Bony - 13 - The Widows of broome

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “And discretion?”

  “If you mean to keep a secret, yes. What she lacks in subtlety she gains in courage.”

  “And Briggs?”

  “If she ordered it, Briggs wouldn’t hesitate to cut a throat.”

  “Thanks. Now let us to the plough I spoke of.”

  Bony glanced back once, to see the gaunt figure melt into the shadow of a tall tree.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bony Captures Mrs. Sayers

  MRS. SAYERS invariably dined at six to permit her cook-housemaid to depart at seven. At seven precisely the cook reported and was dismissed, and the house was, figuratively, taken over by Luke Briggs. At eight-forty-five, Briggs invariably reported, asking if Mrs. Sayers required anything before he took his evening stroll.

  Seen on his feet and without his chauffeur-cum-sea-captain uniform, Luke Briggs would have delighted Charles Dickens. He was quite bald. His face was the colour of teak and marvell­ously wrinkled. About five feet eight inches in height and weighing in the vicinity of a hundred and thirty pounds, he could be taken for a Cockney chimney-sweep or a race-course tout. To guess his age, one could range from sixty to a hundred, and then be out at either end. For his evening stroll, he wore rubber-soled canvas shoes, grey Harris tweed trousers and a coat much too long for him. The coat made him look like a soldier crab inhabiting a conch shell, but it was worn for a purpose—the inside pockets were capable of taking a dozen bottles.

  When Briggs entered the lounge this evening, Mrs. Sayers was seated before her escritoire writing letters. He stood in the doorway, and it seemed that it required mental effort to stop his jaw from its fascinatingly methodical chewing.

  “Anything you want, Mavis?” he said, and at once the chewing recontinued.

  “No. Not now, Briggs,” replied Mrs. Sayers, without turning in her chair.

  “We want a new booster coil, and while we’re about it we’d better have a new set of spark plugs … eight of ’em.”

  The jaw chewed whilst the woman’s voice came across the room.

  “Make the old things last another month.”

  The jaw stopped chewing. It was as though Briggs had to turn a switch, and it seemed a pity that he couldn’t chew and speak at the same time.

  “Impos!” he asserted. “You got an engagement at the college tomorrer afternoon at three. No coil, no car. No car, you walk.”

  “Damn you, Briggs. Go away. I’ll telephone the store first thing in the morning.”

  Briggs departed along the carpeted passage to the rear quarters and left the house. On reaching the front gate, he noiselessly opened one panel and vanished in the direction of the Port Cuvier Hotel. Five minutes later, Mrs. Sayers heard the front-door bell ringing. She stepped from the house proper, crossed the wire-enclosed veranda and switched on the exterior light before opening the door.

  “Why, it’s Mr. Knapp!” she exclaimed. “Do come in.”

  “I offer many apologies and I have a hundred excuses, Mrs. Sayers.”

  “Well you don’t need them. I’m delighted to see you,” Mrs. Sayers giggled. “And I’m all alone, too.” Closing the front door, she conducted the visitor to the lounge, chattering about the weather and saying that his visit relieved her from a lonely evening. She made him sit in a chair requiring a crane to lift one out, and she chose the settee, pulling forward an ornate smoker’s stand to serve both. “You didn’t bring Esther with you?”

  “They have been tremendously busy,” Bony ex­plained.

  “You know, I’m so relieved that they arrested that terrible man. Poor Mabel Overton! It’s so sad. She was a lovely woman, Mr. Knapp. So sweet-tempered. And why he murdered her, I can’t imagine. If they don’t hang him for it, I’m going to raise hell.”

  Words. Behind the brown eyes lurked a question. They had already noted Bony’s clothes, his hair, and every feature.

  “Did you know her well?” he asked.

  “Oh yes. We were friends for years. She was a good woman, but not tiresome. She never drank like I do, or smoked or said naughty words, like I do. She had every­thing I haven’t got.”

