The Widows of Broome

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Then Mrs. Cotton’s washing was the only woman’s washing on the line that day?”

  Irene nodded, and Bony gave her the cigarette he made and lighted it for her.

  “Thank you, Irene You’ve no idea who might have stolen Mrs. Cotton’s nightgown, have you?”

  “Oh, no! I would have told her if I had.”

  “Yes, of course you would. Why was the washing hung out so late?”

  The girl burst into low laughter, and Bony beamed. She said:

  “Old Mary Ann had a baby Friday night, and she wouldn’t let one of the other lubras take her place, saying she’d washed for Mrs. Cotton especially for ten years, and she wasn’t going to miss out that Saturday. She wasn’t feeling so good in the morning after the baby was born, but she got here about three in the afternoon, she and a young lubra called Juliet. There was no drying wind, you see, and when night came the clothes were still wet.”

  “Yes, of course they would be. Had that ever happened before ... in the winter months?”

  “I don’t remember so.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Bony swiftly followed up, expertly preventing the girl’s mind from wandering from the subject in hand: “Who stripped Mrs. Cotton’s bed and tidied her room after her body was taken away?”

  Irene said that she “fixed” the bedroom and stripped the bed. Yes, she had then swept the floor. No, she noticed nothing wrong with the room or the bed. No, Mrs. Cotton wasn’t in a bad temper that night, or drunk, or anything like that. Mrs. Cotton never got drunk, and she was a kind mistress to everyone who worked for her. When she heard about Mary Ann’s baby she told Mary Ann to go back to camp at once, but Mary Ann began to cry and said she was all right, and that Juliet would be sure to spoil Mrs. Cotton’s best undies.

  “Well, then, having fixed the bedroom, did you look into the wardrobe for anything to be washed?”

  “No,” replied Irene. “All I did was to put two dresses into the wardrobe.”

  “Didn’t you notice when you fixed the room that there wasn’t any of Mrs. Cotton’s silk underwear about?”

  “Oh, yes, I noticed that.”

  “Did you tell Sergeant Sawtell about it?”

  “Oh no! Sergeant Sawtell took it all away; Mrs. Cotton’s nightie, and her day undies.”

  “How do you know about the undies ... that the sergeant took the undies away?” persisted Bony.

  “I don’t know. He took the nightie and he would have taken the undies,” was the naive reply.

  “Yes, I suppose he would do that,” admitted Bony. “You never saw a bundle of old rags in Mrs. Cotton’s wardrobe, did you?”

  “Old rags!” laughed Irene. “Mrs. Cotton wouldn’t have any old rags in her room. Soon as anything got raggedy, off it went to the blacks’ camp.”

  Bony jumped to his feet and the girl rose with him.

  “Well, Irene, thank you very much. Now remember, don’t say anything about what we’ve been talking. All that’s a little secret with you and me. What size stockings do you wear?”

  She mentioned a size five shoe, and that she liked nylons, but they were too dear for her. Bony assured her that if he could obtain them, nylon stockings she should have. Then he said:

  “By the way, before I go. On the Saturday the nightgown was stolen there were a lot of people out here from the town. D’you remember anyone particularly who came in here from the main yard?”

  “No. Oh, no. No one would dare come in here,” Irene replied.

  “Then do you remember seeing anyone leaning over the fence, and taking notice of what was inside?”

  The girl began to shake her head. Then, beneath the light-brown skin, the blush could be seen. She nodded, and after hesitation, said:

  “Yes, there was that Mr. Flinn. When I went out last thing before dark to see how the clothes were drying, he was leaning on the back fence. He called to me, and I wouldn’t go.”

  “Oh! You don’t like Mr. Flinn?”

  “I hate him. He’s been after me for a long time. Mr. Mark said he’d knock his bloody head off if he comes after me again.”

  “Dear, dear!” murmured Bony. “What language! Well, Irene, I must be going. I’ll not forget about the stockings. Shoe size five. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye ... Bone-ee!”

  He waved to her from the wicket gate, and then sought the Broome police, finding them with Black Mark on the hotel veranda. The licensee accompanied them to the jeep, and before climbing into the vehicle, Bony said to him whilst holding his black eyes:

  “I’ve had a little chat with Irene. She knows nothing about those torn garments found in the wardrobe. You really would like to know who strangled Mrs. Cotton?”

  “You’re just telling me.”

  “I may tell you one day ... on several conditions.”

  “Name ’em.”

  “That you will say nothing of those torn silk garments, that you do not question Irene regarding what she and I have been talking about, because I’ve told her not to tell you. And also that you will keep to yourself the fact that I am a friend of Inspector Walters, and the fact that I am interested in who strangled Mrs. Cotton.”

  Black Mark expanded his chest, and the chest appeared to lift the fringe of his beard.

  “Goes with me,” he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Conference

  WITH the passing days Bony became increasingly perturbed. Time, he had said so often, was his greatest ally, but in this matter of double homicide, Time as an ally had to be ignored because the double murderer took count of Time only as measured by the moon. And now the moon was growing old and the period of darkness long.

  Bony sat at the table in his “office”, a secluded corner of the station veranda. The table was littered with notes, and two small conch shells were disgracefully full of cigarette ends.

  Were it not for the ageing moon, he would have been fully satisfied with his progress in this investigation. His patience wasn’t wearing thin, but the moon was being now so anæmic that on the next morning it wouldn’t rise before 2.38. Additional measures would certainly have to be taken to safeguard further possible victims of this strangling maniac.

  At eleven, when Mrs. Walters brought him morning tea, she found him slumped into the chair turned sideways to the desk and one leg resting on a corner of it. Failing to notice her approach, he was all activity when he did, thanking her for troubling about him, and then asking if she could spare a few minutes.

  Mrs. Walters gladly assented to give him all the minutes he might want, and on making her comfortable in a chair on the far side of the table, he said:

  “I am finding so much femininity in this investigation that often I wish I were a woman, with all a woman’s knowledge of other women, and all a woman’s knowledge of men. Women can see deeper into others of their own sex, and much deeper into men than men can. You have been so helpful that I am going to pester you for further assistance.”

  “I shall be only too glad to help in any way, Bony,” she told him, and so eagerly that he smiled his appreciation. “When you use the word femininity, I understand just what you mean.”

  “I thought you would. Now just listen while I run over a few items, some of which are not known to your husband or to Sawtell. And what we say, let it remain between us. Now then. On Saturday, April 7th, Mrs. Cotton’s personal washing was left all night on the line because the lubra turned up late that day. The next morning, a silk nightgown belonging to Mrs. Cotton was missing. It has never been recovered. A few nights later, on the 12th, Mrs. Cotton was found dead in the hotel yard, and subsequently I found in her wardrobe all her silk underwear torn to shreds.

  “A few weeks later, history is repeated. On May 3rd, Mrs. Mallory, who served Mrs. Eltham, washed her laundry. The clothes not being dry at nightfall, they were left on the line. During the night a silk nightgown was stolen. Two nights later, Mrs. Eltham was strangled, and subsequently I found her silk underwear ripped and torn and bundled inside her wardrobe.
Both women, you will recall, were found in a state of nudity, and beside each body was the torn nightgown they had been wearing when killed. Those nightgowns were ripped only once. What do you make of all that?”

  “I think that he killed those women because he feared them.”

  “Psychiatrists have gone very deep into the human mind, and they admit there is yet a very long way to go. One fact deducible from that destroyed feminine underwear is that the destroyer is an introvert, one whose sex life was so unbalanced by circumstances that he has been transformed into a homicidal maniac. Such a person can continue the social round, or in business, and yet be entirely unsuspected by those with whom he associates.”

  Bony paused to give Mrs. Walters opportunity to comment, and when she remained silent, he asked a question which astonished her.

  “Have you at any time in your life met a man who, superficially, was charming and yet revealed something in himself which frightened you?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “In Broome?”

  “No. It was before I was married and came to Broome. I have met men I have instinctively known I could not trust. There seemed to be something evil despite their agreeable manner.”

  “H’m! Have you met a man of that type here in Broome?”

  Mrs. Walters’ mouth became tight and her dark eyes clouded.

  “Remember, we’re talking in confidence,” Bony said.

  “Well, there’s a man in Broome with whom I’d not want to be alone. The man is Arthur Flinn. He was the man who ignored your question of what happens to the exhibits at Activities Day, and Mrs. Simmonds told you they were sent to Perth for sale.”

  “Ah! So he is Arthur Flinn.” Deftly Bony changed the subject. “How many widows are there in Broome who are comparatively young and able to afford expensive silk underwear?”

  “Well, there’s Mrs. Sayers for one,” replied Mrs. Walters without hesitation, and Bony drew forward a slip of paper and jotted down the name. “Then there’s Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Clayton and Mrs. Abercrombie. And we must include Mrs. Overton. That’s five.”

  “Thank you. Of those five widows, who would do their own washing or have it done at their homes?”

  “I think no woman in her senses would send silk clothes to a laundry,” replied Mrs. Walters. “Anyone able to afford such a luxury could afford to have it washed by a lubra at home, or do it herself.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Are there any other widows ... additional to the five you have mentioned?”

  “Several I could name, but they are not in the upper circle occupied by the five and those two unfortunates.”

  “You are kind to be so patient with me,” Bony said, smilingly. “A few more answers and I’ll let you out of school. Do you know any of those five women intimately?”

  “Oh yes. I’m on visiting terms with Mrs. Abercrombie and Mrs. Overton. And, of course, Mrs. Sayers. I don’t know Mrs. Watson so well although I’ve met her often at school functions. Mrs. Clayton is a bit stand-offish, her husband having been an author.”

  “Er, I can understand that,” Bony hastened to say. “Well, I think we’ll take steps to protect those five widows. I’ll talk to your husband about it. How often d’you leave your washing out all night at this time of year?”

  Mrs. Walters took time to consider.

  “Seldom during the winter months. Perhaps once in every four weeks ... due to a wet wind coming in from the sea.”

  Bony stood up, saying:

  “I’m grateful for your co-operation, Mrs. Walters, and now I’ll be slightly better armed to tackle your husband. He’s been quite sore with me because I haven’t told him how I knew someone had been in Mrs. Eltham’s house after it was finally shut up.”

  “Yes, I know, Bony. Harry hates mysteries.”

  Bony chuckled. “I just love them,” he asserted. “I find a good mystery the very breath of life.”

  Five likely victims! When Mrs. Walters had left him, he compared his list from her information with that supplied by Sergeant Sawtell. The five were on Sawtell’s list, and from Sawtell’s memoranda Bony jotted down information concerning his five. Mrs. Sayers lived alone in her house, but in a room off the rear yard lived a man named Briggs who was her chauffeur and general man about the place. A woman came daily to cook and do the housework. Mrs. Overton lived entirely alone. Mrs. Clayton lived with her daughter aged fourteen. Mrs. Watson lived with two small children aged respectively four and three. A married sister spent much time with her in the evenings. And Mrs. Abercrombie had for a companion a woman much older than herself. Mrs. Overton seemed most open to attack, but then Mrs. Cotton had been surrounded by people.

  It was all very well to place a guard over those women. Such a precaution would surely be noted by this Mr. Hyde, who would then select any unguarded woman. It was all very well to assume that he had a predilection for widows. Assumption was as far as anyone could go along that road.

  There was one road Bony was reluctant to take. This killer of women had stolen the nightgowns belonging to his intended victims. The theft seemed to be a prerequisite to murder. The five widows could be interviewed and requested to report immediately they suffered such a loss, but could they be depended on not to gossip about such a request from the police? Bony thought not. It was useless to do anything unless absolute assurance could be obtained that official interest in nightgowns on clothes lines was not transmitted ultimately to the ears of the killer.

  And yet, were another victim claimed by this murderer, it would be just too bad. At lunch, when listening to Nanette’s bright chatter, he decided to ask the five widows to report a theft from their clothes lines. After lunch he decided to drop his plan for another, and at no period of his career had he been so unsure and so hesitant in reaching a decision.

  During the afternoon he sat with Inspector Walters in the office.

  “Have you a spare map of the town?” he asked.

  Walters said there was one, and after a short search produced it.

  “Mark on it, please, in red ink the position of the houses occupied by the widows Sayers, Overton, Abercrombie, Watson and Clayton,” he requested, and without comment Walters did so. He gave Bony a full five minutes’ study of the position of the five houses before saying:

  “Am I thinking what you’re thinking?”

  “I am trying to plan how to protect those five women without the man we want knowing it. I thought it might be wise for one of us to interview each of those five women and ask them to report at once when they had a nightgown stolen from their clothes line. I still think that course would be the exercise of wisdom, but it has a grave defect. We can receive no guarantee that one or more will not gossip about it, and gossip in a place like Broome means blaring radio-broadcasting. However, it would seem that the best we can do is maintain an unobtrusive surveillance over those five houses and then, when washing at one of them is left out, to wait by the clothes line.”

  “That seems the best thing to do.”

  “Could you arrange for Clifford and Sawtell, with you and me to take turns, to maintain watch on those five clothes lines?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good! Get Sawtell to begin by taking a walk this evening.”

  “Certainly. And Clifford can do it tomorrow ... between sundown and dark?”

  “Between sundown and dark. If only I am permitted time, I’ll so build the fellow’s personality and background that I’ll be confident in handing you sufficient proof on which to charge him. Time is so essential, and yet the danger to one of those five widows is real, so real that I am made nervous. Now what do you know about Arthur Flinn?”

  Inspector Walters produced a report and read:

  “Flinn, Arthur Willoughby. Probable age 48. Believed to be a bachelor. Pearl dealer by profession. Resides at the Seahorse Hotel, in Chinatown, and has an office in Chinatown which is not now open for business. Came to Broome in 1945. Has stated that he came from Sydney where he lived during the war, an
d that he carried on his business in Darwin for ten years before the war. Has stated also that he was born in Australia, and that he possesses independent means.”

  “Thanks,” murmured Bony. “I’d like to telegraph Darwin for a check-up, but cannot even trust the postal officials during this hunt for our Mr. Hyde. Write to Darwin by airmail. They may know something of him. Will it go tonight?”

  “Early tomorrow. Should have a reply-the day after. Is he important?”

  “Flinn is one of Dr. Mitchell’s psoriasis patients. On the evening of April 7th, during the night of which Mrs. Cotton’s nightgown was stolen, he was seen resting against the back fence of the hotel. You will remember the flakes of dead skin I found on the floor of Mrs. Eltham’s bedroom. Admittedly, there was no dead skin amongst the dust I swept up from Mrs. Cotton’s room. Dr. Mitchell examined it through his microscope, and failed to detect any. The room was thoroughly cleaned by Irene, the girl at the hotel, immediately after Mrs. Cotton’s body was removed. That collection of dust proves only that the murderer did not return on a night after his crime to destroy Mrs. Cotton’s silk underwear. It proves that he did it on the night he murdered her. He had time to rip and tear Mrs. Eltham’s underwear the night he murdered her. Why he did not, but went back after a week or two to do it, I cannot tell you.”

  “I remember seeing Mr. Flinn doing quite a lot of walking about Broome during the evenings,” succinctly added Walters. “Why not keep an eye on him?”

  “A friend is already doing that for me.”

  “Tell.”

  “Mr. Earle Dickenson is obliging me.”

  “But he must be drunk,” objected the inspector. “It’s the beginning of the new quarter.”

  Bony smiled whimsically.

  “Mr. Dickenson is obliging me by not becoming drunk. Should you see him when making the round of the widows’ houses, you might be forgiven for thinking he was drunk. I can assure you he is cold sober, and is taking a strong and beneficial interest in this murder investigation.”