Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

“It’s too bad, Miss Martelli,” murmured Bony. “But never mind. I understand how busy you were that afternoon, and no one can expect the impossible. Is there anything else about that woman you would have remembered if she had sat at Parsons’s table?”

“Yeah. Y’see the way she’s standing-all bunched-up like? Me grandmother stands like that sometimes, and if that woman had been in the cafe that afternoon I’d have been reminded of me grandmother, see?”

“Yes, of course. Well, thank you very much. Mr Abbot will take you back to the cafe, and I hope one day to pop in and have you serve me.”

“Too right, Inspector. Tell me how you want your tea and it’s all yours.” Lena giggled again, and again Bony flinched. Abbot took charge of her. “Cheerio! Beseein ’ya ”, was her exit line.

She had given nothing of the woman for whom alerted men now sought, but the interview had not been without profit.

At the Western Mail Hotel

IT IS beyond doubt that Wally Sloan is the most famous man in Broken Hill and that his name will be remembered equally with those pioneers who discovered what they called the Mullock Heap, which was to bring Australia two hundred and fifty million sterling for its ore. Sloan is skinny, narrow-shouldered, slightly stooped. He has a small but prominent paunch, gingery hair fast turning grey, and a gingery moustache which retains its pristine colour by constant contact with beer. His eyes are pale blue and weak, his forehead that of the intellectual, his nose that of the wowser, his chin pointed and slightly receding. How old-no one knows. And less than half a dozen are aware that he owns the Western Mail Hotel.

When on this occasion Bony visited Broken Hill, Wally Sloan had been at the Western Mail for nineteen years. Yardman, barman, drink waiter, he is regarded as an item of the furniture, the spirit of the lounge, a permanent something of a hotel known to thousands of visitors and spoken of reverently by stock- and station-men and mining experts throughout this vast fifth continent. Familiar with all and yet withholding that which makes familiarity objectionable, Wally Sloan knows all the tricks to win the game from snobbery.

The public lounge at the Western Mail is tastefully furnished, and cooled by cunningly angled fans. Its main entrance is directly off Argent Street, and throughout the hot months the doors are always open. Chromium chairs are set four to a table, and during the morning and early afternoon there are the freedom and quiet of a club.

It was not the first time that Bony found it so, shortly before one o’clock, when luncheon was served, and this morning the place was empty when he slipped into a chair at a table near the tiny bar at which the steward obtained his orders. Two seconds later Sloan appeared, wearing a white drill tunic and black trousers, and coming to stand beside Bony and not before him.

“Sir!”

“Long lemon squash with the merest flavour of gin, please.”

Sloan departed and silently returned with the frosted drink.

“A guest here, sir, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I arrived recently. I may depart next week or next year.”

“Yes, sir. You are Mr Knapp, sir?”

“I am. I stayed here several years ago, when both of us were much younger, Sloan.”

“Yes, sir.”

The steward found it necessary to adjust unnecessarily a chair at a near-by table, and then turned, that for the first time he might examine this guest who claimed to have stayed here many years before. Bony’s glass was empty.

“Again, sir?”

“Please-with much less gin.”

“Yes, sir, certainly. You stayed here nine years ago, sir. Just for one night. Inspector Bonaparte, isn’t it?”

“You have an excellent memory,” Bony said approvingly. “Perhaps you would join me in a drink?”

“Yes, sir.” The drinks were brought. “Your very good health, sir.”

There wasn’t the faintest indication of respect in the title which came at the end of almost every sentence. The sound resembled the staccato hiss of escaping steam. The word was a habit and required much less effort than ‘mister’. A cloth draped over his arm, the hand of which held the empty tray. Sloan’s expression was unaltered when he said:

“Hope you clear up our two cyanide murders, sir.”

Bony turned slightly to gaze upward at the pale blue eyes.

“Someone been talking to you?” he asked.

“No, sir. I had no idea who you were until a moment ago. I’m glad to see you, sir. Your presence, sir, can have only one meaning.”

“That’s so,” admitted Bony, adding: “I am Nemesis. I am he who dwelt in the mind of Victor Hugo and was born to the world asJavert. You would please me to remember that I am Mr Knapp.”

“Of course, sir.”

Sloan made no attempt to move away, and casually Bony asked:

“What, in your opinion, would be the effect of another cyanide murder in Broken Hill?”

“Bad, sir, very bad. Yes, indeed, the weather’s hot but not unusual at this time of the year. Mornin ’, gentlemen.”

“Hullo, Wally! Mine’s a long beer. Morning, Mr Friend! Meet Mr Makepiece,” commanded Luke Pavier.

“Mine’s a long beer too,” said Mr Makepiece before acknowledging the introduction. “Great day for drinking. How do?”

“Well, thank you. No gin, Sloan.”

Sloan departed. Mr Makepiece asserted that there was more beer consumed in Broken Hill on a Saturday than in Sydney in any one week. He was a huge man, perspiring and coatless. A waistcoat flapped against the sides of his enormous stomach. He wore no collar and his red face required shaving. He called for more beer before Sloan could unload his tray of filled glasses. He drank without swallowing, and Bony made quite sure about this phenomenon. He told two questionable stories, drank again without swallowing, complained he had to close up his shop, and departed.

“He’s a butcher,” Luke Pavier said. “Thought you’d like to see him. Has all it takes-bachelor, elderly, hearty eater and heavy drinker. You were about to say?”

“Nothing. Were you, Sloan?”

“Aloud! No, sir.”

Sloan slipped away to serve a man accompanied by two women. On his return to the serving bar he heard Luke say:

“The last two happened on a Friday afternoon. Today’s Saturday. The last two happened late in the month. Next Friday will be late in this month.”

Sloanrepassed them with his filled tray and heard:

“You think your Mr Makepiece is a likely prospect?”

“Don’t you? Has all the makings. Only thing that might save him is he doesn’t drink tea in cafes or stores.”

The house gong throbbed announcing lunch, and Sloan nodded to Luke as the reporter passed on his way to the street. Bony he saw leaving the lounge by the inner door, and five minutes later he was relieved by another steward. Having lunched, at two o’clock he was asleep in his room.

The Western Mail Hotel is a two-storeyed building with a balcony above the street pavement. It is capable of accommodating seventy guests, its bar and lounges able to cater for twice that number, and the staff is of necessity both numerous and well organised.

Saturday is the day of days when, there being no work in the mines, the miners and their wives flock to Argent Street: the women and children to drink tea and eat cakes and ice creams in the cafes, and the men to congregate in the bars and drink hard whilst listening to radios blaring race descriptions. At the Western Mail Hotel the Saturday-afternoon trade was fast and furious, and the rush started at three o’clock. Extra barmen and waiters were, therefore, employed to deal with this rush period of the week.

Refreshed and wearing a clean drill tunic, Sloan went on duty at three, taking charge of the public lounge and a smaller apartment made available to the general public every Saturday. With the help of an assistant, he served with machine-like smoothness about eighty people.