Batchelors of Broken Hill b-14 Read online

  “I said so.”

  “It would seem so,” Bony corrected. “Now you go off to bed. Tonight might yield much. When will Abbot report?”

  “At eight. Anything I can do?” Crome asked hopefully.

  “Nothing-till after you have slept. You’ll be out of your bed again tonight. Hit the pillow while you may.”

  Sergeant Crome departed in irritable mood. He was not liking several matters, among which was Bony’s evasiveness. The kids had found the haft of the dagger, and a blooming black tracker happened by sheer luck on the kids. He had sat half the night against the tree, and a blinkingscrewsman had been there before him and reported to Bony a mouthful, of which Bony said next to nothing. Bonaparte was always in front. And now he was ordered to bed and Bonaparte would work out another move and be farther ahead than ever.

  Senior Detective Abbot came on duty, to find Bony waiting for him.

  “Come and help me dig into Staff Records,” Bony invited. “The clerk in charge will not be here yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I am interested in Muriel Lodding,” Bony said when they stood before a card index.

  Abbot extracted the requisite card. It gave the date Lodding had joined the staff, the date of one promotion, the date she had been discharged dead. Bony sought for additional particulars, and Abbot produced a loose-leaf ledger and turned up the sheet devoted to Policewoman Lodding.

  Abbot was told to go, and Bony studied the details of Lodding’s service. She had invariably taken her leave when due, and on a number of occasions she had worked on Sunday and had Monday off. There was no reference to sick leave until the previous year, and the dates under this heading Bony rapidly noted.

  Again in his office, he set out in tabulated form the notes he had made, and at once found that coincidence could not be claimed for the juxtaposition of dates. He went into Crome’s office and studied the calendar nailed to the wall, then asked Switch to inform him when Superintendent Pavier arrived.

  Pavier was going through the morning mail when Bony walked in.

  “Won’t keep you long, Super,” he said, and was invited to be seated. “Reference your late secretary. I find that these last few months she had been granted sick leave. Can you tell me if she appeared to be ill at those times?”

  “Jittery nerves, I believe,” replied Pavier, a question in his eyes. “Told me she was worried about headaches, and she thought they might be a kind of migraine.”

  “D’youknow if she consulted a doctor?”

  “I don’t know about that, Bonaparte. In Records if she did. Or ought to be.”

  “There’s no reference to a doctor in Records. I find, too, that on an average of about once in two months she worked on Sunday and took the day off the following Monday. Why?”

  “She didn’t ask to work on Sunday that she might have the Monday,” Pavier said. “It occasionally happens that there is an accumulation of reports for Sydney which must be got off, and Lodding always consented to work on a Sunday when I asked her. She was a smart woman, and I am only now beginning to appreciate how much I relied on her. What’s on your mind about her sick leave?”

  “Take a glance at these notes.”

  Bony placed them before the Superintendent.

  1. Lodding on sick leave October 22 to 26.

  (Goldspink murdered October 28.)

  2. Lodding on sick Leave December 19 to 21.

  (Parsons murdered December 23.)

  3. Lodding on sick leave February 16 to 23.

  (Gromberg murdered February 25.)

  Pavier looked hard at Bony, the frown drawing vertical lines between his eyes. The fingers of his left hand tap-tapped on the desk, and for seconds he was silent.

  “Very odd, Bonaparte,” he said. “In each case, on the second day after Lodding returned from sick leave a man was poisoned.”

  “There is a period of two months between the first and second murders, and two months between the second and third murders,” Bony pointed out. “It’s why I asked you about the Sunday work. Probably no significance, as she worked on Sundays at your request. She could not have arranged the work to bring about your request, I suppose?”

  Pavier was emphatic that Lodding had not done so, and Bony evaded his probing questions and returned to his own office.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Bony is Sacked

  BONY SAT in Favalora’s Cafe waiting for Jimmy Nimmo and his scouts.

  Slightly more than two months ago, at the same hour, old Alfred Parsons had come here for a cup of tea and sandwiches. Much of his life was behind him, but he was enjoying his retirement and treading on no one’s feet. Here he had read his magazine, had finished his tea, rose to his feet to go, and was confronted by Death.

