The Bachelors of Broken Hill

by Arthur Upfield

  “Conference, Luke?”

  “That’s what I said. When the top-graders emerge all together to go home, they’ve been talking. When they bid each other good night as though they’re suffering from indigestion, the conference was abortive. Deductive reasoning, my dear Mr Friend.”

  “You should have been a detective,” Bony said pleasantly.

  “Not as interesting as my game. By the way, remember my Mr Makepiece, the butcher? Surprised that Gromberg copped it and not he. Weren’t you?”

  “No. Your friend lacks one essential for a murderee.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s too fastidious in eating and drinking. What are you putting into your paper tomorrow?”

  “‘We regret to announce the death by cyanide poisoning of Mr Hans Gromberg, the noted metallurgist. The late gent was born in Kiel, Germany, and came to Australia at the age of twenty-one. He was well known for his work among sick children during the twenty-three years he resided in Broken Hill. A bachelor, Mr Gromberg was fifty-nine years old and liked his mushrooms and his beer. We understand that the police are making inquiries.’ Now when are you going to let me see those drawings done by friend Mills?”

  “Drawings, Luke? ‘Oh, Grandmamma, what long ears you have!’”

  “‘Oh, Grandmamma, what sharp teeth you have,’ the little lady in red also exclaimed. What about those pictures? When are you going to decide that I may be able to help you along?”

  “When I’ve decided that I can trust you.”

  “You can begin now, Mr Friend. These cyanidings have passed beyond a joke between the old man and Crome on the one side and me on the other. Deep under, I’ve got a lot of time for the old man. He’s nearing the retiring age, and it might be that he’ll retire with his reputation all smeared over by Stillman and other rats. I can’t afford to be the son of a man with a ruined reputation.”

  The sophistication was so obviously spurious that Bony wanted to smile.

  “Let us make a pact,” he said. “You to print only what I agree to. I to accept your co-operation and avail myself of your experience and knowledge of local conditions. And you to be present at the arrest and then be free to publish what you wish.”

  “I’ll sign.”

  “Come with me.”

  Luke followed Bony to the detectives’ common-room, a place of desks and records and pictures of criminals. On one wall were the five water-colours done by David Mills. Bony sat on a desk, and Luke went forward to study the pictures. He was there for what appeared to be a long time, and on rejoining Bony he said:

  “Somewhere, sometimes, I’ve seen the woman in the blue and white dress and the white hat.”

  “The face or the dress?”

  “Face.”

  “Remember ever having seen the handbag?”

  Pavier went back to the pictures and returned, shaking his head.

  “The face is like someone I know, but I can’t place her. I will. What’s her name?”

  “She hasn’t a name. Mills painted her from a description given him by two women who were in the lounge when Gromberg died. The three other pictures were done by Mills from the very few details given by Mary Isaacs of the customer she was serving when Goldspink died.”

  “Those three don’t help. Same handbag, though?”

  “Same handbag. Come back to the office.” When behind his desk, Bony said: “If you can recall anyone who looks like Mills’s women, let me know. Mills told me, or rather his girl friend did, that he has appeared at local concerts as a lightning cartoonist. Perhaps the woman you are trying to remember has engaged in amateur theatricals. Come in and look at those pictures when you wish. I’ll see to it that you’ll have no difficulty.”

  “Thanks. What d’you think? Woman on border line of insanity?”

  “As the motive for these murders is not to be found among those prompting ninety-nine murders in every hundred, yes. Ever read Macbeth or seen the play?”

  “Both. I’m interested in the theatre. Have you read Professor J.I.M. Stewart’s book, Character and Motive in Shakespeare?”

  “No,” admitted Bony.

  “The professor says, and I quote: ‘The evil which may rise up in a man’s imagination may sweep him on to crime, particularly if, like Macbeth, he is imaginative without the release of being creative.’”

  “That,” Bony said, “is the word picture of the woman I seek. Thank you, Luke. I seek a motive within a motive, however. I am sure that the motive prompting these poisonings is hatred of someone each victim represents, not hatred of the victims. It is a chain of cause and effect, the ultimate effect being the death of men having nothing whatsoever to do with the original cause.”

