Arthur Upfield: Batchelors of Broken Hill

“Are you busy this evening?” he asked.

“Couple of functions to cover. Could tell the boss to go to hell.”

“Avoid the first and refrain from the second. I am throwing a party at the Western Mail. Six-thirty. You will remember that I promised to let you in at the death. Your own word, meaning finale.”

“I’ll be right on the dot,” chortled Luke. “Want a hand?”

“With what?”

“Stillman. I could bash while you held him.”

“I’ll bash him my way. Expect you at dinner. Don’t mention it at home.”

“Okey-doke.”

Bony rang Sloan, asked for a secluded table and the very special favour of occupying that table for perhaps an hour after dinner. Wally Sloan granted the favour and bestowed another. He would himself wait on Bony and his guests.

Bony replaced the instrument on the desk, not on its cradle-and waited. Ten minutes elapsed. The instrument spluttered, died, and he guessed that Pavier wished his attendance at his office. With his chair pushed back, he rested his feet on the cleared desk, and placed to one side a pile of cigarettes.

Stillman came in.

Of Detective Inspector Stillman someone had said he had the address of a film star, the voice of a radio ace, and the mind of a weasel.

“Ah! Afternoon, Bonaparte. The Super was wanting you on the mat.”

Bony waved a hand towards a chair, but Stillman elected to sit on a corner of the desk. He produced a gold cigarette case monogrammed in blue, lit a cigarette, and casually wafted smoke towards Bony.

“I heard of your arrival,” Bony said softly.

“Had to come, you know. The Heads insisted. You are leaving us, I understand.”

“I am remaining in Broken Hill for another week, perhaps a month. Interested in mines and might write a book about them.”

“They have been written up so often, don’t you think? Better return home. Your people are becoming annoyed. Anyway, my aboriginal friend, I am taking over, and you will be wise to return to Brisbane by plane tomorrow. The bush is your spiritual home, Bonaparte. Tracking white criminals in a city is evidently not yourmetier.”

“The pronunciation of the French is defective, Stillman.”

“I have never boasted of my education,” Stillman lisped. “You are finished here, so get out. Unfortunate, of course. Can’t have that fellow Tuttaway running about Broken Hill. Might murder someone else while you and Crome are practising for the movies. As I inferred, these city-bred birds fly too high for persons like you. I never did believe in the reputation you have so carefully built up. To fall down on that cyanide murder right under your nose and in the very pub you are staying at doesn’t surprise me.”

“The information we sought from London should assist you.”

“Yes, perhaps. I brought it with me. Pavier says you have made slight progress regarding Tuttaway.” Stillman slid off the desk. “Well, I must get down to it, Bonaparte. Don’t let me keep you. The relevant files and case reports are about somewhere?”

“Doubtless, Stillman.” Bony rose from the desk chair and took up briefcase and hat. “As you pointed out, I am finished here, so that files and reports are of no interest to me. You’ll know where to find them. Having the information from London, however, you should not need them.”

At the door Bony turned. Stillman was watching him. Bony smiled, and Stillman found nothing warming in it. Quietly Bony passed out and closed the door, leaving Stillman in an empty office, and proceeded to Pavier’s room.

“It would appear, sir, that I am to go,” Bony said stiffly.

“Thought you were out. Been trying to get you. You’ve seen Stillman, obviously.”

“Yes.”

Pavier stood, saying earnestly:

“I received no prior notification from Sydney. Stillman walked in and presented an instruction terminating your seconding, with an order to you to return at once to Brisbane. Personally, I’m liking it less than you. It hasn’t been done correctly, but the excuse was that Stillman would arrive before air-mail delivery.”

“Why Stillman? We have discussed Stillman, but why send here a man who failed before and wriggled his way back to Sydney?”

“Knowing the Chief of the CIB, sending Stillman might have been prompted by the wish that he fail again. Enough rope… Anyway, this termination of your association with us wasn’t done by Sydney. Letter here from CIB Chief explains that. Read it.”

“Not now. You are only imagining you are talking to me. You tried to contact me and found I was out. You will see me tomorrow at nine, and then you will execute the Order of Boot. Clear, sir?”

“Something coming to the boil, eh?”

“When events delay, one must hasten them. Super, I must not fail, ever. I want only twelve hours.”

Superintendent Pavier nodded slowly. Gazing at a point above and beyond Bony’s head, he said:

“Glad I can’t obey that instruction till Bonaparte reports.”

He continued to gaze above Bony’s head, and Bony turned and went out. Other than the duty constable in the public office, there was a plain-clothes man. Of him Stillman was demanding to know where the detective staff were. Bony sauntered by to the door, and he heard the detective say:

“Don’t rightly know, sir. All out on duty, I suppose, sir.”

Bony’s Party

IT WAS an excellent meal despite the rush service occasioned by the determination of the Australian staff to be finished as quickly as possible after seven-or else.

Of Bony’s guests, Jimmy the Screwsman floundered beyond his depth. Luke Pavier was entirely at ease. Sergeant Crome was slightly diffident, and Senior Detective Abbot a trifle awed. Alert for the welfare of his guests, Bony controlled the conversation, breaking down barriers and making them feel that all were his friends. Even Jimmy Nimmo eventually mellowed.

Wally Sloan cleared away and brought coffee and a bottle of his finest brandy. The ‘sir’ was tailed to every sentence. When he had gone, Bony said:

“It’s as well Inspector Stillman is holding the official fort. He was, however, somewhat perturbed to find that all but one of the detective staff were out on duty.”

“Ah!” breathed Crome. “Which man was there, d’you know?”

“Not his name. Tall, fair-haired young man.”

“Simmons. Idiot. I told him to keep clear,” growled the sergeant. “Told ’emall to get out and keep out and lock up everything before they went. I’ll have something to say to Simmons.”

“Stillman left holding the bridle without the horse?” commented Luke hopefully.

“He hasn’t even the bridle,” Bony said. “I brought it with me. Sloan has locked it in the hotel safe. However, we’ll mount him tomorrow, or when you gentlemen of the Detective Office return to duty. Tonight is ours.”

Crome stared at his host through cigar smoke. Abbot appeared expectant. Luke saw a vision of the stiff-backed Crome and the efficient Abbot, with Bony and himself and this strange Nimmo fellow, making merry and ‘burning up’ Argent Street. And then he remembered that this dinner was the prelude to serious stuff and concentrated on Bony.

“You will recall, Crome, that we asked Sydney to obtain certain information from London,” Bony said. “That information Stillman has with him. Declined to pass it on.”

“What the swine would do,” Abbot said without ire.

“I’m reasonably sure that the information, if added to my knowledge, would enable us to finalise these murders within a few hours,” Bony proceeded. “I am left to guess what that information is, and I intend to gamble on guessing correctly. Without knowing what I know, the London information will not give Stillman anything like a clear picture.