The New Shoe

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Roberts could take it to Superintendent Bolt if you gave the instruction. Has his own motor bike. He’d like the trip.”

  “Good! Let’s pack it.”

  The comb was packed in cardboard and placed in a stout official envelope, Staley’s curiosity mounting.

  “Type a letter for me.”

  The uniformed man sat at the typewriter, and Bony dictated following the usual procedure:

  “‘I am going to Adelaide for a few days. Meanwhile please have your people examine the hairs on this comb to ascertain if they came from the head of the man in the bath. I shall inform you when I expect to return to Lorne, and would like one of your senior men to be here when I do return.’”

  Staley’s grey eyes almost squinted as they watched Bony sign the letter and slip it into the envelope containing the comb. He had had to transfer from the detective branch to receive promotion to Senior Constable, and his ambition was to go back to the detective branch where he would be Senior Detective Staley. His gratification was keen when Bony said:

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Senior. I shall not forget you in my final report. You could, of course, not know the contents of this envelope. It would be advisable for your Divisional Headquarters to understand only that I asked you to have a letter delivered to Superintendent Bolt.”

  Staley instantly agreed. He went out with Bony to the single seater, saw him drive away to Colac, and returned to instruct his constable about the trip to Melbourne. If the hairs on that comb had come from the famous dead man, then ... Who knows?

  When, three days later, Staley was thinking of knocking off for lunch, Constable Roberts appeared at the office door, excitement in his dark eyes, his round face expressive.

  “Car pulled up out front. Looks like the Chief Commissioner.”

  He vanished, and Staley swept litter into drawers and tidied his desk. He had just that period of time, when heavy footsteps sounded on the bare boards of the outer office.

  The man who entered was moulded like a cigar. The top of his head, revealed when he hung his felt hat on a peg, was like pinkish marble rising from the fringe of greying hair resting on his large ears. Like his feet, his head was absurdly small in comparison with his waistline. It was known that his brown eyes could bore like a gimlet, exhibit infantile innocence, compel a sinner to shed tears of remorse.

  “Good day, sir!” said Staley, stiffly erect.

  “Day, Senior! Inspector Bonaparte not shown up yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “H’m! Said he would be here at one.” The brown eyes bore into Staley, and Staley did not flinch by a flicker. Superintendent Bolt sat on the spare chair. “You heard from Inspector Bonaparte since he was here? Sit down.”

  “Thank you, sir. No. I’ve heard nothing from him.”

  Bolt produced a pipe and filled it from a tin of cut tobacco. Staley thought that Superintendents should possess at least a tobacco pouch, if they would smoke a pipe instead of cigars.

  “You know what he sent me?” Bolt asked, and Staley nodded, aware that prevarication would be useless. “Hair from that comb identical with the hair of the corpse in your Lighthouse. Didn’t tell you where he found the comb, did he?”

  “No. He’d received a heavy blow on his head. Had a doctor see to it before he went to Colac”

  “Bashed, eh! Not so good, Staley. Your Divisional Officer know about that?”

  “No, sir. Inspector Bonaparte did not make a complaint ... officially. Hinted that he wanted to bypass D H.”

  The large man grinned, slowly nodded his small head, regarding Staley as though he were a specimen bloodstain.

  “I’ll remember that,” Bolt said. “Ballarat District could do with another senior plainclothes man. Attractive?”

  “Very much, sir. Job here is slow ... drunks chiefly. Wouldn’t...”

  The door was opened and Bony stood smiling at them. Bolt heaved himself from the chair. Staley stood. He was faintly astonished by the look of relief on Bolt’s face.

  “Oh, Super! Nice of you to come down. Glad to see you,” Bony exclaimed, and to Staley: “That road to Colac is disgraceful. I suggest we have lunch somewhere and gossip about the neighbours. Know a place where we can gossip in seclusion, Super?”

  Staley had a brain wave. He said he was sure his wife would provide lunch if they would not demand Sole Marnier. Bolt said he was dieting, and Bony voted for tea and a sandwich. It was Bony who insisted that Staley sit with them at the light lunch tastefully served by the Senior’s wife. After lunch they sat in the small lounge, where Mrs Staley assured them they could smoke to “their heart’s content”. And there Bolt glared at Bony and softly whispered the one word:

  “Give.”

