Arthur Upfield - Murder Must Wait

“Mrs Bulford told us that on the afternoon the infant was stolen she left the bank for a sherry party at four-thirty. You went upstairs about five-thirty. It must have been during that hour the kidnapper entered your hall. Using a duplicate key, or as seems more likely a stiff ribbon of celluloid, that operation from start to finish would occupy, say, ninety seconds. Correct?”

“Yes. Or it would if anyone had rung me. No one did during the period from the time my wife left to the time I went upstairs.”

“I’d like you to be sure, Mr Bulford.”

“Very well.”The manager produced a black book from a desk drawer and swiftly turned the pages. “Here’s the record for that day… November 29th. The last call was at two-fifty-six, made by a client named Rawson.”

“No friend rang you during the period vital to us, a friendly call not to be recorded.”

“No, no one, Inspector.”

“Did you ring anyone?”

“I cannot remember having done so.”

Mr Bulford had answered frankly. His eyes had remained frank if alert. Bony’s opinion of this bank manager was confirmed: he could be tough in business under a suave and friendly exterior, always sure of his facts and completely reliant on his figures.

Bony stubbed his cigarette and pensively regarded his fingernails. His attitude, his facial expression were both indicative of disappointment.

“During that vital hour, Mr Bulford, did you remain in this office all the time?”

“All the time, Inspector.”

“Think back, please. I want you to be very sure. Remember, your infant son’s life could be at stake.”

“You needn’t apply the spur, Inspector.”

“It’s not to my liking, I assure you, Mr Bulford. Let us start from another point. On that afternoon, your wife attended a cocktail party given by people named Reynolds. It was a monthly engagement, and these people are important clients. Babies in arms would not be taken to such a party, I assume?”

“No, decidedly not.”

“In the report by Detective-Sergeant Moss it is stated that you said, on finding the cotempty, that you assumed Mrs Bulford had taken the child with her. The other day you told me you assumed that your wife had taken the child to the cocktail party.”

“Well… Now wouldn’t that be natural?” countered the manager. “I went upstairs, and I found the baby’s cot empty, and naturally I assumed that my wife had taken it with her.”

“Neither to Detective-Sergeant Moss nor to me did you say that, finding the cot empty, you rushed to the bedroom where your wife might well have put the infant before going out.”

“But she always left it in the cot and, I repeat, it was natural for me to assume she had taken it, even though I knew she was going to a cocktail party, and even though I knew she had never done so before.”

With deliberation which even Mr Bulford realised was due to mental activity, Bony rolled another cigarette and then, as deliberately, tamped the tobacco into the paper with a match. He ignited the match, placed it to the tip of the cigarette, held the flame and gazed at the bank manager. Deliberately, he gave Mr Bulford time to organise his mind to meet an attack. It was delivered.

“The other day you said that Mrs Rockcliff did not have an account with your bank.”

The shutters fell before the hazel eyes, which never wavered.

“That is true. Mrs Rockcliff did not bank with us.”

“You said, too, that prior to seeing her name in the local newspaper as the victim of homicide you had never heard of her.”

“That is so, Inspector.”

“I recall that I asked you that question when we were upstairs and your wife was present. Mrs Bulford is not now present.”

The hazel eyes moved to focus their gaze on the cigarette-box. A white pudgy hand hovered over the box and took a cigarette, and when the match was struck the sound was distinct. The match was blown out and dropped on to the tray. And the hazel eyes again met the ice-cold blue ones watching him.

“I had met Mrs Rockcliff,” he admitted quietly.

“You met her in the Library?” asked Bony, and subsequently often remembered a bad mistake.

“Apparently you know that.”

“Were you with Mrs Rockcliff at the Library during the period or part of the period when your son was stolen?”

“I’m afraid so. I left here ten minutes after my wife, and I returned at half past five. Obviously I couldn’t mention the matter before my wife.”

“What were the circumstances of your first meeting with Mrs Rockcliff?”

“It was in late October. I was in the Library and overheard her discussing books with the librarian. The subject also interested me… and the librarian, well, made the introduction easy. I found her intelligent and pleasant to talk to, and often after that we met and talked. About books I can assure you.”

“Not about herself?”

“No, other than that her husband had been killed in an accident, and that she had lived in Melbourne for several years.”

“And you felt that your wife would disapprove?”

“You have met Mrs Bulford, Inspector.”

“Mrs Rockcliff had no place in your social crowd?”

“There were reasons barring Mrs Rockcliff from our set. Stupid, of course. Worse, they were snobbish reasons. Ye Gods! Humanity makes me sick. With the exception of Mrs Marlo-Jones, there isn’t a woman in Mitford the equal of Mrs Rockcliff in intelligence.” The manager waited for the next question, and when it did not come, he said:

“Being the manager of a country branch is very safe and respectable, but I have for years had moments of rebellion. I mentioned Mrs Marlo-Jones. She and her husband, a retired professor of anthropology, are both charming and clever. Yet their range of subjects is sadly narrow, and after a time they become boring. Outside those two, the rest are mean-spirited, unaware of the world beyond their social rope. I belong with them. The bank says I must. My wife says I must. And what the bank says I must not do, must not know, my wife prohibits, too. For me there is only one road to mental freedom, the road paved with books telling of people who are free, or were free when they lived. Yes, I came to know Mrs Rockcliff very well. She was never inquisitive about my personal affairs, and I never attempted to probe into hers.”

“I appreciate your frankness,” Bony murmured and lit another cigarette. “I appreciate, too, your moments of rebellion. We are all slaves to one master or another: you to convention, I to a power much stronger. Were you in love with Mrs Rockcliff?”

“Yes. I knew that only after she was murdered.”

“You would not like your friendship with her to become known, of course.”

“I would not. And yet…”

“Well?”

“If it did become known, and the worst happened that I was reprimanded by the bank and threatened with eternal nagging by my wife, I might walk out on everything and carrya swag into the bush. If I did that, went looking for a bush job, I believe I would know greater content.”

“H’m! When your two boys have grown to independent manhood, you may be able to do just that… and perhaps be very wise. Now for a direct question. Did you have any affection for your baby?”

“No. It wasn’t permitted.”

“Was not permitted by your wife?”

Bulford nodded, seeing himself as Bony was seeing him, writhing with self-contempt, being roasted by a damned half-caste.

“Did your wife have any affection for the baby?”

The picture of himself vanished and was replaced by that of his wife, and the simmering anger of years erupted.

“None,” he replied loudly.“None whatever. It came late, unwanted. She said everyone was laughing at her, and she hated the baby because of that, and she hated me, too. And now I hate her… for all of it.”