The Bachelors of Broken Hill

by Arthur Upfield

  “I’m sure you would, Miss Martelli. And I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out that you can.” Bony paused to offer a cigarette from the store he kept for offering. The girl crossed her nylon-covered legs and swung an expensive shoe, accepted his light, and looked into his eyes. Bony tossed away the burnt match and sat back.

  “You remember the old gentleman who died in your café?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Miss Martelli realistically shuddered. “You would, too, if you saw him spread on the table with broken cups and saucers and all the doings around him like a bloomin’ salad. He’d been into our café a lotta times. I know ’im all right. Didn’t think much of ’im, neither.”

  “Oh! Why?”

  “Always sloppin’ tea on the tablecloth. Had to change it for the next customer. Worse’n a pig.”

  “Did he slop tea on his clothes too?” Bony asked casually.

  “Yes.” The girl’s mouth formed a moue of distaste. “Musta been a pig at home too. His old waistcoat oughta been burnt. No good in our ’ouse. We been brought up prop’ly, we have.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I want to take you along to see some pictures of a woman we think may be one or other of those who sat at Mr Parsons’s table that afternoon. From the pictures you may recall to mind one of those women. You’ll try?”

  “Too right, Inspector. I’m all for law and order meself, as I told that swine Stillman a dozen times. The only fella who ever made me spit, the——”

  “Let us forget unpleasant memories,” smoothly interjected Bony, and moved to the door. “Come along. Oh, by the way, you would grant me a favour?”

  “Sure. I’ll take a risk.”

  Lena giggled, and Bony’s sympathy immediately went out to poor Jimmy Nimmo. The giggle sizzled through him like a red-hot skewer.

  “I’d like you to promise not to tell anyone about your visit here and what we’ve talked about. Will you?”

  “Too right! Lena doesn’t tell.”

  Bony was exceedingly doubtful, but he conducted Lena along the road taken by the decorous cashier. Lena smirked at those policemen they encountered in the corridors on the way to Artist Mills’s exhibition and finally she stood before the pictures, blue eyes screwed intently, shifting from one foot to the other. As previously, Bony patiently waited.

  “No, they don’t hit nothing. Not a thing,” Lena said at last. “I’ll bet a zac, though, that nothing like that woman sat at old Parsons’s table the time he flopped. If either of them dames had a bag like that I’d have remembered. Couldn’t forget it. Reminds me of a nappy bag.”

  “It’s too bad, Miss Martelli,” murmured Bony. “But never mind. I understand how busy you were that afternoon, and no one can expect the impossible. Is there anything else about that woman you would have remembered if she had sat at Parsons’s table?”

  “Yeah. Y’see the way she’s standing—all bunched-up like? Me grandmother stands like that sometimes, and if that woman had been in the café that afternoon I’d have been reminded of me grandmother, see?”

  “Yes, of course. Well, thank you very much. Mr Abbot will take you back to the café, and I hope one day to pop in and have you serve me.”

  “Too right, Inspector. Tell me how you want your tea and it’s all yours.” Lena giggled again, and again Bony flinched. Abbot took charge of her. “Cheerio! Be seein’ ya”, was her exit line.

  She had given nothing of the woman for whom alerted men now sought, but the interview had not been without profit.

  Chapter Nine

  At the Western Mail Hotel

  IT IS beyond doubt that Wally Sloan is the most famous man in Broken Hill and that his name will be remembered equally with those pioneers who discovered what they called the Mullock Heap, which was to bring Australia two hundred and fifty million sterling for its ore. Sloan is skinny, narrow-shouldered, slightly stooped. He has a small but prominent paunch, gingery hair fast turning grey, and a gingery moustache which retains its pristine colour by constant contact with beer. His eyes are pale blue and weak, his forehead that of the intellectual, his nose that of the wowser, his chin pointed and slightly receding. How old—no one knows. And less than half a dozen are aware that he owns the Western Mail Hotel.

