Bony nodded his thanks as the fingerprint expert entered and was left with Sloan whilst Bony went to see Superintendent Pavier.
At her desk sat Superintendent Pavier’s secretary. It was a quarter to nine. She was engrossed in a document, her forehead resting on the palm of her left hand, a pencil in her right. The fingers were working with a kind of nervous tension, and the pencil appeared to be sliding in and out among them like a snake among tree debris. At Bony’s approach the woman looked up and the pencil vanished.
“You working late tonight, Miss Lodding?”
“Yes, sir. I still have a great deal to catch up with.”
The dark eyes were brilliant, the face a dull white beneath the low-hung light. The voice was tired, but still pleasing to Bony, and she appeared so fatigued as to be ill.
“Better knock off,” he advised smilingly. “Remember you’ve been sick.”
For the second time Bony glimpsed the other woman, and he smiled again and went into Pavier’s room. The Superintendent swung round in his chair to face him.
“Any leads?” he snapped out.
“No, Super. I have the drink waiter at my office now. Crome made his report to you?”
“Yes. You did right in persuading those people to be searched voluntarily.”
“I can recall portions of police procedure,” Bony admitted. “Still determined not to hush up this business?”
“Yes. Can’t do anything else.” Pavier looked as tired as Miss Lodding. “I must report the main facts to Sydney tonight. That’ll mean an invasion again.”
“That will be a pity-the invasion, I mean. Mess it all up. Delay me seriously, so seriously that most likely another unfortunate elderly man will be murdered. Better strongly recommend that poor old Bony be left in peace to finalise thesecyanidings. You see, I have progressed. I do know why these three men were murdered.”
“You do? Why?”
“My little secret. And I have one or two others. I am not sharing them with anyone from Sydney. I shall finalise these cases and hand them over to you all neatly tied up. I have still eight of the fourteen days allotted to me. I have all the assistance I need. No one here wants anyone from Sydney to cramp our style.”
“Neither do I. Damn it, Bonaparte, I’m not complaining. I am only foreseeing.”
“I know that, Super. In your report tonight, why not say you will be posting my report to you by the first airmail out? I’ll flatten them. Now I must go back to work. All right?”
“Yes, Bonaparte, and good luck. We’ll all need that.”
At the door Bony stopped:
“I like your son, Super. We get along very well. More co-operative, in fact, than you have been regarding hushing up the cause of death.”
“He has his job; I, mine. Been a good lad, but we’ve drifted apart somewhat.”
“We can all drift two ways. See you later.”
Bony said nothing to the secretary as he passed through her office, and back in his own he found Crome with Sloan. Crome had the pictures, and Bony set them on a shelf against the wall.
“Ever seen that woman, Sloan?”
The steward settled back in his chair and gazed at the pictures. Then he left his chair to stand nearer to them. On turning to Bony, he shook his head.
“Face is a bit misty, isn’t it, sir?”
“Yes. Ever seen that handbag?”
Sloan turned to look at the pictures again, and again he shook his head.
“All right, let’s forget the pictures. Stop fidgeting, Crome. Settle down and smoke, Sloan. Mentally relax. Gromberg and two men entered your lounge about four o’clock, and at twenty minutes to six Gromberg took up his half-emptied glass of beer and drank cyanide with it. You saw the person who added the poison to Gromberg’s beer.”
“Sir!” exclaimed the horrified Sloan.
“You served that person with a drink, probably more than one. According to your statement, you did not leave the lounge whilst Gromberg was there, so you must have seen his murderer. You assured me that you knew every man and woman who was in the lounge at the moment Gromberg drank his poisoned beer, and all those people consented to be searched and were searched for poison. Although we cannot be definite, we can assume that the poisoner left the lounge before Gromberg died. Tell me, and think clearly, when did you fill that glass of beer for Gromberg?”
Sloan took time and Bony waited. Crome sat motionless, contrasting this interrogation with those conducted by Inspector Stillman.
“I think,” said Sloan, “I filled that glass about five twenty-five. It was nearer twenty past five than half past, anyway.”
“Good! Now relax properly this time, Sloan, and recreate that lounge scene at twenty minutes after five. Let me help you. Gromberg sat alone at his table. He occupied a chair bordering the main aisle, to which he had his back. His table was nearest the entrance doors. At the table on his right sat two men and two women, until a third man removed a chair from Gromberg’s table before Gromberg’s two friends left the lounge. The two friends are out because you served Gromberg with beer at least once after they left. Now those five occupying the next table. What about them?”
“Regular customers, all of them. Two men with their wives The odd man’s wife was with another party. The five were included with those searched.”
“When Gromberg died, all the people present you vouched for. About how many people in the lounge were there you couldn’t have vouched for when you served Gromberg with his last drink? Don’t hurry.”
There was a tap on the door, and Bony motioned to Crome to attend to it. Crome spoke with a man in the corridor, came back and placed a report on the desk. Sloan sat with his eyes closed. Bony read:
“Fingerprints on the glass those of the dead man and Walter Sloan.”
Sloan coughed and Bony looked up. The steward’s eyes were open. He said:
“I can’t be sure about the number. The place wasn’t as full as it was half an hour before, some of the men having left for the public bars. There was a party of two men and two women at a table halfway from the front entrance, and several women right back at my end who I don’t remember seeing before.”
“Unattended women?”
“Yes. They seem to like getting as far from the front entrance as possible. I don’t know why.”
“Those several women left before Gromberg died?”
“Must have done. They weren’t there when he died.”
“And when leaving they passed close behind Gromberg?”
“Yes. They’d have to, to reach the front door.”
“Concentrate on them. Did a woman stop, or pause in her progress, at Gromberg’s chair?”
“I didn’t see one, sir,” replied Sloan, and the return of the ‘handle’ indicated returning confidence. “Just a minute, sir.”
Silence, and Bony and Crome waited. Sloan again studied the coloured drawings.
“No, I don’t know her,” Sloan said. “Never saw her. Unattended women! There were a dozen of ’em, at least. And them I knew. Two married women. Three respectable molls. A widow who used to be a barmaid. Woman who runs a frock shop. And a single woman I don’t know what she does. Howmany’s that?”
“Eight,” replied Crome.
“That- There was Mrs Lance, that makes nine. There were five unescorted women I didn’t know. Yes, five.”
“Was one of those five fairly tall, average weight, dark eyes, wearing glasses?”
“Don’t remember. Don’t think so, sir. There was a big woman, grey hair, face like a clock at twenty to four. Drank brandy-neat. There was one all dolled up to kill, kept fiddling with her handbag, wasting my time as she dug out the price of her drinks.”
“That leaves three, Sloan,” murmured Bony. “Concentrate on them. Did one of them wear glasses and look over them at you?”
“No. One was youngish. Drank gin and water-silly fool, at her age. Another time-waster was about fortyish. Dolled up too. She drank ginger ale. And the other was an old dame, sh
ort and fat and beery.”
“The time-waster about fortyish. You mean she, too, doodled with the money?”
“Yes. Drank ginger ale.”
“That unusual?”
“ ’Course, sir. Why go to a pub to drink rotgut all by yourself? Cafes are the places for that. Women call for soft drinks in a pub when they’re with a husband or man friend.”
“And this one was all dressed up?”
“Yes, sir. Plenty of powder and paint. Fairly well dressed, I think. Blue and white, and a white hat.”
“Handbag?” prompted Bony.
“Handbag!” Sloan frowned. “Don’t remember. Too many handbags around. Damned nuisance, littering up the tables when I want to set down drinks.”
“Does a blue handbag with red handles register?” pressed Bony.
“No.” Sloan was decidedly despondent. And then he brightened. “I’ll tell you what, sir. Mrs Wallace, who used to be a barmaid, might remember. She sat next to the woman in the blue and white dress.”
