Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

“That picture you have,” he said to Bony, “it recalled to mind someone I knew, and I couldn’t place her. Remember?”

“Of course.”

“There’s something about that woman strongly resembling a woman who acted in my play and who I thought was the best of the lot of us. The name’s Goddard, and she lives at Number 1 Willow Street.”

“In what particular does she resemble the picture?” asked Bony, and Pavier stood motionless.

“Mouth and chin. Mean anything?”

“What were you doing late this afternoon?”

“Been home since four. Why-Mr Friend?”

Bony laughed, and the Superintendent said:

“Thank heaven for that.”

Inspector Bonaparte to Jimmy Nimmo

AT THE time Mrs Goddard boarded a tram in Argent Street, Mary Isaacs was following a woman carrying a well-remembered handbag. Superficially that proved that Mrs Goddard was not the woman seen and followed to the hotel by Mary Isaacs, and had it not been for the doubt in the mind of Mrs Wallace after meeting Mrs Goddard, and for the resemblance to Mrs Goddard, Luke Pavier saw in Mills’s picture done under the supervision of both Mrs Wallace and Mrs Lucas, Bony might have been satisfied.

He telephoned for Jimmy Nimmo, and within half an hour Jimmy was seated before his desk.

“There are people named Goddard, man and wife, no family, in business at Number 1 Willow Street, South Broken Hill. You don’t happen to know them or of them?”

“Of them, yes,” replied Jimmy. “They run a grocery store and fuel yard. House behind the store. Big wood-yard. Every Saturday night they come to town to go to the pictures, leaving two lights on in the house to bluff poor innocent burglars.”

“Ah! You have surveyed the scene, it would appear.”

“Had it mapped out before luck wiped me.”

“When was that, Jimmy?”

“When we met down Argent Street.”

“Come now, don’t be so unkind,” Bony objected. “You have on several occasions referred to the ‘attraction’. Surely that was not brought about by lack of luck.”

“It comes into it,” protested Jimmy. “I’m getting married some time soon, and I’ll have to retire to keep the peace. Couldn’t bear to be in the jug and anotherfella taking my missus around. Womenoughta have a man handy to keep them straight.”

“Too bad, Jimmy. Because I want you to undertake a little burglary for me. Being Saturday, I want you to enter Number 1 Willow Street and search for a navy-blue handbag with red drawstrings, a baby’s dummy, and a quantity of cyanide. I shall be working here late tonight to receive your report before going off to bed.”

“Supposin’ I get pinched? All me good intentions gone west, and married love done in the eye.”

“You won’t be pinched-unless you should disobey my orders by lifting money or some article of negotiable value. You will be working for me, Jimmy, and I am the police.”

“Well, can I tell me wench I’mworkin ’ for the police-meaning you? I got to square off for not taking her to the pictures.”

“Can she keep a secret?”

“Good as I can. Not the sort to let her right know what her left’s doing-like me.”

“Very well. That’s agreed. I’ll see that you are not apprehended, but you will take as much care in entering and leaving as though ten policemen were on the lookout for you.”

“Righto! I’ll beseein ’ you.”

Bony went along to Crome’s room, where he asked for the file on Tuttaway, and mentioned that it would be helpful of Inspector Hobson if between 8 and 11 pm his man on patrol in the vicinity of Willow Street would not approach Number 1. Crome said he would fix it.

“Any line on Tuttaway, sir?” he asked, presenting the required file.

“Afraid not,” replied Bony. “I think he may be walking about Broken Hill in the complete freedom of a perfect disguise. What are you doing this morning?”

“I’m taking out those three trackers to have another look around for the haft of that glass knife.”

“Good! I won’t detain you.”

Bony took the file back to his room. It was fairly sketchy before the crime for which Tuttaway had been imprisoned, giving date of birth and biographical details of his career. The medical history was equally vague prior to the conviction, and this pre-trial information had been supplied by London.

Tuttaway was the second of a family of four sons and four daughters. Two sons had taken over their father’s business, and one had subsequently suicided. Of the four daughters, one had married a minister, another an artist, yet another had married an architect and within a year had to be certified. The remaining daughter had been associated with the magician brother. All theTuttaways had inherited much money.

Bony regarded the picture taken by the prison authorities. It was a strange face, the tottering mind emphasising and revealing. Nobility and evil, ruthlessness and generosity, humour and arrogance. Being an actor, a showman, a man controlled utterly by his own egotism, Tuttaway’s greatest enemy was Tuttaway. He must have occupied a place, great or small, in the life of the woman he murdered. She must have known him at some period of her life prior to coming to Broken Hill or leaving England. That must be it: prior to leaving England in June

Yet her sister had repeatedly affirmed that Muriel Lodding had not been interested in men. Mrs Dalton had…

“Mrs Dalton is here, sir,” said Senior Detective Abbot. “She wanted to see the Super, but he’s out, andso’s Sergeant Crome.”

“Tell her that I will be pleased to do what I can for her,” purred Bony.

Bony blew cigarette ash off the desk top, slid the Tuttaway file into a drawer, and swiftly rearranged papers. He was standing when Mrs Dalton was shown in, and he was presented to a woman instantly pleasing. Brown hair softly rolled at the nape of her neck, and the narrow upturned brim of the small hat added even more expression to the expressive grey eyes. Her nose was Grecian, and the makeup not obvious, save the lipstick, which reflected the cyclamen shade of the printed frock beneath the flowing black coat. Her accessories were all black.

“Mrs Dalton! Do sit down. I am Inspector Knapp. Perhaps I can be of service?”

Her eyes registered momentary surprise and then approval.

“I called to see Superintendent Pavier about my sister,” she said. “Muriel left all her small estate to me and also appointed me her executrix. I received a letter from Superintendent Pavier concerning salary and accrued leave pay owing to her. I’ve brought the will. Her solicitor’s name and address are shown on it.”

Bony accepted the proffered document.

“I’m sorry the Superintendent isn’t in,” he said, noting the name and address of the solicitor and returning the will. “The department will communicate with your sister’s solicitor. Opinion here of Miss Lodding was very high, Mrs Dalton. I didn’t have the opportunity to know her very well, but Superintendent Pavier feels he has suffered a personal loss.”

“She loved working here: said the work was much more exciting than in a broker’s office.”

“She-you have no relatives-in Australia?”

“In Australia, no. In England there are several cousins, but neither of us corresponded with them. My husband died years ago, and we have no children.”

“You have, I understand, lived in Broken Hill for several years?”

“Yes, since 1938. I never liked Sydney, too frightfully humid, and when my sister was asked to transfer to the Broken Hill office of her firm, I came with her. We both like living here, although cultural interests are few. Do you happen to be investigating my sister’s death?”