, where did he stand or sit?” he asked.

  “He stood just there,” replied Mrs. Walters, indicating a point midway between the door and the kitchen table.

  “A broom, please.”

  She brought him one, and he swept the floor and carefully retrieved the flotsam accumulated since it was last swept. The envelope containing it he marked with the letter P. Mrs. Walters looked her astonishment.

  “I am cram-full of suspicion of everyone,” he said, a clear twinkle in his eyes. “Mr. Percival wears the same size shoe as worn by the murderer of Mrs. Overton, but his shoes are not worn along the inner edge of the heels.”

  “They oughtn’t to be, anyway. Mr. Percival’s shoes were almost new, I should think,” argued Mrs. Walters. “Oh, he couldn’t be…”

  “He could. So could Mr. Rose, or one of the other masters. Any man wearing a size eight shoe could be the man I cannot drag forth from black obscurity. Look! If you permit that kettle to boil much longer it’ll boil dry. D’youknow what happens when a kettle boils dry?”

  Mrs. Walters laughed outright, and turned to take a teapot from the cabinet. Having made the tea, she said:

  “Now I think back, it does seem that Mr. Percival asked a lot of questions, doesn’t it?”

  “Did he?” asked Bony innocently.

  “You know he did. You couldn’t help but hear what was said.”

  “I did hear something about the boys. You’re not accusing me of spying, are you?”

  “Oh no. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.”

  Bony smiled, and went off for the tea-cups. It seemed to Clifford, who entered at that moment, that Inspector Bonaparte did nothing else but serve him with cups of tea.

  “Any results?”Bony asked him.

  “Yes. Mrs. Overton did not employ anyone to help her with the housework. AhKee, the laundryman, said he collected Mrs. Overton’s washing every week. When I asked him if he laundered her silk things, he said no.

  “All right! Anything further?”

  “Nothing,” replied Clifford. “I made enquiries of Mrs. Overt
on’s neighbours on whether they had seen anyone lurking about at night, and they all replied that they hadn’t. None of them said they had ever lost anything, although I hinted that we’d received reports of petty thefts.”

  “Good work,” approved Bony. “Well, I suppose you want to make ready for your trip south. You’ll find the sergeant at home. Report to him. Did you pass the cigarettes to the prisoner?”

  “A large packet when I took his midday meal to him.”

  “Done much air travel?”

  “Fair amount, sir.”

  “You will please me by returning as quickly as possible. We’re short-handed. I’ll have a communication for you to present to the Chief of the C.I.B., who will facilitate your quick return. I’d like you to be in at the death.”

  That made Clifford smile appreciation of the compliment, and Bony returned to his office. He was still there when he heard the inspector’s voice in the front office, and he waited five minutes before joining him. Walters was in dress uniform, and he looked bigger and even more efficient.

  “The entire town was there,” he said. “Some of ’emmade it plain how pleased they were I had caught the murderer. I’ll be lynched if another murder happens.”

  “That shall not happen. Will you guard Mrs. Watson’s house all night?”

  “No need. She and her children are leaving for Perth on the plane tonight. Be down there for a month.”

  Bonysighed his relief.

  “I shall watch over Mrs. Sayers, and I’ll get old Dickenson to keep his eyes on Mrs. Clayton’s house for the night. That leaves Mrs. Abercrombie, who has a woman living with her. They should be in the least danger.”

  “You’d say so if you saw the companion. Grows a moustache. Sawtell and I will take care of them. We’ll take shifts. But what about you? Like us, you didn’t go to bed last night.”

  “I’ll manage. Whend’you expect the relief constable from Derby?”

  “In the morning. And Clifford should be back by tomorrow night.”

  Bony transmitted Clifford’s report of his enquiries and left the inspector at his desk. He sought Mrs. Walters, from whom he learned that dinner would be at six. He asked to be called punctually at six, and lay down on his bed for two hours’ sleep. He slept at once and woke refreshed, and at seven he joined Mr. Dickenson on the bench placed well in the deepening shadows of the trees outside the post office. Without preamble, he said:

  “Now let us to the plough and furrow straight towards the distant who-and-how. Tonight I want you to plant yourself close to Mrs. Clayton’s house, and stop there till dawn. Only if you observe a man trying to enter, or gaining entry, will you give the alarm. D’youknow how to manage a Webley?”

  “I am acquainted with concealable weapons,” the old man said. “This walking-stick I brought in case…” He snapped back a catch and withdrew the handle for about two inches to reveal the blade of a sword.

  “Excellent!” murmured Bony. “However, under the circumstances I’ve outlined, it will be essential to raise the alarm. Take this revolver and raise the alarm by firing rapidly. Either the inspector or Sawtell will be watching Mrs. Abercrombie’s house, and whoever it happens to be will join you in a couple of minutes.”

  “Supposing I shoot the fellow instead?”

  “It would be against the fool law. You see a man breaking into a house in the dead of night and you can prove… what? That he’s a murderer? Why, it takes about ten eye-witnesses to prove that he is breaking a window for the purpose of entering.”

  Bony rapidly itemised his many difficulties, accepting the old man into his confidence because of his innate decency and his will to fight for the remnants of his self-respect. Unfortunately, eighty-two is badly matched against forty and fifty, even against sixty.

  “Tell me about Abie,” he urged. “You mentioned having seen him walking about bare-footed at night.”

