“Were there any marks on the shoulders of either victim?” Bony asked, sipping his tea.
“Yes. There were bruises on Mrs. Cotton’s shoulders. Why?”
“Well, d’you think they were killed when standing or when lying down?”
“Don’t know. Does it make any difference?”
Bony was evasive. He put another question.
“Mrs. Cotton was five feet and eleven inches in height … tall for a woman. If she was killed standing by a man of lesser height, I’m inclined to think that his wrists would bear down very hard on her shoulders. Do you think the marks on her shoulders were caused by that?”
Dr. Mitchell regarded Bony intently. Then he nodded, saying:
“She was strangled by a man behind her. She could have been standing, and he could have borne heavily on her shoulders with his wrists.”
“Thank you. Mrs. Eltham was five feet and nine inches in height, and, you stated, she was strangled from the front. Would you be good enough to demonstrate on me how, in your opinion, the murderer placed his hands about the necks of his victims?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll do that,” the doctor agreed. “I’ve already worked out that for myself. Sometimes, you know, a strangler uses one hand across the windpipe and the other at the back of the neck to counter the pressure. This fellow encircled his victims’ necks with his two hands, in the first case with his fingers meeting at the jugular vein and his thumbs together at the spinal column, and in the second place the position entirely reversed. Thus we know from which side he strangled.”
“What is your opinion now on the question of the position of his victims when killed? Standing or lying down?”
“Well, it seems they must have been killed when standing. Is it important?”
“Yes,” Bony agreed. “It has significance. Will you demonstrate those holds now?”
He stood up and turned his back to the doctor. He was five feet ten inches, and the doctor was three if not four inches shorter. When the large and capable hands were clasped about Bony’s neck, the wrists were distinctly heavy on Bony’s shoulders close to the base of his neck. Bony asked the demonstrator to bear downward more heavily on the wrists, and without increased pressure of the hands the weight placed severe strain on Bony’s back and knees.
He was smiling when they faced each other, and the doctor demonstrated from the front. As his hands encircled Bony’s neck, Bony attempted to lift a knee towards the doctor’s groin, and the little man chuckled and easily threw him off balance.
Well satisfied with his interview with Dr. Mitchell, who would not permit him to leave too quickly, and who appeared hungry for details of Bony’s career, Bony strolled back towards the police station. The sun was westering, and a soft cool zephyr met him from the salmon-coloured sand-dunes. The wind was a little stronger when he came to a break in the sand-dunes, and he stood gazing out over the turquoise sea, which bore on its placid surface one dark-brown sail.
It seemed then so impossible that far beyond the horizon, far away in the sea-wastes to the north-west, could be born a monstrous wind which with its strangling hands could destroy little stout ships and every soul aboard them. It is said that no insurance company will do business with lugger owners and their crews, so treacherous is that beautiful and serene section of the Indian Ocean.
Well, who would believe that here in this little drowsy town of comfortable bungalows and windowless shops, cut off from civilisation by hundreds of miles of virgin land, there could flourish a human being capable of being ecstatically triumphant when feeling through his hands the life of another seeping into the vacuity of death?
Turning to continue his way, Bony saw Mr. Dickenson.
Chapter Five
The Derelict of Broome
MR. EARLE DICKENSON sat on the public seat placed in the shade of a poinsettia tree from which he could view the sea. He was tall and thin, and his beaked nose appeared always as though frost-bitten. His hair was white and abundant and was carefully brushed back from a noble forehead. The pointed white Vandyke beard greatly added to the air of distinction, but the general effect was ruined by his disgracefully old and soiled clothes.
The Asians accepted him with the tolerance accorded to all beggars, dogs and crocodiles. The white members of this very mixed community looked upon him with marked disfavour and, as has been noted, had made several attempts to have him kicked out of town.
