Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

“You return to the shop,” Bony said, and had to remove her hands from his arm. “Leave it to us. Mrs Robinov will understand.”

Beside the main entrance there were four bar and lounge doors, and Bony remained with his back to the traffic to watch all of them. Minutes passed before two plain-clothes men approached, and Bony stopped them and related what he had been told.

“The Super and the senior’s on the other side of the street, sir,” one said.

“Bring them over.”

The man hurried across the street, and to the other Bony said:

“A back entrance, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir. Into a lane running parallel. Shall I block it?”

Bony nodded, and the man vanished into a doorway. Pavier and Abbot arrived, and to them Bony repeated Mary’s story.

Leaving the plain-clothes man outside, they went through the lounges systematically, and even the bars. Accompanied by the manager, they searched the upper rooms. The manager’s wife and two maids searched the retiring rooms. Even the domestic quarters and rear yard buildings were searched. No woman as described by Patrick O’Hara.

From the hotel to Goldspink’s shop was about a hundred yards, and when the shops either side the hotel had been investigated, Bony proceeded to interview Mary Isaacs. The shop was full of customers, and he was discreetly conducted to the fitting-room and Mary brought to him.

“You didn’t see her face, you said, Mary?” Bony asked.

“No sir. Did you find her?”

“Not a sign of her. How far behind the woman were you when you followed her?”

“Only two or three yards.”

“She didn’t turn to see if she were being followed?”

“No. But she might have seen me following her by looking in the shop windows. I was frantic. I couldn’t see a policeman to tell.”

Bony patted her shoulder and managed to chuckle.

“They say you never can find a policeman when you want one. Well, it was a good try. You did fine, and the police will catch her before she leaves Argent Street. I won’t keep you. Mrs Robinov will need you in the shop-they’re so busy.”

It was nearing six o’clock-O Dreaded Hour! The pavement was packed, the street traffic heavy. A trifle despondent, Bony sauntered back towards Headquarters.

It would be stupid to doubt that a lunatic walked Argent Street: and all things were possible to lunatic Tuttaway-the famed magician, the quick-change artist, the master of female impersonation. Dressed as that woman, had he seen reflected by the shop windows the girl from Goldspink’s shop, recognised her, noted her agitation? Had he walked into the hotel, gone directly to a retiring-room, and emerged with his clothes reversed, the trick handbag reversed and the straw hat crushed within it? The evidence was against this, but…

A man fell into step with him.

“Just got word, sir, that the wanted woman has been picked up and taken to Headquarters.”

A Stage with Coffee

“THIS IS the life! Be ready in two ticks.”

Mrs Wallace did remarkably well, just under ten minutes, and she settled herself in the back seat of the police car as though off to a civic reception. Seated with her, Abbot talked of the weather.

Meanwhile Bony faced a difficulty with Superintendent Pavier, in whose office sat the woman brought in by two detectives who had worked the trams. The woman was dressed as described by Patrick O’Hara, and her handbag was blue. But the red handles were of thick cord, and the bag was not the drawstring type.

Moreover, the woman readily admitted stopping at the street fountain and patting the unfortunate dog. She gave her name as Sandra Goddard, living with her husband in South Broken Hill, where they conducted a grocery and wood-and-oil store.

“We’ve made a bloomer,” Pavier stonily admitted.

“How old do you think she is?” asked Bony.

“Under forty, I’d say.”

“Any children?”

“Didn’t ask her. Important?”

“Could be. I’d like to see the contents of her handbag. You come along and leave the questions to me.”

On their way, Bony learned from Pavier what information had already been gleaned, and when they entered the Superintendent’s office the new secretary rose from her chair to leave at a nod from her Chief.

Only in figure was Mrs Goddard similar to the woman described by Mrs Wallace, supported by Mrs Lucas. She was certainly not more than forty. Bony was presented as Inspector Knapp, and, having become seated, he proceeded to soothe.

“We are really regretful, Mrs Goddard, at having inconvenienced you,” he said, presenting a box of Bond Street cigarettes.

“Well, it’s a beastly nuisance,” the woman fumed. “Besides being dragged here like a criminal. I don’t know what my husband will have to say about it. Thank you.”

“I do think, Mrs Goddard, that when I’ve explained the circumstances you will forgive us. Could I ask you to treat in strict confidence what I would like to tell you?”

A secret! A secret to a woman is like fish to a starved cat. A favour sought by a debonair, good-looking man with wonderful blue eyes and such a voice! Then Bony smiled, and annoyance vanished.

“Of course, Inspector. I promise.”

“Well, it is this. The dog you petted at the fountain died a few minutes after you left. She drank water from the trough at the foot of the fountain, and the water was poisoned. The owner of the dog is a Mr Patrick O’Hara, who, being fond of the animal, was very aggrieved. He remembered you patting the dog, and we thought you had something to do with its sudden death. An unfortunate mistake, but one brought about by over-zeal. By the way, you live at Number 1 Willow Street, South Broken Hill. In business there, I understand?”

“We are. I manage the grocery store and my husband runs the wood-and-oil business. We’ve been there for eight years now.”

“Family, I suppose?”

“No, we haven’t any children-not living. I had a little boy, but he died when he was two.”

“A sad blow, Mrs Goddard. Being the father of three boys, I can offer sympathy with sincerity. I won’t keep you more than another minute. Would you like to be taken home in one of our cars?”

“It would save time, and my husband will be wanting his dinner.”

“Being a mere policeman,” Bony went on, “there are occasions on which I cannot be a gentleman. Suspicious to the very end, and all that kind of thing. No doubt you have already allied the death of the dog this afternoon with the death of several men.”

“I couldn’t help but do that,” Mrs Goddard admitted, a frown deepening the lines between her eyes.

“I do dislike having to ask you,” lied Bony. “Would you let me look into your handbag?”

Mrs Goddard offered no objection-and the handbag. It was, of course, navy blue. The handles were of red cord, and the bag was fastened by clips. The contents were normal and limited. There was certainly no cyanide-and no baby’s dummy. Bony carefully restored the articles, closed the bag, and proffered it to its owner.

“I am thankful that nasty little suspicion of mine is smashed,” he said smilingly. “And very grateful indeed for your generosity in return for our silly mistake. Permit me to conduct you to the car.”

Superintendent Pavier came round his desk to offer his hand and also expressed his regrets, and Mrs Goddard, obviously mollified, left the office with Bony. In the Public Office they had to pass Mrs Wallace, who, after one swift glance at the navy-blue handbag, said:

“Why, Mrs Goddard! How’s things? Haven’t seen you for ages.”

“How are you, Mrs Wallace? No, I don’t get out much during the day. The shop keeps me tied.”