The Widows of Broome

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “On nearing the ground rise to the road where there is light scrub, I heard someone talking, and then as I drew nearer, I decided it was someone talking to himself. I found Abie under a tree. I asked him what he was doing there. He was drunk. He struggled to his knees and mumbled something, and he offered me a bottle.

  “Another time, perhaps, I may have accepted his hospitality. I declined, and he seemed to insist. It was quite dark, you know. I took the bottle and found that it contained whisky ... about a quarter full. Abie then fell on his back, and I thought he was very drunk. As he was lying close to the tree, I propped the bottle against it and left him.

  “During the remainder of my walk, I pondered on Abie and his whisky, and I reached the conclusion that someone at the airport had given the whisky to him, or that he had stolen it from the airport. Then, this morning, I hear that Abie was found in a drain with a petrol rag over his face.

  “When I thought Abie collapsed under the influence of whisky, it might be that he collapsed under the influence of whisky plus the influence of poison. Abie wouldn’t go all the way out to that tree with a bottle of whisky and another bottle containing petrol to have a go at the petrol after drinking the whisky.” Mr. Dickenson hesitated before adding: “Any more than I would take on the battery acid after a sip or two of whisky. And he wouldn’t take petrol with him to get himself over the effects of a bender on whisky. The abos aren’t as provident as all that.”

  During a full minute, Bony made no further comment.

  “Your deduction is sound. You said you thought you heard voices as you approached the tree from the marsh. If the poisoner was then with Abie, he would have heard your approach. He would then have heard what took place when you found Abie, and he would not have proceeded to stage the death-by-misadventure scene at the culvert, knowing that your testimony would nullify all his trouble. I think you were fortunate.”

  “How so?”

  “That the poisoner was not with Abie when you arrived there. Had he been with Abie, and hidden in the darkness, he would not have staged the petrol fumes act. However, be advised and don’t sleep on public benches.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Several Facets

  BONY arrived at the cemetery a few minutes before the cortege. The ancient motor-hearse was driven by an elderly white man smoking a calabash pipe. Beside him sat a very fat Malay chewing tobacco. After the hearse came a senile car crammed with aborigines, with two on either running-board. Following the car were two vehicles which, imaginatively, could be designated trucks. They were loaded with men, their women and children and dogs. The men were shouting from truck to truck, the women were wailing, the children were bored and all the dogs were barking. Last to arrive, and only just in time to catch up, was Mr. Kendrake, the minister.

  Bony followed the minister’s car along the central roadway, on either side of which stood ornate monuments to Japanese divers who had perished on the shell beds, and elaborate memorials to wealthy Chinese and Malayans.

  The cortège halted in a far corner of the cemetery, and there Abie was laid to rest and the minister preached sternly on the evils of drink and petrol fumes. The women wailed throughout, and the dogs barked continuously, but the powerful voice of the minister cowed the men and the children to solemnity.

  Standing on the outskirts of the crowd, Bony was sad: for this race was dying, and the remnant here clothed in rags and gaudy finery presented the dreadful tragedy of a once rigidly moral, supremely free people being devoured by an alien and stupid civilisation.

  Two of the women captured Bony’s attention. One was a wizened old creature who was weeping with complete abandon. She was wearing a military overcoat which swept the ground at her feet, and on her head was a kind of turban of faded blue. The other was the maid he had interviewed at Dampier’s Hotel. She was dressed in a brown frock and wore nylon stockings. Irene smiled shyly at Bony, and when the service was over, he went to her.

  “Hallo, Bone-ee! Thank you for the stockings. I’m...”

  “Yes, I see you are wearing them. They look very nice, Irene. Who is the old woman crying so much?”

  “She’s Lilia, Abie’s grandmother.”

  “Ah! I ought to have guessed. She’s very old.”

  “She says she remembers when there weren’t any white people in this country. She said she ought to have Abie’s overcoat, so they gave it to her.”

  “She’s looking this way. Call her over,” requested Bony.

  The girl beckoned and the ancient approached, looking like a candle snuffer with a turbaned monkey for its top.

  “Where you bin gettum hat, Lilia?” Bony asked, and the old woman blinked back her tears and shook her head. Irene explained that Lilia couldn’t understand English, and that to within a few years ago she had been a desert black. The girl spoke in a dialect strange to Bony.

  “She says that Abie gave the hat to her a long time ago. She says he gave it to her last winter to keep her head warm.”

  “Ask her to let us see the hat,” Bony murmured, and when Irene had made the request known, off came the turban and it was unrolled to be disclosed as a silk nightgown.

  “Tell her it’s very pretty,” and whilst Irene was translating, Bony produced a stick of tobacco. The small eyes deep in their sockets brightened to black beads, and a skinny hand abruptly closed over the tobacco; the old woman glanced about to see if the gift had been observed, and in a flash the tobacco disappeared.

  “Ask her if she knows who gave Abie the nightgown, Irene.”

  The old woman negatived this question and Bony let her hobble away towards the trucks, and they watched her compete with the women and the children and dogs to gain a place.

  “They’re going now,” Irene said, and Bony sensed that she, too, would have to compete for a seat. Smilingly, he let her go and then with amusement watched her ordering a youth from the car that she might ride in it.

  Pensively, Bony walked to the airport gateway. He thought it improbable that Abie had stolen the nightgowns belonging to the three murdered women. To accept that probability meant accepting the theory that Abie stole at the instigation of the murderer, which wasn’t logical, for no white man would trust an aborigine to that extent. Abie could have taken it from discarded clothing sent to the Mission. Anyway, it was not nearly as important as Mr. Dickenson’s adventure.

  Bony located the tree beside the road, an odd broad-leafed mulga about which grew no herbage or grass. It was easy tracking and the story plain to read. A man wearing rubber-soled shoes had stepped off the road with Abie and had stood with him under the tree. Abie had sat or had fallen down, and the man had hurriedly walked away to the road. The man wearing the rubber-soled shoes had returned to the tree and, on again departing to the road, he had carried a heavy burden. The shoes were new and the wearer pressed hard on the inside edge of the heels.

  He had also taken the whisky bottle!

  Bony found Mr. Dickenson on the bench outside the Seahorse Hotel. It was nearing six o’clock and the place was packed. With his back to the hotel, he said softly:

  “Stand up and ask me to have a drink.”

  Mr. Dickenson obliged, and Bony markedly hesitated to accept the suggestion before accompanying the old man into the bar. They found a reasonably quiet corner, and Bony edged his way through the press to the counter and bought the drinks. Everyone seemed too busy to notice them.

  “I visited that tree,” Bony said. “Your inferences, I think, are correct. In view of the possibility that you were seen with Abie, keep on your toes.”

  “To be forewarned is...”

  “Is not to be immune from attack. Have you seen Flinn about?”

  “I haven’t seen him all day. Can we have another drink?”

  “One more. You get them.”

  Mr. Dickenson had to fight his way through the crush to reach the counter.

  “Would you grant me a favour?” Bony asked when the old man emerged without spilling the liquor. “I want you to
pick up Flinn and keep with him until he goes to his room to sleep. What d’you think of a man who likes the touch of pearl against his face?”

  Mr. Dickenson pondered, rubbing his long nose with his free hand.

  “Pearl shell and pearls have a strong pull over some men. Naked gold has a similar influence over other men. I once knew a man who traded in furs. He was fascinated by fur. He liked to feel the touch of fur. He liked cats. He died of fatty degeneration of the heart. Ate and drank too much.”

  Leaving the bar, they sat on the low veranda, and Bony related what he had seen in the shell-packing shed, the while Mr. Dickenson gazed seaward at the clouds lying along the north-west horizon.

  “Going to be a dark night,” predicted the old man. “I told you before, if I remember rightly, that Flinn is a flash. You know more than I do. My reading of Flinn is that he might murder if he was threatened by something big. Abie could have been blackmailing Flinn, but I don’t see how those three women could have threatened him or could have been a threat to him.”

  “They were a decided threat to the man who killed them,” Bony said, quietly.

  “Oh!” Mr. Dickenson regarded Bony thoughtfully. “Then Flinn is a probability.”

  “Which is why I want you to keep both eyes on him, and at the same time look out for yourself. Is there a lock in your room?”

  “Both a lock and a bolt.”

  “Then use both. What do those clouds mean? Rain? Wind?”

  “I think neither. The glass is too high and the time of year against rain. The night will be dark and likely enough it will be a damp day tomorrow.”

  “Meaning?”

  “A damp sea wind to annoy the Chinese laundry-man.”

  “Well, I shall be late for dinner. Look after yourself. Be outside the post office at six in the morning. You’ll not fail?”

  “I shall be on duty,” Mr. Dickenson pointed out stiffly.

  “Yes, of course. Remember, keep looking over your shoulder.”

  Mr. Dickenson smiled, nodded, and departed for the hotel dining-room. Bony went back to the police station to call Mrs. Sayers. She had intended to go to a card party, but that could go to the devil as she would much prefer to entertain Mr. Knapp. At eight, Bony presented himself.

  “A very good evening, Mr. Knapp. So glad you’ve come.”

  “It’s generous of you to choose my company against the lure of the card table,” he murmured. Mrs. Sayers led the way to the lounge. She wore a white woollen sweater, white shorts and white toeless sandals. Her legs were untanned, her eyes were bright and her hair gleamed like old copper. Bony did not betray his astonishment at such literal interpretation of informal evening wear.

  Nonchalantly he said:

  “I hope you and Briggs have been carrying out the arrangements we agreed on.”

  “Briggs has been more determined about it than I have. I don’t believe even now that I shall be attacked. There’s no reason for it, but then ... you have been anxious, I know.” Mrs. Sayers giggled and called loudly for Briggs.

  Briggs appeared instantly, standing just within the doorway of the lounge and mechanically chewing. Mrs. Sayers stubbed her cigarette and moved to the centre of the room.

  “Briggs,” she cried, “come and strangle me.”

  The chewing was switched off, and Briggs said:

  “No fear, Mavis. I’ve had it.”

  “Do as you’re told, Briggs. At once.”

  She-who-must-be-obeyed stood passively with her hands on her wide hips. Briggs switched on the chewing and advanced. His lips parted and the chewing teeth clicked. His eyes reminded Bony of Abie’s grandmother. He wavered, feinted, lunged. Up came Mrs. Sayers’ arms. Under them went Briggs’ crab-like hands, and his body flashed slightly to one side. He managed to place his hands about her throat, and Mrs. Sayers promptly sank upon her knees and then catapulted herself forward. Briggs went backward and his hands flew wide, and then he was on his back and Mrs. Sayers’ knees were pressing hard into his stomach and her hands were about his throat.

  “Bravo!” exclaimed Bony.

  Mrs. Sayers laughingly rose from Briggs and pulled him to his feet. He forgot to switch on the chewing, and said:

  “Easy enough when ya have warning. Another tale when there’s no warning. Any’ow you haven’t forgot much.”

  “I’ve forgotten nothing, Briggs. No man is going to strangle me.”

  Then her left wrist was caught in a wheel-puller and her arm was braced up her back. A knee was forced into the small of her back, and a hand covered her throat and her head was brought against a hard shoulder. She sagged her knees but the hand about her throat remained, pressing it and clamping her head against Bony’s shoulder. Briggs said three times: “Bravo!”

  Mrs. Sayers was panting slightly when released and gallantly raised to her feet. There was no mockery in her eyes.

  “As Briggs said, the tale is different when there’s no warning,” Bony murmured. “Forgive me for that small demonstration. Under all the circumstances, I felt it was warranted.”

  “I been telling her...” Briggs cut in and was then cut out.

  “Briggs, fetch some soda water. I want a drink.” Mrs. Sayers turned to Bony, and now she was laughing. “You’re a remarkable man, Mr. Knapp. I never thought it was in you. I remember that you like the flavour of whisky in soda water.”

  “When we disclose who killed Mrs. Overton and those other women, you will say you never thought it was in him,” Bony insisted. “If he should attack you, you will not have any warning. I do hope you’ll continue to co-operate with me.”

  “Of course I will.” Mrs. Sayers took the soda from Briggs, and Briggs lined up with them at the sideboard. About to snub him, she changed her mind and gave him a drink.

  “The bell working all right?” Bony asked.

  Briggs nodded and Mrs. Sayers said they tested it each evening.

  He was dismissed then, and Bony accepted a chair opposite his hostess.

  “I would like to ask you an impertinent question, Mrs. Sayers. Why did you quarrel with Mr. Percival?”

  “You heard about that? Really I oughtn’t to have flared up like I did, Mr. Knapp. He came here one night complaining that Mr. Rose as headmaster was becoming far too easy-going with the boys, and they were taking advantage of it. I said it had nothing to do with me, and he came back by saying I was the member of the Board of Control who had the most influence, and wanted me to use it against Mr. Rose. Then he said he wouldn’t have minded being stood down if Mr. Rose had turned out to be fitted for the headmastership. The discussion became heated when he blamed me for the board’s decision to appoint Mr. Rose in his stead, and I ordered him out of the house. Afterwards, I told him I was sorry, and we were friends again.”

  “Has he visited you often?”

  “Yes, been here lots of times.”

  “How many people, d’you think, would know the plan of this house?” asked Bony.

  “Everyone in Broome, I should think. I don’t mind ’em wandering around at my parties.”

  “Dear me! And I am supposed to be infallible. Would you have your domestic do the washing tomorrow?”

  “I would, but there isn’t any. She washed on Monday.”

  “You would be most helpful if you did have your personal washing left out on the line tomorrow night.”

  Mrs. Sayers’ wide mouth formed an O.

  “All right,” she assented. Then she giggled and cried: “I think you’re just the loveliest man!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Fisherman

  THE next day being Saturday, Bony went fishing in the afternoon with Bill Lung and Johnno. Sawtell, who happened to be in Chinatown, saw the three men in the boat heading down the creek for the open sea, and he snorted with astonishment.

  The boat could not be termed a motor-cruiser and there was nothing of comfort in it and little of cleanliness. Pieces of bait were still about from a previous trip, and the fish Johnno was cutting into bait was far
from fresh. He sang as he worked, and the Chinese owner stood with the tiller between his legs and steered. Despite the smell of petrol he lit a cheroot from a match seeming to have a flame a yard high.

  Out in the broad Roebuc Bay there was little wind. Through the holes in the canopy of mottled grey cloud the sunlight fell in bright bars of brass to rest upon the world. The water of the comparatively shallow bay was clear light-green, and so, too, was the gull which flew over the motor-boat. Bony had never before seen a green seagull. The wings and breast were diaphanously emitting the most wondrous tint.

  Conversation being difficult because of the engine noise, Bony was content to loll on the stern thwart and appreciate the surroundings. Broome, hidden, save for a few buildings, behind the salmon-pink dunes, would entice the seafarer to think it a metropolis. The long white jetty and the buildings at its base appeared to have no purpose, and farther to the north the large sharp-angled Cave Hill College threatened the sprawling Mission.

  Bony felt inexpressibly sleepy. For a week his sleep had been taken in minimum doses, and now the sea air made a definite attack upon his eyelids. Johnno saw him rubbing his eyes, and laughed. Bill Lung was looking for his sea-marks and yet left the tiller to fetch a pair of tinted glasses from the tool-box.

  The engine being stopped and the anchor tossed outboard, the ensuing silence lingered beyond Johnno’s chatter and Bill Lung’s soft drawling voice. Two gulls came winging above them, and Bony removed the glasses. The sun was now shining on this deep water, and the gulls overhead were translucently blue.

  “I’ve fished often enough in the Pacific, but I’ve never seen green and blue gulls until today,” remarked Bony. “They must reflect the colour of the sea.”

  “That’s so,” agreed Bill Lung. “I’ve never noticed it before. Be good for trade if some of the pearl shells was coloured like that.”

  They fished for an hour and caught nothing. Then Bony’s line was taken away despite all his efforts. He had fastened the end of the strong hand-line round the thwart, and the line became taut and then snapped asunder.