  We must all die. As the Book says: ‘There is a time to die’.

  There was Hans Gromberg, set in his ways and habits, secure in life, and feeling good with his tummy full of beer, and he had risen to his feet to face Death. It had been likewise with old Samuel Goldspink, a kindly man to whom business was the chief interest. There is certainly a time to die, but when those three men were claimed by Death, it wasn’t their time to die.

  At the scene of the second and third poisoning a woman had been present who carried the same handbag on both occasions. Other women remembered her, two with clarity for features and dress, and one of these reported having seen a baby’s dummy in the handbag. When the suggestion had been put forward that this person might be a man impersonating a woman, both Mrs Lucas and Mrs Wallace discounted it. Their observation and judgment could be relied on-and yet!

  The first of the murders had been committed after Tuttaway had escaped. Tuttaway was insane. He had stabbed to death a woman reputed to be satisfied with her job and her home life. But Lodding and Tuttaway had known each other in England, and they were seen together in Broken Hill. A Woman carrying the remembered handbag was seen to enter an hotel, and within minutes the hotel was searched for her in vain. Tuttaway, the magician, could have walked into the hotel as a woman, and, within seconds, walked out as another woman. Tuttaway had killed with a knife, not with cyanide-that is, as Tuttaway.

  The murder of Muriel Lodding had insinuated itself into the investigation of the three poisoning cases. It appeared, at first, to have no possible connection with the killing of the three elderly bachelors, and because of this Bony had not seen Muriel Lodding’s home until the previous evening. Tuttaway, being a bachelor and a careless eater, was linked with the cyanide victims. Logically, therefore, he was a possible victim and not the poisoner.

  There was the remarkable juxtaposition of the murder dates with Lodding’s sick-leave dates, and the finding of the haft of the glass dagger inside the gate of the house now occupied only by the woman’s sister. That proved that Tuttaway had been there at least once before Jimmy Nimmo had seen him.

  Mrs Dalton had watched him. When normally she did not retire until two in the morning, last night at 1 am her lights were out and she was watching a man testing the defences of her house. Why?

  Mrs Dalton! Having no known pets, Mrs Dalton ordered eight pounds of meat daily in addition to normal requirements! No extra milk or bread.

  Was there someone else living in that house? Was Tuttaway being harboured by Mrs Dalton? Absurd, on the face of it. Were Jimmy wrong about his guess about Tuttaway being the man testing the windows, Tuttaway could be holed up there.

  A search of the house might reveal much, but was there sufficient evidence on which to base an application for a search warrant? Both Pavier and Crome had called on Mrs Dalton, and she had received them with no hint of subterfuge or evasion.

  Jimmy Nimmo! Yes, Jimmy Nimmo! Jimmy was coming towards him, followed by two boys on whose faces was plainly writ anticipation. Jimmy was looking without enthusiasm for the red-haired waitress, and he need not have worried because Bony had previously asked her not to recognise either Jimmy or himself in the presence of the boys.

  Jimmy introduced them to Mr Kna
pp, down from his station in Queensland, and Bony told them that New South Wales was even better than Queensland, and that the Australian Eleven was sure to belt hell out of the Englishmen at the coming Test Matches. They swiftly assessed him, his romantic background, and with the casualness of their generation accepted his suggestion of double ices. They addressed each other as Bluey and Blackie.

  Both lived in the same street as did Mrs Dalton. They understood that their friend was very sorry for Mrs Dalton and that he was anxious to know everything about her so that he could help her now that she lived all alone. Bony thought the boys were far more interested in the ices than in Mr Nimmo’s good intentions.

  “What do you think of Mrs Dalton?” he asked the red-headed boy.

  “Aw, I reckon she’s all right, mister,” replied Bluey. “Better’nthe other one, the one who was bumped off. She was a bit sour. Mrs Dalton sometimes gets me or Blackie to do summat for her, and she gives us sixpence.”

  “Gave me a shilling once for going down to oleClouter with a message,” remarked Blackie.

  “Anyone staying with Mrs Dalton since her sister was killed?”