Culturally, Mr. Dickenson was superior to anyone residing at Broome, excepting possibly the masters of Cave Hill College. He had travelled much off the tourist routes of the world and had associated with all manner of men. He had really lived the years of his long life, and there was no doubt his constitution had successfully defied John Barleycorn. Proof that the children loved him was provided by the fact that never a child had been known to be rude to him.
On this particular afternoon, Mr. Dickenson was depressed, a condition caused four times every year by financial embarrassment. His credit had been dead for half a generation, not one of the hotels consenting to advance even one whisky unless paid for. So depressed was he that when Bony sat down on the other end of the seat, he did not withdraw his moody gaze from the shimmeringly blue Indian Ocean.
Bony was aware that in every city the police are greatly assisted by the informer, and that every small town has its “town drunk” who can be equally helpful. The “town drunk”, however, is a different proposition from the city slum informer, and must be handled expertly and sympathetically … especially sympathetically.
“This view should enchant an artist,” he remarked.
Mr. Dickenson slowly turned to regard the speaker, and what he saw did not quickly captivate his interest. The slim, dark man at ease on his own seat was presentable enough, but … a stiff whisky and soda would … When Mr. Dickenson again turned to regard his seat companion, the examination was made with prolonged calculation. The fellow was dressed in faultlessly creased gabardine trousers and an expensive tussore silk shirt. His shoes were good and brilliantly polished. A stranger, too. He might be worth touching.
“It is not always so … enchanting,” he said. “You have chosen the best time of the year to visit Broome. It is, I think, the twenty-sixth of June. Correct me if I am in error.”
“You are quite right. Is the date important?”
“Merely that it is precisely four days prior to an important date.”
“Indeed,” murmured Bony.
“Should you be in Broome on June the thirtieth, I would be in the happy position of suggesting a drink.”
“Which infers that you are not in that happy position today.”
“Alas, my dear sir.”
Two boys came riding bicycles along the road, obviously returning from school, and both respectfully called out:
“Good-day, Mr. Dickenson!”
“Good-day to you, young men,” replied the old man, waving his hand, which Bony noted was long-fingered and clean. To Bony he said: “You are visiting?”
“Yes. I am staying for a few weeks.”
“To appreciate the place you must stay at least a year. There is none other like it in the world, and on that point I speak with authority. Should you have an interest in such matters, you will find the white section of the community of exceptional psychological interest. The whites are entirely lacking in the spiritual attributes making for personality. Observe this person approaching.
The person was arrayed in white duck and wore a white sun-helmet. He was well nourished. His gaze did not deviate from a point exactly to his front and distant probably a million miles. His facial expression was that of a Yogi meditating in a blizzard. Having watched him pass on, Mr. Dickenson laughed, a rumbling deep in his chest, and he said:
“Ninety-nine per cent of them are like that, atrophied from the frontal bone upward. I think it is due to the climate in alliance with temperance. To defeat this climate, to keep oneself mentally alive, one must drink. Moderately, of course. At which of the hote
ls are you staying?”
“I am staying with Inspector and Mrs. Walters. Mrs. Walters and my wife went to the same school.”
“Indeed! Nice people. I have found Walters generous and understanding. His duties do not permit him to become mentally defunct. That man who passed us is a solicitor. Plenty of money. They all have plenty of money. They made it the safe way, financing and trading with men who gamble with ships and their very lives. They stayed snugly ashore, and when the willies come they huddle in their palatial bungalows while brave men, both white and black, go down in the jaws of the sea. In no part of the entire world is snobbery carried to such astonishing limits. Yes, I like the Walters, man and wife. Sawtell, too, although he is inclined to bully me on occasions.”
“They have been very busy lately, I understand,” Bony observed. “Two murders added to their routine work.” Mr. Dickenson’s interest appeared to wane and Bony stood up. “Might I suggest an appetiser before dinner?”
Mr. Dickenson was on his feet in four-fifths of a second.
“Regretfully, sir, I cannot meet kindness with kindness until the thirtieth.”
“Then on that day I will be your guest. Shall we go along?”