“An idea, Sloan. Mrs Wallace! D’you know where she lives?”
Sloan did know, and Crome noted the address, and also the addresses of several of the other women Sloan knew.
“Just where did she sit, the woman in the blue and white dress?” Bony went on.
“With her back to the rear wall, sir.”
“She could see Gromberg all the time?”
“Yes. She went out… I remember now. She left after Mrs Wallace did. She went just before I was asked for four double whiskies. I was waiting for the whiskies at the service bar, when people stopped talking and I turned round to see Gromberg pass out.”
Knowing the wisdom of not tiring a witness, Bony stood up and dismissed the steward, saying.
“You have done remarkably well, Sloan.”
Chapter Eleven
Sunday
“WHAT’S TO be our next move?” Bony asked, when Sloan had gone. The sergeant had pushed his notes aside and was loading his pipe.
“Concentrate on those unescorted women. One of them must have done it.”
“We’ll winnow, Crome. There were four tables at which sat sixteen people-fourteen women and two men. Sloan knew the two men and nine women. We have their names and addresses. The remaining five women were not known to Sloan, so we will concentrate on them. Or rather I will, because you and your men have much to do. Leave Mrs Wallace to me.
“I’m sorry to push the routine work on to you, but it must be done. Being Saturday and already late, and many people at the cinema, we’ll both start in earnest in the morning. You check up on those people known to Sloan, with the exception of Mrs Wallace, ask if they remember a woman with a blue handbag having red drawstrings, and at the same time get their background. You may find a lead connecting them with either Goldspink or Parsons.”
“Seems the next move,” agreed Crome.
“Then on Monday put your gang on to all chemists and wholesale stores and check up on their sales of cyanide. It was done before, but it must be done again. You yourself, visit every mine where cyanide is used in the extraction of gold or for other purposes, and check on that source of supply. You sent Abbot to fine-comb Gromberg’s house?”
“Yes, sir. Ought soon to be back.”
“I’m reminded that I have to send a report through the Super to Sydney. Must avoid interference. Don’t permit the public reaction to worry you. The Super is the man to take all that. It’s what he’s paid for. Your job, and mine, is to unearth this poisoner.”
“Be less worrying if we could get a clear lead,” grumbled Crome.
“We have several leads.”
“Well, that blue handbag with red strings can’t be called-”
“The good investigator deals with items, such as that handbag. Through them he can understand the quarry’s motives and uncover his identity.
“This unfortunate Hans Gromberg is a part of what is now certain to be a pattern. He was a bachelor. He was elderly. He was a robust eater and a hard drinker. Like Goldspink, but unlike Parsons, he was a generous man. Are those three victims highlights of the pattern because they were unmarried, or because they were elderly, or because they were elderly bachelors, or because they were robust, or careless feeders? Or did each one of them represent a hated figure of one man?”
“What’s careless eating got to do with it?” asked Crome. “A dried-up spinster could go barmy and have a dead set against old bachelors. Read of a case like that some time or other.”
“What is your reaction to the man who slops his food and his front is stained and greasy?”
“Disgust.”
“How much more so would an old spinster be disgusted?”
“Then you think the three common factors make a picture of the three murder victims as one, in a mind hating like hell?”
“That is what I am inclined to think,” answered Bony. “The shop assistant told me that Goldspink’s waistcoat was food stained. The waitress told me that Parsons’s clothes were stained with food. And I saw that the waistcoat worn by Gromberg was similarly soiled. So you see-we have progressed.”
“Then we have to look for a ratty old maid?”
“Yes and no. I feel that we can be confident that the poisoner is a woman. We may, of course, have to alter these theories. We can find no link between Goldspink and Parsons, but we may discover a link between Gromberg and Goldspink or Parsons. Mrs Robinov benefited fromGoldspinks ’ death, but no one did from Parsons’s death. As illustration: should we find that Mrs Robinov is to benefit under Gromberg’s will, then we would with reason assume that she is clever enough to have poisoned old Parsons to make the motive appear as though emanating from the brain of a near-insane woman-which she is not. In history there has been a series of murders done to hide the motive for killing a particular person.”
