The Bachelors of Broken Hill. Arthur W. Upfield
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of police work in these cyaniding cases when he didn’t want anything to do with cyanide, he having acquired an important ambition since coming to Broken Hill. Fading out from this city to another would be just plain stupid, for the entire world was too small in which to escape the attentions of this cursed Bonaparte. Thus this feeling of the nut between steel crackers.
Arrayed in a light sports suit and a panama to keep his head cool, Jimmy strolled down Argent Street. The afternoon was still and hot. The shadowed pavements were certainly not empty spaces, and the kerbs were lined by parked cars and utilities. The store windows were filled with luxury goods to meet the prosperity of this mining community, and the shoppers were dressed as expensively as he. Even then great wads of dough were coming up out of the earth to the accompaniment of the ceaseless racket of machinery.
The store once controlled by Samuel Goldspink was about the third best in Argent Street, and Jimmy paused to view the array of gents’ ties and shirts. Ties! He already had dozens in various places, for he had an abiding passion for them, but Bonaparte had ‘suggested’ ties and—hell!
There were but a few customers within, and Jimmy came to anchor beside a man interested in gloves, and, there being a vacant chair, he perched himself on it with the air of a man having a million years in credit.
There were opened boxes of gloves on the counter before the man who was trying them on. He was a tall man, heavy, having a distinct paunch. He was very well dressed, even for Broken Hill. His voice was modulated and almost without accent. He could be a retired share-broker, an undertaker, a film producer. He could be—but Jimmy wasn’t interested. Who would be interested in the man when one could gaze upon the assistant serving him?
She was barely forty, large, severely corseted within an expensive black frock. The pearl necklace floating on the sea of her bosom triumphed in the capture of Jimmy’s attention, for they were real pearls. And those glittering blue diamonds set in the platinum rings on the fat fingers forced Jimmy’s mind to envision the cot wherein these jewels would lie snug o’ nights. There was certain to be a rear yard, with rooms opening to that yard. The burglar alarms, of course, would be just too easy.
That the wearer of the jewels might not detect in him a too absorbed interest in her trimmings, Jimmy casually watched the man trying on gloves. The hands were long-fingered. They were the hands of a gifted person: the hands of a surgeon, a watchmaker, a burglar. They were steady hands and strong, and Jimmy noted how the long and tapering fingers encased by a fine suede curved inward to the palm to become a powerful fist whilst the owner examined the taut material about the knuckles.
So determined was Jimmy to ignore the pearls and the diamonds, he permitted too great an interest in the glove customer and suddenly was aware of being regarded by eyes almost black and decidedly speculative. It was just for an instant and created a fast picture in Jimmy’s mind of a face adorned about the eyes with bushy grey eyebrows, and a grey moustache angled stiffly above a small goatee beard.
An assistant who had been serving a woman with a small boy came to serve Jimmy. Barely matured, she was dark and vivid. Jimmy was at once helpful.
“Ties, please, miss. Not too expensive. I like those in the window priced at fifteen and six.”
To avoid looking at the pearls and diamonds, Jimmy glanced at the hand now being thrust into another glove, a brown kid glove. The girl was lifting boxes from the shelves behind the counter. The man was being fastidious. Gloves! No one wore gloves in Broken Hill unless going to a wedding—or a funeral.
Ah! A figured tie in pale blue silk. A little too dull, perhaps. A strip of light green opal caught the light as it wove about the assistant’s fingers. Colourful, but certainly pleasing. Would go well with his newest lounge suit. Jimmy accepted the tie, angled its sheen to catch the light, placed it aside, and said it would do.
“This one is perfect for you, sir,” the girl said, producing a ‘creation’ in red. She was being well trained by Pearls and Diamonds, for she exhibited interest in her customer. Jimmy smiled at her and placed the treasure against the cloth of his coat, agreeing that the colour scheme was perfect.
“I’ve a weakness for ties,” he admitted, and the girl instantly smiled her understanding. “Now show me something less informal.”
“I’ll have that pair,” said the glove buyer. “What price did you mention, madam?”
Jimmy blinked—once. The gloves chosen were black, and as the assistant folded them to slip into their cellophane envelope the diamonds sparkled yet more gloriously. The woman—Jimmy was confident that she was Mrs Robinov, the late Sam Goldspink’s housekeeper—appeared to be of a placid disposition, accepting the whims of her customers with fortitude.
His own assistant was displaying a tie which could be worn at a business conference. The glove purchaser departed, and Jimmy permitted a full minute to pass before remarking to Mrs Robinov, who was replacing gloves into the respective boxes:
“You wouldn’t sell many gloves in a town like this, would you?”
Mrs Robinov smiled, and behold, there was a diamond in a front tooth.
“More often than you might think,” she replied. “Mostly for weddings, of course, and for funerals. Generally a man wanting gloves is going down to Adelaide or over to Sydney. Much too hot up here for gloves—in the summer.
He was informed of his liability and passed a five-pound note. The girl accepted the money as though a gift to herself, and raced it along the overhead wire to the cashier.
“Are you staying for the races?” politely inquired Pearls and Diamonds.
“Yes, I think so,” replied Jimmy. “I like Broken Hill, even in summer.”
“I like it all the year round.” The pearls gleamed as though seen through a fathom of tropical water. “I like the people. We’re very sociable here in the Hill. I hope you have found us so.”
“I have that,” agreed Jimmy truthfully. Mrs Robinov thanked him for his custom and turned to serve a youth who would doubtless have preferred the girl. Jimmy smiled at her on accepting his change, raised his hat, and sauntered out to the hot street.
His wrist watch said ten to four, and Jimmy thought of his throat and a pot of tea taken in accordance with the orders of that damned Bonaparte. He paused once to look at a display of new novels and finally entered Favalora’s Café. The place was not crowded, and he chose a table against the wall. A waitress took his order for tea and toasted raisin bread, and Bony sat opposite him.
“Nice day,” Bony said.
“Yes. Bit warm, though, for the time of the year. Might bring up rain. Does rain here sometimes, I heard.”
The waitress brought Jimmy’s tea and toast and Bony ordered the same. When she had gone, Bony asked casually:
“Are you aware that you are occupying the seat in which a man drank poisoned tea?”
“Yes. Are you aware that you occupy the chair taken that afternoon by the person who tossed a fistful of cyanide into the tea?”
“We’re well placed. How was it done, Jimmy?”
“Simple. The victim was reading a magazine, remember? He wouldn’t see.”
“Why was it done?”
“Why? Just to watch the old bloke drink it up and throw a fit. Lots of peculiar types walking around, you know.”
“If you wanted cyanide, d’you think you would have much difficulty in obtaining it?”
“Certainly not,” replied Jimmy. “There’s nothing I wanted I couldn’t get—providin’ I had the cash.”
“Have you spotted the waitress who served Parsons that day?”
Jimmy sighed and looked at Bony with hurt-dog eyes. He waved his cup towards a girl waiting at one of the central tables.
“That’s her,” he said. “I’m taking her to the pictures