Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

The break had been effected sometime in the afternoon of 27 September 1949. He was not missed until five-fifteen and had not since been sighted with certainty as to identification.

“It’ll be him,” confidently asserted Crome. “Must have come in by road,”

“All the police on those road exits?”

“Too right. If he didn’t clear out immediately after murdering Lodding, then the only way he can get out now is through the scrub. And he’s no bushman.”

“We’ll see if my friend is waiting,” Bony decided, and rang the public office. Mr James Nimmo was waiting. Jimmy appeared, escorted by a uniformed constable. To Jimmy’s relief, the constable withdrew, but this was counted out by the glimmer of recognition in the small grey eyes of the large man he had taped a policeman long ago. Jimmy was elegantly attired in grey tweed with a faint red stripe.

“Glad to see you, Jimmy,” Bony said smoothly. “This is Detective Sergeant Crome. Meet Mr Nimmo, Crome.”

Before the sergeant realised it, he held out his hand, saying:

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Nimmo.” Jimmy awkwardly accepted the offered fist, smiled faintly, as though amused, sat down in the indicated chair, and regarded Bony reproachfully. Nonchalantly Bony said:

“Ever seen this man, Jimmy?”

Jimmy accepted the official pictures, appeared to edge a fraction farther away from Crome, who sat beside him, and examined the pictures of George Henry Tuttaway.

“Yes, that’s thefella I saw at Goldspink’s,” he said without looking up. “When I saw him he had a grey moustache and goateeziff. It’s easy.”

“Sure?” asked Crome from force of habit.

“Like ourselves, Crome, Mr Nimmo is a professional observer of faces,” Bony cut in. “As you see at the foot of the pictures, Jimmy, the man’s stage name is the Great Scarsby. Remember the case?”

“Yes, I do,” answered Jimmy, memory vivid of being seated in a heavy truck and hearing two drivers discuss the escape of Tuttaway. “First time I seen his picture, though. Supposed to be batty, wasn’t he?”

“Is,” corrected Bony. “Well, thanks, Jimmy, for coming along. See you again sometime. Leave you to find your way out.”

Jimmy got up, nodded to Crome, smiled at Bony, and vanished. Bony waited for his footsteps to die away before saying:

“Good man, that. Ought to have been a detective. Now that we are sure that your murderer is the escaped Tuttaway, I suggest we give Luke Pavier the entire story for publication tomorrow. If Tuttaway is still in Broken Hill, that will make him bolt, and one of the road patrols will nab him. If you don’t sight him within three days, you can accept the fact that he cleared out before the roads were blocked.”

“Fair enough, sir. Meanwhile I’ll keep this set of fingerprints and other data close to hand. I’ve men hunting antique shops and others where the knife might have been sold to Tuttaway. By the way, I’ve seen your Mr Nimmo before.”

“Without doubt, Crome. My friend has been in Broken Hill for several months. On holiday, you know, but not averse to doing a small job now and then. He’s a burglar, and on several occasions I have found him invaluable.”

“A burg-” Sergeant Crome broke off and gave a low respectful whistle, saying: “Perhaps I can now see through a brick wall, and the recovery of that loot from three break-and-entries.”

“There were no breakings, Crome. Justenterings.”

The sergeant’s face reddened. He almost gaped, caught himself in time, and stood stiffly to attention.

“Yes, sir,” he said, almost as though he agreed.

“I may have to use Mr Nimmo again, Crome. That is but one of his names and not the name he uses when in Sydney. What is theft compared with homicide? My friend is an expert burglar, almost an artist. I admire experts, no matter in what field, and I never hesitate to use such talent in my search for a killer.”

“But a burg-”

Crome began to laugh, checked himself, really laughed, and Bony gravely advised:

“Keep your eyes on a star, and let not your gaze be diverted by lesserilluminants. Use the lesser luminaries to light your way to reach the star. Your star is the Great Scarsby.”

Many a Slip…

TWO DAYS passed, yielding nothing. Men questioned and probed: and Superintendent Pavier forgot the date terminating Bony’s association with his police division: and the Great Scarsby remained elusive.

The murder of Policewoman Lodding almost overshadowed that of Hans Gromberg, owing in distinct measure to Luke Pavier, and Wally Sloan reported there was no falling off of lounge trade. The public were wholly absorbed in the hunt for the Great Scarsby.

Friday afternoon came round again, and Patrick O’Hara went walking with Dublin Kate. The day was brilliant, clear and hot, and as both were putting on weight, they decided to walk to the city and meet their friends down Argent Street.

Patrick O’Hara was tubby, red, volcanic. He knew everyone and was known to all for a downright honest bookmaker, and since it was the day prior to the weekly races, he could not avoid the business thrust upon him. He drank much beer, and although Dublin Kate did not approve of strong drink, she followed O’Hara in and out of pubs and patiently waited for him when he was stopped in the street.

Presently they came to a drinking fountain erected at the kerb-side in memory of a civic father who had owned ten pubs and a distillery. If you must drink water you could press a button and direct your mouth to a spurt of water from the basin, or you could fill a metal cup from a tap. You couldn’t take the cup home, pretend it was pewter, and fill it with beer, because it was chained to the fountain.

At the foot of the fountain was a small drinking trough served by a tap below the basin, but long ago a drunk had assaulted the tap, since when it had never functioned.

Patrick O’Hara was about to pass this fountain when Dublin Kate made known her objection to dying of thirst. So he filled the metal cup and emptied it into the trough, and Dublin Kate, knowing nothing of Oliver Twist, asked for more.

Having filled the cup a second time, Patrick O’Hara was about to empty it into the trough when he was accosted by a client, and the bookmaker poised the cup on the edge of the basin. An occasional pedestrian accidentally bumped him and apologised, although O’Hara should have stood on the kerb. These apologies were properly acknowledged, and the bookmaker continued to talk with his client for something like five minutes.

When his client moved on O’Hara emptied the cup of water into the trough and was about to fill it for the third time when again he was saluted by a would-be punter.

“What about Silver Star for the third, Pat?”

“Fives to you,” replied O’Hara.

“Suits me for atenner. Hi! What’s the matter with your dog?”

Dublin Kate was slewed sideways as though suffering from a stitch, and abruptly she collapsed into the dry gutter. The astounded O’Hara dropped the cup into the basin, stooped over the body, and swore loudly. A uniformed policeman materialised out of thin air and asked what was going on.

“Can’t you ruddy well see?” demanded O’Hara. “Me dog’s been poisoned, that’s what’s going on. I give her a drink of water from the fountain and now look at her.”

The policeman happened to be he who had been called by a frantic barman to look at Hans Gromberg, and his actions now obliterated his failure to see the woman who had sat next to Mrs Wallace. He took position with his back to the fountain, and his feet were angled to guard the moisture in the trough. He ordered the people to move along and then demanded harshly: