Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

“Perhaps that’s how it is,” Bony said, standing up. “We’ll go down to Argent Street for a cup of tea, and then I’ll see what’s turned up at the office.”

They found a cafe open for business, and eventually parted in the street, Bony walking to Headquarters and finding it wearing its Sunday aspect. The public offices were closed, and he entered by a side door. The interior was quiet, but men were working-tough, pan-faced men with hard eyes.

Crome reported that Abbot had located a lounge habitue who remembered the woman with the blue handbag. The description given by this woman tallied with that detailed by Mrs Wallace to Bony.

Inspector Hobson reported that he had carpeted the uniformed policeman who had been on duty near the Western Mail Hotel the previous afternoon and had been called by the head barman. This man had not seen the woman carrying the handbag which had been imprinted on his mind by Bony’s pictures.

There was a conference in Bony’s office that night, Hobson and Pavier, Crome and Abbot being present. There was no formality. The night was hot and Crome and Hobson discarded their coats, and everyone smoked. Suggestions were offered, thrashed out, discarded.

Pavier voiced what Crome and Abbot were thinking:

“We might get somewhere if we knew all that’s in Bonaparte’s mind.”

“You would find only confusion,” Bony told them. “I can see nothing clearly. We can be confident that a woman is responsible for thesecyanidings. The progress made regarding the woman in Goldspink’s shop has been nullified by the description of the woman suspected of having poisoned Gromberg’s beer. The handbag is the only common link. The woman who poisoned Goldspink’s tea isn’t the same as she who poisoned Gromberg-unless she is a master of disguise.

“There is another point. I cannot say with any degree of confidence that the poisoner selects her victims after a study of them based on acquaintance, or that she merely carries the poison wherever she goes and drops a pinch in a drink to be taken by a victim met by chance. I am not going to put forward a theory which isn’t founded on reasonable assumption. I have in mind several theories, one of which may produce an important lead, but as yet they are too nebulous to call for united action.

“As you know, in another office Artist Mills is working to give us pictures of the woman in the hotel lounge, Mrs Wallace and that woman interviewed by Abbot being with him to direct his efforts. In the morning we’ll have every man look at those new pictures before going on duty, and we’ll compare the two sets for something in common to give a distinctive feature.

“I suggest that Abbot be placed in charge of what we’ll call the Gallery. We’ll have the two sets of pictures displayed and all those people who came in contact with the originals taken to the Gallery, and so cross-check. Something may come from that, and meanwhile every man must be doubly alerted to look for any woman bearing any resemblance to the woman in either set of pictures.”

It was after ten o’clock when word came that Mills had completed his pictures, and they trooped along to the general Detective Office to see them. Mrs Wallace enthusiastically claimed that they were ‘pretty good’, and the second woman said that the dress and the hat and handbag were almost exact.

The women and Mills were thanked by Superintendent Pavier, urged to remain silent, and sent home in a police car. Pavier and Hobson and Crome then went home, leaving Abbot, who was the officer on duty that night, and Bony, who wandered back to his office. He had been there less than half an hour when a constable appeared, to say that Luke Pavier wanted to see him.

Bony assented. He was feeling tired and balked, and yet tensed because the greater the difficulties, the more did an investigation captivate him. Although he had pictured Time as a Thing compressing death between forefinger and thumb, Time had other guises much less horrific, and one was theRevealer of Secrets.

Luke came in, youthful and cheerful, a tonic. Without invitation he drew a chair to the desk and sat down.

“Evening, Mr Friend. How’s the mighty brain?”

“Ageing, Luke.”

“Needing a squirt of optimism, eh? Thought so. The old man’s not too cheerful these days, and he’s a good barometer. Nothing come out of that conference of top-graders?”

“Conference, Luke?”

“That’s what I said. When the top-graders emerge all together to go home, they’ve been talking. When they bid each other good night as though they’re suffering from indigestion, the conference was abortive. Deductive reasoning, my dear Mr Friend.”

“You should have been a detective,” Bony said pleasantly.

“Not as interesting as my game. By the way, remember my Mr Makepiece, the butcher? Surprised that Gromberg copped it and not he. Weren’t you?”

“No. Your friend lacks one essential for amurderee.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s too fastidious in eating and drinking. What are you putting into your paper tomorrow?”

“ ‘We regret to announce the death by cyanide poisoning of Mr Hans Gromberg, the noted metallurgist. The late gent was born in Kiel, Germany, and came to Australia at the age of twenty-one. He was well known for his work among sick children during the twenty-three years he resided in Broken Hill. A bachelor, Mr Gromberg was fifty-nine years old and liked his mushrooms and his beer. We understand that the police are making inquiries.’ Now when are you going to let me see those drawings done by friend Mills?”

“Drawings, Luke? ‘Oh, Grandmamma, what long ears you have!’ ”

“ ‘Oh, Grandmamma, what sharp teeth you have,’ the little lady in red also exclaimed. What about those pictures? When are you going to decide that I may be able to help you along?”

“When I’ve decided that I can trust you.”

“You can begin now, Mr Friend. Thesecyanidings have passed beyond a joke between the old man and Crome on the one side and me on the other. Deep under, I’ve got a lot of time for the old man. He’s nearing the retiring age, and it might be that he’ll retire with his reputation all smeared over by Stillman and other rats. I can’t afford to be the son of a man with a ruined reputation.”

The sophistication was so obviously spurious that Bony wanted to smile.

“Let us make a pact,” he said. “You to print only what I agree to. I to accept your co-operation and avail myself of your experience and knowledge of local conditions. And you to be present at the arrest and then be free to publish what you wish.”

“I’ll sign.”

“Come with me.”

Luke followed Bony to the detectives’ common-room, a place of desks and records and pictures of criminals. On one wall were the five water-colours done by David Mills. Bony sat on a desk, and Luke went forward to study the pictures. He was there for what appeared to be a long time, and on rejoining Bony he said:

“Somewhere, sometimes, I’ve seen the woman in the blue and white dress and the white hat.”

“The face or the dress?”

“Face.”

“Remember ever having seen the handbag?”

Pavier went back to the pictures and returned, shaking his head.

“The face is like someone I know, but I can’t place her. I will. What’s her name?”

“She hasn’t a name. Mills painted her from a description given him by two women who were in the lounge when Gromberg died. The three other pictures were done by Mills from the very few details given by Mary Isaacs of the customer she was serving when Goldspink died.”

“Those three don’t help. Same handbag, though?”

“Same handbag. Come back to the office.” When behind his desk, Bony said: “If you can recall anyone who looks like Mills’s women, let me know. Mills told me, or rather his girl friend did, that he has appeared at local concerts as a lightning cartoonist. Perhaps the woman you are trying to remember has engaged in amateur theatricals. Come in and look at those pictures when you wish. I’ll see to it that you’ll have no difficulty.”