Arthur Upfield - Murder Must Wait

The Master of Ceremonies returned him to the lock-up and produced Dr Delph. Dr Delph was given a resume of the statements made by Marsh and Nonning, and he was more amenable to reason. By the time his statement had been typed and signed, Bony was thinking of morning tea.

Again in the yard between the Station and the residence, Bony asked the Sergeant for the envelope he had placed in the dash-box the previous afternoon. Yoti produced it from a pocket of his tunic, and having examined it Bony gave it back, saying:

“Yesterday afternoon I said that this envelope contained the name of the murderer of Mrs Rockcliff, although the evidence against him was inconclusive. Now being able to locate the remaining four babies, I can finalise the murder of Mrs Rockcliff by pointing him out to you for arrest. Essen!”

“Sir!”

“Take two constables and proceed by car to invite Mr Cyril Martin and Mr Cyril Martin, Junior, to call on me. With these two men, stop the car outside this yard entrance. Have them escorted to the side door of the Station, the two men to walk together, a constable either side of them. You will not enter the yard until I signal. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Essen called Robins and two constables, and they drove from the yard and up Main Street.

“Now, Yoti, a rake and a broom, please. Quickly.”The Sergeant brought the implements. “As I rake, smooth with the broom. Order your men to keep out those reporters.”

The surface of the yard was of sand compressed by boots and car tyres, and Bony proceeded to rake the ground in a wide swathe from the gateway to the rear door of the Station. As he raked, the Sergeant smoothed with the broom, producing a fine tilth. Both men were heated when the work was done, but Yoti was given no time to idle.

“Plaster of Paris, water and the trowel, please. Hurry.”

So the stage was set for the actors to strut. Bony stood just within the gateway, Yoti and Alice admired the flowers in the tiny garden in front of the residence, the Sergeant having with him a tin of ‘superphosphate’ and a trowel.

Essen drove up. The constables alighted, then two civilians. The elder Martin nodded to Bony; the younger stared moodily. They were marshalled together and, with a constable either side of them, walked into the yard.

Moving across the prepared surface, the party left four distinct sets of shoe-prints, the two civilians of the same height, the same build, the same manner of walking, the same Christian name. And one of them was the murderer of Mrs Rockcliff.

Bony followed the four lines of prints, slightly crouching. Then swiftly he drew an arrow indicating a print made by the right-hand Martin, and Yoti immediately filled the print with sloppy plaster. Another arrow indicated a second chosen print made by the right-hand Martin, and then Bony signalled to Essen to join him, at the same moment calling:

“Constables! Just a moment!”

The party halted, each man in his tracks. To the right-hand Martin, Bony said:

“I charge you with the murder of Mrs Pearl Rockcliff on the night of February 7th. Take him, Essen.”

“Come on, Mr Martin, Senior,” Essen said, with immense satisfaction.

For an hour before lunch the Sergeant’s office was the scene of much activity following the arrival of a large car manned by police who brought in Chief Wilmot, his son and the lubra, the old watch-mender, and Mr Beamer who came to see fair play. Instead of sullen silence, they surrendered to Bony’s quiet assurance that after confession they would be returned to the Settlement. Mr Beamer, anxious for them, witnessed the statements they made, and at the State’s expense they were returned to the Settlement.

At two o’clock Professor and Mrs Marlo-Jones were presented to Bony in the Sergeant’s office. They were a strange pair: the man regal and dynamic, the woman nondescript and yet vital. There was fire in her small brown eyes, and the wide mouth was truculent.

“Now,” she exclaimed, “now we may be able to make sense of all this extraordinary police behaviour. Please explain, Inspector… if you are an Inspector.”

“Don’t be so vitriolic, dear,” boomed the Professor. “Inspector Bonaparte is but doing his duty, and you will remember that I advised against taking the rock drawing.”

“I know,” agreed the woman. “Still…”

“We intend to restore the drawing, Inspector,” asserted the Professor. “Merely a stupid prank, that’s all.” He chuckled. “We are quite ready to accept punishment for borrowing our neighbour’s goods, you see.”

“But why, Professor?”Bony mildly asked. “You told me when I was your guest that you couldn’t decipher the meaning intended by the aboriginal artist. Or did you steal it because you didn’t want me to see it, because you knew that if I saw it I might know the legend portrayed by the artist?”

“Oh no, it wasn’t that,” said Mrs Marlo-Jones.

“And then I would know the inspiration behind your plan to steal babies?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs Marlo-Jones.

“Ah!” breathed Professor Marlo-Jones.

“I am glad you accept the idea,” murmured Bony. “I suggest that you tell me all about it, from the beginning and including the murder of Mrs Rockcliff that night that you, Mrs Marlo-Jones, entered her house and stole her baby.”

“Me?” snorted Mrs Marlo-Jones. “I didn’t murder the woman.”

“You were under the bed.”

“Under the bed! Henry, you’re a traitor. You told this man what I told you.”

“I did not, dear,” boomed the Professor. “How did you find out that my wife was under the bed, Inspector?”

“As a famous fictional detective used to say: ‘Elementary, my dear Professor.’When your wife crept under Mrs Rockcliff’s bed she was wearing gloves, the identical gloves she is now wearing. One of the glove fingers has been mended. You see the darn, both of you? On the floor about and under the bed the imprint of that mended glove was left on the linoleum. It was also left on the Library window, proving that Mrs Marlo-Jones was engaged in the theft of the rock drawing. You see how difficult it is to make real crime pay.”

“I didn’t murder the woman,” Mrs Marlo-Jones loudly insisted.

“Tell me, who did?”

“Yes, dear, do tell,” urged the Professor. “I’d hate to see you hanged for it.”

Mrs Marlo-Jones shrugged despairingly, as a queen deserted by all her courtiers.

“I was under the bed, as you said, Inspector. I had to get under it because I didn’t know anyone was inside the house until I heard him knock something over. He came into the bedroom, in the dark, and then I heard the front door being opened. I knew it was Mrs Rockcliff by her shoes on the floor covering in the hall, and I couldn’t understand why she’d come back so early. She came into the bedroom and switched on the light, and then I heard the blow and saw her body fall to the floor. And then I saw the man stoop over her, and I knew him. I saw his face distinctly.”

“You knew where Mrs Rockcliff had gone that evening?”

“Oh yes, Inspector. She used to meet the man twice a week. But this time he couldn’t have been at the house where they met, and she came home and he was waiting to kill her.”

“Why didn’t you report all that… to me?”

“Tell you about it? How could I? There was the other thing… the babies.”

“And knowing this man was a murderer, yet you did nothing about it?” pressed Bony.

“Yes. You see…” She looked helplessly at her husband, and he took over.

“Mr Martin knew all about Nonning’s experiments, for he and theDelphs have been friends for years,” explained the Professor. “However, he took no active part in our little schemes, and it was from theDelphs that he learned the details of our plan covering the Rockcliff child, for we didn’t take him into our confidence that much. If, after the murder, our attitude to him had altered, he would have guessed we knew who did it. And to cover up that crime he might have killed us, too. I had better narrate the story, don’t you think?”