Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

Jimmy looked wicked. The watching blue eyes blurred and their place was taken by a commodious two-storeyed house, not a mile away, which had become an exceptionally promising prospect. What he looked like losing on this Bonaparte roundabout he could pick up from that two-storeyed swing. He said quietly:

“That’s a lot of money, Inspector.”

“You must make a lot of money every year, Jimmy.”

“About three thousand quid-on average.”

“And no income tax. You can be lucky.”

“I’m doubting it. All right, you win. What next?”

“I like your style, Jimmy,” Bony conceded generously. “Honestly, I regret having to cramp you now and then. My investigation into these cyanide poisonings is going to extend me and I’m sure will provide you with fun and games. Continue to enjoy relaxation from business and don’t worry concerning the future. You are the only man in Broken Hill versed in the highways and byways of crime and yet not a policeman. Who knows! I may want you to take a peep into a house or two before I’m through. I may even ask you to examine, among other objects, the treasures of your charming friend who wears ropes of pearls and hoops of diamonds. The sum you lifted from the bookmaker’s flat that late Saturday evening was, I understand, just under three thousand.”

“Bit over,” Jimmy corrected.

“No matter. Do we play around?”

“We do,” cheerfully replied Jimmy the Screwsman.

Salvage

ON LEAVING the cafe, Bony wended his way to the establishment of S. Goldspink, and, observing that the large woman wearing the pearl necklace was not engaged with a customer, he approached her and presented his card. Before she could read his name he drifted to the rear of the shop and became interested in floor coverings, and there she followed him and said coldly:

“Yes, Inspector?”

The dark brown eyes were hostile, the mouth grim. The pearls gleamed with automatism indicative of suppressed emotion in the ample bosom on which they rested.

“I am assuming that you are Mrs Robinov,” he said, brows slightly raised. She made acknowledgment by inclining her head, her expression unchanging. “Could we talk privately for a few moments?”

He was taken to what was obviously a fitting-room, for it contained a large cutting table, several chairs, three wall mirrors. Bony was not invited to be seated.

“I have been assigned the investigation into the death of Mr. Goldspink,” Bony explained. “There is-”

Mrs Robinov cut him short. Furious anger made her speak with emphatic deliberation.

“I am not going to answer your questions, and I am not having my girls questioned, unless my solicitor is present. You can wait here while I telephone him.”

“That would incur unnecessary expense,” Bony said, faint horror in his voice and eyes. “Surely I don’t look like an ogre? As you wish, of course, but why not put me on trial first? I’m not in the least suspecting that you or one of your assistants, had anything whatever to do with Mr Goldspink’s death.”

“Inspector Stillman did,” retorted Mrs Robinov. “He nagged me almost to insanity and made Mary Isaacs a nervous wreck. I won’t have any more of it.”

“Inspector Stillman!” exclaimed Bony, and then vented a long and understanding “Oh!” Mrs Robinov, who was actually on her way to the telephone, hesitated, turned fully to him. “Now I can understand your attitude, Mrs Robinov-and sympathise with you. I’m sure you won’t find me an Inspector Stillman. And I certainly wouldn’t force my presence on you were it not for the fact that the person who poisoned Mr Goldspink and Mr Parsons hasn’t yet been apprehended. It’s all very unpleasant, I know. Don’t you see, someone else may be similarly poisoned, and so I was hoping to have the help of everyone in the position to do so.” Carefully placing emphasis on the first personal pronoun, he added: “Please don’t think I am another Inspector Stillman.”

The voice, the quiet assurance, the soft smile turned aside wrath.

“He is just a bullying beast,” Mrs Robinov declared. “We got along with Sergeant Crome all right, and Superintendent Pavier was always the gentleman. We didn’t kill Mr. Goldspink. Everyone here loved him.”

“That’s what Sergeant Crome told me,” Bony said soothingly, although Crome had said nothing of the kind. “Don’t be afraid of me. I am sure we’ll get along splendidly if you will give me the chance. You will?”

The hostility faded.

“Very well, Inspector. What do you want to ask me?”

“I don’t want to ask you any questions today,” he said. “But I do want to interview the assistant who was serving the customer when Mr Goldspink was taken ill. Mary Isaacs is the girl, I think.”

“May I be present?”

“If you wish, and will refrain from interrupting.”

“I don’t know. I think I should be. Inspector Stillman almost drove the girl crazy. I’ll fetch her.”

Bony thanked Mrs Robinov and, when she had departed, he regarded himself in one of the long mirrors. He sauntered to the wall farthest from the entrance to the shop, and when Mrs Robinov entered with Mary Isaacs, he advanced to greet them.

“Come along and sit down, and let’s all be easy,” he purred. “I’m happy to meet you, Miss Isaacs, and I am quite sure you are going to be happy to meet me.”

He manoeuvred them to sit facing the window light, with himself partially before it. He knew the girl’s age to be eighteen. She was pretty and gave promise of becoming beautiful. Now her dark eyes were dilated with fear, and her lips were trembling, and he thought what a sublime fool Stillman was to think he could succeed with these women by the employment of methods he used on slum thugs and back-alley gunmen.

He spoke quietly, reassuringly, telling them he came from Brisbane, mentioning his wife, and proudly naming his boys and their achievements. He went on to stress the vital importance of ‘catching’ the person who killed Sam Goldspink and emphasised how silly it was for anyone to think they had had anything to do with murder. Gradually the fear subsided in the girl’s eyes and the trembling of the lips ceased.

“Just relax, Miss Isaacs, and permit your mind to run freely,” he said smilingly. “I’ve read all about you and what you said to Sergeant Crome and that other beastly policeman, and I just hate having to recall what must have become a bad dream.”

“You needn’t class Sergeant Crome with Inspector Stillman,” Mary Isaacs said warmly. “Sergeant Crome’s a pet. So’s his wife. They live in our street.”

“Ah! I stand reproved.” The chuckle gained more for him than he thought. Mrs Robinov, remembering the demands of her shop, rose to her feet, saying brightly:

“I must go. You listen to the Inspector, Mary, and tell him everything you can.”

She smiled encouragingly at Mary Isaacs.

“Now tell me about Mr Goldspink,” Bony urged. “I know that he was shortish and stout and that he had a beard and hair still not entirely grey. Did he wear glasses, by the way?”

“Only when reading or writing,” Mary replied. “Then he would sort of peer through them like looking through a telescope. He kept them in the top pocket of his waistcoat. Dragged them out and pushed them in so that it was a wonder they didn’t break.”

“I take it that his manner was quick.”

“Yes. Quick in manner and quick in mind.”

“Did he put on his glasses at any time when you were serving that customer with handkerchiefs?”

The dark eyes narrowed, and Bony patiently waited.

“I can’t remember.”

“All right, don’t try,” Bony said hastily. “I don’t want you to force your memory. One’s mind is a queer thing, you know. It stores a lot away and is determined to keep most of what it stores. I’ve found often that the best way to make my memory work is to trick the old mind. I say to it: ‘Well, if you want to sulk, go on sulking’. And then, when I’m thinking of something entirely different, what I want comes to me. Now tell me the routine of the shop-when Mr Goldspink was here.”