The Widows of broome b-13 Read online

  “Why, it’s Mr. Knapp!” she exclaimed. “Do come in.”

  “I offer many apologies and I have a hundred excuses, Mrs. Sayers.”

  “Well you don’t need them. I’m delighted to see you,” Mrs. Sayers giggled. “And I’m all alone, too.” Closing the front door, she conducted the visitor to the lounge, chattering about the weather and saying that his visit relieved her from a lonely evening. She made him sit in a chair requiring a crane to lift one out, and she chose the settee, pulling forward an ornate smoker’s stand to serve both. “You didn’t bring Esther with you?”

  “They have been tremendously busy,” Bony explained.

  “You know, I’m so relieved that they arrested that terrible man. Poor Mabel Overton! It’s so sad. She was a lovely woman, Mr. Knapp. So sweet-tempered. And why he murdered her, I can’t imagine. If they don’t hang him for it, I’m going to raise hell.”

  Words. Behind the brown eyes lurked a question. They had already noted Bony’s clothes, his hair, and every feature.

  “Did you know her well?” he asked.

  “Oh yes. We were friends for years. She was a good woman, but not tiresome. She never drank like I do, or smoked or said naughty words, like I do. She had everything I haven’t got.”

  “I find it difficult to believe that you lack anything, Mrs. Sayers,” he said, smiling, and again glimpsed the question-mark behind her eyes. This was a shrewd woman, a successful woman through recognition of those qualities she did lack. He said:

  “I’m sure you do not lack the ability to keep a secret, once you decide it is worth keeping.”

  “When you’re brought up in a place like Broome by a father who was a pearl buyer and a male nurse who’s the son of the Sphinx, keeping secrets is second nature, Mr. Knapp.”

  “I would be honoured did you consent to share one of mine.”

  Again the smile unrelated to the brown eyes, and the giggle so unrelated to the character of this woman. “Dear Mr. Knapp, you intrigue me,” she gurgled, and Bony flinched. Then changing front so swiftly that he was astonished, she said: “Open up. If it’s an honest secret that hurts no one, I can keep it with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bony imparted his real name, his profession and purpose in Broome. He said that the arrest of Locke was primarily intended to deceive the man who had murdered three women and who would probably attempt to murder a fourth. He asked Mrs. Sayers to give him her full co-operation, and pointed put that the extent of the required co-operation might be more than she was then visualising. Whilst he spoke in low tones, she listened without interruption.

  “I’ll co-operate, of course, Inspector,” she said quietly. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Ask any questions you like and I’ll answer them as best I can.

  “I hadn’t any doubt that you would consent to assist me, Mrs. Sayers. Now these are the things I would like you to do. One: go on calling me Mr. Knapp. Two: continue to live as you normally do. Three: take certain precautions against danger to yourself which I will enumerate later.”

  “Yes. All right, Mr. Knapp.”

  “Now for my questions. Did Mrs. Overton complain to you of a man’s attentions to her?”

  “No, not complain. She did say that Mr. Flinn proposed to her, but not what kind of proposal. She told me that she detested him.”

  “Indeed!”

  “She was engaged to a man in Melbourne, you know. I was writing to him when you arrived.”

  “What is your feeling towards Mr. Flinn?”

  “I think he’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “He called on you the other day, I understand. A social call?”

  “Hardly a social call,” replied Mrs. Sayers. “He wanted to sell a small parcel of pearls, and he found out that I know more about ’emthan he does.”

  “Thank you. You are being really helpful. Would you tell me just why you think Mr. Flinn a nasty piece of work?”

  The brown eyes clouded.

  “He reminds me somehow of a spider, and I hate spiders. Gives me the feeling that he wants to eat me.”

  “Well, let’s get back to Mrs. Overton. Did she have any male friends?”

  “No man special here. As I told you, she was engaged to be married.”

  “Did she tell you that she lost a garment from her clothes line?”

  “Oh yes, she told me about that.”

  “Was it a nightgown?”

  “Yes, a lavender silk one.”

  “When was it stolen, d’you know?”

  “Yes. She told me she lost it Tuesday night. Does it mean anything?”

  Bony related the circumstances of the theft each murder victim had suffered, and told of the finding of their silk underwear bundled into the wardrobes. Mrs. Sayers was now sitting stiffly upright, her eyes wide and her lips parted.

  “These three crimes provide proof that in Broome is a man imbued with a terrible hatred of women,” Bony proceeded. “Each crime was planned with meticulous attention to detail, so that he made no stupid mistakes which a man nearer to normalcy would have made. However, he was unable to evade doing those things which had become habitual, long before he set out on his murder career. Thus, his second murder indicated a pattern, and this pattern was made clear with his third murder. You realise, of course, that his three victims were widows?”

  Mrs. Sayers nodded.

  “They were able to purchase expensive silk underwear. From each he stole a nightgown. He cut and ripped to pieces their silk underwear. That, broadly, is the pattern in which is concealed his motive.”

  “Why kill three entirely different women?” asked Mrs. Sayers, and Bony secretly acknowledged her intelligence.

  “That question is a difficult one. The first victim was a hotelproprietress, the second was a woman of blemished virtue, the third was much respected for her good works. I can find no common denominator.”

  “Well, the first sold drink.”

  “That’s so. The murderer could have a hatred of drink.”

  “The second sold herself,” itemised Mrs. Sayers.

  “The murderer could hate immorality. For what could he hate the third? The third sold good works. I understand that Mrs. Overton was a keen church worker and intensely interested in child welfare. A man cannot hate both good and bad. Assuming that he plans to murder you. Why you? Pardon me for saying so, but you are neither good nor bad. It could be said that you are negative. Not that you are, of course, but by the same yardstick you are. Do you know a man in Broome who makes you uneasy, even frightened?”

  “No man has ever frightened me. I’ve known plenty of the Flinn type. Frightened of ’em? I can take care of myself. Briggs taught me to do that when I was a little girl. I was caught one night on the beach bya Malay. He was in hospital for months.”

  “That was some time ago, I suppose,” Bony commented.

  “Yes, years ago. In the good old days the place was crowded by all nations. Money! Money floated on the wind, and what my father didn’t manage to pick up my late husband did. You needn’t worry over me, Mr. Knapp. I can look after myself.”

  “Briggs taught you ju-jitsu, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “When the Malay attacked you, everyone in Broome heard about it, I assume?”

  Mrs. Sayers shook her head.

  “No one knew about it bar Briggs and my father… and old Dickenson. By hell… he told you, eh?”

  “No. He did mention, though, that Briggs had taught you to take care of yourself. What I’m trying to establish is how many people in Broome know you were taught ju-jitsu by an expert?”

  “Very few, if anyone.”

  “Might be an idea to go into training.”

  “You think the murderer might have a go at me?”

  “It would be a certainty if he stole one of your nightgowns. You sleep alone in the house. Is there any communication with Briggs?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know if it’s working. I can ring a bell in Briggs’
room from my bed. I had it put in several years ago when I was ill.”

  “Do your friends know about this?”

  “No. Why should I tell them? It never had any importance.” Mrs. Sayers giggled. “Besides, imagine the gossip if Broome knew all I had to do to bring a man into my bedroom was to press a button.”

  Bony, managing with elegance to extricatehimself from the chair, stubbed his cigarette and looked down steadily at Mrs. Sayers. She was older than Mrs. Overton had been and, he thought, the lightness of her make-up was distinctly to her advantage. Her arms were firm and well moulded, and wealth had certainly not coarsened her. She must have been strikingly handsome when a young girl.

  “Mrs. Watson and her two children left for Perth today. You know that?” he said.

  “Oh yes. I heard that she had decided last week to have a holiday.”

  “I’m glad she went away. It reduces my responsibilities by one. Mrs. Abercrombie and Mrs. Clayton are two of them. You are the remaining responsibility.”

  “But I’ve told youyou needn’t worry about me.”