  When on this occasion Bony visited Broken Hill, Wally Sloan had been at the Western Mail for nineteen years. Yardman, barman, drink waiter, he is regarded as an item of the furniture, the spirit of the lounge, a permanent something of a hotel known to thousands of visitors and spoken of reverently by stock- and station-men and mining experts throughout this vast fifth continent. Familiar with all and yet withholding that which makes familiarity objectionable, Wally Sloan knows all the tricks to win the game from snobbery.

  The public lounge at the Western Mail is tastefully furnished, and cooled by cunningly angled fans. Its main entrance is directly off Argent Street, and throughout the hot months the doors are always open. Chromium chairs are set four to a table, and during the morning and early afternoon there are the freedom and quiet of a club.

  It was not the first time that Bony found it so, shortly before one o’clock, when luncheon was served, and this morning the place was empty when he slipped into a chair at a table near the tiny bar at which the steward obtained his orders. Two seconds later Sloan appeared, wearing a white drill tunic and black trousers, and coming to stand beside Bony and not before him.

  “Sir!”

  “Long lemon squash with the merest flavour of gin, please.”

  Sloan departed and silently returned with the frosted drink.

  “A guest here, sir, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I arrived recently. I may depart next week or next year.”

  “Yes, sir. You are Mr Knapp, sir?”

  “I am. I stayed here several years ago, when both of us were much younger, Sloan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The steward found it necessary to adjust unnecessarily a chair at a near-by table, and then turned, that for the first time he might examine this guest who claimed to have stayed here many years before. Bony’s glass was empty.

  “Again, sir?”

  “Please—with much less gin.”

  “Yes, sir, certainly. You stayed here nine years ago, sir. Just for one night. Inspector Bonaparte, isn’t it?”

  “You have an excellent memory,” Bony said approvingly. “Perhaps you would join me in a drink?”

  “Yes, sir.” The drinks were brought. “Your very good health, sir.”

  There wasn’t the faintest indication of respect in the title which came at the end of almost every sentence. The sound resembled the staccato hiss of escaping steam. The word was a habit and required much less effort than ‘mister’. A cloth draped over his arm, the hand of which held the empty tray. Sloan’s expression was unaltered when he said:

  “Hope you clear up our two cyanide murders, sir.”

  Bony turned slightly to gaze upward at the pale blue eyes.

  “Someone been talking to you?” he asked.

  “No, sir. I had no idea who you were until a moment ago. I’m glad to see you, sir. Your presence, sir, can have only one meaning.”

  “That’s so,” admitted Bony, adding: “I am Nemesis. I am he who dwelt in the mind of Victor Hugo and was born to the world as Javert. You would please me to remember that I am Mr Knapp.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Sloan made no attempt to move away, and casually Bony asked:

  “What, in your opinion, would be the effect of another cyanide murder in Broken Hill?”

  “Bad, sir, very bad. Yes, indeed, the weather’s hot but not unusual at this time of the year. Mornin’, gentlemen.”

  “Hullo, Wally! Mine’s a long beer. Morning, Mr Friend! Meet Mr Makepiece,” commanded Luke Pavier.

  “Mine’s a long beer too,” said Mr Makepiece before acknowledging the introduction. “Great day for drinking. How do?”

  “Well, thank you. No gin, Sloan.”

  Sloan departed. Mr Makepiece asserted that
there was more beer consumed in Broken Hill on a Saturday than in Sydney in any one week. He was a huge man, perspiring and coatless. A waistcoat flapped against the sides of his enormous stomach. He wore no collar and his red face required shaving. He called for more beer before Sloan could unload his tray of filled glasses. He drank without swallowing, and Bony made quite sure about this phenomenon. He told two questionable stories, drank again without swallowing, complained he had to close up his shop, and departed.

  “He’s a butcher,” Luke Pavier said. “Thought you’d like to see him. Has all it takes—bachelor, elderly, hearty eater and heavy drinker. You were about to say?”

  “Nothing. Were you, Sloan?”

  “Aloud! No, sir.”