  “Those hairs came from the dead man’s head?”

  “They did.”

  “Then the clothes and the suitcase I found did belong to him. Actually, Super, I have had no doubt of it. Do we talk off the record?”

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Bolt, resignedly.

  “And our pact of non-interference is to continue?”

  “Yes ... blast you!”

  “How like you are, Super, to my own Chief Commissioner,” drawled Bony. “Well, to begin. Having decided I would have to locate the dead man’s clothes ... as your men failed to do ... I found them, complete from hat to shoes. The suit was tailored by a small Adelaide firm who specializes in uniforms for merchant marine officers. It was built for a customer by the name of Baker. This Baker walked in one day, had himself measured, chose the cloth, paid for the suit, said he would return for it three months later.

  “That was eighteen months ago. All that the tailor remembers about him is that he came off one of the ships, and was a youngish man. On being shown a picture of your man in the tank, he thought there was a shade of resemblance ... to use his own words. The cost of the suit was twenty-three pounds, and the books showed that it was paid for with cash.

  “The underclothes and the shoes, having been manufactured by firms whose products sell all over Australia, give us nothing. The shoes are so new that I cannot assess the man’s character and characteristics.

  “Robbery was not the motive. There was a wallet containing eighty-nine pounds in notes and seven shillings and five pence in coins. I now hand this money to you, Super. The notes and the wallet give nothing. The Adelaide people tried to raise prints. One singular aspect concerning the money is the coins found inside the wallet. Normally they would be carried in a trousers’ pocket. I incline to the thought that the killer pushed the coins into the wallet when he divested the corpse of its clothes.”

  Two poker-faced men regarded the wallet Bony put down on a nearby chair. To the wallet was added a watch.

  “When the murderer decided to hide the clothes to prevent identification, he removed that watch from the dead man’s wrist. It also has been examined, without result. Jewellers and wholesalers inform me that the watch is not of a make or brand known to be on sale in Australia. The movements were made in Switzerland, and the case made in the United States, from which country it could have been exported to a jewellery firm in either Singapore or Hong Kong.

  “Inside the case is stamped a maker’s serial number which will enable you to trace the watch. There is, too, a number very faintly scratched, and my jeweller friends think it was done by a firm who repaired the watch at some time. I am informed that it is the usual practice of watch repairers to maintain a card index system in which is recorded data covering the customer’s name and address, when a watch is received and when delivered or posted to the customer. You might have inquiries made of all the jewellers and watchmenders in Australia, excepting South Australia, which has already been covered.”

  Bony paused to light a cigarette. Neither Bolt nor Staley spoke.

  “With the watch, which was thrust into the pocket of the dead man’s light raincoat, I found a ring, a signet ring.” Two pairs of keen eyes looked at the ring set down beside the watch and the wallet. “You will observe that t
he ring has been soldered and is now broken.

  “The jewellers to whom I submitted the ring did not rave about its value. In fact, they were professionally horrified to observe that although the ring is of NU-carat gold the solder used is V-carat. They assured me that no goldsmith worth his salt would make such an error. They also assured me that even though the solder had come apart it had been applied by a man knowing something of gold work.

  “Find, therefore, the jeweller who has an apprentice or young assistant to do such work, and you may find the record of the transaction either in his books or in his mind. Thus the ring and the watch may give you more about this man calling himself Baker.

  “You will see that the ring is engraved with the letters B B and doubtless the letters stand for Benjamin, Bertrand, or Bernard Baker. As the ring is of standard make and sold by the thousands, only the mistake made by the goldsmith will benefit our investigation.

  “With the clothes was a suitcase, and inside the case was a brown paper parcel. Inside the parcel were thirty-three ropes of pearls. Here are two of them. They are imitation, and the retail price in this country is about five guineas.”

  The pearls were placed beside the other exhibits. Bolt waited for two seconds, before asking:

  “Where are the other thirty-one strings?”