  “Mrs. Abercrombie has with her at night an elderly companion. Mrs. Clayton has her daughter with her. The daughter is only a schoolgirl but Mrs. Clayton is safer than you are. I don’t want to frighten you, but I do want you to understand quite clearly that you are my greatest responsibility. You would relieve me of much anxiety did you consent to adopt every safeguard against swift and silent and deadly assault.”

  Mrs. Sayers stood up, proving then that she was slightly taller than Bony.

  “Whatever you say goes with me.”

  Bony smiled his thanks.

  “Our plan of defence will not entail any inconvenience,” he said. “We must have the co-operation of your man Briggs. Both you and he must not vary your usual living routine, or in any way indicate that you are on your guard. Even your cook must know nothing. Is that Briggs returning?”

  “It’ll be him. You’ll have a cup of coffee or something?”

  “Thank you. I suggest that you ask Briggs to come in here.”

  “He’ll report as usual. He makes wonderful coffee, but I have to pour the brandy. I just love brandy in my coffee. Briggs introduced me to it when I was cutting my wisdom teeth.”

  “It appears that Briggs has been Jonathan to your David.” Bony held a match to her cigarette, and their gaze held above the tiny flame. She felt the impact of his personality, and in the instant acknowledged the mental power which subjugated in everyone the consciousness of his mid-race.

  “Briggs has been my father and my mother and my brother,” she heard herself saying, whilst thinking how strange it was that not till now had she realised it.

  Briggs stood in the doorway. His jaw was chewing. He turned the invisible switch and said:

  “Anything wanted before I lock up?”

  “Come here, Briggs. And don’t keep on chewing like a mechanical figure in a toy shop.”

  Bony suggested that they sit down, and Briggs listened whilst perched on the edge of a chair, the tail of his coat hoisted by the bottle in the back pocket. As Bony proceeded to outline what he had told Mrs. Sayers, the man’s facial expression never changed, nor did the small bright black eyes waver from Bony’s mouth. When Bony ceased speaking, he said:

  “I beenurging Mrs. Sayers to take proper care for the last two month. Things being as they are, I’ll be doing sentry-go round the house at night.”

  “You’ll do no more nor less than what Mr. Knapp wants,” interjected Mrs. Sayers. “In other words, Briggs, you’ll do just what you’re told to do.”

  “I’m listening.” The eye farthest away from Mrs. Sayers was momentarily masked by the lid. The wink was the signature to a treaty of alliance against the wilful and unpredictable Mrs. Sayers, nee Mavis Masters.

  When Bony bade his adieu at the front door, the communicating bell in Briggs’ room had been tested and found efficient, the house had been secured, and every room had been investigated by Briggs… just in case Mr. Hyde had sneaked in whilst he had been out and Mrs. Sayers had been entertaining Bony. Briggs had gone to his room, locking the kitchen door and taking the key with him as usual. He had agreed not to prowl outside the house, not to drink the usual quantity of gin and to sleep with the bell under his pillow. Mrs. Sayers promised Bony to lock her room door on retiring.

  He heard her lock the front door and instead of setting out to the police station, Bony sat all night under one of the palms.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Casual Enquirer

  BONY was shaving when he heard Mrs. Walters calling him, and on emerging from his room, showered and refreshed by three hours’ sleep, she complained that the tracker had not come for breakfast.

  “I’ll see where he is,” he volunteered. It was nine o’clock and the morning sunshine was hot. The sky lacked colour although it was cloudless, and the small flies were instantly a bother when he stepped down into the compound.

  Abie was not at his camp in the loose-box. His blankets were there, tossed into a heap, and the straps with which he fastened his swag were there, too, but the military overcoat and the boots and the wide-brimmed felt hat were absent. Recalling that he had not seen Abie since the previous morning, Bony returned to the kitchen, where Mrs. Walters was placing bacon and eggs and toast before her husband.

  “When did you last see Abie?” he asked the inspector.

  “Abie! Don’t remember. Why?”

  “Abie didn’t come for his breakfast when I called him,” replied Mrs. Walters. “He came for his dinner last night.”

