Murder Must Wait b-17

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “What, in your opinion, is the greatest factor causing a mother to neglect her child?”

  “Booze,” was the swift answer.

  “So! And the next factor?”

  “Writing novels.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Both are forms of escapism, and a normal woman should be happily content with the responsibility of a baby. Mrs Ecks drank to excess and, to my mind, deserved to lose her child. Mrs Coutts writes rubbishy novels. You met her, I suppose?”

  “Not yet. I may call on her this afternoon.”

  “When you do you will agree. How’s the investigation going?”

  “The baby-thieves are a little slow in announcing themselves, but they will. Criminals invariably call on me, some quickly, others a trifle reluctantly. I have but to wait. You know, I pride myself on being the most patient man in Australia.”

  Dr Nott chuckled, but Bony’s face remained calm.

  “Once upon a time,” Bony said, “I was with a murderer in an unfurnished house from which the light had been disconnected. All I did was to sit on the floor with my back to the front door and wait. And I had to wait only three hours for the murderer’s nerve to break, when he came to me with the request to be taken into custody. Subsequently he said he could see my eyes glowing in the darkness, and that I had a hundred pairs of eyes which closely hemmed him into a corner. Imagination, of course, Doctor. My eyes are quite normal.”

  Nott, who had listened without movement, abruptly pushed out the clutch and shifted from neutral to low gear.

  “Normal, eh! I wonder! Well, I must get along to see my babies. See you sometime, I hope.”

  “Oh yes. I may be lolling about Mitford for ten years. Aurevoir!”

  The gleaming car passed through the hospital gates, and Bony sauntered along the boulevard and eventually entered the offices of Martin amp; Martin, Estate Agents, Auctioneers andValuers, on Main Street. He asked to see the senior partner.

  “What is the nature of your business?” asked the clerk, his eyes superciliously registering this client.

  “My business is to unmask murderers… and other incidentals.” Bony witnessed the superciliousness fade. “I am a detective-inspector. The name is Bonaparte.”

  Mr Cyril Martin was sixtyish, looked like an undertaker on duty, and spoke like a saw eating into the heart of a red-gum log.

  “Sit down, Inspector. What can we do for you?”

  “The subject interesting me at the moment is the late Mrs Rockcliff,” opened the seated Bony as he crossed one creased trouser leg over the other. “You rented her the house in Elgin Street, I understand.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. We gave the particulars yesterday to the constable.”

  “You let the house to Mrs Rockcliff for a period of twelve months?”

  “Yes.”

  “At the monthly rental of ten pounds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Calendar months?”

  “Yes. The constable obtained all…”

  Bony smiled. “I like my information first-hand,” he said. Mr Martin did not smile.

  “The rent was paid promptly?”

  “Oh, yes. On the 12th of every month.”

  “Was that rent date a term of the lease?”

  For the first time Mr Martin evinced hesitation.

  “Er, no. It was an arrangement Mrs Rockcliff herself made with us. She offered to pay the first three months’ rent in advance in lieu of a reference, which normally we would insist on having.”

  “How did she pay the rent?”

  “In cash.”

  “To whom?”

  “To my clerk in the outer office.”

  Bony produced his cigarette-case, and Mr Martin hastened to forestall him.

  “Most extraordinary affair, Inspector. I met Mrs Rockcliff only twice. She seemed to be quite a nice woman, too.”

  “The victim of homicide isn’t necessarily not nice, Mr Martin,” and the estate agent chuckled as Bony’s observation was smilingly made. “Could you be more precise in your impressions of Mrs Rockcliff?”

  “Yes, I think so. I should say she was well educated. She spoke well, culturally, if you know what I mean.”

  “Australian or English?”

  “I’m doubtful on that point. She had no pronounced English accent. And, like you, she didn’t have the Cockney-Australian accent, either.”

  “Who owns No 5 Elgin Street?”

  The timing of this question was well chosen… when Mr Martin was looking directly at the questioner. The shutters fell.