As they advanced to the veranda steps of the Port Cuvier Hotel, Bony’s companion buttoned the neck of his old shirt. On the wide veranda a number of languid people seated at small tables were being served by a youth in the uniform of a steward, and, when they were mounting the steps, Mr. Dickenson remarked loudly:
“You’ll find this place more respectable by day than by night. The sins of society are never practised in broad daylight … not in Broome.”
Hostile eyes stared at them. A woman tittered. Bony and his companion sat at a vacant table. Bony surveyed the drinkers. They were a cosmopolitan crew, giving the impression that they were acting in a film of blood and murder in any one of a dozen Asiatic ports. The steward came to stare down at Bony and regard Mr. Dickenson with supercilious disdain. Bony turned to Mr. Dickenson.
“What is your fancy, sir?”
Mr. Dickenson named whisky … with soda. Bony ordered beer, and Mr. Dickenson said he would regret his choice. The steward brought the drinks and Bony did regret it before the steward left, and called for gin and vermouth.
“Always stick to spirits, and never take more than two drinks unless you see it coming out of the bottle,” advised Mr. Dickenson. “I’ve seen men who were careless in that regard climbing telegraph poles, or swimming out to sea looking for a shark, or doing sums on the sand with a pointed stick adding up how many scales there are on a groper.”
“What do the people do for a living?” Bony asked.
“They live on each other, like the fishes,” replied Mr. Dickenson, his voice raised. “The Asian divers and the Asian lugger crews risk their lives to bring ashore the wealth of pearl shell, and the whites loll about in security like the harpies of old.”
Mr. Dickenson made it plain that his opinion of these people of Broome was not good, and Bony sensed that he was getting back a little of what he had received. After the second drink, he rose from the table and instantly the old man followed suit. The whisky had banished Mr. Dickenson’s depression, and, as he walked some little distance with Bony, he was almost stately.
“Have you lived long in Broome?” Bony enquired.
“Many years, Mr. …”
“Knapp. You, of course, are Mr. Dickenson?”
Mr. Dickenson nodded, and Bony asked another question:
“I suppose you know pretty well everyone in Broome?”
“I think I may claim to do so.” The old man chuckled. “I know much more about a lot of ’em than they warrant. A man of my age, and I’m eighty-two, is entitled to likes and dislikes. I have found something most admirable in out-and-out sinners, and something which sickens me in mealy-mouthed saints. The saints, I have noticed, become amateur sinners … when it is dark. Give me the hearty sinners. You know where you are with them. Well, I turn off here. I thank you for your hospitality. I trust that you will grant me the honour of returning it on the thirtieth.”
Mr. Dickenson almost bowed. Bony almost bowed. With no further word, they parted, in Bony’s mind the phrase: “Saints become amateur sinners after dark.” Mr. Dickenson would be well worth cultivating.
Before dinner he interviewed Abie, the black tracker. Abie was feeding the horse in course of breaking-in, and Bony’s approach was to admire the horse and compliment the aborigine on the work already done on it. Although the evening was cool it hardly necessitated the military overcoat Abie wore over his shirt and trousers, which were tucked into stockman’s leggings, whilst the heavy military boots and the wide-brimmed felt hat seemed to be adjuncts entirely out of place. Still, Abie was a police tracker, and as such he was a personage among his kind. “Same white-feller soljer.”
The cicatrice down the left cheek had doubtless been caused by a knife and thus gave no indication of Abie’s position in his tribe, but the hole in his tongue, revealed when he laughed with pleasure at Bony’s compliments, was decided proof that he was a medicine man.
“You bin camp here?” Bony asked, and Abie pointed to the stables and said: “Him bin camp alonga horse.
“You bin come on plane-feller, eh?” was Abie’s question in turn and, when Bony nodded, he asked: “You all same white-feller p’liceman, eh?”
“No. Just looking round. You bin police tracker long time?”
“Long time.”
A medicine man! Wily, knowledgeable, secretive. Influential with his tribal fellows, for sure. Would be an excellent tracker when put on the scent, tireless and relentless.
