Batchelors of Broken Hill b-14 Page 4

  Jimmy looked wicked. The watching blue eyes blurred and their place was taken by a commodious two-storeyed house, not a mile away, which had become an exceptionally promising prospect. What he looked like losing on this Bonaparte roundabout he could pick up from that two-storeyed swing. He said quietly:

  “That’s a lot of money, Inspector.”

  “You must make a lot of money every year, Jimmy.”

  “About three thousand quid-on average.”

  “And no income tax. You can be lucky.”

  “I’m doubting it. All right, you win. What next?”

  “I like your style, Jimmy,” Bony conceded generously. “Honestly, I regret having to cramp you now and then. My investigation into these cyanide poisonings is going to extend me and I’m sure will provide you with fun and games. Continue to enjoy relaxation from business and don’t worry concerning the future. You are the only man in Broken Hill versed in the highways and byways of crime and yet not a policeman. Who knows! I may want you to take a peep into a house or two before I’m through. I may even ask you to examine, among other objects, the treasures of your charming friend who wears ropes of pearls and hoops of diamonds. The sum you lifted from the bookmaker’s flat that late Saturday evening was, I understand, just under three thousand.”

  “Bit over,” Jimmy corrected.

  “No matter. Do we play around?”

  “We do,” cheerfully replied Jimmy the Screwsman.

  Chapter Five

  Salvage

  ON LEAVING the cafe, Bony wended his way to the establishment of S. Goldspink, and, observing that the large woman wearing the pearl necklace was not engaged with a customer, he approached her and presented his card. Before she could read his name he drifted to the rear of the shop and became interested in floor coverings, and there she followed him and said coldly:

  “Yes, Inspector?”

  The dark brown eyes were hostile, the mouth grim. The pearls gleamed with automatism indicative of suppressed emotion in the ample bosom on which they rested.

  “I am assuming that you are Mrs Robinov,” he said, brows slightly raised. She made acknowledgment by inclining her head, her expression unchanging. “Could we talk privately for a few moments?”

  He was taken to what was obviously a fitting-room, for it contained a large cutting table, several chairs, three wall mirrors. Bony was not invited to be seated.

  “I have been assigned the investigation into the death of Mr. Goldspink,” Bony explained. “There is-”

  Mrs Robinov cut him short. Furious anger made her speak with emphatic deliberation.

  “I am not going to answer your questions, and I am not having my girls questioned, unless my solicitor is present. You can wait here while I telephone him.”

  “That would incur unnecessary expense,” Bony said, faint horror in his voice and eyes. “Surely I don’t look like an ogre? As you wish, of course, but why not put me on trial first? I’m not in the least suspecting that you or one of your assistants, had anything whatever to do with Mr Goldspink’s death.”

  “Inspector Stillman did,” retorted Mrs Robinov. “He nagged me almost to insanity and made Mary Isaacs a nervous wreck. I won’t have any more of it.”

  “Inspector Stillman!” exclaimed Bony, and then vented a long and understanding “Oh!” Mrs Robinov, who was actually on her way to the telephone, hesitated, turned fully to him. “Now I can understand your attitude, Mrs Robinov-and sympathise with you. I’m sure you won’t find me an Inspector Stillman. And I certainly wouldn’t force my presence on you were it not for the fact that the person who poisoned Mr Goldspink and Mr Parsons hasn’t yet been apprehended. It’s all very unpleasant, I know. Don’t you see, someone else may be similarly poisoned, and so I was hoping to have the help of everyone in the position to do so.” Carefully placing emphasis on the first personal pronoun, he added: “Please don’t think I am another Inspector Stillman.”

  The voice, the quiet assurance, the soft smile turned aside wrath.

  “He is just a bullying beast,” Mrs Robinov declared. “We got along with Sergeant Crome all right, and Superintendent Pavier was always the gentleman. We didn’t kill Mr. Goldspink. Everyone here loved him.”

  “That’s what Sergeant Crome told me,” Bony said soothingly, although Crome had said nothing of the kind. “Don’t be afraid of me. I am sure we’ll get along splendidly if you will give me the chance. You will?”

  The hostility faded.

