The Widows of Broome. Arthur W. Upfield
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Hill College and the rising education fees provided the subject for the remainder of the meal, and Bony was given word pictures of the seven or eight masters under Mr. Rose. It would seem that, in the opinion of his hosts, the only reason for Broome’s continued existence was its college.
An hour later, Bony was seated at ease with Walters and Sergeant Sawtell in the closed office, and Walters was voicing his assumption that Bony had read the official summary of the two murders and the more detailed statements gathered by the C.I.B. detectives.
“Yes, I did go through the summary,” Bony admitted. “I didn’t go into the statements and reports because I like to keep my mind as free as possible from cluttering data. So, you see, I know next to nothing beyond that the medical report indicates that both victims were strangled by the same man. I would like you to tell me about it.”
The two policemen looked at each other.
“You relate the facts, Sawtell,” urged Walters. He turned to Bony. “Sawtell specialises with the Asians and the locals. Pedersen, who’s away, is the bush expert. We’re all a bit sore, you know, that this bird got away with two murders. It bashes our pride. I’d like to ask a question.”
“Certainly. Go ahead.”
“Is it true that you have never failed to finalise a case?”
“Quite true,” replied Bony, and neither man could detect vanity in him. “It’s true because so far I’ve never been pitted against a clever murderer. It is my great good fortune that there is no such person as a clever murderer.”
Walters smiled frostily.
“This one is too clever for us, and for the Perth men, too,” he confessed. “The fellow we’re up against is as clever as the Devil.”
Bony was engaged in rolling one of his dreadful cigarettes.
“If your murderer is as clever as the Devil, who according to the authorities is high above par ...”
“This fellow’s well above par, sir,” interrupted Sawtell, whose light blue eyes held fire. “He’s so far above par that he doesn’t leave finger-prints, he doesn’t murder for gain, he never makes the mistake of being seen immediately before and after his crimes, and he doesn’t leave foot tracks for our boys to fasten on to.”
“It promises more and more,” Bony almost whispered. “Your boys in the top grade?”
“Yes. Pedersen swears by two of ’em. He should know, for they accompany him on his routine patrols as well as on special jobs.”
“Those two he swears by, are they away with him now?”
“No. One is having a spell up the creek and the other is that fellow we found smoking himself with petrol.”
Sawtell decided that never previously had he seen a cigarette rolled so badly. The middle was oversize and the ends were pointed like pencil tips. The black hair, the dark complexion and the sharp features of the cigarette-murderer seated easily in the swivel chair comprised the pieces of a picture puzzle always presented to strangers, and the sergeant was yet to watch the pieces fall into position to portray this unusual product of two distinctly opposite races. Certainly unconscious of inferiority to anyone, Sawtell was now conscious of the power behind the broad forehead and the blue eyes again directed to him.
“Until men grow wings they must walk on their two feet,” Bony said, and lit the alleged cigarette. “I see a problem I’ve often come across ... the gulf existent between the mind of the white man and the mind of the Australian black man. As the mind of the Occidental differs widely from that of the Oriental, so differs as widely the minds of the Australian black tracker and the Australian white policeman. My birth and training fashion me into a bridge spanning the gulf between them. Your murderer left his tracks without doubt.”
“Then why ...” began Walters.
“Your trackers did not understand exactly what they had to look for. You did not tell them what kind of man committed the murders?”
“Of course not. We don’t know what kind of man he is.”
“Well, then, you couldn’t expect your trackers to find his tracks. Had they been sufficiently instructed they might have seen tracks about the scene of the second murder which they remembered having seen about the scene of the first, but, even had you done that, the trackers would have had to be abnormally intelligent.” Bony waved the remainder of his cigarette in a short arc. “It’s like this. You receive a report that a lubra away out in the desert has been murdered. Off goes Pedersen and his tracker. The tracker knows all about the killing, and all about the victim. He even knows who killed the woman, although no one could possibly have told him in any spoken language. We know this is so, but we keep to ourselves our beliefs how such intelligence is broadcast because of fear of ridicule by educated fools. Your tracker, then, is familiar with the killer. He is taken to the scene of the crime, and then he is no more nor less than a super-bloodhound who has been allowed to smell something to which clings the scent of the hunted. In the case of a white killer you have to describe him to the tracker: the way he walks, his approximate age and weight, and his probable height.”
“But, sir, we didn’t know what this white killer is like,” protested Sawtell.
“Conceded. It will be my job to create a facsimile of the murderer from tiny bits and pieces. I have to obtain a picture of him from the very dust of Broome, so that I’ll see his mind, and I’ll know his probable age, and his trade or profession. And then I’ll look for his tracks, being myself independent of your black trackers. In me is enthroned the white man’s power of reasoning and the black man’s gifts of observation and patience. The only cause of failure in this case would be if your murderer has left the town. Would you both be kind enough to grant me a favour concerning a matter I’ve already mentioned?”
“Most certainly,” Inspector Walters hastened to say. The personality of this man, in addition to his words, made him feel a junior in his own office.
“Please omit the ‘sir’. My immediate chief, even my Chief Commissioner, invariably calls me Bony. My wife and my three sons name me Bony to my face. I’ll wager you don’t know what your children call you behind your back.”
The stiffness fled from the inspector. He chuckled, and Bony warmed towards him.
“They call me ... out of my hearing ... Ramrod. I got that appellation years ago when I was a recruit instructor.”
Bony’s slim fingers again became employed making one of his amazing cigarettes.
“Well, now, let’s get down to your two murders. If I interrupt, don’t mind, and don’t be thrown off the mental scent. Go right ahead.”
Inspector Walters nodded to Sawtell, and the sergeant cleared his throat.
“Five miles out of town there’s a permanent water-hole on the Cuvier Creek, and on the bank of this water-hole stands Dampier’s Hotel. The place is a favourite picnic ground for people from Broome.”
“Reputation?” asked Bony.
“Good. A man named George Cotton was licensee for fifteen years. He was a great footballer down south and did a bit of ring work in his time. There was never any trouble so far as we were concerned. He married after he gained the licence, and when he was killed his wife was a young woman, and their only child, a boy, was eight years old.
“Cotton was accidentally shot one afternoon when duck-shooting up the creek. There was nothing whatever suspicious about that. After he died, his wife took over the licence. That was three years ago. She boarded the boy at Cave Hill College and engaged a man, known all over the North-West as Black Mark, as her barman and under-manager.
“Last April, on the night of the 12th, the hotel had been very busy all afternoon as there were several picnic parties out from the town. The evening was busy, too, but Mrs. Cotton had early told Black Mark that she had a bad headache and would go to bed. The bedrooms for single men are built along one side of the yard, and