Arthur Upfield - Death of a Swagman

From the window he returned to the bed, where he stood for a few moments quite motionless. The mattress still contained the depression made by the child’s sleeping body. The depression made by her head was still upon the pillow. Then, abruptly, he leaned over the bed and sniffed with his nose but a fraction above the linen cover.

There was a square of carpet between the bed and window, and this he picked up and held to the light, squinting his eyes to stare all over it, square inch by square inch. The carpet he rolled and pushed beneath the bed. He closed and fastened the window, and then left the room, closing and locking the door and placing the key in his pocket.

Mrs Marshall was sitting on a chair beside the kitchen table. He went to her, brought his head down to the level of hers, and said:

“I do not believe Rose Marie is dead until it is proved. You must not think of it, for you have work to do. We allhave, every one of us. Slip out and tell the Rev. Lawton-Stanley that I want him, urgently. Will you do that?”

Slowly she turned her head and stared at him with tear-dimmed eyes. She nodded in assent. Her gaze fell away from his eyes and rested upon his brown hand laid lightly upon her forearm.

“I love Rose Marie too,” he told her.

Abruptly he turned and walked swiftly to the door, to the passage and back to the office. He noted the time by the clock. It was twenty minutes to eight. He took up the telephone.

“Hullo!” said a dreamy feminine voice.

“Dr Scott, please.”

“Number, please?” came the dreamy voice.

“This is Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte speaking from the police station. I want Dr. Scott. You know the number. If not, look it up.”

“The number is Merino 14,”came the now pert voice.

“Ring me when you get the doctor.”

As Marshall had done, Bony strode to the window. He saw Mrs Marshall reach the gate and turn westward towards where the evangelist’s truck was parked. A doubt cast a shadow over his mind. Had he been in error, had he always been wrong in accepting the death of human beings by violence in the cold academic manner of the scientist, and not with the righteous indignation of a warm human being? Murders he had always accepted as food for his mind, the victims meaning nothing to him save as the foundation upon which to raise the scaffold to hang the killer. As Marshall had justly pointed out, an additional killing or two meant little whilst his Providence dropped clues into his hands. Had he dawdled? Had he failed in his duty to humanity? Had he permitted his pride to overrule his own humanity?

Had he…? Oh hell! It was a different proposition when the probable victim of murder was a little child whom he had come to love, a winsome little girl whom young Jason had named Rose Marie. He had scoffed at theRedmans for permitting their emotions to trouble them, had boasted of his own scientific coldness. Had Marshall been right?

The telephone bell shrieked at him.

“Dr. Scott here,” the staccato voice announced.

“Good. Bonaparte speaking. Will you come right along to the police station?”

“Certainly. Has the child been found? Housekeeper just told me about it.”

“No. I want your assistance-urgently.”

“Be there in a minute.”

Bony cut the connexion and then rang the exchange.

“Is the postmaster on the phone?” he asked the girl.

“Yes. His number is-”

“I want him. Get him.”

“You might be a little civil, Inspector,” she said.

“I am. Your ears would burn were I uncivil. Get the postmaster quick. I’m in a hurry.”

He slammed down the receiver, then spun about to see standing in the office doorway little Mr Watson and two men standing behind him.

“Morning!” said Mr Watson smilingly. “You cleaningup here? Where’s the sergeant?”

“Out. Whatd’youwant?”

“Oh, just a friendly call on Marshall. These gentlemen are city colleagues up here to get a little news about the murders. Is it possible that Marshall’s child has been kidnapped, d’you think?”

“Nonsense. She has walked out in her sleep. Proved sleepwalker.”

“Interesting,” remarked one of Mr Watson’s companions.

“Yes, isn’tit! ” Mr Watson agreed. “Let me introduce you. This is a friend of mine, Mr Burns-Bony to his friends.”

“Eh!” ejaculated the other of his companions.“My hat.”

“Yes. I am Inspector Bonaparte. I have no news for you gentlemen this morning. When I have I shall be happy to impart it to you. Call again at six o’clock this evening.”

He returned to the shrieking telephone. On lifting the receiver, he heard Marshall’s voice out in the passage, and, placing a hand over the instrument, he called to the sergeant:

“Show these gentlemen out, Marshall. I am expecting Lawton-Stanley and Dr Scott.”

One red hand at the extremity of a large uniformed arm seemed to encircle the three newsmen and draw them out through the doorway. Then the door was slammed shut.

“Lovell here, the postmaster.”

“Ah… morning, Mr Lovell. I am Inspector Bonaparte speaking from the police station, and I rang to ask you a favour. It is that you come along here as quickly as possible. I haven’t met you, but I understand that you are a family man, and I am sure you would be only too glad to render all assistance in a most urgent matter.”

“Certainly. I’ll be right along.”

Three seconds after he had disconnected, the sergeant and Lawton-Stanley entered the office, followed by the hesitant Mrs Marshall.

“Got rid of those newsmen?”

Marshall nodded. To the evangelist Bony said:

“You have heard that Rose Marie has disappeared. You can do a big part in the search for her. I know you will do it. Listen! Marshall and Gleeson and I are policemen, and we are controlled by far too much damned red tape. Sorry! Here’s your shilling.” As he went on speaking he pulled coins from his pocket, selected a shilling piece, and placed it on the table before Lawton-Stanley, who, without comment, placed it in his collecting box, the pocket of his open-necked shirt.

“As I have pointed out, we policemen are bound hand and foot. We cannot enter houses and shops and search without a warrant. But you can, Padre. You can gather a band of men and women and go from house to house to make search for Rose Marie. No householder will object to such action by you. It is useless to search for tracks outside or on the street. Turn every house and shop inside out. Game?”

“Of course,” replied Lawton-Stanley.

“Good! And include the church and the parsonage.”

The evangelist nodded, turned, and went out with Mrs Marshall. They could hear him talking softly to her in the passage. Then Dr Scott came in… like a little dust storm.

“Morning!” he snapped, his white hair all ruffled.“Bit early. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“I want you to go along to Rose Marie’s bedroom, Doctor, and there take a sniff at the child’s pillow. When I did so I fancied I could smell chloroform. Then, under the bed, you will find a strip of carpet, rolled up. Take that back to your laboratory and, with your microscope, establish the foreign matter adhering to it. I think it is jute fibres. Anyway, I must know just what that foreign matter is. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course I will. Damn the breakfast! I’ll do that immediately and come back with my report.”

“Good! You may be disturbed by the evangelist and his search party, but you won’t mind that, will you?”

“Mind it!” echoed the doctor. “What the heck does Lawton-Stanley want to search my house for?”

“To find Rose Marie. They are going to search every house in the town.”

“Oh, all right! I won’t bellow.”