  “Very well, Inspector. What do you want to ask me?”

  “I don’t want to ask you any questions today,” he said. “But I do want to interview the assistant who was serving the customer when Mr Goldspink was taken ill. Mary Isaacs is the girl, I think.”

  “May I be present?”

  “If you wish, and will refrain from interrupting.”

  “I don’t know. I think I should be. Inspector Stillman almost drove the girl crazy. I’ll fetch her.”

  Bony thanked Mrs Robinov and, when she had departed, he regarded himself in one of the long mirrors. He sauntered to the wall farthest from the entrance to the shop, and when Mrs Robinov entered with Mary Isaacs, he advanced to greet them.

  “Come along and sit down, and let’s all be easy,” he purred. “I’m happy to meet you, Miss Isaacs, and I am quite sure you are going to be happy to meet me.”

  He manoeuvred them to sit facing the window light, with himself partially before it. He knew the girl’s age to be eighteen. She was pretty and gave promise of becoming beautiful. Now her dark eyes were dilated with fear, and her lips were trembling, and he thought what a sublime fool Stillman was to think he could succeed with these women by the employment of methods he used on slum thugs and back-alley gunmen.

  He spoke quietly, reassuringly, telling them he came from Brisbane, mentioning his wife, and proudly naming his boys and their achievements. He went on to stress the vital importance of ‘catching’ the person who killed Sam Goldspink and emphasised how silly it was for anyone to think they had had anything to do with murder. Gradually the fear subsided in the girl’s eyes and the trembling of the lips ceased.

  “Just relax, Miss Isaacs, and permit your mind to run freely,” he said smilingly. “I’ve read all about you and what you said to Sergeant Crome and that other beastly policeman, and I just hate having to recall what must have become a bad dream.”

  “You needn’t class Sergeant Crome with Inspector Stillman,” Mary Isaacs said warmly. “Sergeant Crome’s a pet. So’s his wife. They live in our street.”

  “Ah! I stand reproved.” The chuckle gained more for him than he thought. Mrs Robinov, remembering the demands of her shop, rose to her feet, saying brightly:

  “I must go. You listen to the Inspector, Mary, and tell him everything you can.”

  She smiled encouragingly at Mary Isaacs.

  “Now tell me about Mr Goldspink,” Bony urged. “I know that he was shortish and stout and that he had a beard and hair still not entirely grey. Did he wear glasses, by the way?”

  “Only when reading or writing,” Mary replied. “Then he would sort of peer through them like looking through a telescope. He kept them in the top pocket of his waistcoat. Dragged them out and pushed them in so that it was a wonder they didn’t break.”

  “I take it that his manner was quick.”

  “Yes. Quick in manner and quick in mind.”

  “Did he put on his glasses at any time when you were serving that customer with handkerchiefs?”

  The dark eyes narrowed, and Bony patiently waited.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “All right, don’t try,” Bony said hastily. “I don’t want you to force your memory. One’s mind is a queer thing, you know. It stores a lot away and is determined to keep most of what it stores. I’ve found often that the best way to make my memory work is to trick the old mind. I say to it: ‘Well, if you want to sulk, go on sulking’. And then, when I’m thinking of something entirely different, what I want comes to me. Now tell m
e the routine of the shop-when Mr Goldspink was here.”

  Every morning at eight ashopboy reported for work, and under the eye of Mr Goldspink the boy would scatter damp sawdust on the floor and then sweep it into heaps to be carefully disposed of.

  Dressed in an old brown velvet jacket, Goldspink would then dust the counters and chairs and be removing the dust covers when the assistants arrived at nine. Having opened the front door, he would check the change with the cashier in her office. The cashier? She occupied a small glassed-in compartment high up in one corner of the shop. Oh yes, she could see everything that went on in the shop.

  There were few customers before ten, but the assistants were busy with their stock, and Mr Goldspink breakfasted and then dressed for the day’s business. His business clothes consisted of a frock-coat and black trousers. Yes, he always wore a waistcoat, a white or light-coloured fancy waistcoat. They were stained a little. The frock-coat was old but presentable enough. The black trousers needed pressing, but Mrs Robinov probably had enough to do as it was. The boy always cleaned the shoes, and they seemed a little too big, but then Mr Goldspink’s feet wanted comfortable shoes to walk about in all day.

