The Widows of Broome. Arthur W. Upfield
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made it the safe way, financing and trading with men who gamble with ships and their very lives. They stayed snugly ashore, and when the willies come they huddle in their palatial bungalows while brave men, both white and black, go down in the jaws of the sea. In no part of the entire world is snobbery carried to such astonishing limits. Yes, I like the Walters, man and wife. Sawtell, too, although he is inclined to bully me on occasions.”
“They have been very busy lately, I understand,” Bony observed. “Two murders added to their routine work.” Mr. Dickenson’s interest appeared to wane and Bony stood up.
“Might I suggest an appetiser before dinner?”
Mr. Dickenson was on his feet in four-fifths of a second.
“Regretfully, sir, I cannot meet kindness with kindness until the thirtieth.”
“Then on that day I will be your guest. Shall we go along?”
As they advanced to the veranda steps of the Port Cuvier Hotel, Bony’s companion buttoned the neck of his old shirt. On the wide veranda a number of languid people seated at small tables were being served by a youth in the uniform of a steward, and, when they were mounting the steps, Mr. Dickenson remarked loudly:
“You’ll find this place more respectable by day than by night. The sins of society are never practised in broad daylight ... not in Broome.”
Hostile eyes stared at them. A woman tittered. Bony and his companion sat at a vacant table. Bony surveyed the drinkers. They were a cosmopolitan crew, giving the impression that they were acting in a film of blood and murder in any one of a dozen Asiatic ports. The steward came to stare down at Bony and regard Mr. Dickenson with supercilious disdain. Bony turned to Mr. Dickenson.
“What is your fancy, sir?”
Mr. Dickenson named whisky ... with soda. Bony ordered beer, and Mr. Dickenson said he would regret his choice. The steward brought the drinks and Bony did regret it before the steward left, and called for gin and vermouth.
“Always stick to spirits, and never take more than two drinks unless you see it coming out of the bottle,” advised Mr. Dickenson. “I’ve seen men who were careless in that regard climbing telegraph poles, or swimming out to sea looking for a shark, or doing sums on the sand with a pointed stick adding up how many scales there are on a groper.”
“What do the people do for a living?” Bony asked.
“They live on each other, like the fishes,” replied Mr. Dickenson, his voice raised. “The Asian divers and the Asian lugger crews risk their lives to bring ashore the wealth of pearl shell, and the whites loll about in security like the harpies of old.”
Mr. Dickenson made it plain that his opinion of these people of Broome was not good, and Bony sensed that he was getting back a little of what he had received. After the second drink, he rose from the table and instantly the old man followed suit. The whisky had banished Mr. Dickenson’s depression, and, as he walked some little distance with Bony, he was almost stately.
“Have you lived long in Broome?” Bony enquired.
“Many years, Mr... .”
“Knapp. You, of course, are Mr. Dickenson?”
Mr. Dickenson nodded, and Bony asked another question:
“I suppose you know pretty well everyone in Broome?”
“I think I may claim to do so.” The old man chuckled. “I know much more about a lot of ’em than they warrant. A man of my age, and I’m eighty-two, is entitled to likes and dislikes. I have found something most admirable in out-and-out sinners, and something which sickens me in mealy-mouthed saints. The saints, I have noticed, become amateur sinners when it is dark. Give me the hearty sinners. You know where you are with them. Well, I turn off here. I thank you for your hospitality. I trust that you will grant me the honour of returning it on the thirtieth.”
Mr. Dickenson almost bowed. Bony almost bowed. With no further word, they parted, in Bony’s mind the phrase: “Saints become amateur sinners after dark.” Mr. Dickenson would be well worth cultivating.
Before dinner he interviewed Abie, the black tracker. Abie was feeding the horse in course of breaking-in, and Bony’s approach was to admire the horse and compliment the aborigine on the work already done on it. Although the evening was cool it hardly necessitated the military overcoat Abie wore over his shirt and trousers, which were tucked into stockman’s leggings, whilst the heavy military boots and the wide-brimmed felt hat seemed to be adjuncts entirely out of place. Still, Abie was a police tracker, and as such he was a personage among his kind. “Same white-feller soljer.”
The cicatrice down the left cheek had doubtless been caused by a knife and thus gave no indication of Abie’s position in his tribe, but the hole in his tongue, revealed when he laughed with pleasure at Bony’s compliments, was decided proof that he was a medicine man.
“You bin camp here?” Bony asked, and Abie pointed to the stables and said: “Him bin camp alonga horse.
“You bin come on plane-feller, eh?” was Abie’s question in turn and, when Bony nodded, he asked: “You all same white-feller p’liceman, eh?”
“No. Just looking round. You bin police tracker long time?”
“Long time.”
A medicine man! Wily, knowledgeable, secretive. Influential with his tribal fellows, for sure. Would be an excellent tracker when put on the scent, tireless and relentless.
During dinner Bony gained further glimpses of the picture of Broome he must clearly see to find a fault which would be the scent for him to follow, tirelessly and relentlessly. His questions were put with purpose, and the information, some of it of no apparent value, was stored and indexed in his mind.
There was a French Catholic Order who conducted a school for native children. There were the churches of three denominations. The Shire Council was debating a proposal to raise the rates, and a meeting of protest was scheduled for the following week. There was a flourishing Women’s Association, the president and driving force being Mrs. Sayers. There were three stores, two situated north of the post office and one down in Chinatown which supplied all the Asians and refitted and victualled the luggers. This one was owned by Mrs. Sayers, but Mrs. Sayers did not run it. She had a manager to do that for her. Yes, he could obtain cigarette tobacco there. Being Friday night, they wouldn’t close before nine.
The sun was gilding the tops of the poplars when he strolled southward to Chinatown, and there was reason for his measured step and meditative expression.
Progress in his investigation was slow. In fact, he had barely begun to progress. The trail was cold, as cold as desert sand at the dawning. His remarkable gift of patience would be taxed, and the temptation to hurry, to take chances, would be keen because of the probability that the confident killer would strike down another victim. Haste would be worse than foolish, for should his opponent know who was seeking his tracks, the fellow might well remain quiescent, waiting for the redoubtable Napoleon Bonaparte to depart from Broome.
The sun had set when he reached Chinatown, a place having nothing of Orientalism about it. Large and empty iron buildings once crammed with pearl shell, ship chandlery and stores now gaped at him. Women of many Asian nations watched him, and their children raced along the dusty sidewalks bordered by iron-constructed shacks and sun-blistered boards bearing the remnants of Chinese names. Twenty-two pearling luggers, and there used to be three hundred! And the twenty-two luggers with their divers and crews far away on that now green Indian Ocean wantonly courting the night.
Bony found the general store, a large iron structure having no windows but long open slits under the eaves ribbed with iron bars. Mounting the stout veranda steps, he crossed the weathered veranda and entered, to be met with glass show-cases, stacks of merchandise, and shelves loaded with everything from bolts of cloth to synthetic Manilla rope and fire-crackers.
No one was interested in him. He enquired where he could obtain cigarette tobacco, and was waved away in a south-easterly direction.