  “A Miss Mary Cowdry who lives in Scotland,” he replied with less spontaneity.

  “What is Miss Cowdry’s address?”

  “Well, the last time we heard from her she was living at a hotel in Edinburgh. She travels a good deal, and we send the rent along when she writes for it.” Mr Martin again chuckled. “She’s what we call one of the floating owners. We have several clients in that category.”

  “How do you transmit the money to Miss Cowdry?”

  “Oh, through the bank.”

  “What bank?”

  “The Olympic.”

  Mr Martin nicked a handkerchief from his breast pocket, cursorily wiped his nose, furtively mopped his forehead. Despite the fan, it certainly was close in the office. Bony rose to leave, glancing at his wrist-watch.

  “When could we expect to have the house released by the police?” asked the Estate Agent, also on his feet. “Rental houses are few in Mitford, as elsewhere, Inspector, and the demand for them is heavy.”

  “Possibly in a week, Mr Martin. It could be later. Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you for your co-operation.”

  “You are welcome.”

  Bony doubted it as he passed from the offices to Main Street and the hot sunshine. It was ten minutes after eleven, and morning-tea time, and he was passing Madame Clare’s Hat and Frock Salon when Alice McGorr almost collided with him.

  “Such haste,” he admonished her.“In Mitford, too.”

  “I’ve spent all my money,” she said.

  “I can easily believe that, Alice. The hat suits you very well.”

  The soft brown eyes searched his face for irony, and, as she was beginning to expect, saw nothing of it.

  “My, it’s hot, isn’t it!” she exclaimed. “Were you going to ask me to morning tea?”

  “Your perspicacity is astonishing, Alice. I thought of it the moment you bumped into me.”

  “Only way to make you notice me.”

  “Most unseemly, such was your haste to read my mind on the subject of morning tea. Here we are.”

  At the table inside the comparatively cool cafe, she asked:

  “What have you been doing this morning behind my back?”

  “I visited the hospital and did my best to comfort the sick. Poor unfortunate little man. You did ill-use him.” Alice was examining her recent purchase with the aid of a small mirror. “You appear to be quite unconcerned about your victim.”

  “He’s lucky that his neck’s not broken.”

  “Generous of you. What have you been doing this morning?”

  “Off duty. You told Essen to tell me. I bathed their baby, and then decided to buy a hat. On the way, I thought I’d call at the Station for you… thought you’d like to choose the new hat. The duty constable told me you had gone for a walk, and Sergeant Yoti had his office full of reporters. They were badgering him with questions and he was snarling. I asked the desk constable where Essen was, and he said down at the Municipal Library… there’s been a robbery.”

  “Robbery at the Public Library?” exclaimed Bony. “Well, I expected it, you know. People will read books, and now that the government has cut down on the importation of books, people are bound to rob the libraries to get them. It’s a crime which I acclaim. May I have another cup of tea?”

  Chapter Ten

  Degrees of Neglect

  THEYWEREabout to visit Mrs Norman Coutts, when Bony asked: “Yesterday,
when returning from the River Hotel, you did a sum in mental arithmetic and arrived at Neglectcausated in Booze. Pardon the verb. To what else could child neglect be attributed?”

  “I’d say bargain-hunting at the store sales. A lot of women leave everything, desert anything for the chance of a bargain.”

  “Of our five babies, we have examined the background of four, and in no case have we found physical neglect. D’youknow anything about writing novels?”

  “Do I look as though I wrote novels?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Now I have to pardon your verb. And myself for using it. I never kid. My reason for asking you is that Mrs Norman Coutts writes novels. In Dr Nott’s opinion, that is another cause of child neglect.”

  For fifty yards Alice pondered on this angle, her stride matching her companion’s, head straight, shoulders back, mouth grim and tight. Unless she fell in love and married, she was doomed to become a replica of the lady novelist whose picture was menacing the readers of current magazines and was at the moment occupying a corner of Bony’s mind.