  Most of all this Bony already knew, but he sat easily and nodded understandingly and for himself created the picture of an elderly merchant conducting his business. There had been no mention in any of the numerous reports he had scanned of the cashier’s glassed-in office and its full view of the entire shop. She had never been questioned.

  “I was told he was in quite good health that last day of his life,” he murmured encouragingly.

  “Oh yes, Inspector. I don’t remember him ever being ill.”

  “Did he smoke?”

  “I never saw him,” replied Mary Isaacs. “Might have. I’ve seen him slipping a scented cachet into his mouth. Sometimes he lectured the girls about smoking too much during lunch time.”

  “They have their own lunchroom, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Mrs Robinov used to prepare the lunch. She still does.”

  “Did Mr Goldspink have an irritating cough?”

  “No.”

  “Or make a noise in his throat, as a habit, you know?”

  “Oh no. Mr Goldspink never did anything like that. There was nothing wrong about him, and he was always pleasant towards us as well as to the customers. He was very kind if one of the girls was sick. Sent her home in a taxi. And always gave us a bonus for extra-good sales.”

  “H’m! You know, Miss Isaacs, we’re getting along famously.” Bony stood and crossed to the large cutting table. “Let’s play shops,” he said, and whisked a costume dummy into place beside the table. “Come along. You stand on the other side of the table and serve the dummy with handkerchiefs. I’ll be Mr Goldspink.”

  A trifle hesitatingly Mary Isaacs accepted the suggestion, and then her eyes widened and began to dance as Bony pantomimed.

  “We can recommend this line, madam. Been absent from the shops since shortly after the war broke out. Finest Irish lawn. Quality superlative. The best linen has always come to us from Ireland. You won’t buy better in Broken Hill. Or down in Adelaide. Just look at the weave.” He turned away from the dummy he had been addressing. “Thank you, miss.” He whisked an envelope from a pocket and held it as though it were a cup-laden saucer, and the envelope he placed on the supposed counter to his right. To Mary Isaacs he said:

  “That about where Mr Goldspink put the tea?”

  Mary moved the envelope. It was then immediately in front of Bony and less than thirty inches from the dummy. Bony proceeded:

  “Yes, madam, the price is high. Everything is high these days. You have to be careful when shopping. Well, then, perhaps something less expensive. Miss, show the lady that new line in Australian handkerchiefs.”

  The assistant was now living in the past. Almost involuntarily she turned away from the imaginary counter to the imaginary shelves behind it and pretended to take from the shelves boxes containing the imaginary Australian handkerchiefs. She proceeded to open the boxes and display their contents. Bony now turned slightly inward, away from the counter and the ‘customer’, towards the imaginary shop. The girl said:

  “These are pretty, madam. The lace edge is sweet, isn’t it?”

  “Thank you, Miss Isaacs,” Bony interrupted. “Excellent! Is that just what happened? Did Mr Goldspink suggest that you display more handkerchiefs?”

  “Yes. Yes he did.”

  “And when you turned back from the shelves, was Mr Goldspink standing like this, partly facing away from you?”

  “Yes. I remember that he was.”

  “And the cup of tea was still on the counter-where the envelope is?”

  “Oh yes. He didn’t pick it up until after the customer had gone.”

  “And the customer was standing, like this dummy, when you turned round?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was she doing?”

  Crome had shot this question to her, and she failed to remember. Stillman had snarled it at her, and her frozen mind wouldn’t give. Now, without hesitation, with natural freedom, she replied:

  “Looking in her handbag for her purse. She bought three handkerchiefs and paid for them with the correct money.”

  “Did she take the money from the purse to pay for the hankies?”

  “I don’t think she did. No, she didn’t. She had the money already in her hand.”

  “Which hand held the money?”

  “Which… The hand-the left hand.”

  “The hand farthest from the cup of tea, eh?”

  “Yes-the hand-farthest from the cup of tea.”

  “What was the amount of the purchase, d’you remember?”

