Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

There was a tap on the door, and Bony motioned to Crome to attend to it. Crome spoke with a man in the corridor, came back and placed a report on the desk. Sloan sat with his eyes closed. Bony read:

“Fingerprints on the glass those of the dead man and Walter Sloan.”

Sloan coughed and Bony looked up. The steward’s eyes were open. He said:

“I can’t be sure about the number. The place wasn’t as full as it was half an hour before, some of the men having left for the public bars. There was a party of two men and two women at a table halfway from the front entrance, and several women right back at my end who I don’t remember seeing before.”

“Unattended women?”

“Yes. They seem to like getting as far from the front entrance as possible. I don’t know why.”

“Those several women left before Gromberg died?”

“Must have done. They weren’t there when he died.”

“And when leaving they passed close behind Gromberg?”

“Yes. They’d have to, to reach the front door.”

“Concentrate on them. Did a woman stop, or pause in her progress, at Gromberg’s chair?”

“I didn’t see one, sir,” replied Sloan, and the return of the ‘handle’ indicated returning confidence. “Just a minute, sir.”

Silence, and Bony and Crome waited. Sloan again studied the coloured drawings.

“No, I don’t know her,” Sloan said. “Never saw her. Unattended women! There were a dozen of ’em, at least. And them I knew. Two married women. Three respectable molls. A widow who used to be a barmaid. Woman who runs a frock shop. And a single woman I don’t know what she does. Howmany’s that?”

“Eight,” replied Crome.

“That- There was Mrs Lance, that makes nine. There were five unescorted women I didn’t know. Yes, five.”

“Was one of those five fairly tall, average weight, dark eyes, wearing glasses?”

“Don’t remember. Don’t think so, sir. There was a big woman, grey hair, face like a clock at twenty to four. Drank brandy-neat. There was one all dolled up to kill, kept fiddling with her handbag, wasting my time as she dug out the price of her drinks.”

“That leaves three, Sloan,” murmured Bony. “Concentrate on them. Did one of them wear glasses and look over them at you?”

“No. One was youngish. Drank gin and water-silly fool, at her age. Another time-waster was about fortyish. Dolled up too. She drank ginger ale. And the other was an old dame, short and fat and beery.”

“The time-waster about fortyish. You mean she, too, doodled with the money?”

“Yes. Drank ginger ale.”

“That unusual?”

“ ’Course, sir. Why go to a pub to drink rotgut all by yourself? Cafes are the places for that. Women call for soft drinks in a pub when they’re with a husband or man friend.”

“And this one was all dressed up?”

“Yes, sir. Plenty of powder and paint. Fairly well dressed, I think. Blue and white, and a white hat.”

“Handbag?” prompted Bony.

“Handbag!” Sloan frowned. “Don’t remember. Too many handbags around. Damned nuisance, littering up the tables when I want to set down drinks.”

“Does a blue handbag with red handles register?” pressed Bony.

“No.” Sloan was decidedly despondent. And then he brightened. “I’ll tell you what, sir. Mrs Wallace, who used to be a barmaid, might remember. She sat next to the woman in the blue and white dress.”

“An idea, Sloan. Mrs Wallace! D’you know where she lives?”

Sloan did know, and Crome noted the address, and also the addresses of several of the other women Sloan knew.

“Just where did she sit, the woman in the blue and white dress?” Bony went on.

“With her back to the rear wall, sir.”

“She could see Gromberg all the time?”

“Yes. She went out… I remember now. She left after Mrs Wallace did. She went just before I was asked for four double whiskies. I was waiting for the whiskies at the service bar, when people stopped talking and I turned round to see Gromberg pass out.”

Knowing the wisdom of not tiring a witness, Bony stood up and dismissed the steward, saying.

“You have done remarkably well, Sloan.”

Sunday

“WHAT’S TO be our next move?” Bony asked, when Sloan had gone. The sergeant had pushed his notes aside and was loading his pipe.

“Concentrate on those unescorted women. One of them must have done it.”

“We’ll winnow, Crome. There were four tables at which sat sixteen people-fourteen women and two men. Sloan knew the two men and nine women. We have their names and addresses. The remaining five women were not known to Sloan, so we will concentrate on them. Or rather I will, because you and your men have much to do. Leave Mrs Wallace to me.

“I’m sorry to push the routine work on to you, but it must be done. Being Saturday and already late, and many people at the cinema, we’ll both start in earnest in the morning. You check up on those people known to Sloan, with the exception of Mrs Wallace, ask if they remember a woman with a blue handbag having red drawstrings, and at the same time get their background. You may find a lead connecting them with either Goldspink or Parsons.”

“Seems the next move,” agreed Crome.

“Then on Monday put your gang on to all chemists and wholesale stores and check up on their sales of cyanide. It was done before, but it must be done again. You yourself, visit every mine where cyanide is used in the extraction of gold or for other purposes, and check on that source of supply. You sent Abbot to fine-comb Gromberg’s house?”

“Yes, sir. Ought soon to be back.”

“I’m reminded that I have to send a report through the Super to Sydney. Must avoid interference. Don’t permit the public reaction to worry you. The Super is the man to take all that. It’s what he’s paid for. Your job, and mine, is to unearth this poisoner.”

“Be less worrying if we could get a clear lead,” grumbled Crome.

“We have several leads.”

“Well, that blue handbag with red strings can’t be called-”

“The good investigator deals with items, such as that handbag. Through them he can understand the quarry’s motives and uncover his identity.

“This unfortunate Hans Gromberg is a part of what is now certain to be a pattern. He was a bachelor. He was elderly. He was a robust eater and a hard drinker. Like Goldspink, but unlike Parsons, he was a generous man. Are those three victims highlights of the pattern because they were unmarried, or because they were elderly, or because they were elderly bachelors, or because they were robust, or careless feeders? Or did each one of them represent a hated figure of one man?”

“What’s careless eating got to do with it?” asked Crome. “A dried-up spinster could go barmy and have a dead set against old bachelors. Read of a case like that some time or other.”

“What is your reaction to the man who slops his food and his front is stained and greasy?”

“Disgust.”

“How much more so would an old spinster be disgusted?”

“Then you think the three common factors make a picture of the three murder victims as one, in a mind hating like hell?”

“That is what I am inclined to think,” answered Bony. “The shop assistant told me that Goldspink’s waistcoat was food stained. The waitress told me that Parsons’s clothes were stained with food. And I saw that the waistcoat worn by Gromberg was similarly soiled. So you see-we have progressed.”

“Then we have to look for a ratty old maid?”

“Yes and no. I feel that we can be confident that the poisoner is a woman. We may, of course, have to alter these theories. We can find no link between Goldspink and Parsons, but we may discover a link between Gromberg and Goldspink or Parsons. Mrs Robinov benefited fromGoldspinks ’ death, but no one did from Parsons’s death. As illustration: should we find that Mrs Robinov is to benefit under Gromberg’s will, then we would with reason assume that she is clever enough to have poisoned old Parsons to make the motive appear as though emanating from the brain of a near-insane woman-which she is not. In history there has been a series of murders done to hide the motive for killing a particular person.”