  “D’youwantme to keep to the subject of infant neglect or to argue about verbs?” she asked, as they turned into a side road.

  “The subject ofneglect, that we might arrive at the degree of neglect. After calling on Mrs Coutts, we shall probably know that she merely forgot about her baby when in the throes of inspiration, not neglected it to the extent of physical distress. We can then consider whether the degree of neglect covering the five babies has anything to do with their abduction.”

  The house occupied by the Town Engineer stood well back from the street and was seemingly built on a well-tended lawn which successfully defied sun and heat. The house was of the bungalow type, having a spacious front veranda, now shaded by coloured blinds.

  The front door was opened by a tall blonde, arrayed in a gay Japanese kimono and armed with a foot-long cigarette-holder, and instantly Bony was reminded of Mrs Thring and the lady novelist in the magazines. She was obviously displeased, and ungraciously conducted them to what could be the lounge. Here the furniture was good enough, but the carpet felt lumpy beneath their feet, the hearth was strewn with cigarette-ends, and the one table by the window was littered with books and writing materials. The close, fuggy odours of food, cigarettes and lemons were at least authentic.

  “Well, Inspector, what is it?” asked Mrs Coutts, seating herself before the writing materials. “Have the police found my baby?”

  “Regretfully, no, Mrs Coutts,” replied Bony, who was unaware that Alice, although seated demurely, was again pricing everything visible. “I’ve been assigned to the investigation into the kidnapping of your baby, and the others, and I’m trying to get the general picture clear. Tell me, what was the weather like that afternoon your baby was stolen from the front veranda?”

  “The weather! What an extraordinary question.” Mrs Coutts fitted a fresh cigarette to the long ebony holder, and Bony presented the match. “You know, the suspect is often caught out when asked where he was on the night of the crime, isn’the? I write, as you may know, straight novels, not these beastly thrillers.” Carelessly, she indicated the partially filled sheet of foolscap on the pad, the pile of covered sheets to her right hand and the wad of virgin paper on her left.“The weather that day. Why, it was hot and thundery. In fact, it did thunder now and then, but as usual I was busy with my writing, and the baby was asleep.”

  “Your husband saw the child sleeping in the cot when he left for his office. At what time did your husband leave?”

  “Ten minutes to two. He always leaves at that time.”

  “And you found the cot empty at half past three, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there a particular reason to visit the cot at that time?”

  “My husband and I rose from lunch at about a quarter to two. He went to his room for something and then, as I told you, he left the house by the front veranda. I came here to write as the inspiration was very strong. I worked until half past three, and then remembered I hadn’t cleared away or fed baby. So I went to the cot, and found him gone.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Rang my husband, of course. I thought that he had taken the child with him to his office. A moment after he said he hadn’t done anything of the kind and would ring the police, I flew to the front gate, hoping I might see the person who must have taken it.”

  “You saw a car outside a house towards Main Street, an elderly woman on the far side of the road who was carrying a suitcase, and two boys running away as though to escape the thunderstorm?”

  “That is right, Inspector. That is the scene I gave the police.”

  “You said then that you could not recognise the elderly woman with the suitcase. Since then, Mrs Coutts, has memory of that woman reminded you, say in general, of anyone you know?”

  “I wasn’t able to see her face as she was hurrying away from me. The police thought those two boys might have noticed her, but they hadn’t. You know all that, of course. You don’t think that woman stole my baby, do you?”

  “No. But if she could be found she might tell us of something she saw which could assist us. Your description of her to the police was rather vague, understandably, naturally, in view of your distress. I was hoping that since then memory of her might have recalled to mind someone you do know, someone with whom we can make a comparison.”

  “I see what you mean. Well, she was not unlike Mrs Peel, or Mrs Nott, the doctor’s wife, or even Mrs Marlo-Jones… shortish, stoutish, quick in movement. But it wasn’t one of those women.”

  “Why are you so definite?”

  “Because that woman was wearing bright blue, so unkind to the elderly woman, Inspector. The other women I have mentioned usually wear pastel colours. And when they forget their age they wear dizzyflorals.”

