Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

“An artist, eh?” Bony gazed over the girl’s head and beyond the window. “Would he help us, d’you think?”

“He- I think so-if I asked him to.”

“Would he come to see me at the Western Mail Hotel tonight, say at eight?”

The chin jutted a mere fraction.

“I’ll see that he does, Inspector.”

The Art Patron

BONY WAS working in his office the next morning when his desk phone demanded attention. It was Superintendent Pavier.

“Morning, Bonaparte! Care to run in for a few minutes? I want to talk.”

“Yes, all right, Super. Anything new on the board?”

“No.”

“May I bring Crome?”

“Certainly.”

Bony sighed and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette. If Pavier expected results thus early, if Pavier was to prove himself another ‘boss’ wanting a daily progress report, then he, Bony, would have to be firm. He lit the cigarette and pounded on the wall behind his chair. He heard Crome’s chair being thrust back, and then Crome was standing before his desk.

“The Chief wants to see us,” Bony explained. “Have you found out who murdered Goldspink and Parsons?”

Sergeant Crome began a smile and froze it at birth.

“He gets that way sometimes,” he said. “Me, I’ve got beyond worrying. I’ve had it. One of the girls is typing the report of your interrogation of Goldspink’s cashier. You want it?”

“No. Let’s go along.”

Bony led Crome down the corridor, turned left at the junction, passed through the rear of the public office and into the room occupied by the Superintendent’s secretary. He smiled at her and passed on to the door of Pavier’s office and entered without knocking. Crome closed the door.

“Ah! Sit down, Bonaparte. And Sergeant Crome.” The Superintendent indicated chairs. What was on his mind was concealed by the mask of a face, and there was nothing in his voice to betray his thoughts. The white hair crowning the long head toned out the colourless complexion. “How have you been getting on, Bonaparte.”

“Oh, so-so,” Bony replied. “I’ve been studying the groundwork done by Sergeant Crome and ruined by Inspector Stillman. I’ve been expecting another cyanide murder, but so far nothing of the kind has been reported. However, I remain hopeful.”

This rocked Superintendent Pavier.

“I may misunderstand you, Bonaparte,” he said coldly. “We certainly cannot permit another cyaniding in Broken Hill.”

“I can see no way to avoid it, Super,” Bony countered. “One successful murder begets another, and the second will beget a third. I wasn’t here when the first was done, nor was I here when the second was committed. I have had to make myselfau fait with the background of two murders, and for that I am given a fairly good survey by Sergeant Crome and witnesses whose minds have been blacked out by an arrant fool, a puny jumped-up would-be dictator, a conceited, empty-headed idiot of a man raised to a position of- But what’s the use? You say you cannot have another cyaniding in Broken Hill. You should have said you would not have a second one, but you did. And you will have a third, because what trails were left of the first two have almost vanished beneath the clod-hopping feet of the great Inspector Stillman.”

Superintendent Pavier sat with his eyes closed.

“The two victims are beyond my interest, excepting to the extent that bodies are effects,” Bony proceeded. “My interest is solely in the person who is the cause of the effects-two dead bodies to date, with a probable third in the near future.”

Bony ceased, and Crome expelled caught breath. Pavier opened his eyes, and still his face and voice were without expression.

“It would seem, Bonaparte, that you misunderstood me,” he said. “Being the officer in charge of this South-Western Police Division of New South Wales, I am amenable to public opinion. Hence my anxiety that a third murder will be prevented.”

“I concede the point, sir. And when I declare that I am not in the least degree influenced by public opinion, that I don’t care two hoots for public opinion, that all I do care about is hunting down a murderer, there need be no misunderstandings on either side.

“Actually, I am pleased that you called us in conference this morning. You will gain insight into our problem, and I hope you will convey these problems to your Sydney headquarters-with the suggestion that should there be a third murder, a fourth, or even a seventh, they will refrain from sending here any one of their several alleged detectives.

“Firstly, let us look at the scene of these two poisonings. A city deep in the bush, cut off by hundreds of miles of open bushland, a city made enormously rich by the world’s demand for silver and lead and subsidiary metals. You have no gangsters here, no habitual criminals, no underworld, and because of that you have little need for a vice squad.

“Secondly, let us look at the murderer who drops cyanide into tea cups. That person isn’t concerned with vice or gambling. That person isn’t a cracksman, an alley thug, a sex maniac in the real sense of the term. That person’s motive isn’t gain, jealousy, or anything so normal. Here in Broken Hill is a person influenced by a motive or motives which lie within the mind of the near insane.

“Thirdly, let us regard the two murders already committed. We know little of the victims. We know that both were unmarried, both were elderly, both were physically heavy men. Can we say that the person who murdered them is actuated by a phobia of bachelors, or of elderly men, or of fat men? As yet we cannot.

“And lastly, let us consider the investigator. He arrives on the scene precisely eight weeks after the second of the two murders. He is given nothing of any importance with which to begin his investigation. He is given a mass of conflicting reports and much senile theorising. He has to be unnaturally polite with witnesses made rampantly hostile, and he is forced to waste time in studying these otherwise helpful witnesses and employ expert psychology to bring them to the point of assistance. Given time, he may succeed in covering all the past police failures with the success of locating the murderer. I don’t believe he will be given time to prevent a third murder, and that won’t be his fault, nor will it be to his discredit.”

The calm and precise voice stopped. Pavier shot a glance at Crome, but the sergeant was gazing stoically at his boots. Pavier was shocked less by Bony’s assertions than by the justice of them. He saw the uselessness of treating this half-caste as a subordinate, and had sufficient sense to realise Crome’s limitations and his own.

“Well, I was hoping for a crumb, but it appears I have to starve,” he said, and after a pause permitted the hint of a smile, which swiftly vanished. “Speaking personally, if there should be a third murder, the public outcry will be terrific.”

“Then the public must not know about it,” calmly said Bony.

“Not know!” Crome burst out. “How in hell is the public to be prevented from knowing?”

“There are ways and means, Crome. First things first. The third murder hasn’t been committed.” Bony looked at the wall clock. “Ten past noon, and I’ve to see a man about a picture. You must excuse me, Super. I am a patron of the arts-among other things.”

Crome stood stiffly, waiting for dismissal. Pavier faintly shrugged. Bony smiled at him and strode to the door. He left without the sergeant, and Pavier stared at his senior detective and again faintly shrugged.

“The only thing we can peg our hats on, Bill, is the fellow’s reputation. Get out.”

Bony passed into the public office and asked the constable on duty if there was a Mr Mills waiting to see him. The constable called the name, and a young man who had been seated on a hard bench rose and came forward. Bony slipped under the counter flap to meet him.