  Staley’s interest was transferred from the pearls to Bony’s face, on which was a beaming smile. He flashed a glance to the big man, and saw there an expression of hope, fading. That an Inspector should smile so at a Superintendent, astounded him and outraged his sense of discipline. What Bolt said shocked him.

  “Won’t give, eh, you little cuss. Not ready yet to give, and won’t until you can say who killed our corpse ... like Sherlock Holmes. Blast you, Bony!”

  “But I don’t know,” protested Bony.

  “But you know where you found the clothes and the suitcase. Where?”

  “Where the clouds have a silver lining,” Bony replied. “Now accept what I have given. Your dead man was an officer on a merchant ship. His name is Baker. He smuggles ashore imitation pearls on which to make a large profit. Surely, Super, with your great team of scientific experts you will quickly establish the identity of your corpse, his movements and associates. You have the watch repairs to help. And there is the ring. Let me have the information, and I will the more quickly tell you who killed him. Now make a note.”

  Bolt sighed as though with indigestion, and looked at Staley. Staley produced a notebook and pencil.

  “I want to know whether any of your men at any time visited Mr Edward Penwarden at his workshop. I want to know if any of the Repair Gang who worked at the Lighthouse before last Christmas ever went inside Penwarden’s workshop. And if the foreman of that Gang remembers having sent the casual hand to Penwarden’s workshop for any purpose.”

  Staley completed his scribbling. Bolt said:

  “Casual hand! What casual hand?”

  For the second time Bony blandly smiled.

  “Didn’t know about the casual hand, did you, Super? Thought not. No mention of him in the Summary. No notice taken of the casual hand. Not important. No wonder you cannot obtain results.”

  Bolt’s breathing was asthmatic.

  “By Crikey!” he began, and was waved to silence.

  “No ire, Super, no ire. Bony must have his little triumph now and then. Now I must be off. Give my thanks to your wife, Senior. I’ll call some day and thank her in person. Au revoir, Super. Don’t follow me too closely, as I have to be careful of the company I keep. Let me know through Staley what is learned from those clues.”

  Superintendent Bolt had that look in his eyes which made sinners repent.

  “You take care of yourself,” he snarled. “I don’t want trouble with your people, damn you. So long!”

  He glared at Staley as both listened to the light footsteps crossing to the outer door. He sat down, and taking up his cold pipe applied a match. Staley sat, too, and typed Bony’s notes. Nothing was said as Staley boxed the clues safely, and when Bolt rose to go to his car, he stared hard at Staley, saying:

  “No dogging now. That feller’s as touchy as a young gal. But have business to do frequently at Split Point. We don’t interfere, understand. You do nothing except keep a careful eye on his personal safety. And if he takes you into his confidence, you’re lucky.”

  Staley stood stiffly. “Very well, sir.” He heard the ponderous feet crossing the outer office, and when all was silent he said aloud:

  “Am I coming, or am I going?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Prodigal Returns

  OTHER THAN ITS appearance there was nothing wrong with Superintendent Bolt’s private car. In the boot Bony had found an old hat, a pair of rubber-soled shoes, a mass of fishing lines and spare hooks here and there, and it did not require effort to picture the Chief of the CIB on vacation. A few miles on from Lorne, Bony drove off the road into a nook amid trees and promptly fell asleep, and was still sleeping when the sleek Department car swept the Superintendent by on his way to Melbourne.

  At five o’clock Bolt’s private car was again plodding along the Ocean Road, pounding up the rises, and humming down the slopes, taking the curves with marked cautiousness. Bony was able to see the sea, and the gulls, to appreciate the beauties of this coast, but he sighed for the day when he might walk into a car salesroom and drive out a modern Buick.

  Outside the bar of the Inlet Hotel stood two trucks and a car. He drove past these vehicles and parked the “plodder” in the open-fronted shed, removed his suitcase and proceeded towards the front entrance, accompanied by a joyful Stug. He was, however, not permitted to avoid his friends. From the bar door issued Dick Lake.

  “Good dayee! How’s it for a deep noser?”

