Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

“Thanks. You can do more. How many of your men could you put temporarily into plain clothes without starving essential services?”

“A dozen,” was the reply, with the proviso: “If for special duty.”

“This is the situation.” Bony took both men into the subject. “We’re looking for a woman dressed something like the woman in the pictures and carrying a handbag faithfully portrayed in those pictures. The pictures represent the customer we think poisoned Goldspink. Of far greater value than the artist’s colouring of the woman’s clothes and the handbag is the woman’s posture. People can change clothes and appendages but seldom are able to change walking mannerisms or posture. We fear that this woman will strike again, and for the third time in a public place, and therefore we must take every possible precaution to prevent a third poisoning.

“The danger is very real, for nothing begets murder like murder. I’d like to have a man stationed in every cafe and restaurant to watch for that woman, with especial emphasis on any woman who occupies a table at which is seated an unaccompanied elderly man of the type of Goldspink and Parsons. With the co-operation of the management of such places, your men could occupy an unobtrusive position.

“The woman, obviously, is exceptionally cunning. My instruction was that, should the woman be seen on the streets, she must be trailed to her home for identification, but if she is located in a cafe or restaurant, and seen to drop something into a man’s cup or glass, she is to be instantly arrested and her handbag at all costs to be taken care of. The importance of these precautions outweighs any and all the results of a mistaken arrest.”

Hobson stood without speaking when Bony finished. Crome waited on the Inspector. He knew that if the uniformed man objected he would get his way through Pavier, but he wanted to force nothing.

“All right, Bonaparte, we’ll do that,” Hobson agreed, having considered all the implications and all the possible effects. “With the help of Detective Office, I can have all those places policed by three o’clock this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Hobson,” Bony said warmly. “That lifts a little of the weight.”

“All in a day’s work, Bonaparte. We’re all in the same ship.” A constable knocked, entered, and put a lunch tray on the desk. “You not lunched yet?”

“No,” Bony replied. “Matter of fact, I had forgotten to.”

“Well, we’ll get going.” Came a humourless grin. “Bet you an even fiver, Crome, that one of my men will nail that suspect.”

“Do me,” accepted Crome. “I’ll back my boys till the cows come home.”

They left Bony to his sandwiches, which he ate whilst pacing the width of his office. At three precisely, Abbot brought in the cashier at Goldspink’s shop.

“Ah! Good afternoon, Miss Way. Take a seat,” Bony invited the girl, or rather a woman, for she was nearing thirty, neatly dressed, and alert. Bony already had interviewed her and gained particulars of the customer’s hat. “I want to take you along to see a picture of a woman which you may, in part, identify as the woman we want to question in regard to the death of Mr Goldspink, and I would like to have your assurance that you will keep the matter entirely to yourself.”

“You can rely on me, Inspector.”

“I felt sure I could. Please come with me.”

June Way was thoroughly enjoying this new experience. She was conducted almost ceremoniously along the corridors to the Detective Office. She met uniformed policemen who stood to attention to permit her and Bony to pass, and on entering the general Detective Office the group of men standing before one wall opened to allow her to view the three pictures. The men were silent, and she knew every one of them waited on her voice.

“The hat is just right,” she said. “The woman stood like that as Mary served her and Mr Goldspink talked to her.”

“What of the handbag?” pressed Bony.

“I don’t remember the handbag. I don’t remember seeing it. I noticed the woman only when she was standing with her back to me. I didn’t see her leave the shop. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need for you to be, Miss Way,” Bony said brightly. “You have confirmed the hat, you know. Thank you very much. The pictures do not bring to memory any other points? Take another look at them.”

June Way tried, and gave it up. She had given to Bony the hat and woman’s posture or carriage. Miss Isaacs had given the woman’s posture and her handbag. Now for Lena Martelli, the waitress of Favalora’s Cafe and the^ light o’ love of Jimmy the Screwsman. Jimmy had done his best to provide the groundwork and had failed to turn the first sod.

Lena was fat and twenty. She was attired in a vivid blue skirt, a blood-red blouse, and a turbaned scarf confined her only beautiful gift from the gods-hair vividly dark gold. As Bony had not previously interviewed her, Abbot presented Miss Martelli.

“How do, Inspector. Pleased to meetya. Wouldn’t-a beenlookin ’ forward to it only me boyfren ’sorta put me wise-said you was a bit of a pin-up guy. I don’t know nothing about that old bloke being bumped off, or remember the dames at his table. Help you if I could, sort of.”

“I’m sure you would, Miss Martelli. And I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out that you can.” Bony paused to offer a cigarette from the store he kept for offering. The girl crossed her nylon-covered legs and swung an expensive shoe, accepted his light, and looked into his eyes. Bony tossed away the burnt match and sat back.

“You remember the old gentleman who died in your cafe?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Miss Martelli realistically shuddered. “You would, too, if you saw him spread on the table with broken cups and saucers and all the doings around him like abloomin ’ salad. He’d been into our cafe alotta times. I know ’imall right. Didn’t think much of ’im, neither.”

“Oh! Why?”

“Alwayssloppin ’ tea on the tablecloth. Had to change it for the next customer. Worse’n a pig.”

“Did he slop tea on his clothes too?” Bony asked casually.

“Yes.” The girl’s mouth formed amoue of distaste. “Mustabeen a pig at home too. His old waistcoatoughta been burnt. No good in our ’ouse. We been brought upprop’ly, we have.”

“Yes, of course. Well, I want to take you along to see some pictures of a woman we think may be one or other of those who sat at Mr Parsons’s table that afternoon. From the pictures you may recall to mind one of those women. You’ll try?”

“Too right, Inspector. I’m all for law and ordermeself, as I told that swine Stillman a dozen times. The onlyfella who ever made me spit, the-”

“Let us forget unpleasant memories,” smoothly interjected Bony, and moved to the door. “Come along. Oh, by the way, you would grant me a favour?”

“Sure. I’ll take a risk.”

Lena giggled, and Bony’s sympathy immediately went out to poor Jimmy Nimmo. The giggle sizzled through him like a red-hot skewer.

“I’d like you to promise not to tell anyone about your visit here and what we’ve talked about. Will you?”

“Too right! Lena doesn’t tell.”

Bony was exceedingly doubtful, but he conducted Lena along the road taken by the decorous cashier. Lena smirked at those policemen they encountered in the corridors on the way to Artist Mills’s exhibition and finally she stood before the pictures, blue eyes screwed intently, shifting from one foot to the other. As previously, Bony patiently waited.

“No, they don’t hit nothing. Not a thing,” Lena said at last. “I’ll bet azac, though, that nothing like that woman sat at old Parsons’s table the time he flopped. If either of them dames had a bag like that I’d have remembered. Couldn’t forget it. Reminds me of a nappy bag.”