  Sloan slipped away to serve a man accompanied by two women. On his return to the serving bar he heard Luke say:

  “The last two happened on a Friday afternoon. Today’s Saturday. The last two happened late in the month. Next Friday will be late in this month.”

  Sloan repassed them with his filled tray and heard:

  “You think your Mr Makepiece is a likely prospect?”

  “Don’t you? Has all the makings. Only thing that might save him is he doesn’t drink tea in cafés or stores.”

  The house gong throbbed announcing lunch, and Sloan nodded to Luke as the reporter passed on his way to the street. Bony he saw leaving the lounge by the inner door, and five minutes later he was relieved by another steward. Having lunched, at two o’clock he was asleep in his room.

  The Western Mail Hotel is a two-storeyed building with a balcony above the street pavement. It is capable of accommodating seventy guests, its bar and lounges able to cater for twice that number, and the staff is of necessity both numerous and well organised.

  Saturday is the day of days when, there being no work in the mines, the miners and their wives flock to Argent Street: the women and children to drink tea and eat cakes and ice creams in the cafés, and the men to congregate in the bars and drink hard whilst listening to radios blaring race descriptions. At the Western Mail Hotel the Saturday-afternoon trade was fast and furious, and the rush started at three o’clock. Extra barmen and waiters were, therefore, employed to deal with this rush period of the week.

  Refreshed and wearing a clean drill tunic, Sloan went on duty at three, taking charge of the public lounge and a smaller apartment made available to the general public every Saturday. With the help of an assistant, he served with machine-like smoothness about eighty people.

  The noise was terrific and at four o’clock increased in tempo. The blaring radios in all bars as well as in this main lounge, added to the din of voices raised in laughter and quip, upset bushmen in for a spree but had no effect upon Wally Sloan. Under or within the general uproar his mind registered orders and never failed, and he spoke to his customers, adding the ‘sir’ when addressing women as well as men, giving racing tips, and at the same time noting the broadcast finishes of races in Melbourne and Sydney or Adelaide in which he was financially interested.

  Everyone knew Sloan, and everyone called him Wally. He seemed to know almost everyone and appeared to spend much time at each table for four, but no customer had long to wait for his glass to be replenished. His tables were set in four banks with the widest aisle in the centre, and he weaved and glided up and down these tables as though in this staccato confusion he was the only directed mechanism.

  There were, however, unwritten laws which Sloan laid down and ruthlessly maintained. No customer was permitted to stand at the serving bar, beyond which two bar-men cooperated with the two stewards. No two tables were permitted to be joined together, thus throwing out of gear the four banks of tables and reducing service speed. People were there to drink, and the staff was there to take the money, and in the background of all minds was the inevitable coming of six o’clock. When, therefore, six o’clock approached, decorum in drinking was sacrificed to the necessity of drinking as much as possible before the stupid moment when the Law said—shut up.

  Among those who came in about four o’clock were three men from Zinc Corporation. One was an engineer, another was a metallurgist, and the third was an under-manager. The fourth chair at their table remained vacant until it was sneaked away by a party at the next table who wished to increase their number by one.

  Wally had known the three men for years, and he didn’t bother to ask them what they were drinking. He carried long beers to them, talked for six seconds, took the money, and gave change from the coins on his tray. Many customers were as easy, for Sloan knew what they wanted and their wants never varied. Many of them were sufficiently considerate to have their money ready in a small pile on the table, that there need be no hindrance to a busy man. There were others who thought of money only when he set down the drinks, then dived into a deep pocket, changed their mind, pulled out a wallet, and then dithered before deciding to proffer a pound note or one for ten shillings.

  Of these people women were the worst offenders, women unattended by male escorts. They kept Sloan idle whilst fumbling into handbags for change or purse, although well knowing the price of the drink they had ordered and that others waited.

  There was one peculiarity about this Saturday-afternoon crowd which made it similar to the lesser crowd who came in on other afternoons. Certain people favoured certain tables, if able to get them. Parties of men chose tables nearest the main entrance, and unattended women always gravitated to those tables farthest from the main entrance and nearest the small serving bar.

