The Widows of Broome. Arthur W. Upfield
Читать онлайн книгу.
where, after waiting whilst two young men discussed a weighty problem concerning a horse named Juniper, he was served with his requirements.
On emerging from the store, he almost bumped into Mr. Dickenson.
“Hullo! Good-evening!”
“Ah! Mr. Knapp! I see you have been shopping. I, too, am on a similar errand for my landlady. Did you meet Mr. Lovett?”
“No. Who is Mr. Lovett?”
“The manager. A very keen business man.” Mr. Dickenson might have been a keen business man, too. “This store, you know, belongs to a lady, a Mrs. Sayers. Her husband left her very well off, and she had been well provided for by her scoundrel of a father.”
“A hard woman?”
“Hard in the getting of money: soft in the giving of it away.” Mr. Dickenson’s tired grey eyes twinkled. “If I could write books, I could write ten about her. When you see her, you remember that once I took her pants down and smacked her. She was then very small, of course. I’ve watched a lot of ’em grow up in Broome, when Broome wasn’t what it is today.”
“The Mrs. Cotton who was murdered was the licensee of a hotel called Dampier’s Hotel, wasn’t she?”
“That was so,” replied the old man.
“’Way out of town, isn’t it?”
“Five miles out.”
“Could one hire a car to run out there for a drink one evening?”
“Oh yes, certainly,” answered the suddenly alert Mr. Dickenson. “For three pounds you can hire a taxi for the evening, and the driver will guarantee to bring you back before one in the morning and assist you into bed.”
“H’m! An excellent arrangement. I think I’ll spend an evening there tomorrow. Would you care to accompany me?”
“It would give me great pleasure, Mr. Knapp.” Mr. Dickenson was extremely regretful. “However, I fear I could not accept before the thirtieth.”
Bony exhibited disappointment.
“Perhaps ... A suggestion, of course. A small loan to tide you over?”
“You are magnanimous, sir.”
“Then shall we agree to meet outside the post office tomorrow evening at, say, seven o’clock? I will arrange for the taxi.”
Mr. Dickenson bowed slightly and stiffly. He made no reference to the “small loan”, made no attempt to “touch”, and Bony liked him for that. The old man entered the store almost jauntily as though the meeting with Mr. Knapp had energised his self-respect.
Chapter Six
Activities Day
Firstly because the children so enthusiastically asked him to go, and secondly because the opportunity would provide a clearer picture of the people of Broome, Bony decided to give the afternoon of this Saturday to visiting Cave Hill College. At the last moment, Inspector Walters found he could not spare the time; and so, dressed for the occasion in a light-grey suit with soft felt hat to match, Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, Master of Arts and Master of Himself, drove the inspector’s private car with Mrs. Walters beside him and the children in the back seat.
“I do hope you will enjoy it,” she told him. “Most of the people will be friendly but some won’t. If you stick by me I’ll manage to catalogue them.”
Mrs. Walters looked her best and was happy knowing that she did. They passed Mr. Dickenson, who rose from the public seat beneath a shady gum to bow and wave in acknowledgement of the children’s greeting.
“The majority of the townsfolk will be there, I assume,” Bony said.
“Nearly everyone, and a lot of people will be in from the stations out-back. It’s quite a function, you know.”
They left their car with many others parked outside the school grounds. Bony was pleasurably surprised by the size and architecture of the main building standing beyond well-kept lawns. Built of warm brown stone in early Colonial style, it faced the ocean from its superior elevation and yet subtracted nothing from the hacienda style of the French Catholic Mission farther along the coast.
With Bony on one side and her children on the other, Mrs. Walters passed through the iron-pillared gateway and sauntered along the main drive, talking vivaciously and entirely satisfied. The main school building of two storeys had its every large window protected by an iron shutter, now raised and providing protection against the sunlight.
The lawn fronting the building was gay with colour: men in tropical white and wearing sun-helmets, women in bright dresses and many having coloured parasols, and here and there masters wearing their black gowns and, much more numerous, the boys in light-grey suits and caps of black-and-white rings. From the roof of the school flags flew from four tall white poles. Cave Hill College was en fête to receive parents and friends.
Mr. Sylvester Rose, Princes College, Aberdeen, B.A., Adelaide University M.A., and several honorary degrees, welcomed the guests. He detached himself from a group of ladies and came forward to greet Mrs. Walters. He carried his mortarboard under his arm, and his gown swung out behind his sturdy figure. Nearing sixty years of age, he moved with the virility of a man much younger. His face was square, and his hair barely tinged with grey. The hazel eyes were large and alert, and the forehead was broad and high.
“Welcome, Mrs. Walters, welcome!” he said, his voice carefully modulated. “So glad you have come to our Activities Day. And such a fine day, too. Your husband ... I do not see him.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Rose, he was detained at the last moment. He was looking forward to coming, too. Please meet an old friend of my sister, Mr. Knapp.”
“How d’you do, sir.”
“Well, thank you. And you, sir?”
“I am always well,” stated Mr. Rose. “You are indeed welcome. We hope to show you the hand-work done by our boys. Come along now and find seats. In a few minutes we are ... not gunner, Keith ... we are going to serve afternoon tea. Good-afternoon, Miss Nanette.”
“Good-afternoon, sir,” replied Nanette with creditable poise.
Mr. Rose begged to be excused to greet other arrivals, and a woman hurried forward with smiling face.
“Hullo, Esther! So glad you’ve come. I’ve been hoping you would. You look well.”
Bony was presented to Mrs. Merle Simmonds, and informed that Mrs. Simmonds and her husband lived on a pastoral property named Tallinbah, eighty miles out of town. Then he was being introduced to her husband, a large man who appeared very tough until he smiled and warmly shook hands. Simmonds knew where to find vacant chairs, and he kissed Nanette and told Keith he hoped the “arvo” would soon be served.
It was all bustle and colour to cram a large canvas with interest for Bony, whose knowledge of the psychology of men and women was deeper than exteriors. Here on this brilliant lawn beneath the pure sky, here among these chattering people might be the man who experienced hellish ecstasy when his hands gripped a woman’s throat. Fine feathers do not make fine birds.
It was a passing thought, for against this background Bony was quite happy. Simmonds knew Brisbane. Simmonds had been at St. Peter’s, Adelaide. Simmonds had carried his swag in Queensland looking for work. Simmonds flew his own aircraft. Simmonds was natural. Bony liked him. He liked Mrs. Simmonds, too. She and Mrs. Walters made a good pair. And when he was presented to three young Simmondses, he liked one of them and held judgment on two.
Without warning, he was being formally presented to Mrs. Sayers. This afternoon she was arrayed in porcelain blue, and her hair was slightly more auburn than it had been at their first meeting in the police station office. Without doubt, her dressmaker was more successful in cut than in influencing her clients in their choice of colour.
“Pleased