  “Don’t think,” replied Bluey, licking his fingers.

  “No one trying to get in ahead of Mr Nimmo, I suppose?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t think. Pass them cakes, Blackie, and don’t hog. You seen anyone staying with Mrs Dalton?”

  “Nope! An’ don’t you hog the cakes, either.”

  “Haven’t seen a tall gent taking an interest in the place?” interposed Jimmy.

  The boys were too busy at the moment to reply. Bony opened the subject of dogs, describing some of those on his alleged station, and this subject brought the casual question if Mrs Dalton kept dogs.

  “Nope,” answered Bluey. “Had one once, though. Black an’ tan bitser.”

  “Yes,” mumbled Blackie through the cake. “Died. She buried him in the garden.”

  “H’m! Pity. How long ago was that?” asked Bony.

  “ ’Fore Christmas. Musta etsum’t.”

  Jimmy put in his oar.

  “Ah, well, dogs take keeping these days. What they get through is pretty good.”

  “That bitsermusta,” Blackie managed to say. “Mrs Daltonusta get eight pounds of steak for him, anyway. Still does. Tom told me. He delivers it. Now that’s a bit rummy, mister. What she want it for now?”

  “Puppies, perhaps,” suggested Bony.

  “Don’t think. Don’t hear any.”

  “Cats, then?”

  “Nope. No cats, either. Never seen any. You, Bluey?”

  “Nope. P’raps she makes meat pies.”

  “And gives them to poor neighbours,” suggested Bony. “Does Mrs Dalton have many visitors?”

  “Nope,” replied Blackie, and Bluey said:

  “Seen one old geezer going in.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “I have that,” argued Bluey, button of a nose twitching with sudden belligerency. “Seen her going in through the back. Seen her coming out. Our back’s in the same lane, that’s how I seen her.”

  “Another ice?” asked Bony. Why ask? There was no stopping these boys. He waited for the ices to be brought before continuing the interrogation.

  “What was the old woman like?”

  “Like? Aw, bit older ’n Mrs Dalton. Wears specs, at least once she did. The other one, Miss Lodding, didn’t like her.”

  “Indeed! When was this?”

  “Long time ago, might be since Christmas, the old geezer went in and Miss Lodding saw her in the garden.”

  “Then what happened?” prompted Jimmy.

  “I watched over the back fence. Couldn’t hear nothing, though, but they went at it, and the old geezer dropped her specs and then she picked ’emup andfollered Miss Lodding inside.”

  “Seen the old lady since Miss Lodding was killed?”

  “Yeh, once.”

  “And who buried the dog in the garden?”

  “Mrs Dalton. Seen her take it into the little plot. Dead all right. Seen her digging the hole. Never had no more dogs after that.”

  “Fenced in with netting,” offered Blackie, sighing with near repletion. “She’s always digging in that little plot, ain’t she, Bluey?”

  “Now and then she does. Plantin ’sum’t, I think. Can’t get near enough to see.”

  “Doesn’t Mrs Dalton employ a man for the garden work?” Bony asked, and was answered with vigorous headshakes. “You have never been right inside the garden?”

  “Nope,” replied Blackie. “Went in once and got bailed up by Miss Lodding. Told me to get out and keep out. Sour old cow. Mrs Dalton’s all right, but she won’t let us in her garden, either. When she wants us to go a message, she comes to the fence.”

  “You don’t think that the old geezer you spoke about really lives with Mrs Dalton?” Bony persisted.

  “Don’t think. Might, though. Didn’t clear out that time Miss Lodding told her off, anyway.”

  “You don’t remember what colour her handbag was, I suppose?”

  “Nope,” replied Bluey, and Blackie added a headshake. They had downed half a dozen ices apiece and cleaned up the cakes, and, in the vernacular, ‘had had it’. They followed Jimmy and Bony to the street with less sprightliness than on entering the cafe. Bony bade them goodbye, ordered Jimmy to dine with him that night at six-thirty, and walked slowly to Headquarters. He was in his office less than a minute, when Crome came in.

  “Stillman’s here,” he stated levelly. “In with the Chief.”