  “I have so,” said the old man. “Before proceeding with him, I want to say how greatly I appreciate your attitude to me in view of my present social position. Now for Abie. For several years I have suffered from insomnia, and I’ve sat long hours of night on these seats, observing much and pondering on the frailties of man and the deceitfulness of woman. I have on several occasions seen Abie prowling about at night without foot-covering and without the overcoat which gives him such pride to wear. I have seen him entering and leaving house gardens, and I have been interested by the fact that no robberies were reported.”

  “Strange. What do you think of the theory that Abie was trying to trail someone?”

  “Then I never saw the man being trailed.”

  “Very well, let’s leave him for another person-Mrs. Sayers. From what you said the other day, you know something of her history. She sleeps alone in her house at night?”

  Mr. Dickenson vented a soft chuckle.

  “I’ve known her since she was eating pap in old Briggs’ arms. She’s a toughie, and I’ll warrant she would give this strangling gentleman a run for his money. Still, even the toughies can be caught with one foot off the ground. If old Briggs slept inside the house, you need have no concern for Mrs. Sayers.”

  “He sleeps in a place near the garage, I understand.”

  “Yes. Both of them are ruled by routine. Every night, including Sundays, Briggs leaves for the Port Cuvier Hotel dead on nine o’clock. At the hotel he has two glasses of beer and purchases a bottle of gin. He returns to the house exactly at ten. If Mrs. Sayers hasn’t visitors, he closes the storm shutters and locks the front door, looks to the windows to be sure they’re fastened, andleaves by the back door, which he locks and takes the key to his room. And before he gets into bed, he’s lowered the tide in his bottle down to an inch.”

  “You appear to have studied him rather closely,” observed Bony.

  “It’s given me something to do. Look at Broome during the daytime. Hardly anyone is abroad. Sit and watch Broome at night and you will be astonished by the number of people. I could write a book about Broome. I might even be able to write two. Oh yes, I’ve watched them. I’ve been watching ’emfor years.”

  “Has Flinn been on visiting terms with Mrs. Sayers for long?”

  “No. About a year. He doesn’t call on her often,” replied the old man. “As I told you, he’s a flash. I suppose you know he was one of Mrs. Eltham’s midnight friends?”

  “I did not know.”

  “Oh, yes. So was that schoolmaster at the college.”

  “Indeed! Which one?”

  “Percival.”

  “Interesting.”

  “There’s another point.”

  “Proceed, please.”

  “One night about a month before Mrs. Cotton was murdered Percival and Mrs. Sayers had a hell of a row. What about, I don’t know. He called on her when old Briggs was away at the pub, and he hadn’t been inside more than five minutes when I could hear her shouting at him to get out and keep out. Those were her words. She can be as vulgar as a fish-wife.”

  The dusk was deepening, and the stars were emerging to make their nightly bow. The western sky gilded the plane passing over the town, and neither man spoke of itnor of its passengers.

  “Having known Mrs. Sayers all her life, do you think her a woman capable of working with us?” Bony asked.

  “She has brains, I must admit,” replied the old man.

  “And discretion?”

  “If you mean to keep a secret, yes. What she lacks in subtlety she gains in courage.”

  “And Briggs?”

  “If she ordered it, Briggs wouldn’t hesitate to cut a throat.”

  “Thanks. Now let us to the plough I spoke of.”

  Bony glanced back once, to see the gaunt figure melt into the shadow of a tall tree.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bony Captures Mrs. Sayers

  MRS. SAYERS invariably dined at six to permit her cook-housemaid to depart at seven. At seven precisely the cook reported and was dismissed, and the house was, figuratively, taken over by Luke Brigg
s. At eight-forty-five, Briggs invariably reported, asking if Mrs. Sayers required anything before he took his evening stroll.

  Seen on his feet and without his chauffeur-cum-sea-captain uniform, Luke Briggs would have delighted Charles Dickens. He was quite bald. His face was the colour of teak and marvellously wrinkled. About five feet eight inches in height and weighing in the vicinity of a hundred and thirty pounds, he could be taken for a Cockney chimney-sweep or a race-course tout. To guess his age, one could range from sixty to a hundred, and then be out at either end. For his evening stroll, he wore rubber-soled canvas shoes, grey Harristweed trousers and a coat much too long for him. The coat made him look like a soldier crab inhabiting a conch shell, but it was worn for a purpose-the inside pockets were capable of taking a dozen bottles.

  When Briggs entered the lounge this evening, Mrs. Sayers was seated before her escritoire writing letters. He stood in the doorway, and it seemed that it required mental effort to stop his jaw from its fascinatingly methodical chewing.

  “Anything you want, Mavis?” he said, and at once the chewingrecontinued.

  “No. Not now, Briggs,” replied Mrs. Sayers, without turning in her chair.

  “We want a new booster coil, and while we’re about it we’d better have a new set of spark plugs… eight of ’em.”

  The jaw chewed whilst the woman’s voice came across the room.

  “Make the old things last another month.”

  The jaw stopped chewing. It was as though Briggs had to turn a switch, and it seemed a pity that he couldn’t chew and speak at the same time.

  “Impos!” he asserted. “You got an engagement at the collegetomorrer afternoon at three. No coil, no car. No car, you walk.”

  “Damn you, Briggs. Go away. I’ll telephone the store first thing in the morning.”

  Briggs departed along the carpeted passage to the rear quarters and left the house. On reaching the front gate, he noiselessly opened one panel and vanished in the direction of the Port Cuvier Hotel. Five minutes later, Mrs. Sayers heard the front-door bell ringing. She stepped from the house proper, crossed the wire-enclosed veranda and switched on the exterior light before opening the door.