  “H’m!” Bony rose to go. “The baby was only seven weeks old. Was he a healthy child?”

  “He never had a day’s illness,” replied Mrs Coutts, remaining seated. “He hardly ever cried, and he slept well, too. That’s why I didn’t bother about him immediately after lunch that day.”

  Mrs Coutts nodded to Alice, and, on glancing at Alice, Bony found her nodding in reply… or in sympathy. Alice departed, and Mrs Coutts hastened to say:

  “I find my writing so very absorbing, Inspector. I become quite lost in it, and very often the characters take full possession of me.”

  “It must be absorbing.”

  “Yes. I hope to succeed as a novelist. I’ve written several short stories, you know. I gained first prize at our Mitford Literary Society.”

  “Congratulations! How many have you had published?”

  “None, as yet, Inspector. Our President, JamesNyall, the well-known Australian novelist, says I have to master the art of writing down to please editors. One has to learn to commercialise one’s talents. Not that I really want to do that, but I must be practical. My husband, who is very practical, insists that if a story isn’t acceptable to an editor it’s worth nothing. So silly of him.”

  “Perhaps one oughtn’t to be too practical in any of the arts,” Bony suavely agreed. “Er… The Mitford Literary Society, by the way. Do Mrs Peel and Mrs Nott and Mrs Marlo-Jones belong?”

  “No. Mrs Marlo-Jones has given talks, but, as she says, she’s far too busy to undertake another interest.”

  “You have met these ladies, socially?”

  “Oh yes. At sherryparties, and that sort of thing.”

  “During the vital period of time, after your husband returned to his office and you found the baby missing, were you called to the telephone?”

  “No. I mightn’t have heard it if it did ring. I was barely conscious of the thunder.”

  “What led you to think your husband had taken the infant with him to the office?”

  Shutters fell before the green eyes, and Mrs Coutts almost hurriedly pushed back her chair and rose from the table. Alice appeare
d in the doorway, and Mrs Coutts looked at her and would have spoken had not Bony remained with obvious expectancy of being answered.

  “Oh, I don’t really know, Inspector. Sometimes my husband teases me about my writing. Says it takes me away from everything.”

  “Including the baby?”

  “Of course not.”The green eyes were hardening. “He came in for lunch one day when the child was whimpering and I was in the kitchen. I couldn’t leave what I was doing, preparing something, and he accused me of neglecting the baby and said he’d take it with him to the office and let his fool of a secretary mind it. More in fun than not, naturally.”

  “Quite.” Bony expressed the hope of ultimately recovering the child, and Mrs Courts accompanied them to the front gate. Again in Main Street, he said:

  “Well, give, Alice.”

  “Filthy house,” Alice stated as though in the witness-box. “You said I wasn’t to ask the woman questions, and I didn’t… out loud. She’s balmy on her writing, and everything else rots. She didn’t give a damn about the baby, and she deserved to lose it. I know the type. Baby probably died of sheer neglect, and she buried it in the garden.”

  “What a prognostication! Why were you and Mrs Coutts making faces at each other?”

  “Oh that! I was making excuses so that I could see the rest of her house.”

  “So that now we know…”

  “The pattern, Bony. Five babies kidnapped. Five tiny babies. Five boy babies. Five healthy babies. Five neglected babies. Sounds like a horrible nursery rhyme,” Alice recited grimly. “Three mothers in the same social set: two mothers outside. Three mothers drink sherry, one mother drinks gin, and one is thought to drink nothing worse than tea.”

  “It’s possible that the infants were not chosen for abduction because they were superficially neglected by the mothers, but because that superficial neglect made easy the abductions.”

  “You don’t think that, Bony.”

  “No, I do not believe it, because the abduction from the bank was not easy, and the abduction from the pram outside the shop and the pram outside the hotel was decidedly risky. Let us go into the Library and make a few discoveries about Mrs Rockcliff.”