The Widows of Broome. Arthur W. Upfield
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a peasant blouse, she was still vivid and markedly self-possessed.
“Good-afternoon, Inspector,” she said, her voice brittle. Her bold brown eyes were hard as she faced Walters, who had risen to his feet. “I’ve called to give you a piece of my mind. Have you any objection?”
“This department is always at the service of the public.”
“Well then, it’s my considered opinion that when two defenceless women are murdered and no one is arrested for it, it’s a shocking disgrace to the Police Force. I don’t understand it. No one in Broome understands it. What kind of policemen are you people? Tell me that, instead of standing there like a dumb cluck. You can catch a poor Chinese for smoking opium, but you can’t catch this person who strangled two women. Two women, mind you, not one. You can tell that gang of ruffians who came up from Perth that I’ll make their thick ears burn if they don’t produce results.”
A second car drew up outside the station, and Inspector Walters attempted to assure the lady that the Perth homicide men would make an arrest when they were ready, that another detective was coming north to continue their investigation.
“Well, we people of Broome want results,” went on the woman. “You policemen think you’re the bosses of Broome, and you are going to learn your mistake ... all of you ... from the Chief Commissioner downward. I’m the boss of Broome, and don’t you forget it. Mind you, I’m talking officially. Privately, I consider both your wife and you as my friends. What was the name of that fool from Perth?”
“You are referring to the senior detective?”
“You know I am.” The woman turned to glare at two men who entered the office: one wearing official uniform, the other in smartly cut civilian clothes. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You tell him from me that if he doesn’t stop these murders I’ll expose his fool doodling in the West Coast News, and in case you don’t know it, Mr. Walters, I own that newspaper ... and the Perth Saturday Record ... and about half of the Perth Daily Reporter. Is Esther at home?”
“Yes. She’s somewhere in the house.”
“No, no! Don’t bother. I’ll find her.” The woman turned from the still rigid Inspector Walters. She nodded to the second policeman, who had sat down at a desk and was taking up a pen. The civilian had his back to them. He was studying a wall map of Broome and the surrounding district, and as though conscious of being examined, he turned to meet the angry brown eyes with eyes as blue and as bland as the Indian Ocean that day.
“Who are you?” demanded the lady.
“My name is Nap.”
“Spell it, please.”
“K .. n .. a .. p .. p.”
“Are you a policeman?”
“Er ... a kind of policeman. I am a psychiatrist.”
“What’s that?”
“I heal, or try to heal, sick minds.”
The woman frowned. This stranger was distinctly dark. Colour in him somewhere. She was glad she had taken the stand with him that she had done. Then she didn’t feel glad at all when he smiled.
“By whom am I addressed, Madam?”
“Me? Oh, I’m Mrs. Sayers. A healer of sick minds, you say.” She almost giggled. “You’ve come to the right place. They’ve all got sick minds around here. Someone killed two defenceless women and they can’t catch him.” She swept towards the house door and there turned to survey the stranger with eyes no longer furious. “What kind of medicine do you give sick minds, Mr. Knapp?”
The stranger bowed slightly, and smiled.
“Hemp,” he murmured. Mrs. Sayers did giggle. They listened to her high-heeled shoes impacting the linoleum within the house, and then Inspector Walters advanced with proffered hand.
“Bit of a tartar when she’s roused,” he explained, “otherwise nice enough. Women! They always beat me. Glad to meet you, Inspector Bonaparte.”
“And I to meet you. Permit me to present my credentials.”
Sub-Inspector Walters read the order from Perth to give Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte every assistance in the investigation of the murder of Mrs. Elsie Cotton on the night of April 12th, and the murder of Mrs. Jean Eltham on the night of May 5th. There was more of it, and when done, Walters looked up to observe the stranger in Broome seated at the opposite side of his desk, rolling a cigarette.
“Well, Inspector, all of us here will be glad to co-operate,” he said.
“Thank you.” Bony lit his cigarette. “I like that word, co-operate. True doctors co-operate when the G.P. calls in a specialist for consultation on a difficult case. Regard yourself as the general practitioner, and me as the specialist. A specialist I am. I specialise in homicide. I know little of general police procedure or administration. So it’s every man to his profession. By the way, I’d like to be known as Mr. Knapp. All my friends call me Bony. Might I be honoured by including Sergeant Sawtell and yourself among my friends?”
Faint warmth spread over the iron-hard face of the inspector, and Sergeant Sawtell, who had met Bony at the airport, expressed his pleasure.
“We’re both very glad you are here,” Walters said. “We have enough normal work on our hands without the addition of investigating murders which don’t have any possible motive. Been a worrying time. One constable away in the bush after a blackfellow, and the other’s just out of hospital with a knife wound received down in Chinatown. Have you made arrangements about accommodation?”
“No, not yet. I understand there are five hotels here.”
“There are, but perhaps you’d consent to put up here. The wife and I would be glad to have you.”
“That’s kind of you. I would like that. And I’d try not to put Mrs. Walters to great inconvenience.” Bony smiled his thanks in addition to the words. “We could then go into conference at any time suitable to yourself and Sawtell. I know enough about these police-administered districts to understand the thousand and one calls on your time. Yes, that would be an excellent arrangement. I could be a civilian friend staying with you.”
A car engine burst into restrained power, and the inspector raised himself to look beyond the fly-netted veranda front.
“That’s Mrs. Sayers leaving. Ought to get a cup of tea now she’s gone.” He stood up and Bony also rose. “Fine woman but volcanic.”
“A local power?”
“The local power. Owns one of the stores, two of the hotels, six of the luggers, and fifty per cent of the houses in Broome. Her father was a pearl dealer. Her husband was a store owner, shell dealer and lugger owner. She has more money than the King ... and spends it faster than Rockefeller did.”
Bony was conducted from the office to a tastefully and sensibly furnished lounge, was left there a moment, and then was being presented to Mrs. Walters. She was slight and dark, and he liked her at first sight.
“So you’re Inspector Bonaparte,” she exclaimed. “Well, I am glad you have come up from Perth. I’ve a sister, you know, in Brisbane ... married to Detective-Sergeant Knowles ... and we’ve heard much about you from her. I’m so glad my husband suggested you stay with us.”
“It’s really delightful of you both.”
“Not a bit. Why, we’ve been terribly anxious about these murders. People are asking who will be murdered next. It’s been dreadful for everyone. And not a clue ... not a single clue pointing to who committed them and why. Seems that he just killed for the pleasure of it. You will have a cup of tea?”
“That is a question I never answer in the negative,” replied Bony, and Walters offered cigarettes.
It was plain that these two people had been suffering strain, for their pleasure at his arrival