Arthur Upfield - Murder Must Wait

Mrs Yoti looked at the clock on the mantel, noted the teapot beside the clock.

“Would you like a cup of tea? I could make a pot before my pastry is due out of the oven.”

“That is just what I would like,” Bony said, returning to the table and sitting down again. “A strong cup of tea would fix this hangover. It’s very thoughtful of you. Howd’you like being married to a policeman?”

“Wouldn’t like not to be married to a policeman,” replied Mrs Yoti, pouring boiling water into the teapot. “My father was a policeman, my two brothers are policemen, and now my son is one.” The tea wasmade, the oven was opened and out came the pastry. It looked good, and Mrs Yoti laughingly asked what happened when the button came off his trousers.

“Mrs Marlo-Jones sneaked round the room to pick it up, and then sneaked over to the mantel and dropped it into a bowl. If you found a button at a party would you do that?”

“Not while my guests were present. Afterwards, of course. Good buttons are buttons these days. But that Mrs Marlo-Jones has a kink for buttons.”

“Indeed!” Bony sipped the strong tea with intense satisfaction.

“Daughter of a friend goes to High School, and once a week Mrs Marlo-Jones takes the botanyclass, or something like that. One day she was lecturing the class, and she was wearing a jacket suit. Shedived her hand into a side pocket for her handkerchief, and with it she pulled out about two dozen buttons. All kinds, too. The girls shrieked as they scrambled after them all over the floor.”

“And now she has added my button to her collection. I didn’t like to ask her for it.”

“No. You couldn’t very well do that,” agreed Mrs Yoti. “I’ll sew another on for you.”

“Thanks. I’m no good at it. Yes, I would like another cup. By the way, is your son a big man, bigger than his father?”

“Six feet four inches, forty-six or something round the chest, weighs sixteen stone. Why, his father’s a pigmy to our George.”

“I thought he might be, on coming across a pair of his slippers. Size nine foot?”

“Size nine. Takes almost a tin of polish every time he cleans his shoes.”

“Is there an old pair about anywhere? I’d like to borrow them.”

“Borrow them!” echoed Mrs Yoti.“George’s shoes! Whatever for?”

“Merely to make a wrong impression.”Mrs Yoti stared at Bony, and proceeded to nod slowly as though comprehension dawdled like a poodle off the lead. Bony was convinced it was still dawdling when he left for his room and the shower, but the number nines were in his hand and he wondered what it felt like to be an outsize man.

After dinner he found Alice and Essen sitting on his doorstep. Alice said she felt quite all right, and Essen complained that the stewedcloves was wasted effort at home, adding:

“Anyway, I’ll try a brew on top of the next Lodge night.”

Bony sat with them on the step.

“My mind has been reviewing Mr Cyril Martin. What do you think of him, Essen?”

“Don’t care for him. Nothing definite, of course.”

“What about his home life?”

“Good enough, I believe. The wife’s a semi-invalid. She never goes out anywhere. He does enough of that for both.”

“How does he stand financially, d’you know?”

“Couldn’t say. Seems to be well heeled. Buys a new car every second year.”

Bony musingly looked at Alice, and Alice tried to read his mind.

“How do you feel towards Mr Martin, Alice?”

“I know Martin’s type. The older they get the sexier they get. And most of it is in their dirty minds.”

“You think he’s a nasty man?” disarmingly askedBony, and Essen chuckled and drew to himself disapproval from Alice, who said:

“I’ll tell you what, and I’m serious. The more I see of those people, which includes this Mr Martin, the more I remember what you said about Satan Worshippers and such like. There’s something going on that I don’t cotton to. Give me the straight-outmetho drinkers and city crooks. They’re clean beside this plonk-drinking lot.”

“Now, now, Alice,” Bony reproved.“Let us stick to Mr Cyril Martin.”

“All right, we will,” Alice swiftly agreed. “There’s something at the back of my mind between it and him. I can’t dig it out, but I will.”

“Let me assist you,” Bony pleaded, and went on: “Does he remind you of the man who wears a size eight shoe, and who walks something like a sailor?”

“Why…” Alice stared. “Why, that’s it.”

“He comes closer to the man we imagine killed Mrs Rockcliff than anyone we have met in Mitford,” Bony said, dreamily. “But, Alice, I must earnestly warn you not to rush in where even Bony fears to tread. I understand, Essen, that Martin has two children, a boy and a girl.”

“Correct. Son would be about twenty-six or seven, and the girl is a couple of years younger. The son used to be in partnership with the old man, but three years ago there was a hell of a bust-up and he cleared off to Melbourne. The sister went with him.”

“The reason behind the bust-up?”

“Don’t know that one. Could be the father and son are too much alike to get along together.”

“Too much like physically or mentally?”

“Both. The son’s the dead spit of the old man. I did hear he set up an estate business in Croydon.”

“Might dig in behind this Mr Cyril Martin,” Alice said hopefully.

“I have already done so, Alice. The day before Mrs Rockcliff leased No 5 Elgin Street, Mr Martin cashed a personal cheque for fifty pounds. That was on October 11th. On the same date every month thereafter he cashed a personal cheque for fifty pounds. That is, to January 11th. He didn’t cash a cheque for that amount on February 11th

… four days after Mrs Rockcliff was murdered. You will both recall that Mrs Rockcliff paid her bills on the 12th of every month.”

“That sort of gives me ideas,” Alice said, eyes very hard, lines between the brows very deep.

“I took both of you into my confidence, not to provide you with ideas but to ease your minds of the depressing thought that I slumber too much. Could you find me a bike for tonight, Essen?”

“One on hand in the shed out back,” Essen replied.

“Too well known. Could you hire one?”

“Easy. Bike shop just down the street.”

“Is the tracker still on duty?”

“Went back to the Settlement an hour ago, according to the Sergeant.”

“Then hire a reliable bike and leave it here in this room.” Essen stood and waited for the reason behind the bicycle hiring. He received a reason. “I’m going out visiting.”

There was dismissal in Bony’s voice, and Essen grinned at Alice and departed.

“Feeling better?” Bony asked, rolling a cigarette.

“Much, thank you. Ready for work, too.”

“The work will come, Alice. I am going to begin tonight. Tomorrow you will begin to work, too. Meanwhile, I’d like you to run along to the Municipal Library and spend an hour or two of relaxation with the magazines in the Reading Room. There is the mystery of the theft of the aboriginal drawing to be cleared up, and then there is the matter of those ceilings being painted duck-egg blue.”

“What on earth…”

“This afternoon, when discussing thecicatrice patterns of the Worgia Nation with Professor Marlo-Jones, I overheard a man say that the renovations carried out at the Library last November cost much more than the Council had voted. Another man said he thought the work had been well done and was worth the additional cost. The first man then argued that the work need not have taken so long, causing the Library to be closed to the public for an entire week. I would like to know if the Library was closed to the public on November 29th.”