  “Out with the mare, I suppose,” Walters said, evincing little interest.

  “Not like a black-fellow to be away at meal time,” she pointed out, and Bony added:

  “He’s not in his camp or anywhere in the compound. I wonder what he’s up to. By the way, those drawing-pins fastening that calendar to the wall interest me. Where did you obtain them?”

  “From office stock. All office requirements are sent up from Perth. Where’s the interest?”

  “I’ll reveal it after breakfast. Anything of note happen last night?”

  “Nothing. The women went off to bed at eleven, leaving the front door open. Talk! They talked for a couple of hours before going to bed, and for nearly two hours I could hear them talking to each other from their rooms. What did you do?”

  “Sat under one of Mrs. Sayers’ palm trees and communed with the stars. Earlier, she told me that Mrs. Overton had had a nightgown stolen.”

  “Crumbs!”

  “It’s the one item of fair news in this depression,” Bony claimed. “Our man is running true to his pattern. If only I could see him in the picture I’m trying to paint. I’d take a chance then and act on a search warrant. If those three garments were found in his possession, we would have enough evidence for an arrest.”

  “In such case, would you advise the arrest?”

  “No. We would have enough evidence to arrest for clothes-line thefts but not for murder. These days you have almost to make a moving picture of the actual murder to have hope of getting a conviction. Our next step is to watch for clothes left out all night, and continue to guard those three widows. A picture record! Quite an idea.”

  “Did you contact your assistant this morning?” Walters enquired, and Bony could not quite decide whether there was a sneer in the voice.

  “I did. All was quiet on his front. I sent him home to sleep. He’s been very helpful. Have you been in the habit of sending Abie out on night duty for any purpose?”

  The inspector was astonished.

  “You did not send Abie out trailing smuggling suspects?”

  “Ye gods!” groaned Walters. “What’sSawtell and Clifford for?”

  “Compiling statistics,” Bony blandly replied. “I wonder where that black’s got to this morning.”

  Walters pushed back his chair.

  “Expect Sawtell will know. I’d better open the blasted office.”

  The sergeant arrived as h
e was unlocking the front-office door. Bony entered the office from the house passage, bringing with him his plaster casts.

  “You know where Abie is this morning?” Walters demanded.

  “No. Not on deck?”

  “Absent without leave. ’Bout time you jerked that gentleman down to ground level.” The inspector snatched up the telephone and asked for the airport office. He was told that the plane from Derby might arrive about eleven and the aircraft from Perth about one… perhaps. He asked Bony what his plans were.

  “Well, all of us have earned a full night’s sleep, and you two will bewanting bed before bed-time,” he pointed out. “I suggest that on arrival Clifford and the constable from Derby be given the rest of the day off duty, and that they report to me at seven this evening… in plain clothes. I didn’t tell you, Sawtell, that Mrs. Overton lost a nightgown. That confirms the pattern, and makes the watching of clothes lines a duty of paramount importance. Will the Derby plane bring mail from Darwin?”

  “Should do. Time we had Darwin’s report on Flinn.”

  “Might help. By the way, Sergeant, look at this shoe-print cast. Whatd’you make of the circular indentation?”

  “Looks like he picked up a wad of chewing gum.”

  “Or a drawing pin,” supplemented Bony, placing the convex head of a brass drawing pin over the raised protuberance on the cast. The pin had been filed off. The head fitted exactly. “This drawing pin was one of the four used to pin the calendar to the kitchen wall.”

  “What cast is that?” Sawtell asked, sharply.

  “The cast taken of the shoe-print made by the man who murdered Mrs. Overton,” replied Bony.

  Sawtell’s eyes were small.

  “I don’t get it,” he admitted, and passed to his desk, from a drawer of which he took the left of the shoe casts he had made under Abie’s direction. The shoe cast he compared with that made by Bony. They were of the same size but of different shape. The heel of Bony’s cast was worn along the inside edge. The shoe from which Sawtell had made his cast was worn much at the back of the heel and there was a distinct hole in the sole.