  The quiet building appeared to come to life, and on Bony’s ceasing to speak, Luke dried up. It was after eleven at night on that one day of the week when Headquarters permitted itself to doze, and now men were tramping corridors with decided urgency in their footsteps.

  “Something doing,” Luke said very softly, and the muscular tautness was evident.

  From the rear of the building came the crash of a motor engine and, following the initial power surge, its quiet purring. They could follow the sound of the machine making for the street.

  “Fire, perhaps,” murmured Bony, watching Luke.

  “Perhaps another killing,” said Luke. “Sounds promisin’, anyway. See you some more, Mr Friend.”

  He vanished beyond the open doorway, and his steps could be heard as he ran along the corridors to the public offices and the constable on night duty at the telephone switch. Bony waited five minutes before engaging Switch.

  “Inspector Bonaparte. What’s the hullabaloo about?”

  “Don’t rightly know, sir,” came the reply. “A mine-worker returning home on account of sickness tripped over the body of a woman at the foot of a mullock dump. He reported the matter to a patrol officer, who telephoned here. I put him through to Senior Detective Abbot, who’s on night duty, sir.”

  Bony hung up, hoping it was not another cyaniding, and proceeding to note lines of thought emerging from the conference earlier in the evening.

  It was after one o’clock when he put down his pen and locked away his papers, and he was rolling a cigarette when he heard the corridors again resounding with heavy feet. Crome burst in on him, his face wind-whipped, his hair all awry.

  “Guess who we’ve got in the morgue with old Gromberg!” he said.

  “I’m a poor guesser,” Bony told him.

  “None other than our own dear Policewoman Lodding.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Feminine Observations

  A MAN on maintenance work at one of the mines had reported sick and, having checked out with the timekeeper, he had made his way down through the top hamper of the mine to reach a path crossing the sandy and littered flat to one of the abutting streets. It was quite dark, but, being familiar with the path, he was able to follow it, and where it skirted a mullock dump he almost tripped over the body. He had ascertained, with the aid of a match, that the body was that of a woman and, being a member of a First Aid Section, he recognised death.

  Crome, who lived farthest from Headquarters, had been eating supper when recalled. He arrived at the scene with a doctor a few minutes after Abbot, who had collected several men. The doctor found the blade of a knife buried in the woman’s breast, and the place was cordoned and the body brought to the city morgue.

  Bony, having met Policewoman Lodding, was shocked but determined not to be sidetracked from his own investigation. Crome was confident that he could deal with this type of homicide and raised for discussion the division of forces. It was agreed that Bony retain as his assistants Senior Detective Abbot and another man, and so by daybreak Crome had ample forces, which included black trackers, and Bony and Abbot were in bed.

  Later Abbot was first at Headquarters, Bony being delayed by an interview with Mrs Robinov.

  “You have a car?” he asked Abbot, who said he owned a motor-cycle
. “Hopeless to ask for a police car, and I want you to call on Mrs Wallace and that Mrs Lucas you saw yesterday and persuade them to come to Goldspink’s shop at two this afternoon. Explain to them that their advice and assistance is needed with reference to the pictures they saw Mills paint last night.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “How is that other affair coming along?”

  “Don’t know much about it,” replied Abbot. “Sergeant Crome is still out. I did hear that the knife blade in Miss Lodding’s body is made of glass. Where the blade joins the hilt a file was used to make a circular cut, so weakening the weapon that after the blow was delivered the murderer was able to snap off the hilt, leaving the blade in the wound and preventing bleeding.”

  “A glass dagger, Abbot! Peculiar kind of weapon.”

  “That’s so, sir. Light blue glass, triangular down to an inch of the point.”

  “Well, don’t let us be diverted from our own job,” Bony said. “Our three murders are quite enough to keep us fully extended.”

  Abbot left, and Bony telephoned David Mills and arranged that Mills also be at Goldspink’s shop at two o’clock, taking his painting materials. At eleven Luke Pavier rang.

