Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

“Thanks. Whatd’you think? Woman on border line of insanity?”

“As the motive for these murders is not to be found among those prompting ninety-nine murders in every hundred, yes. Ever readMacbeth or seen the play?”

“Both. I’m interested in the theatre. Have you read Professor J. I. M. Stewart’s book, Character and Motive in Shakespeare?”

“No,” admitted Bony.

“The professor says, and I quote: ‘The evil which may rise up in a man’s imagination may sweep him on to crime, particularly if, like Macbeth, he is imaginative without the release of being creative.’ ”

“That,” Bony said, “is the word picture of the woman I seek. Thank you, Luke. I seek a motive within a motive, however. I am sure that the motive prompting these poisonings is hatred of someone each victim represents, not hatred of the victims. It is a chain of cause and effect, the ultimate effect being the death of men having nothing whatsoever to do with the original cause.”

The quiet building appeared to come to life, and on Bony’s ceasing to speak, Luke dried up. It was after eleven at night on that one day of the week when Headquarters permitted itself to doze, and now men were tramping corridors with decided urgency in their footsteps.

“Something doing,” Luke said very softly, and the muscular tautness was evident.

From the rear of the building came the crash of a motor engine and, following the initial power surge, its quiet purring. They could follow the sound of the machine making for the street.

“Fire, perhaps,” murmured Bony, watching Luke.

“Perhaps another killing,” said Luke. “Soundspromisin ’, anyway. See you some more, Mr Friend.”

He vanished beyond the open doorway, and his steps could be heard as he ran along the corridors to the public offices and the constable on night duty at the telephone switch. Bony waited five minutes before engaging Switch.

“Inspector Bonaparte. What’s the hullabaloo about?”

“Don’t rightly know, sir,” came the reply. “A mine-worker returning home on account of sickness tripped over the body of a woman at the foot of a mullock dump. He reported the matter to a patrol officer, who telephoned here. I put him through to Senior Detective Abbot, who’s on night duty, sir.”

Bony hung up, hoping it was not another cyaniding, and proceeding to note lines of thought emerging from the conference earlier in the evening.

It was after one o’clock when he put down his pen and locked away his papers, and he was rolling a cigarette when he heard the corridors again resounding with heavy feet. Crome burst in on him, his face wind-whipped, his hair all awry.

“Guess who we’ve got in the morgue with old Gromberg!” he said.

“I’m a poor guesser,” Bony told him.

“None other than our own dear Policewoman Lodding.”

Feminine Observations

A MAN on maintenance work at one of the mines had reported sick and, having checked out with the timekeeper, he had made his way down through the top hamper of the mine to reach a path crossing the sandy and littered flat to one of the abutting streets. It was quite dark, but, being familiar with the path, he was able to follow it, and where it skirted a mullock dump he almost tripped over the body. He had ascertained, with the aid of a match, that the body was that of a woman and, being a member of a First Aid Section, he recognised death.

Crome, who lived farthest from Headquarters, had been eating supper when recalled. He arrived at the scene with a doctor a few minutes after Abbot, who had collected several men. The doctor found the blade of a knife buried in the woman’s breast, and the place was cordoned and the body brought to the city morgue.

Bony, having met Policewoman Lodding, was shocked but determined not to be sidetracked from his own investigation. Crome was confident that he could deal with this type of homicide and raised for discussion the division of forces. It was agreed that Bony retain as his assistants Senior Detective Abbot and another man, and so by daybreak Crome had ample forces, which included black trackers, and Bony and Abbot were in bed.

Later Abbot was first at Headquarters, Bony being delayed by an interview with Mrs Robinov.

“You have a car?” he asked Abbot, who said he owned a motor-cycle. “Hopeless to ask for a police car, and I want you to call on Mrs Wallace and that Mrs Lucas you saw yesterday and persuade them to come to Goldspink’s shop at two this afternoon. Explain to them that their advice and assistance is needed with reference to the pictures they saw Mills paint last night.”

“Very well, sir.”

“How is that other affair coming along?”

“Don’t know much about it,” replied Abbot. “Sergeant Crome is still out. I did hear that the knife blade in Miss Lodding’s body is made of glass. Where the blade joins the hilt a file was used to make a circular cut, so weakening the weapon that after the blow was delivered the murderer was able to snap off the hilt, leaving the blade in the wound and preventing bleeding.”

“A glass dagger, Abbot! Peculiar kind of weapon.”

“That’s so, sir. Light blue glass, triangular down to an inch of the point.”

“Well, don’t let us be diverted from our own job,” Bony said. “Our three murders are quite enough to keep us fully extended.”

Abbot left, and Bony telephoned David Mills and arranged that Mills also be at Goldspink’s shop at two o’clock, taking his painting materials. At eleven Luke Pavier rang.

“This Lodding business, Mr Friend,” Luke said. “It doesn’t come into our agreement, does it?”

“No, Luke, you can go your hardest.”

“Anything for me,” pleaded the reporter, “on this Lodding murder?”

“Nothing. I know nothing. Haven’t seen Crome this morning.”

“All right. We’re putting out a special. I found aladdie and his lass who saw the Lodding woman in the company of a man late last night. Just beat Crome to it. Reduced the stuff about Gromberg to five lines. That please you?”

“It does.”

“These women,” Luke ran on. “The straight-backed, flat-chestedLodding walking out with a man. Whatd’ya think? Passed under a street light. Man’s arm linked through hers. Tall and handsome gentleman who wore gloves. Bad luck the lovers didn’t see his face. Old Crome shouldn’t fall down on this job, though. See you later.”

Crome didn’t think he would, either. He dropped in on Bony to relate his progress, describing how the trackers had backtracked the murdered woman and her companion to a street ending abruptly at the narrow flatpf waste ground. It was in that street they had been seen by the lovers, who stood just inside a garden gate.

“Trackers are now looking for the handle of the dagger,” Crome said. “I made good plaster casts of the man’s tracks. Like to see ’emsometime?”

“Yes, sometime. Should find Miss Lodding’s companion easily enough. The number of her male acquaintances was not large, I understand.”

“That’s so. I’m off to question the sister. A Mrs Dalton. Bit rough on you, however.”

Bony reflected. He wanted to be generous to Crome, who now had the opportunity to regain lost prestige.

“Don’t worry about my end. Concentrate on your job. For several reasons I hope you clean it up quickly.”

Crome was pleased and left. Almost immediately Superintendent Pavier rang through.

“Any developments, Bonaparte?”

“Nothing, Super. But-”

“That’s all right. I’m going with Crome to visit Miss Lodding’s sister and dig into backgrounds. We must show Sydney this time.”

The Detective Office was vacant except for the man assigned to Bony under Abbot. He was asked to remove the paintings from the wall, and as he had been typing rather speedily, Bony asked if he could write shorthand. The detective said he could, and, having accepted the parcelled pictures, Bony told him to be at Goldspink’s shop at two o’clock.