The Bachelors of Broken Hill. Arthur W. Upfield
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were trembling, and he thought what a sublime fool Stillman was to think he could succeed with these women by the employment of methods he used on slum thugs and back-alley gunmen.
He spoke quietly, reassuringly, telling them he came from Brisbane, mentioning his wife, and proudly naming his boys and their achievements. He went on to stress the vital importance of ‘catching’ the person who killed Sam Goldspink and emphasised how silly it was for anyone to think they had had anything to do with murder. Gradually the fear subsided in the girl’s eyes and the trembling of the lips ceased.
“Just relax, Miss Isaacs, and permit your mind to run freely,” he said smilingly. “I’ve read all about you and what you said to Sergeant Crome and that other beastly policeman, and I just hate having to recall what must have become a bad dream.”
“You needn’t class Sergeant Crome with Inspector Stillman,” Mary Isaacs said warmly. “Sergeant Crome’s a pet. So’s his wife. They live in our street.”
“Ah! I stand reproved.” The chuckle gained more for him than he thought. Mrs Robinov, remembering the demands of her shop, rose to her feet, saying brightly:
“I must go. You listen to the Inspector, Mary, and tell him everything you can.”
She smiled encouragingly at Mary Isaacs.
“Now tell me about Mr Goldspink,” Bony urged. “I know that he was shortish and stout and that he had a beard and hair still not entirely grey. Did he wear glasses, by the way?”
“Only when reading or writing,” Mary replied. “Then he would sort of peer through them like looking through a telescope. He kept them in the top pocket of his waistcoat. Dragged them out and pushed them in so that it was a wonder they didn’t break.”
“I take it that his manner was quick.”
“Yes. Quick in manner and quick in mind.”
“Did he put on his glasses at any time when you were serving that customer with handkerchiefs?”
The dark eyes narrowed, and Bony patiently waited.
“I can’t remember.”
“All right, don’t try,” Bony said hastily. “I don’t want you to force your memory. One’s mind is a queer thing, you know. It stores a lot away and is determined to keep most of what it stores. I’ve found often that the best way to make my memory work is to trick the old mind. I say to it: ‘Well, if you want to sulk, go on sulking’. And then, when I’m thinking of something entirely different, what I want comes to me. Now tell me the routine of the shop—when Mr Goldspink was here.”
Every morning at eight a shopboy reported for work, and under the eye of Mr Goldspink the boy would scatter damp sawdust on the floor and then sweep it into heaps to be carefully disposed of.
Dressed in an old brown velvet jacket, Goldspink would then dust the counters and chairs and be removing the dust covers when the assistants arrived at nine. Having opened the front door, he would check the change with the cashier in her office. The cashier? She occupied a small glassed-in compartment high up in one corner of the shop. Oh yes, she could see everything that went on in the shop.
There were few customers before ten, but the assistants were busy with their stock, and Mr Goldspink breakfasted and then dressed for the day’s business. His business clothes consisted of a frock-coat and black trousers. Yes, he always wore a waistcoat, a white or light-coloured fancy waistcoat. They were stained a little. The frock-coat was old but presentable enough. The black trousers needed pressing, but Mrs Robinov probably had enough to do as it was. The boy always cleaned the shoes, and they seemed a little too big, but then Mr Goldspink’s feet wanted comfortable shoes to walk about in all day.
Most of all this Bony already knew, but he sat easily and nodded understandingly and for himself created the picture of an elderly merchant conducting his business. There had been no mention in any of the numerous reports he had scanned of the cashier’s glassed-in office and its full view of the entire shop. She had never been questioned.
“I was told he was in quite good health that last day of his life,” he murmured encouragingly.
“Oh yes, Inspector. I don’t remember him ever being ill.”
“Did he smoke?”
“I never saw him,” replied Mary Isaacs. “Might have. I’ve seen him slipping a scented cachet into his mouth. Sometimes he lectured the girls about smoking too much during lunch time.”
“They have their own lunchroom, I suppose?”
“Yes. Mrs Robinov used to prepare the lunch. She still does.”
“Did Mr Goldspink have an irritating cough?”
“No.”
“Or make a noise in his throat, as a habit, you know?”
“Oh no. Mr Goldspink never did anything like that. There was nothing wrong about him, and he was always pleasant towards us as well as to the customers. He was very kind if one of the girls was sick. Sent her home in a taxi. And always gave us a bonus for extra-good sales.”
“H’m! You know, Miss Isaacs, we’re getting along famously.” Bony stood and crossed to the large cutting table. “Let’s play shops,” he said, and whisked a costume dummy into place beside the table. “Come along. You stand on the other side of the table and serve the dummy with handkerchiefs. I’ll be Mr Goldspink.”
A trifle hesitatingly Mary Isaacs accepted the suggestion, and then her eyes widened and began to dance as Bony pantomimed.
“We can recommend this line, madam. Been absent from the shops since shortly after the war broke out. Finest Irish lawn. Quality superlative. The best linen has always come to us from Ireland. You won’t buy better in Broken Hill. Or down in Adelaide. Just look at the weave.” He turned away from the dummy he had been addressing. “Thank you, miss.” He whisked an envelope from a pocket and held it as though it were a cup-laden saucer, and the envelope he placed on the supposed counter to his right. To Mary Isaacs he said:
“That about where Mr Goldspink put the tea?”
Mary moved the envelope. It was then immediately in front of Bony and less than thirty inches from the dummy. Bony proceeded:
“Yes, madam, the price is high. Everything is high these days. You have to be careful when shopping. Well, then, perhaps something less expensive. Miss, show the lady that new line in Australian handkerchiefs.”
The assistant was now living in the past. Almost involuntarily she turned away from the imaginary counter to the imaginary shelves behind it and pretended to take from the shelves boxes containing the imaginary Australian handkerchiefs. She proceeded to open the boxes and display their contents. Bony now turned slightly inward, away from the counter and the ‘customer’, towards the imaginary shop. The girl said:
“These are pretty, madam. The lace edge is sweet, isn’t it?”
“Thank you, Miss Isaacs,” Bony interrupted. “Excellent! Is that just what happened? Did Mr Goldspink suggest that you display more handkerchiefs?”
“Yes. Yes he did.”
“And when you turned back from the shelves, was Mr Goldspink standing like this, partly facing away from you?”
“Yes. I remember that he was.”
“And the cup of tea was still on the counter—where the envelope is?”
“Oh yes. He didn’t pick it up until after the customer had gone.”
“And the customer was standing, like this dummy, when you turned round?”
“Yes.”
“What was she doing?”
Crome had shot this question to her, and she failed to remember. Stillman had snarled it at her, and her frozen mind wouldn’t give. Now, without hesitation, with natural