  “This Lodding business, Mr Friend,” Luke said. “It doesn’t come into our agreement, does it?”

  “No, Luke, you can go your hardest.”

  “Anything for me,” pleaded the reporter, “on this Lodding murder?”

  “Nothing. I know nothing. Haven’t seen Crome this morning.”

  “All right. We’re putting out a special. I found a laddie and his lass who saw the Lodding woman in the company of a man late last night. Just beat Crome to it. Reduced the stuff about Gromberg to five lines. That please you?”

  “It does.”

  “These women,” Luke ran on. “The straight-backed, flat-chested Lodding walking out with a man. What d’ya think? Passed under a street light. Man’s arm linked through hers. Tall and handsome gentleman who wore gloves. Bad luck the lovers didn’t see his face. Old Crome shouldn’t fall down on this job, though. See you later.”

  Crome didn’t think he would, either. He dropped in on Bony to relate his progress, describing how the trackers had backtracked the murdered woman and her companion to a street ending abruptly at the narrow flat pf waste ground. It was in that street they had been seen by the lovers, who stood just inside a garden gate.

  “Trackers are now looking for the handle of the dagger,” Crome said. “I made good plaster casts of the man’s tracks. Like to see ’em sometime?”

  “Yes, sometime. Should find Miss Lodding’s companion easily enough. The number of her male acquaintances was not large, I understand.”

  “That’s so. I’m off to question the sister. A Mrs Dalton. Bit rough on you, however.”

  Bony reflected. He wanted to be generous to Crome, who now had the opportunity to regain lost prestige.

  “Don’t worry about my end. Concentrate on your job. For several reasons I hope you clean it up quickly.”

  Crome was pleased and left. Almost immediately Superintendent Pavier rang through.

  “Any developments, Bonaparte?”

  “Nothing, Super. But——”

  “That’s all right. I’m going with Crome to visit Miss Lodding’s sister and dig into backgrounds. We must show Sydney this time.”

  The Detective Office was vacant except for the man assigned to Bony under Abbot. He was asked to remove the paintings from the wall, and as he had been typing rather speedily, Bony asked if he could write shorthand. The detective said he could, and, having accepted the parcelled pictures, Bony told him to be at Goldspink’s shop at two o’clock.

  At two, to the minute, Bony entered the shop and was met by Mrs Robinov.

  “Everyone’s in the fitting-room, Inspector.”

  He smiled his approval of such punctuality, and she conducted him to the fitting-room, where waited Mrs Wallace and Mrs Lucas, Mary Isaacs, Miss Way, Abbot with his assistant, and David Mills.

  Bony thanked them for being present, and they were made to feel ‘awfully important’. He had the plainclothes man tack the pictures to a wall and then arranged the gathering as though children seated before a blackboard. Mills was placed at the cutting table and asked to prepare his materials.

  “It is important that you are silent concerning this little session,” Bony began, “because I want to take you into my confidence and be able to discuss with you freely certain grave difficulties confronting me in unearthing this vile poisoner.

  “Now look at these pictures so ably painted by Mr Mills. These three to the left represent the woman who was present shortly before Mr Goldspink died, and these two on the right represent the woman present in the hotel lounge to within a few minutes of the death of Mr Gromberg.

  “We know that neither Mrs Robinov, Miss Isaacs, nor Miss Way can see in the picture of the lounge woman the woman they saw in the shop, and although two women could have carried the same handbag, the circumstances are such as to make us certain that one woman committed both crimes.

  “This woman is clever. She isn’t a novice. She doesn’t make mistakes, and she did not make the great mistake of adopting a disguise after committing a crime, but before she committed it.

  “At once divest your minds of the picture of a woman wearing a false wig and dark glasses and the uniform of a nurse or something of the kind. When she came here to the shop she seemed to be elderly, she had a stoop, and she used her eyes as though by habit peering over glasses. That is the impression she gave Miss Isaacs and, in lesser degree, Miss Way. When she went to the hotel lounge she appeared very much younger, did not peer as though over glasses, didn’t have a stoop, and wore clothes suitable for a woman of, say, thirty. With reason, therefore, we may assess her real age at from forty to forty-five.

  “There is the remote possibility that the person seen by you ladies is a man disguised as a woman. We must take into account that there have been and are extremely clever female impersonators both on the stage and off, and before we proceed let us settle that point. You, Mrs Wallace, do you think that the person who sat next you on Saturday afternoon could have been a man disguised as a woman?”

  Mrs Wallace was most indignant. “Not a hope. I know all the differences between a man and a woman.”

  “What makes you so certain?” questioned the unabashed Bony.

  “Because I’d soon smell the difference,” claimed Mrs Wallace, and Bony hastily changed the subject.

  “We then reject the possibility that the person was a man disguised as a woman. Did the woman betray any evidence to you, Mrs Wallace, that she was short-sighted?”

  “I’m sure there wasn’t anything wrong with her eyesight. I remember telling you that she fumbled with her purse, but that wasn’t short sightedness. It musta been because she was all steamed up to skittle old Gromberg, though I still say I never saw her do anything to his beer.”

  “Then let us discuss the woman’s face. Her make-up, you say, was heavily applied. How near did Mr Mills paint the faces to what you remember of the woman’s make-up?”

  “Pretty close, but not quite, Inspector.” Mrs Wallace became triumphant. “I remember the lipstick she had on.”

  “She had on the wrong lipstick,” interposed Mrs Lucas.

  “She did that,” Mrs Wallace agreed. “It didn’t give her anything.”

  “Looked to me as if she was an amateur at putting her face on,” said Mrs Lucas, and again Mrs Wallace agreed.

  “An amateur—or it could have been done purposely to achieve an amateurish effect,” Bony pointed out. “You said, Mrs Wallace, didn’t you, that the woman looked like an old maid who had ventured into——”

  “Hell or a harem,” added Mrs Wallace. “If she wasn’t an old maid she acted pretty well, is what I say and what I think. I can tell ’em in spite of all their titivating.”

  “How did she appear to you, Mrs Lucas?”

  “I didn’t take that much notice, Inspector, b
ut I’ve a sort of impression that Mrs Wallace is right.”

  “Thank you. Well, now, because you two ladies remember that woman so clearly, and Miss Isaacs and Miss Way do not clearly remember the woman who visited the shop, we will discard these three pictures of her as and when she was served by Miss Isaacs.” He took the three paintings from the wall. “We have now only the two pictures of the woman seen in the lounge. Mrs Wallace, which of these two pictures is nearer your memory of the woman?”

  “That one on the right, although the dress on her isn’t as good as in the other picture.”

  “We will leave the dress for the moment. Mrs Lucas, which is your choice of pictures?”

  “That one Mrs Wallace picked.”

  “Good. We will now discard the left one,” and Bony removed it. “Now, Mr Mills, will you try to draw this woman’s head without make-up, and to your notion of what she would be like, say, at forty-five.”

  David Mills took fifteen minutes. Bony produced cigarettes, and Abbot’s assistant rounded off his notes. Mrs Wallace began to discuss the suspect’s clothes and was asked to refrain. She was the first to be shown the new face.

  “Pretty good,” was her verdict, “but the chin isn’t square enough, and the eyes ought to be a bit slanted down at the outside corners.”

  “I’ll make the alterations easily enough,” volunteered Mills.

  He took the draft sketch, and Mrs Wallace went to stand by him, saying:

  “When you’ve done that, I’ll tell you just where to put in the wrinkles. Her makeup didn’t hide them from me.” Using an eraser, Mills swiftly went to work. “That’s good for the mouth. Yes, and good for the eyes too. Come and have a look, dearie.”

  Mrs Lucas was drawn into conference, and both agreed that the result was ‘just it’.

  “You’re a beaut, Mr Mills,” exclaimed the ex-barmaid. “You’ve got the livin’ image, hasn’t he, Mrs Lucas?”

  Mrs Lucas agreed again with Mrs Wallace, and Bony handed the black and white drawing to Mrs Robinov, who said she didn’t know a woman like her. Mary Isaacs hesitated long enough for Bony to say: