Arthur Upfield - Murder Must Wait

“I’ve no license as yet to say so, Yoti, but I am inclined to think that the murder of Mrs Rockcliff is the first sign that the baby-thief’s luck has ended, and ours has begun. I’ve known men who have robbed a bank, burgled a house, won a confidence trick, men who have pitted their intelligence against scientific investigation, and in doing so proved themselves to be driven by the same sporting urge that drives most of us to back a horse. To these people murder is as alien as it is to you and me. It is the criminal in this class who stole the five babies… or so I incline to think. What therefore is his present state of mind when a murder charge can be directed against him? He must be all hot and bothered. Assuming that he did murder Mrs Rockcliff, say because she recognised him, what would be the natural effect on his accomplice? Recriminations, fear, treachery, all stem from murder. As I said, murder is a spur giving no rest, no peace, no confidence in anyone or anything.”

Yoti, who had not once looked directly at the speaker, continued to stare beyond Bony at a picture of his son in swimming togs. Bony said:

“The effect of murder will affect the minds of those concerned in stealing babies. It must do. Was that your wife calling us?”

Yoti nodded. He wanted to express some thoughts, and subject others to analysis, but he was looking into Bony’s smiling eyes and hearing the pleasant voice say:

“Inevitably, the enemy will make a wrong move, and meanwhile let us not disturb our gastric juices. Now you will apologise to your wife for both of us. We were late fordinner yesterday, remember, and I apologised.”

Yoti grunted opposition, but he made amends and dinner passed off happily. After the meal they crossed to the Sergeant’s office to wait the coming of the Postmaster, but Essen arrived first, saying that Alice McGorr had left his house on what she said was her case.

“Her case!” murmured Bony, and the large policeman smiled, and vowed those were the words she had used while nursing his small son and his wife was serving dinner.

The night had brought no cooling zephyrs, and the three men seated at the table desk wore sports shirts and slacks. To his reports Essen was adding impressions and theories, when voices in the outer office preceded the entry of a man about fifty, greying, energetic, a cheerful smile about his lean mouth and a cast in his left eye. The damp silk shirt clung to his back, and from the waistline where shirt was tucked into trousers he produced four bottles of beer. Having vigorously shaken hands with Bony, he said in the unmistakable drawl of theinlander:

“There’s no hobby as satisfying as beer-drinking, Inspector, and no better place to indulge than Mitford. It’s why I’ve refused promotion to a bigger office. I like a beery climate. Look at Essen. He wasn’t a he-man when he came to Mitford although he did have to shave every day.”

“I was never much good as a policeman after I met you,” Essen countered, returning from a wall cupboard with four glasses and a bottle opener. “Worst thing I ever did was to join your Bowling Club.”

“Don’t believe it,” protested the Postmaster. “Mrs Essen’s as keen on the Club as I am, and Yoti. How’s the baby?”

“Where does he come in?”

“H’m! Bit of muck on the liver, eh? No matter. Take a gulp of that.” To Bony he said: “Hope you play bowls, Inspector. You must join our show. Make you an honorary member. Good crowd. Got a licence, too. Make more money outer the bar trade than the subs.” He eased himself into a chair, raised his glass and drank with appreciation. “Well, now for this Rockcliff woman. Can’t stop long, as I’ve got the Lodge books to get ready for tomorrow night.”

The Postmaster refilled his glass and glared at the other three glasses, in which the tide had only begun to ebb.

“Went back to the office after dinner,” he said. “Place shut up, of course, so I had a free go. Went through the registration books for four months. No registered letter in or out for Mrs Rockcliff. Went through the Money Order section: same result. Finally I made sure my memory wasn’t at fault with the Commonwealth Bank part of the joint, and proved I was correct. No account with the Commonwealth.”

“That’s generous of you, and positively helpful,” Bony said.

“That’s okay, Inspector. Always ready to lend the police a hand. Youknow, diplomacy, and all that. Police can be damned narks. Let me top your glass. Stiffen the crows! Haven’t any of you fellers learned to drink properly? I went a bit further. Telephoned the manager of the State Bank here. No good. No Mrs Rockcliff on his books. He’s a friend of mine. In the same boat.”

“Bowling Club boat?”

“Right.”

“And the Lodge boat?”

“Right again.” The Postmaster drained his glass, filled it and did the trick once more.“Well, so long, Inspector. Bring him out for a gameSat’day afternoon, Yoti. Plenty of beer floatingaround, and the green’s in good nick, too.”

“I shall look forward to a game or two before leaving Mitford,” Bony assured this cheerful man who loved a beery climate.

“It’s a go, Inspector. So long. Me for the Lodge books. What about proposing the Inspector, Yoti?”

Essen accompanied the Postmaster to the outer door, returned to pour drinks and light a pipe.

“Should have the report on those name tags by midday tomorrow,” he said. “Damn funny that woman always paid her accounts on the 12th of each month.”

“An interesting point,” agreed Bony. “My assistant put forward the idea that the money came from a local boy friend.”

“No man ever visited her, according to theThrings,” Essen argued.

“She could have visited the man… at night.”

“M’yes, that’s true.”

“Who belongs to your Bowling Club?”

It was Yoti who replied that the membership was round about eighty and included business people, civil servants, the Stationmaster, the Town Engineer and most of the Councillors.

“What of the managers of the private banks?”

Yoti grinned without mirth.

“They think they’re a cut above our crowd.”

“The doctors?”

“With the private bank managers.”

The telephone shrilled and Essen went out to the duty constable.

“I’d like to get the point clear, Yoti,” Bony went on. “Do the managers of the private banks, the doctors and others on the social summit have a club or association of their own?”

“Yes, bowling green, tennis-courts and golf courses all in one. What prompts the point?”

“That baby theft from the Olympic Bank was the most difficult to carry through, and was dependent on timing and intimate knowledge of the habits of both parents. How many old-time wall telephones are there in Mitford? I notice you have one here.”

“We’ve been promised hand sets when they go over to automatic. Why?”

Essen came in.

“Bloke named Wyatt, No 17 Ukas Street, reports a badly injured aborigine outside his front gate,” he said. “Abo says he was attacked by three men. I rang the ambulance. They’ll be calling here to pick me up.”

“All right!” grumbled Yoti. “Find out what that black-feller’s doing in town after sundown. If he isn’t a hospital case lock him up for the night.”

Essen went out to wait for the ambulance, and Yoti said:

“That Bank case?”

“Probably carried through by people familiar with parents’ habits and knowledge of interior of bank living quarters as well as the banking chamber. Three persons needed. One walked to the lane way leading to the private door. Another rang the manager from a near-by call-box. Manager in his office had to leave his desk, from which he could see his private hall, and stand at the telephone, when his back would be turned. First person opened private door with duplicate key, went upstairs, brought down baby and, leaving by the same door, handed infant to third person waiting on the other side of the board fence. Could have been in the vacant building next to the bank whilst the uproar went on, and stayed there till it was dark.”