  “I find it difficult to believe that you lack anything, Mrs. Sayers,” he said, smiling, and again glimpsed the question-mark behind her eyes. This was a shrewd woman, a successful woman through recognition of those qualities she did lack. He said:

  “I’m sure you do not lack the ability to keep a secret, once you decide it is worth keeping.”

  “When you’re brought up in a place like Broome by a father who was a pearl buyer and a male nurse who’s the son of the Sphinx, keeping secrets is second nature, Mr. Knapp.”

  “I would be honoured did you consent to share one of mine.”

  Again the smile unrelated to the brown eyes, and the giggle so unrelated to the character of this woman. “Dear Mr. Knapp, you intrigue me,” she gurgled, and Bony flinched. Then changing front so swiftly that he was astonished, she said: “Open up. If it’s an honest secret that hurts no one, I can keep it with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bony imparted his real name, his profession and purpose in Broome. He said that the arrest of Locke was primarily intended to deceive the man who had murdered three women and who would probably attempt to murder a fourth. He asked Mrs. Sayers to give him her full co-operation, and pointed put that the extent of the required co-operation might be more than she was then visualising. Whilst he spoke in low tones, she listened without interruption.

  “I’ll co-operate, of course, Inspector,” she said quietly. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Ask any questions you like and I’ll answer them as best I can.

  “I hadn’t any doubt that you would consent to assist me, Mrs. Sayers. Now these are the things I would like you to do. One: go on calling me Mr. Knapp. Two: continue to live as you normally do. Three: take certain precautions against danger to yourself which I will enumerate later.”

  “Yes. All right, Mr. Knapp.”

  “Now for my questions. Did Mrs. Overton complain to you of a man’s attentions to her?”

  “No, not complain. She did say that Mr. Flinn pro­posed to her, but not what kind of proposal. She told me that she detested him.”

  “Indeed!”

  “She was engaged to a man in Melbourne, you know. I was writing to him when you arrived.”

  “What is your feeling towards Mr. Flinn?”

  “I think he’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “He called on you the other day, I understand. A social call?”

  “Hardly a social call,” replied Mrs. Sayers. “He wanted to sell a small parcel of pearls, and he found out that I know more about ’em than he does.”

  “Thank you. You are being really helpful. Would you tell me just why you think Mr. Flinn a nasty piece of work?”

  The brown eyes clouded.

  “He reminds me somehow of a spider, and I hate spiders. Gives me the feeling that he wants to eat me.”

  “Well, let’s get back to Mrs. Overton. Did she have any male friends?”

  “No man special here. As I told you, she was engaged to be married.”

  “Did she tell you that she lost a garment from her clothes line?”

  “Oh yes, she told me about that.”

  “Was it a nightgown?”

  “Yes, a lavender silk one.”

  “When was it stolen, d’you know?”

  “Yes. She told me she lost it Tuesday night. Does it mean anything?”

  Bony related the circumstances of the theft each murder victim had suffered, and told of the finding of their silk underwear bundled into the wardrobes. Mrs. Sayers was now sitting stiffly upright, her eyes wide and her lips parted.

  “These three crimes provide proof that in Broome is a man imbued with a terrible hatred of women,” Bony proceeded. “Each crime was planned with meticulous attention to detail, so that he made no stupid mistakes which a man nearer to normalcy would have made. However, he was unable to evade doing those things which had become habitu
al, long before he set out on his murder career. Thus, his second murder indicated a pattern, and this pattern was made clear with his third murder. You realise, of course, that his three victims were widows?”

  Mrs. Sayers nodded.

  “They were able to purchase expensive silk under­wear. From each he stole a nightgown. He cut and ripped to pieces their silk underwear. That, broadly, is the pattern in which is concealed his motive.”

  “Why kill three entirely different women?” asked Mrs. Sayers, and Bony secretly acknowledged her intelligence.

  “That question is a difficult one. The first victim was a hotel proprietress, the second was a woman of blemished virtue, the third was much respected for her good works. I can find no common denominator.”

  “Well, the first sold drink.”

  “That’s so. The murderer could have a hatred of drink.”

  “The second sold herself,” itemised Mrs. Sayers.

  “The murderer could hate immorality. For what could he hate the third? The third sold good works. I understand that Mrs. Overton was a keen church worker and intensely interested in child welfare. A man cannot hate both good and bad. Assuming that he plans to murder you. Why you? Pardon me for saying so, but you are neither good nor bad. It could be said that you are negative. Not that you are, of course, but by the same yardstick you are. Do you know a man in Broome who makes you uneasy, even frightened?”

  “No man has ever frightened me. I’ve known plenty of the Flinn type. Frightened of ’em? I can take care of myself. Briggs taught me to do that when I was a little girl. I was caught one night on the beach by a Malay. He was in hospital for months.”

  “That was some time ago, I suppose,” Bony com­mented.

  “Yes, years ago. In the good old days the place was crowded by all nations. Money! Money floated on the wind, and what my father didn’t manage to pick up my late husband did. You needn’t worry over me, Mr. Knapp. I can look after myself.”

  “Briggs taught you ju-jitsu, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “When the Malay attacked you, everyone in Broome heard about it, I assume?”

  Mrs. Sayers shook her head.

  “No one knew about it bar Briggs and my father … and old Dickenson. By hell … he told you, eh?”

  “No. He did mention, though, that Briggs had taught you to take care of yourself. What I’m trying to establish is how many people in Broome know you were taught ju-jitsu by an expert?”

  “Very few, if anyone.”

  “Might be an idea to go into training.”

  “You think the murderer might have a go at me?”

  “It would be a certainty if he stole one of your night­gowns. You sleep alone in the house. Is there any com­munication with Briggs?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know if it’s working. I can ring a bell in Briggs’ room from my bed. I had it put in several years ago when I was ill.”

  “Do your friends know about this?”

  “No. Why should I tell them? It never had any importance.” Mrs. Sayers giggled. “Besides, imagine the gossip if Broome knew all I had to do to bring a man into my bedroom was to press a button.”

  Bony, managing with elegance to extricate himself from the chair, stubbed his cigarette and looked down steadily at Mrs. Sayers. She was older than Mrs. Overton had been and, he thought, the lightness of her make-up was distinctly to her advantage. Her arms were firm and well moulded, and wealth had certainly not coarsened her. She must have been strikingly handsome when a young girl.

  “Mrs. Watson and her two children left for Perth today. You know that?” he said.

  “Oh yes. I heard that she had decided last week to have a holiday.”

  “I’m glad she went away. It reduces my responsibilities by one. Mrs. Abercrombie and Mrs. Clayton are two of them. You are the remaining responsibility.”

  “But I’ve told you you needn’t worry about me.”

  “Mrs. Abercrombie has with her at night an elderly companion. Mrs. Clayton has her daughter with her. The daughter is only a schoolgirl but Mrs. Clayton is safer than you are. I don’t want to frighten you, but I do want you to understand quite clearly that you are my greatest responsibility. You would relieve me of much anxiety did you consent to adopt every safeguard against swift and silent and deadly assault.”

  Mrs. Sayers stood up, proving then that she was slightly taller than Bony.

  “Whatever you say goes with me.”

  Bony smiled his thanks.

  “Our plan of defence will not entail any incon­venience,” he said. “We must have the co-operation of your man Briggs. Both you and he must not vary your usual living routine, or in any way indicate that you are on your guard. Even your cook must know nothing. Is that Briggs returning?”

  “It’ll be him. You’ll have a cup of coffee or some­thing?”

  “Thank you. I suggest that you ask Briggs to come in here.”

  “He’ll report as usual. He makes wonderful coffee, but I have to pour the brandy. I just love brandy in my coffee. Briggs introduced me to it when I was cutting my wisdom teeth.”

  “It appears that Briggs has been Jonathan to your David.” Bony held a match to her cigarette, and their gaze held above the tiny flame. She felt the impact of his personality, and in the instant acknowledged the mental power which subjugated in everyone the consciousness of his mid-race.

  “Briggs has been my father and my mother and my brother,” she heard herself saying, whilst think­ing how strange it was that not till now had she realised it.

  Briggs stood in the doorway. His jaw was chewing. He turned the invisible switch and said:

  “Anything wanted before I lock up?”

  “Come here, Briggs. And don’t keep on chewing like a mechanical figure in a toy shop.”

  Bony suggested that they sit down, and Briggs listened whilst perched on the edge of a chair, the tail of his coat hoisted by the bottle in the back pocket. As Bony pro­ceeded to outline what he had told Mrs. Sayers, the man’s facial expression never changed, nor did the small bright black eyes waver from Bony’s mouth. When Bony ceased speaking, he said:

  “I been urging Mrs. Sayers to take proper care for the last two month. Things being as they are, I’ll be doing sentry-go round the house at night.”

  “You’ll do no more nor less than what Mr. Knapp wants,” interjected Mrs. Sayers. “In other words, Briggs, you’ll do just what you’re told to do.”

  “I’m listening.” The eye farthest away from Mrs. Sayers was momentarily masked by the lid. The wink was the signature to a treaty of alliance against the wilful and unpredictable Mrs. Sayers, nee Mavis Masters.

  When Bony bade his adieu at the front door, the com­municating bell in Briggs’ room had been tested and found efficient, the house had been secured, and every room had been investigated by Briggs … just in case Mr. Hyde had sneaked in whilst he had been out and Mrs. Sayers had been entertaining Bony. Briggs had gone to his room, locking the kitchen door and taking the key with him as usual. He had agreed not to prowl outside the house, not to drink the usual quantity of gin and to sleep with the bell under his pillow. Mrs. Sayers promised Bony to lock her room door on retiring.

  He heard her lock the front door and instead of setting out to the police station, Bony sat all night under one of the palms.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Casual Enquirer

  BONY was shaving when he heard Mrs. Walters calling him, and on emerging from his room, showered and refreshed by three hours’ sleep, she complained that the tracker had not come for breakfast.

  “I’ll see where he is,” he volunteered. It was nine o’clock and the morning sunshine was hot. The sky lacked colour although it was cloudless, and the small flies were instantly a bother when he stepped down into the compound.

  Abie was not at his camp in the loose-box. His blankets were there, tossed into a heap, and the straps with which he fastened his swag were there, too, but the military overcoat
and the boots and the wide-brimmed felt hat were absent. Recalling that he had not seen Abie since the previous morning, Bony returned to the kitchen, where Mrs. Walters was placing bacon and eggs and toast before her husband.

  “When did you last see Abie?” he asked the inspector.

  “Abie! Don’t remember. Why?”

  “Abie didn’t come for his breakfast when I called him,” replied Mrs. Walters. “He came for his dinner last night.”

  “Out with the mare, I suppose,” Walters said, evincing little interest.

  “Not like a black-fellow to be away at meal time,” she pointed out, and Bony added:

  “He’s not in his camp or anywhere in the compound. I wonder what he’s up to. By the way, those drawing-pins fastening that calendar to the wall interest me. Where did you obtain them?”

  “From office stock. All office requirements are sent up from Perth. Where’s the interest?”

  “I’ll reveal it after breakfast. Anything of note happen last night?”

  “Nothing. The women went off to bed at eleven, leaving the front door open. Talk! They talked for a couple of hours before going to bed, and for nearly two hours I could hear them talking to each other from their rooms. What did you do?”

  “Sat under one of Mrs. Sayers’ palm trees and com­muned with the stars. Earlier, she told me that Mrs. Overton had had a nightgown stolen.”

  “Crumbs!”

  “It’s the one item of fair news in this depression,” Bony claimed. “Our man is running true to his pattern. If only I could see him in the picture I’m trying to paint. I’d take a chance then and act on a search warrant. If those three garments were found in his possession, we would have enough evidence for an arrest.”

  “In such case, would you advise the arrest?”

  “No. We would have enough evidence to arrest for clothes-line thefts but not for murder. These days you have almost to make a moving picture of the actual murder to have hope of getting a conviction. Our next step is to watch for clothes left out all night, and con­tinue to guard those three widows. A picture record! Quite an idea.”