The Widows of Broome. Arthur W. Upfield
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feet and eleven inches in height ... tall for a woman. If she was killed standing by a man of lesser height, I’m inclined to think that his wrists would bear down very hard on her shoulders. Do you think the marks on her shoulders were caused by that?”
Dr. Mitchell regarded Bony intently. Then he nodded, saying:
“She was strangled by a man behind her. She could have been standing, and he could have borne heavily on her shoulders with his wrists.”
“Thank you. Mrs. Eltham was five feet and nine inches in height, and, you stated, she was strangled from the front. Would you be good enough to demonstrate on me how, in your opinion, the murderer placed his hands about the necks of his victims?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll do that,” the doctor agreed. “I’ve already worked out that for myself. Sometimes, you know, a strangler uses one hand across the windpipe and the other at the back of the neck to counter the pressure. This fellow encircled his victims’ necks with his two hands, in the first case with his fingers meeting at the jugular vein and his thumbs together at the spinal column, and in the second place the position entirely reversed. Thus we know from which side he strangled.”
“What is your opinion now on the question of the position of his victims when killed? Standing or lying down?”
“Well, it seems they must have been killed when standing. Is it important?”
“Yes,” Bony agreed. “It has significance. Will you demonstrate those holds now?”
He stood up and turned his back to the doctor. He was five feet ten inches, and the doctor was three if not four inches shorter. When the large and capable hands were clasped about Bony’s neck, the wrists were distinctly heavy on Bony’s shoulders close to the base of his neck. Bony asked the demonstrator to bear downward more heavily on the wrists, and without increased pressure of the hands the weight placed severe strain on Bony’s back and knees.
He was smiling when they faced each other, and the doctor demonstrated from the front. As his hands encircled Bony’s neck, Bony attempted to lift a knee towards the doctor’s groin, and the little man chuckled and easily threw him off balance.
Well satisfied with his interview with Dr. Mitchell, who would not permit him to leave too quickly, and who appeared hungry for details of Bony’s career, Bony strolled back towards the police station. The sun was westering, and a soft cool zephyr met him from the salmon-coloured sand-dunes. The wind was a little stronger when he came to a break in the sand-dunes, and he stood gazing out over the turquoise sea, which bore on its placid surface one dark-brown sail.
It seemed then so impossible that far beyond the horizon, far away in the sea-wastes to the north-west, could be born a monstrous wind which with its strangling hands could destroy little stout ships and every soul aboard them. It is said that no insurance company will do business with lugger owners and their crews, so treacherous is that beautiful and serene section of the Indian Ocean.
Well, who would believe that here in this little drowsy town of comfortable bungalows and windowless shops, cut off from civilisation by hundreds of miles of virgin land, there could flourish a human being capable of being ecstatically triumphant when feeling through his hands the life of another seeping into the vacuity of death?
Turning to continue his way, Bony saw Mr. Dickenson.
Chapter Five
The Derelict of Broome
Mr. Earle Dickenson sat on the public seat placed in the shade of a poinsettia tree from which he could view the sea. He was tall and thin, and his beaked nose appeared always as though frost-bitten. His hair was white and abundant and was carefully brushed back from a noble forehead. The pointed white Vandyke beard greatly added to the air of distinction, but the general effect was ruined by his disgracefully old and soiled clothes.
The Asians accepted him with the tolerance accorded to all beggars, dogs and crocodiles. The white members of this very mixed community looked upon him with marked disfavour and, as has been noted, had made several attempts to have him kicked out of town.
Culturally, Mr. Dickenson was superior to anyone residing at Broome, excepting possibly the masters of Cave Hill College. He had travelled much off the tourist routes of the world and had associated with all manner of men. He had really lived the years of his long life, and there was no doubt his constitution had successfully defied John Barleycorn. Proof that the children loved him was provided by the fact that never a child had been known to be rude to him.
On this particular afternoon, Mr. Dickenson was depressed, a condition caused four times every year by financial embarrassment. His credit had been dead for half a generation, not one of the hotels consenting to advance even one whisky unless paid for. So depressed was he that when Bony sat down on the other end of the seat, he did not withdraw his moody gaze from the shimmeringly blue Indian Ocean.
Bony was aware that in every city the police are greatly assisted by the informer, and that every small town has its “town drunk” who can be equally helpful. The “town drunk”, however, is a different proposition from the city slum informer, and must be handled expertly and sympathetically ... especially sympathetically.
“This view should enchant an artist,” he remarked.
Mr. Dickenson slowly turned to regard the speaker, and what he saw did not quickly captivate his interest. The slim, dark man at ease on his own seat was presentable enough, but ... a stiff whisky and soda would ... When Mr. Dickenson again turned to regard his seat companion, the examination was made with prolonged calculation. The fellow was dressed in faultlessly creased gabardine trousers and an expensive tussore silk shirt. His shoes were good and brilliantly polished. A stranger, too. He might be worth touching.
“It is not always so ... enchanting,” he said. “You have chosen the best time of the year to visit Broome. It is, I think, the twenty-sixth of June. Correct me if I am in error.”
“You are quite right. Is the date important?”
“Merely that it is precisely four days prior to an important date.”
“Indeed,” murmured Bony.
“Should you be in Broome on June the thirtieth, I would be in the happy position of suggesting a drink.”
“Which infers that you are not in that happy position today.”
“Alas, my dear sir.”
Two boys came riding bicycles along the road, obviously returning from school, and both respectfully called out:
“Good-day, Mr. Dickenson!”
“Good-day to you, young men,” replied the old man, waving his hand, which Bony noted was long-fingered and clean. To Bony he said: “You are visiting?”
“Yes. I am staying for a few weeks.”
“To appreciate the place you must stay at least a year. There is none other like it in the world, and on that point I speak with authority. Should you have an interest in such matters, you will find the white section of the community of exceptional psychological interest. The whites are entirely lacking in the spiritual attributes making for personality. Observe this person approaching.
The person was arrayed in white duck and wore a white sun-helmet. He was well nourished. His gaze did not deviate from a point exactly to his front and distant probably a million miles. His facial expression was that of a Yogi meditating in a blizzard. Having watched him pass on, Mr. Dickenson laughed, a rumbling deep in his chest, and he said:
“Ninety-nine per cent of them are like that, atrophied from the frontal bone upward. I think it is due to the climate in alliance with temperance. To defeat this climate, to keep oneself mentally alive, one must drink. Moderately, of course. At which of the hotels are you staying?”
“I am staying with Inspector and Mrs. Walters. Mrs. Walters and my wife went to the same school.”
“Indeed! Nice people. I have found Walters generous and understanding. His duties