Arthur Upfield - Murder Must Wait

The silence of the patient continued whilst Bony rolled and lit a cigarette. There might be something in the third degree system of the American police, even in the methods of the Hungarian police. But then, no. British methods, if slower, do produce greater obstacles to crime investigation, and so prolong the interest of the investigator.

The interest provided by Bertrand Marcus Clark lay in Alice McGorr’s opinion that he tailed her not for the purpose of assault but for the purpose of learning her actions in company with Betty Morse. Was that intention to satisfyhis own curiosity or the curiosity of another who employed him? Eventually, Bony was satisfied that Bertrand Marcus Clark was not going to enlighten him, and so politely he wished him well, for the time being, and departed.

The morning sun was now really hot when he strolled from the hospital grounds to the boulevard, where he appreciated the black shadows under the trees. And then a car slid to a halt at the kerb and Dr Nott called:

“Hullo there, Inspector! Did the Sister turn you away because it wasn’t visiting hours?”

“Morning, Doctor!” Bony leaned on the door of the smart coupe. “I’ve been visiting Mr Marcus Clark, and Matron was most charmingly co-operative.”

“You interested in that inky blackguard? Done over properly, wasn’t he?”

“From appearances, yes. Mitford must be a rough place. Poor fellow.”

“Peaceful enough generally, Inspector. We have our baby-thieves, our occasional murderer, but hoodlum stuff in respectable streets is rare enough to be news.”

“Perhaps Clark fell into a drain or something. People are always digging holes in unlikely places. You look tired.”

“I am. Four additions to the population last night. Expect four more between now and tomorrow.” The tired eyes were illumined with enthusiasm.“Two of a kind last night. Seven pounds apiece… twin boys.” Bony could see the doctor’s chest expand. “Only lost one baby in the last six months, and that was the fault of the fool mother.”

“Fool mothers are rare?”

“Happily so, Inspector. But neglectful mothers are not. Some women don’t deserve to be blessed with a baby, and many oughtn’t to be allowed to keep the child.”

“What, in your opinion, is the greatest factor causing a mother to neglect her child?”

“Booze,” was the swift answer.

“So! And the next factor?”

“Writing novels.”

“Is that so?”

“Both are forms of escapism, and a normal woman should be happily content with the responsibility of a baby. Mrs Ecks drank to excess and, to my mind, deserved to lose her child. Mrs Coutts writes rubbishy novels. You met her, I suppose?”

“Not yet. I may call on her this afternoon.”

“When you do you will agree. How’s the investigation going?”

“The baby-thieves are a little slow in announcing themselves, but they will. Criminals invariably call on me, some quickly, others a trifle reluctantly. I have but to wait. You know, I pride myself on being the most patient man in Australia.”

Dr Nott chuckled, but Bony’s face remained calm.

“Once upon a time,” Bony said, “I was with a murderer in an unfurnished house from which the light had been disconnected. All I did was to sit on the floor with my back to the front door and wait. And I had to wait only three hours for the murderer’s nerve to break, when he came to me with the request to be taken into custody. Subsequently he said he could see my eyes glowing in the darkness, and that I had a hundred pairs of eyes which closely hemmed him into a corner. Imagination, of course, Doctor. My eyes are quite normal.”

Nott, who had listened without movement, abruptly pushed out the clutch and shifted from neutral to low gear.

“Normal, eh! I wonder! Well, I must get along to see my babies. See you sometime, I hope.”

“Oh yes. I may be lolling about Mitford for ten years. Aurevoir!”

The gleaming car passed through the hospital gates, and Bony sauntered along the boulevard and eventually entered the offices of Martin amp; Martin, Estate Agents, Auctioneers andValuers, on Main Street. He asked to see the senior partner.

“What is the nature of your business?” asked the clerk, his eyes superciliously registering this client.

“My business is to unmask murderers… and other incidentals.” Bony witnessed the superciliousness fade. “I am a detective-inspector. The name is Bonaparte.”

Mr Cyril Martin was sixtyish, looked like an undertaker on duty, and spoke like a saw eating into the heart of a red-gum log.

“Sit down, Inspector. What can we do for you?”

“The subject interesting me at the moment is the late Mrs Rockcliff,” opened the seated Bony as he crossed one creased trouser leg over the other. “You rented her the house in Elgin Street, I understand.”

“Yes, that’s correct. We gave the particulars yesterday to the constable.”

“You let the house to Mrs Rockcliff for a period of twelve months?”

“Yes.”

“At the monthly rental of ten pounds?”

“Yes.”

“Calendar months?”

“Yes. The constable obtained all…”

Bony smiled. “I like my information first-hand,” he said. Mr Martin did not smile.

“The rent was paid promptly?”

“Oh, yes. On the 12th of every month.”

“Was that rent date a term of the lease?”

For the first time Mr Martin evinced hesitation.

“Er, no. It was an arrangement Mrs Rockcliff herself made with us. She offered to pay the first three months’ rent in advance in lieu of a reference, which normally we would insist on having.”

“How did she pay the rent?”

“In cash.”

“To whom?”

“To my clerk in the outer office.”

Bony produced his cigarette-case, and Mr Martin hastened to forestall him.

“Most extraordinary affair, Inspector. I met Mrs Rockcliff only twice. She seemed to be quite a nice woman, too.”

“The victim of homicide isn’t necessarily not nice, Mr Martin,” and the estate agent chuckled as Bony’s observation was smilingly made. “Could you be more precise in your impressions of Mrs Rockcliff?”

“Yes, I think so. I should say she was well educated. She spoke well, culturally, if you know what I mean.”

“Australian or English?”

“I’m doubtful on that point. She had no pronounced English accent. And, like you, she didn’t have the Cockney-Australian accent, either.”

“Who owns No 5 Elgin Street?”

The timing of this question was well chosen… when Mr Martin was looking directly at the questioner. The shutters fell.

“A Miss Mary Cowdry who lives in Scotland,” he replied with less spontaneity.

“What is Miss Cowdry’s address?”

“Well, the last time we heard from her she was living at a hotel in Edinburgh. She travels a good deal, and we send the rent along when she writes for it.” Mr Martin again chuckled. “She’s what we call one of the floating owners. We have several clients in that category.”

“How do you transmit the money to Miss Cowdry?”

“Oh, through the bank.”

“What bank?”

“The Olympic.”

Mr Martin nicked a handkerchief from his breast pocket, cursorily wiped his nose, furtively mopped his forehead. Despite the fan, it certainly was close in the office. Bony rose to leave, glancing at his wrist-watch.

“When could we expect to have the house released by the police?” asked the Estate Agent, also on his feet. “Rental houses are few in Mitford, as elsewhere, Inspector, and the demand for them is heavy.”

“Possibly in a week, Mr Martin. It could be later. Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you for your co-operation.”

“You are welcome.”