  “Ten shillings. She paid with a ten-shilling note.”

  “Well, Miss Isaacs, thank you very much,” Bony said, genuinely delighted. “Come and sit down again. I won’t bore you much longer.”

  They sat, and Mary said she wasn’t a tiny bit bored.

  “I wonder, now, would you know that woman again?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “We know from what you have told us that she wasn’t big like Mrs Robinov, or short like-well, short. She was an elderly woman. You said she was taller than Mr Goldspink. That right?”

  “Yes, she was taller than Mr Goldspink. She-she might have been taller than I thought. She seemed, now I come to think of it, to be slightly stooped. Seemed to peer at me as though looking over the top of spectacles. But she wasn’t wearing glasses. I’m sure about that. I don’t- You see, Inspector, I didn’t take much notice of her. I served thirty-seven customers that day. My docket book shows that.”

  “Thirty-seven!” echoed Bony. “Why, if I had served thirty-seven people, I wouldn’t remember any one of them as a man, a woman, or a kangaroo. She was dressed in a grey frock, wasn’t she?”

  “I think so. Her hat was small, and it was grey or greyish. I’ve tried, Inspector, to remember that woman, but I can’t. Even in bed, with the light out, I’ve tried to see her face. I have really-”

  “Make me a promise. Will you?”

  “Yes,” assented the girl.

  “Stop trying to remember. Promise?”

  “Don’t you want me to remember?” she asked, astonished.

  “Yes, but not to try to remember. If you stop trying you will remember. Just forget about it.”

  “Yes. But-”

  “You promised.”

  The dark eyes glistened. He thought for an instant she was going to cry, and he cut in with:

  “Have you a sweetheart?”

  The abrupt change of subject banished the danger, and the girl flushed charmingly and admitted to one.

  “What does he do?” he asked, to give her time to regain poise.

  “He works at Metter’s, the grocer’s. But he hopes to leave it one day and become an artist. He studies at the art school, and he’s very clever. Sometimes they get him to do lightning sketches at a concert.”

  “An artist, eh?” Bony
gazed over the girl’s head and beyond the window. “Would he help us, d’you think?”

  “He- I think so-if I asked him to.”

  “Would he come to see me at the Western Mail Hotel tonight, say at eight?”

  The chin jutted a mere fraction.

  “I’ll see that he does, Inspector.”

  Chapter Six

  The Art Patron

  BONY WAS working in his office the next morning when his desk phone demanded attention. It was Superintendent Pavier.

  “Morning, Bonaparte! Care to run in for a few minutes? I want to talk.”

  “Yes, all right, Super. Anything new on the board?”

  “No.”

  “May I bring Crome?”

  “Certainly.”

  Bony sighed and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette. If Pavier expected results thus early, if Pavier was to prove himself another ‘boss’ wanting a daily progress report, then he, Bony, would have to be firm. He lit the cigarette and pounded on the wall behind his chair. He heard Crome’s chair being thrust back, and then Crome was standing before his desk.

  “The Chief wants to see us,” Bony explained. “Have you found out who murdered Goldspink and Parsons?”

  Sergeant Crome began a smile and froze it at birth.

  “He gets that way sometimes,” he said. “Me, I’ve got beyond worrying. I’ve had it. One of the girls is typing the report of your interrogation of Goldspink’s cashier. You want it?”

  “No. Let’s go along.”

  Bony led Crome down the corridor, turned left at the junction, passed through the rear of the public office and into the room occupied by the Superintendent’s secretary. He smiled at her and passed on to the door of Pavier’s office and entered without knocking. Crome closed the door.

  “Ah! Sit down, Bonaparte. And Sergeant Crome.” The Superintendent indicated chairs. What was on his mind was concealed by the mask of a face, and there was nothing in his voice to betray his thoughts. The white hair crowning the long head toned out the colourless complexion. “How have you been getting on, Bonaparte.”

  “Oh, so-so,” Bony replied. “I’ve been studying the groundwork done by Sergeant Crome and ruined by Inspector Stillman. I’ve been expecting another cyanide murder, but so far nothing of the kind has been reported. However, I remain hopeful.”