The Widows of Broome. Arthur W. Upfield
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all around the house are cement paths, and a man could walk in from the street and amble around without once putting his feet on soft earth.”
“Abie reported nothing?”
“Nothing. Pointed to the cement and laughed.”
“Was he taken inside the house?” pressed Bony.
“No. Why?”
“With what are the floors covered?”
“Small mats here and there. The floors are linoleum-covered. There was one peculiarity, however. The electric power was turned off at the master switch which is on the outside wall of the house ... at the front.”
“The house, has it been reoccupied?”
“No. Nothing much was touched in it by us or by the Perth men. We have the keys here.”
“Good!” This item definitely pleased Bonaparte. “The doctor seems certain that the same man killed both these women. There appears to be no connection between them, nothing to unite them on any point save that they were both widows.”
“Both still attractive widows.”
“And both had money.”
“Mrs. Cotton’s estate hasn’t yet been submitted for probate. It totals many thousands.”
“Who benefits?”
“The boy. He gets the lot save five hundred pounds left to Black Mark, who was made the boy’s guardian.”
“The barman sounds interesting. Tell me about him.”
“He’s been up here in the North-West all his life,” Sawtell obliged. “He’s been a drover, a gold prospector, a sea captain, a lugger owner, a diver, a hotel licensee, a storekeeper, and many other things. He’s black of hair and eyes, and he could strangle a big man with one hand almost ... although he must be getting on for fifty. He owns property in Broome, and I wish I was as high as he is from the bread-line. Told Pedersen once that he wanted to settle down and where better to settle down than at Dampier’s Hotel? Said he must have something to do, and why not run a bar? Seems to have given Mrs. Cotton every satisfaction. He never married, and he seems to have taken charge of her and the boy. We have nothing against him. If it wasn’t for the say so of two identities who were in the bar that night and provided Black Mark with an alibi, I’d think seriously about him.”
Bony suppressed a yawn and rolled another cigarette.
“The finger-print man gained nothing from Mrs. Eltham’s house,” he said. “According to her domestic, no one of her friends paid her a visit for almost a week prior to her death, and the house was cleaned and dusted daily. Respectable woman ... the domestic?”
“Yes. What d’you reckon about those nightgowns? That seems to be a common denominator in the two crimes,” put in Inspector Walters.
“It does,” Bony agreed. “Another is the tidiness of the victim’s bedrooms. They are not, however, common denominators of the two women, but of the one killer. The fact that both women were widows may or may not have significance. I cannot see any. One woman was rigidly moral, according to the official summary, and the other was not rigidly moral. One victim lived alone. The other was surrounded by her staff and her guests. The Perth homicide men certainly went deep into the background of these two women, and they could not dig up a motive for killing them. They state, however, that in view of Mrs. Eltham’s gentlemen friends all being ‘loaded with tin’ as the phrase goes, it is possible that she rebuffed an admirer who was not blessed with this world’s goods. If that should prove to be right in fact, then his name will not be among those listed. By the way, have you a list of her friends?”
“Yes, I have,” answered the sergeant. “I’d like to compare it with the C.I.B. list.”
“We’ll do so tomorrow. We will also compile a list of the attractive widows of Broome. It would be too bad if another widow were strangled.”
The paper-weight of rainbow stone being toyed with by Inspector Walters crashed to the desk.
“Unless your murderer has cleared out of Broome he will almost certainly strike again,” Bony went on. “Having struck twice, he won’t be able to prevent himself. At this very moment, he is puffed with vanity. He has tasted supreme power, and that is a draught of which he will never be satiated. No motive? Oh yes, he has a motive. The gratification of hate, the gratification of the lust to kill, is a motive. That motive is an effect, and when I have discovered the cause, I shall have discovered his identity.”
“Meanwhile, he may murder another woman?” Walters said, sharply.
“Yes, meanwhile he may do so. In these two murders he has superbly covered himself, and yet he has begun to spin the web about himself, despite all his cunning. His unconsciously performed work in that respect is not, unfortunately, sufficiently advanced for me to view the plan of the web he will inevitably make clear with, say his sixth or seventh murder.”
“Damnation!” exploded Walters, and Sawtell stopped in the act of lighting another cigar. “Six or seven murders! Here in Broome!”
“Easier for such a tiger-man to get away with six or seven killings here in Broome than down in Perth, or in London or New York. Here, everyone knows everyone. Here almost everyone visits almost everyone. Were the floors of Mrs. Eltham’s house swept and the dust and debris sent to Perth for analysis? No, they were not.
“So what? We are placed on the horns of a dilemma. If we safeguard all the attractive women of Broome from attack, the killer bides his time till the safeguards are removed. If we do not take every step to guard the attractive women of Broome, he strikes at will until he gives us a clue to his identity, or, gentlemen, until I can build his identity with my own discoveries and my own methods. Should he claim another victim, I shall be hurt about it.”
“So will the victim,” Sawtell said, his face a mirthless grin.
“I am being neither coldly selfish nor facetious,” Bony said, severely. “You people were on the job when these two crimes were committed. The homicide men from Perth were on the job within twenty-four hours after the second murder was committed. Neither you nor they located a clue, can put forward a reasonable motive, or have by deduction thrown the searchlight of suspicion on any person.
“No blame is attachable. The circumstances are such that a psychologically cunning maniac has got away with two major crimes. Doubtless, he would have baffled even me. He might strike again and still baffle me, but if he does strike a third time, I shall at least be right on his tracks. We have five or six days to prepare for that next strike.”
The coldly level voice ceased. Sawtell asked why the five or six days’ grace.
“Because the murderer struck on both occasions when there was no moon. He doesn’t accept a chance of being observed. We have time to formulate plans. We have time to prospect for the diamonds of truth. Our killer doesn’t accept a chance. We must. And the responsibility will be all mine.
“Devote yourselves to your normal routine, and continue to accept me as your guest. I have faced problems as difficult, and have carried responsibility as great. No man ever rose to greatness who feared responsibility. I have never feared it ... which is why I am now Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte. You, Walters, and you, Sawtell, have had to climb gates to reach your positions. I have had to claw my way over Everests.”
The voice which had contained a note of ringing triumph died away, and in the silence the two men smoked with stoically concealed embarrassment. They had discussed this half-caste before his arrival, food for discussion having been provided by Mrs. Walters’ sister, married to a detective-sergeant in Bony’s own department. A little luck, a discerning mind, a charming manner, were the ingredients, they had decided, which constituted the recipe of the fellow’s success. They knew better now. They recognised the giant, the giant who had burst asunder all the bonds placed upon him, through the accident of his birth, by the Lilliputians of custom, privilege, snobbery and jealousy.
He