Arthur Upfield - Murder Must Wait

Mr Bulford buried his face in his hands, and Bony rolled and smoked another cigarette before Bulford regained composure, himself swayed by sympathy, his patience unaffected.

“Let us go back to Mrs Rockcliff,” he said, coldly, and thus succeeded in assisting Mr Bulford back to normal poise. “Mrs Rockcliff leased the house from Martin amp; Martin, to whom she paid the rent. Who actually owns the property?”

“The bank does.”

“Not a Miss Cowdry?”

“Miss Cowdry would own it if she paid off her overdraft. Before she left for Europe last year she agreed to let the bank have full control of the property, meet its interest on the OD, and apply the balance to the reduction of the OD.”

“You did not know Mrs Rockcliff before she rented the house, I think you said.”

“No, I did not. Mr Martin recommended her, and I agreed to the rental when she offered three months’ rent in advance.”

“She always paid the rent in cash. She always paid her bills in cash also, Mr Bulford. She never drew money from a Mitford bank or the Post Office. Did she have an account here?”

“I’ve answered that question before… in the negative.”

Bony sighed, and settled himself as though prepared to stay for a week. He said, slowly:

“All other things being equal, I have the idea I could forget to include in my final reports your platonic friendship with Mrs Rockcliff. If, Mr Bulford, you could forget that you are the manager of a bank… out of business hours.”

Mr Bulford regarded Bony steadily.

“I would like to know what you want me to do, Inspector.”

“Does the firm of Martin amp; Martin bank with you?”

“Yes.”

“Does Mr Martin have his private account here, too?”

“Yes.”

“Would you examine those two accounts for any abnormality?”

“Yes. Give me half an hour.”

Bony nodded agreement and the manager passed from the parlour to the banking chamber. Thereafter occasional sounds reached Bony, who relaxed in this comfortable parlour where so many money problems had been discussed. Outside the bank, the world passed by, even the little world of Mitford, a community of hurrying ants, each carrying its load, but, unlike the ant, trying to drop its load to take up another.

There was Bulford trying to escape life, and knowing he never would. There was Alice McGorr trying to run away from her feminine instincts, and heavily laden with inhibitions created by adolescent environment.

Inhibitions have sunk more human craft than any other agency. Inane ambition has sunk countless others. Only a Napoleon Bonaparte, by sheer will power and determinedly trained intelligence, has the strength to fear nothing, not even death, and no one save himself.

Could Bulford really drop his load and escape to the bush-lands without having to take up another? Could he, Napoleon Bonaparte, jettison his career and be swallowed by the vast interior of this continent, and be free of the load he carried?

The manager came back and thus terminated these somewhat pointless cogitations.

“I think I might have what you want, Inspector,” he said, having seated himself in his chair of importance. “On the 11th of every month, beginning last October, Mr Cyril Martin cashed a cheque for fifty pounds. The money was paid by the cashier in one-pound notes. On February 11th, that is this month, the cheque for fifty pounds was not presented.”

“So?” mused Bony. “Mr Martin cashed a cheque for fifty pounds on the day before Mrs Rockcliff rented the house, and after she was murdered, on February 7th, Mr Martin did not cash the usual monthly cheque for fifty pounds.”

Mr Bulford sat quite still, waiting. Bony rose.

“Thank you, Mr Bulford,” he said. “I hope our little trade will lighten your load.”

The manager didn’t move. He gave no evidence that the load was eased.

The Enemy Strikes

ALICEMCGORRand Essen tapped for admittance to Bony’s room shortly after seven, when the sun-god was losing his grip on the world and showing his anger by splashing the sky with blood. Indoors, room corners were beginning to melt into shadow and the mosquito that had forced an entry during the day was now lusting.

They found Bony slumped in his chair, on the desk his notes and reports. He was minus his coat and the white linen shirt looked as though recently donned.

“Come and sit down, both of you. After such a hot day you must be tired. Light up and relax.”

“I came in after I got back from the hospital, and you weren’t here,” Alice said, and proceeded to remove her gloves and produce a cigarette-case and lighter from her handbag.

“I was calling on the elite.”

“A woman?” she asked, suspiciously. Essen chuckled.

“Free and easy, aren’t we?” he mocked. “We could be reminded about our place.”

“I don’t need to be reminded,” snapped Alice. “We were both told to call him Bony. He said all his friends call him Bony, and that we were his friends. Now, didn’t he?”

“He did,” agreed Essen, lighting his pipe. “Still, we are lowly constables and he’s a DI. Wonder if he ever wears all the doings… braided peak hat, striped pants, gold-mounted tunic, etc.”

“The wife has the lot, including a sword, wrapped in tissue paper and in her treasure chest,” Bony said proudly, and then joined in the laughter againsthimself.

“And now, my friends, with your permission, a few questions.”

Alice and Essen looked at each other, challengingly.

Bony spoke: “Competitor Number One. What did you think of the hospital, Alice?”

“Hospital first-rate. Got everything, from what I could judge. Nine babies in the Infants’ Ward. Those boy twins! Gorgeous kids… well worth the effort. But, anyone could sneak in at midnight and pinch the lot. Ward is wide-open to a fly-netted veranda, and the door in the veranda’s never locked. I told Constable Essen about it at dinnertime.”

“Sister on duty all night through?”

“Yes, but she has other duties which take her away from the Infants’ Ward, although not so far that she couldn’t hear a baby cry.”

“And you, Essen? What have you done?”

“I spent a couple of hours with the Registrar of Births and Deaths and obtained the addresses of all parents with children under three months.”

“Did you make a note of the sex of the children?”

“Yes.”

“Concentrate on the safety of the male children. Have you plans?”

“Yes, I think I can cover it. The reinforcements from Albury are due in at half-past eight. The Sergeant says I can have Robins, who knows the town, and two of the Albury men. Robins is now visiting the homes of all the male infants to warn the parents. We’ll guard the infants at the hospital and, with the other men, take general duty in the town. You got a hunch the kidnappers will try again?”

“History has produced one kidnapping per month,” replied Bony. “I am taking these measures to satisfy Superintendent Canno, and to rid myself of mental distraction created by the possibility of another kidnapping. Do you think it possible that Sergeant Yoti instructed your tracker, Fred Wilmot, to trail me today?”

“Trail you! Lord, no.”

“How long has he been employed by the Department?”

“Oh, some three years, I think.”

“Mrs Rockcliff was murdered last Monday night. The next morning Wilmot came here to work. I am wondering if that were coincidence or arrangement made by Yoti or yourself.”

“Don’t think. I’ll ask the Sergeant.”

Essen departed in some haste, and Bony slid over the desk top a print made by a glove finger which had been repaired.

“Would you say that sewing was done by an expert or by a woman not really proficient?” he asked Alice, and then silently watched her.