Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

Every morning at eight ashopboy reported for work, and under the eye of Mr Goldspink the boy would scatter damp sawdust on the floor and then sweep it into heaps to be carefully disposed of.

Dressed in an old brown velvet jacket, Goldspink would then dust the counters and chairs and be removing the dust covers when the assistants arrived at nine. Having opened the front door, he would check the change with the cashier in her office. The cashier? She occupied a small glassed-in compartment high up in one corner of the shop. Oh yes, she could see everything that went on in the shop.

There were few customers before ten, but the assistants were busy with their stock, and Mr Goldspink breakfasted and then dressed for the day’s business. His business clothes consisted of a frock-coat and black trousers. Yes, he always wore a waistcoat, a white or light-coloured fancy waistcoat. They were stained a little. The frock-coat was old but presentable enough. The black trousers needed pressing, but Mrs Robinov probably had enough to do as it was. The boy always cleaned the shoes, and they seemed a little too big, but then Mr Goldspink’s feet wanted comfortable shoes to walk about in all day.

Most of all this Bony already knew, but he sat easily and nodded understandingly and for himself created the picture of an elderly merchant conducting his business. There had been no mention in any of the numerous reports he had scanned of the cashier’s glassed-in office and its full view of the entire shop. She had never been questioned.

“I was told he was in quite good health that last day of his life,” he murmured encouragingly.

“Oh yes, Inspector. I don’t remember him ever being ill.”

“Did he smoke?”

“I never saw him,” replied Mary Isaacs. “Might have. I’ve seen him slipping a scented cachet into his mouth. Sometimes he lectured the girls about smoking too much during lunch time.”

“They have their own lunchroom, I suppose?”

“Yes. Mrs Robinov used to prepare the lunch. She still does.”

“Did Mr Goldspink have an irritating cough?”

“No.”

“Or make a noise in his throat, as a habit, you know?”

“Oh no. Mr Goldspink never did anything like that. There was nothing wrong about him, and he was always pleasant towards us as well as to the customers. He was very kind if one of the girls was sick. Sent her home in a taxi. And always gave us a bonus for extra-good sales.”

“H’m! You know, Miss Isaacs, we’re getting along famously.” Bony stood and crossed to the large cutting table. “Let’s play shops,” he said, and whisked a costume dummy into place beside the table. “Come along. You stand on the other side of the table and serve the dummy with handkerchiefs. I’ll be Mr Goldspink.”

A trifle hesitatingly Mary Isaacs accepted the suggestion, and then her eyes widened and began to dance as Bony pantomimed.

“We can recommend this line, madam. Been absent from the shops since shortly after the war broke out. Finest Irish lawn. Quality superlative. The best linen has always come to us from Ireland. You won’t buy better in Broken Hill. Or down in Adelaide. Just look at the weave.” He turned away from the dummy he had been addressing. “Thank you, miss.” He whisked an envelope from a pocket and held it as though it were a cup-laden saucer, and the envelope he placed on the supposed counter to his right. To Mary Isaacs he said:

“That about where Mr Goldspink put the tea?”

Mary moved the envelope. It was then immediately in front of Bony and less than thirty inches from the dummy. Bony proceeded:

“Yes, madam, the price is high. Everything is high these days. You have to be careful when shopping. Well, then, perhaps something less expensive. Miss, show the lady that new line in Australian handkerchiefs.”

The assistant was now living in the past. Almost involuntarily she turned away from the imaginary counter to the imaginary shelves behind it and pretended to take from the shelves boxes containing the imaginary Australian handkerchiefs. She proceeded to open the boxes and display their contents. Bony now turned slightly inward, away from the counter and the ‘customer’, towards the imaginary shop. The girl said:

“These are pretty, madam. The lace edge is sweet, isn’t it?”

“Thank you, Miss Isaacs,” Bony interrupted. “Excellent! Is that just what happened? Did Mr Goldspink suggest that you display more handkerchiefs?”

“Yes. Yes he did.”

“And when you turned back from the shelves, was Mr Goldspink standing like this, partly facing away from you?”

“Yes. I remember that he was.”

“And the cup of tea was still on the counter-where the envelope is?”

“Oh yes. He didn’t pick it up until after the customer had gone.”

“And the customer was standing, like this dummy, when you turned round?”

“Yes.”

“What was she doing?”

Crome had shot this question to her, and she failed to remember. Stillman had snarled it at her, and her frozen mind wouldn’t give. Now, without hesitation, with natural freedom, she replied:

“Looking in her handbag for her purse. She bought three handkerchiefs and paid for them with the correct money.”

“Did she take the money from the purse to pay for the hankies?”

“I don’t think she did. No, she didn’t. She had the money already in her hand.”

“Which hand held the money?”

“Which… The hand-the left hand.”

“The hand farthest from the cup of tea, eh?”

“Yes-the hand-farthest from the cup of tea.”

“What was the amount of the purchase, d’you remember?”

“Ten shillings. She paid with a ten-shilling note.”

“Well, Miss Isaacs, thank you very much,” Bony said, genuinely delighted. “Come and sit down again. I won’t bore you much longer.”

They sat, and Mary said she wasn’t a tiny bit bored.

“I wonder, now, would you know that woman again?”

The girl shook her head.

“We know from what you have told us that she wasn’t big like Mrs Robinov, or short like-well, short. She was an elderly woman. You said she was taller than Mr Goldspink. That right?”

“Yes, she was taller than Mr Goldspink. She-she might have been taller than I thought. She seemed, now I come to think of it, to be slightly stooped. Seemed to peer at me as though looking over the top of spectacles. But she wasn’t wearing glasses. I’m sure about that. I don’t- You see, Inspector, I didn’t take much notice of her. I served thirty-seven customers that day. My docket book shows that.”

“Thirty-seven!” echoed Bony. “Why, if I had served thirty-seven people, I wouldn’t remember any one of them as a man, a woman, or a kangaroo. She was dressed in a grey frock, wasn’t she?”

“I think so. Her hat was small, and it was grey or greyish. I’ve tried, Inspector, to remember that woman, but I can’t. Even in bed, with the light out, I’ve tried to see her face. I have really-”

“Make me a promise. Will you?”

“Yes,” assented the girl.

“Stop trying to remember. Promise?”

“Don’t you want me to remember?” she asked, astonished.

“Yes, but not to try to remember. If you stop trying you will remember. Just forget about it.”

“Yes. But-”

“You promised.”

The dark eyes glistened. He thought for an instant she was going to cry, and he cut in with:

“Have you a sweetheart?”

The abrupt change of subject banished the danger, and the girl flushed charmingly and admitted to one.

“What does he do?” he asked, to give her time to regain poise.

“He works at Metter’s, the grocer’s. But he hopes to leave it one day and become an artist. He studies at the art school, and he’s very clever. Sometimes they get him to do lightning sketches at a concert.”