  Round about half-past five there occurred another phenomenon. Husbands, drifted away to join their mates in the public bars, and the wives would look forlorn, then annoyed, and finally unite to refill tables. It always went like this, and Sloan could tell the time by the shift of balance. Thus at five-thirty, despite the approach of the awful hour of six, the lounges were less busy than at half past four.

  Shortly after five this afternoon two of the three men from the Zinc Corporation left, and the third man sat on, studying a plan which occupied most of his table. Now and then Sloan looked at this man’s glass, and because it seemed that the man was so absorbed by his plan, he seldom bothered him.

  At twenty minutes to six Sloan was standing at the serving bar, giving his orders to the barman, when abruptly the conversation at his back dwindled into a vacuity made the more emphatic by the uproar in the next lounge and the bars. On turning about, he saw the plan-student standing, facing towards the entrance, and then lean to one side, double, straighten and bend backwards, and cave in at the knees.

  The serving barman thrust his head and shoulders through the opening above the counter. He saw Sloan run down the room, snatch up an empty glass at a far table, and slam and lock the front doors. He saw the man stretched on the floor, sensed the significance of Sloan locking the entrance, turned and made a sign to the head barman, then vaulted into the lounge to guard the inner door leading to the smaller lounge and the back entrance. The head barman automatically ran out to the street and signalled a uniformed policeman stationed nearby.

  Chapter Ten

  Five Strange Women

  HANS GROMBERG, the metallurgist employed at Zinc Corporation, died at twenty minutes to six. From that moment no one was able to leave the lounge. At five minutes to six Bony with Crome and Abbot and other detectives entered by the rear door and took charge.

  Familiar with the construction of the Western Mail Hotel, Bony immediately had the smaller lounge cleared of staff and the curious, and the customers, confined in the larger lounge by the prompt action of Sloan and the barman, transferred to it.

  There were thirteen men and nineteen women, and police procedure threatened to hamstring Bony. Abbot and another man noted their names, addresses, and occupations. Before this task was completed John Hoadly had arrived and examined the body. To the anxious Bony he said:

  “Without an autopsy I can’t be sure, but, just between us, I think it’s cyanide. Not for a million would I drink the dregs in that glass someone
said Sloan retrieved.”

  “Thanks, Doctor. We’ll have the body in the morgue under the hour. Would you examine it as soon after that as possible?”

  “Of course.”

  Bony’s smile was wintry. The doctor was conducted through to the back of the building, and the photographer began to work. At a table in that corner near the serving counter Crome was taking down Sloan’s statement, and Bony joined them and smoked a cigarette until the statement was concluded.

  “Any leads?” Bony asked the sergeant.

  “No, sir.”

  “People coming and going all the time, I suppose, Sloan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, we cannot keep these people here longer than absolutely necessary. Come with me.”

  Sloan and Crome accompanied Bony to the adjoining lounge, and there Bony asked the steward:

  “How many present, do you know?”

  Sloan looked over the small crowd, and, to Bony’s surprise, replied:

  “Everyone, sir.”

  “Name them, please. Check, Abbot.”

  Without hesitation, Sloan did so, and Bony then addressed them.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s most regrettable that you should be present this afternoon when Mr Hans Gromberg had a fatal seizure, and that what I am sure was a pleasant afternoon for all of you should be so tragically terminated. Now in view of the fact that it’s remotely possible that Mr Gromberg was poisoned, I am going to ask you to agree voluntarily to be searched before leaving. If Mr Gromberg was poisoned, I am sure the poisoner isn’t here, but you would greatly assist justice by eliminating yourselves from all suspicion. Obviously, if the dead man was poisoned, someone did it, and that someone was in the outer lounge at some time during the period Mr Gromberg was there.”

  “Suits me,” a man said, and a woman offered a sound suggestion: “Why not? Two of the barmaids could search us women. Good idea. Old Gromberg was a decent sort.”