The Bachelors of Broken Hill. Arthur W. Upfield
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don’t think she did. No, she didn’t. She had the money already in her hand.”
“Which hand held the money?”
“Which ... The hand—the left hand.”
“The hand farthest from the cup of tea, eh?”
“Yes—the hand—farthest from the cup of tea.”
“What was the amount of the purchase, d’you remember?”
“Ten shillings. She paid with a ten-shilling note.”
“Well, Miss Isaacs, thank you very much,” Bony said, genuinely delighted. “Come and sit down again. I won’t bore you much longer.”
They sat, and Mary said she wasn’t a tiny bit bored.
“I wonder, now, would you know that woman again?”
The girl shook her head.
“We know from what you have told us that she wasn’t big like Mrs Robinov, or short like—well, short. She was an elderly woman. You said she was taller than Mr Goldspink. That right?”
“Yes, she was taller than Mr Goldspink. She—she might have been taller than I thought. She seemed, now I come to think of it, to be slightly stooped. Seemed to peer at me as though looking over the top of spectacles. But she wasn’t wearing glasses. I’m sure about that. I don’t——You see, Inspector, I didn’t take much notice of her. I served thirty-seven customers that day. My docket book shows that.”
“Thirty-seven!” echoed Bony. “Why, if I had served thirty-seven people, I wouldn’t remember any one of them as a man, a woman, or a kangaroo. She was dressed in a grey frock, wasn’t she?”
“I think so. Her hat was small, and it was grey or greyish. I’ve tried, Inspector, to remember that woman, but I can’t. Even in bed, with the light out, I’ve tried to see her face. I have really——”
“Make me a promise. Will you?”
“Yes,” assented the girl.
“Stop trying to remember. Promise?”
“Don’t you want me to remember?” she asked, astonished.
“Yes, but not to try to remember. If you stop trying you will remember. Just forget about it.”
“Yes. But——”
“You promised.”
The dark eyes glistened. He thought for an instant she was going to cry, and he cut in with:
“Have you a sweetheart?”
The abrupt change of subject banished the danger, and the girl flushed charmingly and admitted to one.
“What does he do?” he asked, to give her time to regain poise.
“He works at Metter’s, the grocer’s. But he hopes to leave it one day and become an artist. He studies at the art school, and he’s very clever. Sometimes they get him to do lightning sketches at a concert.”
“An artist, eh?” Bony gazed over the girl’s head and beyond the window. “Would he help us, d’you think?”
“He——I think so—if I asked him to.”
“Would he come to see me at the Western Mail Hotel tonight, say at eight?”
The chin jutted a mere fraction.
“I’ll see that he does, Inspector.”
Chapter Six
The Art Patron
Bony was working in his office the next morning when his desk phone demanded attention. It was Superintendent Pavier.
“Morning, Bonaparte! Care to run in for a few minutes? I want to talk.”
“Yes, all right, Super. Anything new on the board?”
“No.”
“May I bring Crome?”
“Certainly.”
Bony sighed and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette. If Pavier expected results thus early, if Pavier was to prove himself another ‘boss’ wanting a daily progress report, then he, Bony, would have to be firm. He lit the cigarette and pounded on the wall behind his chair. He heard Crome’s chair being thrust back, and then Crome was standing before his desk.
“The Chief wants to see us,” Bony explained. “Have you found out who murdered Goldspink and Parsons?”
Sergeant Crome began a smile and froze it at birth.
“He gets that way sometimes,” he said. “Me, I’ve got beyond worrying. I’ve had it. One of the girls is typing the report of your interrogation of Goldspink’s cashier. You want it?”
“No. Let’s go along.”
Bony led Crome down the corridor, turned left at the junction, passed through the rear of the public office and into the room occupied by the Superintendent’s secretary. He smiled at her and passed on to the door of Pavier’s office and entered without knocking. Crome closed the door.
“Ah! Sit down, Bonaparte. And Sergeant Crome.” The Superintendent indicated chairs. What was on his mind was concealed by the mask of a face, and there was nothing in his voice to betray his thoughts. The white hair crowning the long head toned out the colourless complexion. “How have you been getting on, Bonaparte.”
“Oh, so-so,” Bony replied. “I’ve been studying the groundwork done by Sergeant Crome and ruined by Inspector Stillman. I’ve been expecting another cyanide murder, but so far nothing of the kind has been reported. However, I remain hopeful.”
This rocked Superintendent Pavier.
“I may misunderstand you, Bonaparte,” he said coldly. “We certainly cannot permit another cyaniding in Broken Hill.”
“I can see no way to avoid it, Super,” Bony countered. “One successful murder begets another, and the second will beget a third. I wasn’t here when the first was done, nor was I here when the second was committed. I have had to make myself au fait with the background of two murders, and for that I am given a fairly good survey by Sergeant Crome and witnesses whose minds have been blacked out by an arrant fool, a puny jumped-up would-be dictator, a conceited, empty-headed idiot of a man raised to a position of——But what’s the use? You say you cannot have another cyaniding in Broken Hill. You should have said you would not have a second one, but you did. And you will have a third, because what trails were left of the first two have almost vanished beneath the clod-hopping feet of the great Inspector Stillman.”
Superintendent Pavier sat with his eyes closed.
“The two victims are beyond my interest, excepting to the extent that bodies are effects,” Bony proceeded. “My interest is solely in the person who is the cause of the effects—two dead bodies to date, with a probable third in the near future.”
Bony ceased, and Crome expelled caught breath. Pavier opened his eyes, and still his face and voice were without expression.
“It would seem, Bonaparte, that you misunderstood me,” he said. “Being the officer in charge of this South-Western Police Division of New South Wales, I am amenable to public opinion. Hence my anxiety that a third murder will be prevented.”
“I concede the point, sir. And when I declare that I am not in the least degree influenced by public opinion, that I don’t care two hoots for public opinion, that all I do care about is hunting down a murderer, there need be no misunderstandings on either side.
“Actually, I am pleased that you called us in conference this morning. You will gain insight into our problem, and I hope you will convey these problems to your Sydney headquarters—with the suggestion that should there be a third murder, a fourth, or even a seventh, they