  “Is that so?” Bony steadily regarded the sergeant. He glanced at his watch. “I want just twelve hours. Will you help me to them?”

  Crome was cautious, although willing.

  “As much as I can. That bloke gets under my skin. Just as we were getting places, he barges in.”

  “Don’t worry about him, Crome. Concentrate. Give me twelve hours and we may send Stillman back to Sydney with a pebble in his shoe. I want both you and Abbot to have dinner with me this evening. Six-thirty at my hotel.”

  The big man frowned, then grinned.

  “We’ll be there, and thanks.”

  “Clear off now and take Abbot with you. Any of your men about, you send home or far away. Stillman can begin in the morning, but this night is mine. Game?”

  “Too ruddy right, I am. Abbot will be too.” Crome grinned again, and this time with anticipation.

  Bony listened to the departing footsteps and smiled. Without haste he gathered his notes and data and placed them in his briefcase. The file on Tuttaway also went in. With haste he went to the detectives’ general office and retrieved the pictures from the wall, and these, too, he added to the contents of the briefcase. Then he rang Luke Pavier, catching him at the office of his paper.

  “Are you busy this evening?” he asked.

  “Couple of functions to cover. Could tell the boss to go to hell.”

  “Avoid the first and refrain from the second. I am throwing a party at the Western Mail. Six-thirty. You will remember that I promised to let you in at the death. Your own word, meaning finale.”

  “I’ll be right on the dot,” chortled Luke. “Want a hand?”

  “With what?”

  “Stillman. I could bash while you held him.”

  “I’ll bash him my way. Expect you at dinner. Don’t mention it at home.”

  “Okey-doke.”

  Bony rang Sloan, asked for a secluded table and the very special favour of occupying that table for perhaps an hour after dinner. Wally Sloan granted the favour and bestowed another. He would himself wait on Bony and his guests.

  Bony replaced the instrument on the desk, not on its cradle-and waited. Ten minutes elapsed. The instrument spluttered, died, and he guessed that Pavier wished his attendance at his office. With his chair pushed back, he rested his feet on the cleared desk, and placed to one side a pile of cigarettes.

  Stillman came in.

  Of Detective Inspector Stillman someone had said he had the add
ress of a film star, the voice of a radio ace, and the mind of a weasel.

  “Ah! Afternoon, Bonaparte. The Super was wanting you on the mat.”

  Bony waved a hand towards a chair, but Stillman elected to sit on a corner of the desk. He produced a gold cigarette case monogrammed in blue, lit a cigarette, and casually wafted smoke towards Bony.

  “I heard of your arrival,” Bony said softly.

  “Had to come, you know. The Heads insisted. You are leaving us, I understand.”

  “I am remaining in Broken Hill for another week, perhaps a month. Interested in mines and might write a book about them.”

  “They have been written up so often, don’t you think? Better return home. Your people are becoming annoyed. Anyway, my aboriginal friend, I am taking over, and you will be wise to return to Brisbane by plane tomorrow. The bush is your spiritual home, Bonaparte. Tracking white criminals in a city is evidently not yourmetier.”

  “The pronunciation of the French is defective, Stillman.”

  “I have never boasted of my education,” Stillman lisped. “You are finished here, so get out. Unfortunate, of course. Can’t have that fellow Tuttaway running about Broken Hill. Might murder someone else while you and Crome are practising for the movies. As I inferred, these city-bred birds fly too high for persons like you. I never did believe in the reputation you have so carefully built up. To fall down on that cyanide murder right under your nose and in the very pub you are staying at doesn’t surprise me.”

  “The information we sought from London should assist you.”

  “Yes, perhaps. I brought it with me. Pavier says you have made slight progress regarding Tuttaway.” Stillman slid off the desk. “Well, I must get down to it, Bonaparte. Don’t let me keep you. The relevant files and case reports are about somewhere?”

  “Doubtless, Stillman.” Bony rose from the desk chair and took up briefcase and hat. “As you pointed out, I am finished here, so that files and reports are of no interest to me. You’ll know where to find them. Having the information from London, however, you should not need them.”