During dinner Bony gained further glimpses of the picture of Broome he must clearly see to find a fault which would be the scent for him to follow, tirelessly and relentlessly. His questions were put with purpose, and the information, some of it of no apparent value, was stored and indexed in his mind.
There was a French Catholic Order who conducted a school for native children. There were the churches of three denominations. The Shire Council was debating a proposal to raise the rates, and a meeting of protest was scheduled for the following week. There was a flourishing Women’s Association, the president and driving force being Mrs. Sayers. There were three stores, two situated north of the post office and one down in Chinatown which supplied all the Asians and refitted and victualled the luggers. This one was owned by Mrs. Sayers, but Mrs. Sayers did not run it. She had a manager to do that for her. Yes, he could obtain cigarette tobacco there. Being Friday night, they wouldn’t close before nine.
The sun was gilding the tops of the poplars when he strolled southward to Chinatown, and there was reason for his measured step and meditative expression.
Progress in his investigation was slow. In fact, he had barely begun to progress. The trail was cold, as cold as desert sand at the dawning. His remarkable gift of patience would be taxed, and the temptation to hurry, to take chances, would be keen because of the probability that the confident killer would strike down another victim. Haste would be worse than foolish, for should his opponent know who was seeking his tracks, the fellow might well remain quiescent, waiting for the redoubtable Napoleon Bonaparte to depart from Broome.
The sun had set when he reached Chinatown, a place having nothing of Orientalism about it. Large and empty iron buildings once crammed with pearl shell, ship chandlery and stores now gaped at him. Women of many Asian nations watched him, and their children raced along the dusty sidewalks bordered by iron-constructed shacks and sun-blistered boards bearing the remnants of Chinese names. Twenty-two pearling luggers, and there used to be three hundred! And the twenty-two luggers with their divers and crews far away on that now green Indian Ocean wantonly courting the night.
Bony found the general store, a large iron structure having no windows but long open slits under the eaves ribbed with iron bars. Mounting the stout veranda steps, he crossed the weathered veranda and entered, to be met with glass show-cases, stacks of merc
handise, and shelves loaded with everything from bolts of cloth to synthetic Manilla rope and fire-crackers.
No one was interested in him. He enquired where he could obtain cigarette tobacco, and was waved away in a south-easterly direction. That brought him into a maze of women’s frocks, and a girl who was assisting a woman to choose shoes waved him on to the north-east. Following this course, Bony came into the grocery department, where, after waiting whilst two young men discussed a weighty problem concerning a horse named Juniper, he was served with his requirements.
On emerging from the store, he almost bumped into Mr. Dickenson.
“Hullo! Good-evening!”
“Ah! Mr. Knapp! I see you have been shopping. I, too, am on a similar errand for my landlady. Did you meet Mr. Lovett?”
“No. Who is Mr. Lovett?”
“The manager. A very keen business man.” Mr. Dickenson might have been a keen business man, too. “This store, you know, belongs to a lady, a Mrs. Sayers. Her husband left her very well off, and she had been well provided for by her scoundrel of a father.”
“A hard woman?”
“Hard in the getting of money: soft in the giving of it away.” Mr. Dickenson’s tired grey eyes twinkled. “If I could write books, I could write ten about her. When you see her, you remember that once I took her pants down and smacked her. She was then very small, of course. I’ve watched a lot of ’em grow up in Broome, when Broome wasn’t what it is today.”
“The Mrs. Cotton who was murdered was the licensee of a hotel called Dampier’s Hotel, wasn’t she?”
“That was so,” replied the old man.
“ ’Way out of town, isn’t it?”
“Five miles out.”
“Could one hire a car to run out there for a drink one evening?”
“Oh yes, certainly,” answered the suddenly alert Mr. Dickenson. “For three pounds you can hire a taxi for the evening, and the driver will guarantee to bring you back before one in the morning and assist you into bed.”
Bony - 13 - The Widows of broome Page 4