  The grin so slow to arrive was well cemented. Moss Way shouted that Mrs Washfold said that the drinks were set up.

  How could a man be an abstainer under those circumstances?

  Moss Way relieved Bony of his suitcase, and Dick Lake grasped him by the arm and escorted him to the bar. The bar appeared to be full, and the large Mrs Washfold was smiling, and comfortably spread behind the counter.

  “Welcome back, Mr Rawlings,” she exclaimed. “Had a good trip?”

  “Yes, indeed,” replied Bony. “Anticipating the temptations I would encounter on my return, I have been good. And now...” He lifted the glass of beer presented by Dick Lake. “And now here’s to ’e all, and fill ’em up again.”

  “Where you been?” a voice asked, and Bony saw Tom Owen. The man’s small grey eyes were faintly hostile, but no one detected hostility in his voice.

  “Went through Lorne to Colac and on to Mount Gambier. Then north to Murray Bridge, over to Adelaide and back again.” Bony spoke lightly, and no differently when he added: “You can have Lorne.”

  “The place stinks,” someone agreed, and Bony asked Moss if they had taken the trip over Sweet Fairy Ann.

  “No! Been waitin’ for you to go with us. We done a bit of work, ain’t we, Dick?”

  “Coupler loads from Dirty Gully and a trip to Geelong with old Penwarden’s coffins.”

  “An’ loafed around here drinkin’ beer,” added the licensee’s wife.

  “Go easy!” pleaded Way. “Why, we dug a coupler tons of spuds for Ma Wessex, and took ’em to Geelong with the coffins.”

  “Oughta packed ’em in the coffins,” Lake supplemented. He smiled happily at everyone.

  “Do you people export anything else besides potatoes and coffins?” Bony inquired.

  “Yair. Wool and...”

  “Empty beer casks,” prompted a builder. Following the chuckles, someone said:

  “Your missus gone to Geelong with Mrs Wessex, Tom?”

  “Went this mornin’. Should be getting back now. Reminds me.”

  Owen hastily emptied his glass and manoeuvred a passage through the crush to reach the door.

  “Plenty of time,” Lake laughingly said. “They won’t be back till late.”


  Owen kept going, saying nothing. A silence fell in the bar.

  “Can’t understand Tom being afraid of his wife,” remarked a builder. “She seems inoffensive enough to me.”

  “Wouldn’t put him in the dog house, anyway,” Moss said dryly. “Funny bloke, Owen.”

  “I’ll say,” added a man with a walrus moustache.

  “Aw, I don’t know,” defended Lake. “Old Tom’s all right. Don’t do no one any harm. Hey, Moss, it’s on again.”

  “I’m always payin’,” grumbled his mate.

  Mrs Washfold filled the glasses from a jug and said:

  “Those women ought to be gettin’ back. I’m sure Mrs Wessex wouldn’t be late of a purpose, what with Mary being a bit troublesome lately and her poor husband as bad as he is. Lance was telling me...”

  “Getting no better?” asked the builder of Dick Lake.

  “Nope. All screwed up he is. Seen him on the veranda when me and Moss was diggin’ the spuds.”

  “What a shame!” exclaimed Mrs Washfold, looking to Bony for support. “He’ll miss The Reverence calling there. Mrs Wessex told me last month that she simply hadn’t time to read to him or anything, what with the farm work and all. Wanted him to go and live with her sister in Melbun, but the old chap won’t budge.”

  “A total invalid?” asked Bony.

  “Pretty well. Been extra bad these last six months.”

  “Useter be a tiger for work, too,” interrupted Dick Lake, swaying like an orchestra leader. “Best axeman I ever seen. Had a lot of learnin’, too. When we was kids he’d have us down by the barn and read adventure stories. All us kids liked old Wessex. Too right! And Ma Wessex ’ud cook up things for us to take fishing.” The grin vanished for the first time this afternoon. “Useter read his head off, and now he can’t hold up a newspaper, and there ain’t no one to read to him. Like a lost dog, he is now. Wanted us to talk to him on the veranda, but Ma Wessex was on our tails all the time, huntin’ us back to the bloody spuds.”