The sergeant pounced.
“Near insane?” he exclaimed. “Can anyone be near insane?”
“Oh yes, Crome, yes, of course. Our asylums are full of the partially insane. Some never enter an asylum, not being ill enough and their relatives willing to care for them. Others fall into a distinct category. They suffer from what is called progressive insanity, eventually compelling the authorities to certify and confine. Of all the ills to which mankind is subject, initial insanity is the hardest to detect.
“I’ll go back one step. If through Gromberg’s murder we find that greed, or jealousy, or ambition is the motive, then we look for a sane and clever murderer. If, on the other hand, Gromberg’s murder links in no one respect with those of the others to give us a motive, then we must look for the near-insane person possessed of intense hatred of elderly, slovenly bachelors.”
Crome sighed. Seriously he said:
“Well, I’m just an ordinary ruddy policeman. I can pinch drunks and keep vice in check. Stillman’s another policeman. He can wage war with gunmen and pinch men who cut the wife’s throat because she nags, or is mucking about with another man, or because he wants a clear field to marry another woman. I can deal with those sorts of murders too. When it comes to these near-insane killings, I’m stonkered. Andso’s Stillman and the Super.”
The tacit admission did more for Bony than Crome was ever to know.
“One must be patient and refuse to be sidetracked,” Bony said. “And now I must write my report for the Super. You go home to bed.”
“Can’t. Must wait to see what Abbot brings in.”
Crome left the room and Bony brought his mind to composing his report, knowing that to achieve freedom of action he would have to write in a manner divorced from his verbal bouts with superiors. The task occupied him an hour, and on his way out to return to his hotel he met Crome again.
“Abbot found nothing like poison in Gromberg’s house,” he told Bony. “He did find a set of diaries, and he read back for the last six months and couldn’t find a link with either Parsons or Goldspink. Found a will, too, dated a year ago. The will leaves everything to a nephew in New Zealand. Doesn’t say how much.�
��
“Thanks! Put a man on routine investigation into Gromberg’s background. I’m going to bed.”
It was not particularly late when Bony turned in, but he slept till nine next morning, then rang for Sloan, asking the steward to be generous and fetch him a breakfast tray. It was eleven when he left the hotel and, without difficulty, found a taxi.
Sunday morning, and Argent Street deserted save for men supporting veranda posts, some of them having coursing dogs in leash and most of them talking sport. The famous street was silent, and the silence was emphasised by noise of the mine machinery which, although reduced, never stops.
The car carried Bony down Argent Street, turned to cross the railway and pass the Trades Hall, where so much of local history has been made, turned again to skirt one of the two railway terminals, and proceeded along what was formerly a low ridge, enabling Bony to see the broken hill and what man had done to it.
Even the brazen sky lookedSundayish, and the spiralling smoke and spurting steam about the mine heads pretended to be taking this day off-or wanting to.
Finally the taxi stopped before a small house set close behind a peeling picket fence. The driver was asked to wait, and Bony passed through where once a gate had been, and mounted two steps to the front door.
In answer to his knock the door was opened by a girl of school age, who said her mother was at home. She left him standing at the open doorway, and he heard her shouting:
“Hi, Mum, a gent wants to see you.”
A woman’s voice: “Blast! Tell him to wait. Iain’t dressed yet. What’s he look like?”
“A-ah, just a man. Got his best clothes on.”
As though this conversation could not possibly have reached the caller, the girl reappeared, to say that her mother wouldn’t be long. Again the deserted Bony stood on the porch, this time for ten minutes, when a figure in a voluminous house-gown of lollipop-pink confronted him.
“Pardon my disarray,” she said genteelly. “Hate being rushed on a Sunday morning. What is it?”
“I’m from the Detective Office, Mrs Wallace. Wally Sloan told me you might be in a position to help us in a certain matter.”
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