Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

The coffee was served, and Bony rolled and lit a cigarette before he prompted:

“You saw this man prior to this meeting?”

“I did. I saw him buying black leather gloves at Goldspink’s shop, and I’m pretty sure that the gloves he carried that night were the same gloves. But that night he didn’t have a beard. He had a different suit on too. When I saw him in Goldspink’s he was wearing a grey double-breaster. It was a swank suit and fairly new. I remember thinking that the dirty blighteroughta have it cleaned.”

Bony jotted the notes on the back of a menu card and gained further items concerning the man who had bought gloves. The man’s eyebrows and moustache and beard were closely described by one self-trained in the difficult ‘art’ of observation. Jimmy mimicked the voice, and, when again in the street, Bony said:

“Thanks, Jimmy. Keep in mind that you’ll be a gone coon if you leave Broken Hill without my knowledge. Don’t permit thought of the boys from Sydney to upset the gastric juices after that pleasant lunch. You are working for me, and no one will break your employment. Get around. You know where I am if you spot that man again, or a woman like the picture I’ve shown you.”

Now feeling much better, and free to concentrate on the two-storeyed house and the lady he referred to as ‘the attraction’, Jimmy decided on a game or two of billiards, and Bony pensively sauntered back to Headquarters.

Crome was not in his office, and he rang for Abbot.

“The sergeant and several of the men are in conference with Superintendent Pavier, sir.”

Their gaze clashed, and both men understood that conference more often than not is spelled c-h-e-c-k-m-a-t-e.

“You can manage a typewriter, I suppose?” Bony said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Type this description in triplicate, and let me have it when done. Don’t let anyone else see it. Oh, and have this head of our woman nailed to the wall beside the other pictures. See to it that every uniformed man studies it.”

Abbot departed. Bony rolled six cigarettes, lit the first, and pushed back his chair that he might rest his feet on the desk. He sought for and failed to find any connection between the murder of a policewoman and the murder of three elderly bachelors-save food-spotted clothes. The butts of four of the six cigarettes had been added to those in the saucer ash tray when Abbot returned.

“The three copies of the man,” he said, placing the typed sheets before Bony. His expression was normal, but the manner in which he finger-combed his fair hair betrayed excitement. “The man’s description struck a chord, sir, and I went into Records. Brought out George Henry Tuttaway.”

Abbot presented two official pictures of a man who had not voluntarily posed for them. He was big-boned, handsome, clean-shaven, and at the foot of each picture was the name ‘George Henry Tuttaway’. Abbot presented a card, and Bony read:

“Tuttaway, George Henry: Indicted Melbourne 1940 for abduction and illegal confinement. Sentenced to be held during Governor’s pleasure. Escaped from Ballarat Gaol 27 September 1949. Professional magician internationally known as the Great Scarsby. Conduct in gaol good, but thought could be dangerous. Declared mentally abnormal.” There was appended a description which roughly tallied with the man seen twice by Jimmy Nimmo.

“Crome should be happy,” Bony said, but Abbot wanted confirmation.

“Think your man is Tuttaway, sir?”

“More than possible. My man was seen in Goldspink’s shop buying black kid gloves. He was seen subsequently by the same person one night and was then carrying the gloves. The Great Scarsby. I can’t recall the name. Must have been in the interior when he was sentenced. You know anything of him?”

“Not much, sir. Don’t remember if he came to Australia as the Great Scarsby. Remember, of course, seeing the report of the escape when it came in.”

“A magician!” murmured Bony. “Quick-change artist, and that kind of thing. Wonder if, in spite of what those women said, our prisoner is a man got up as a woman. Declared mentally abnormal. Ah, conference ended.”

The pictures and the card dealing with Tuttaway, Bony slipped under the blotter. Men were approaching along the corridor. They heard Crome go into his office. The second man came on, entered. It was Pavier. Without invitation he sat down and lit a cigarette.

“How are you getting on?”

“Slowly, Super, slowly,” replied Bony, and Abbot went out. “How is Crome?”

“Stopped. What are your impressions of my late secretary?”

“Efficient. Humourless.”

“I found her so, and very reticent. Never attempted to probe into her private life. Instinctively felt that she was highly moral and not interested in men. The married sister-a Mrs Dalton-says she had neither men nor women friends. The girl standing inside the gate with her sweetheart says she worked with Muriel Lodding for some time-for a firm of stock and station agents-and even then Lodding exhibited no interest in men. We can’t trace any contact between the murdered woman and a man, and yet she was seen on Sunday night walking arm in arm with one. And, Bonaparte, those two lovers can’t give us anything like a clear description of him. I feel strongly urged to call on Sydney for assistance.”

“Tell me, why did you come to see me and not send for me?”

“Because I don’t want to do what I feel I must do. Will you give Crome a hand? I know it isn’t fair to ask, but you might find a lead for us to follow. What Crome wants is one per cent of your confidence. It’s what I need too. The confidence we did have has been bashed to pulp.”

“I’ll call Crome,” Bony decided, and, leaning back, thumped the partition wall. Crome came in, stood stiffly erect.

“Sit down, Bill,” Bony invited, and the sergeant blinked. To Pavier, Bony said:

“You always inspect incoming and outgoing trains and aircraft, but you have ignored road traffic. Think you could have every truck and car leaving Broken Hill inspected?”

The Superintendent said they could.

“It might be too late, but I think not,” Bony proceeded, and took up Abbot’s typescript. “The man you want answers to this description.”

Presenting each with a copy, he leaned back and watched them. Then one man followed the other in looking up at him, expectantly, hopefully.

“That is the description of the man who might be able to tell you something about the murder of Muriel Lodding,” Bony said. “Fortunately for us, and the public, the great majority of murders spring from common causes such as jealousy, greed, frustration. Murder actuated by passion, the unpremeditated murder, is easy to finalise and never worthy of my attention.

“Murder, however, which has its genesis in the mind bordering on insanity presents a much greater problem to the investigator because the two minds don’t motivate alike. The only major weapon to be used by a sane investigator in his battle with a near-insane killer is, my dear Pavier, patience. The patience of the tiger cat-of Death-of Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Pavier would have spoken had not Crome cleared his throat.

“If you apprehend a man answering to that description,” Bony said, “I feel sure he will be the man you want for the murder of Muriel Lodding. Further, due to Abbot’s astuteness, I am strongly of the opinion that his name is George Henry Tuttaway, known on the other side of the world as the Great Scarsby.”

Detective Sergeant Crome forgot the Superintendent. He leaned over the desk, and, eyes flashing, exclaimed:

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

Assist and Be Assisted

WITH CROME, Bony went over the scene of the Lodding murder. He was shown the light standard beside which Muriel Lodding and her escort had been seen by the lovers and the gateway inside which they had stood. He was taken to the end of the street, which terminated at the belt of waste ground extending to the large mullock dump at the foot of the broken hill.