Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

“Blake.”

The barman left them to attend to the other customers, and as Bony made some remark to his companion in vice, his mind was busy with its card index system.

“He’saswifty,” said Mr. Dickenson.

“Face is familiar. Been here long?”

“First time I’ve seen him behind the bar. He came in from the cattle country up north. Thanks, I will have another.”

Bony nodded to the barman, who drifted back to them, pouring the drinks better than a novice. He said:

“Might have seen me out in the Territory sometime.”

“Likely enough,” agreed Bony. “I’ve been around.”

“In for a spell?”

Interest in the question was not evident in the light-grey eyes, and Bony almost succeeded in turning up the card in his mental index. He said casually “Just travelling,” and escaped explanation by the entry of two men into the bar.

“Not very busy tonight,” he observed to Mr. Dickenson.

“Not so far. Early yet. I’ve seen two hundred men drinking here, and ten people serving ’emas fast as they could. Great pub. Wish I had it.”

“Who does own it?”

Over the rim of his glass, Mr. Dickenson regarded Bony with a singular expression.

“The late Mrs. Cotton’s estate owns the property,” he said. “You’ve heard of Black Mark, I’ll warrant. He’s the present licensee. Black Mark’s an out-and-out sinner, and out-and-out sinners don’t strangle people. They knock heads off when they’re in a rage, but they never close wind-pipes on a dark night. The feller who strangled Mrs. Cotton was no out-and-out sinner… in the day-time.”

“H’m. Seems sound psychology,” agreed Bony.

“It is. Mrs. Cotton was a fine woman, and her husband was a fine man. Pity the police didn’t catch her murderer. The other one didn’t matter so much, but she was entitled to her life.”

“What’s your personal opinion of the murderer’s race?” asked Bony.“White or black?”

“White, for sure. I know nothing of the inside of these matters.” The old man regarded Bony steadily. “The Asiatic does run amok with akris. He does slip a knife into you for some reason or other. He’ll even strangle… but with a cord… and for a reason. The police know more about these Broome murders than I do.”

Mr. Dickenson drank his whisky, dabbed his lips with a tattered but clean silk handkerchief and called the barman. His nose appeared now somewhat less frost-bitten, and his eyes were decidedly brighter. Time passed pleasantly. The bar remained almost empty, and the barman was having an easy evening. His card would come up eventually. Mr. Dickenson said, conversationally:

“I believe I saw the man who murdered Mrs. Eltham.”

“Indeed!” Bony’s reaction was not unlike that of a cat on sighting a bird. The barman served the drinks, talking the while to a man about a herd of cattle on the move to the Wyndham Meatworks. When he had again left them Bony waited before being impelled to say: “You actually saw him?”

“Yes. Not that night he strangled Mrs. Eltham. Another night. I mention it because through you I might assist the inspector.” Mr. Dickenson solemnly studied the magnificent shell screen. “I’m careful to avoid connection with trouble. You would not mention my name?”

“No, certainly not.”Bony made a swift decision. “I’ll return your confidence. My business in Broome is to reveal the murderer of these two women.”

“The thought did occur to me. I like paying my debts. I owe a debt to InspectorWalters, and another to you, sir. What I am going to tell you, you understand, is from one friend to another. I am a peaceful man.”

“The children, when they greet you, support that claim.”

“I thank you. The night I believe I saw the man who killed Mrs. Eltham was last Tuesday week. I was then suffering from lack of funds, and also my heart was behaving badly. Angina pectoris, my doctor says. I find relief in whisky, but at this time I was out of funds. I’m afraid I am not like the squirrels who gather in summer the food to sustain them through the winter.”

Bony nodded politely, and Mr. Dickenson lit a cigar and with the other end smoothed into place the beard about his mouth. Humour was faintly betrayed by his eyes when he continued:

“Throughout my winters, when I am bereft of the wherewithal to ease a painful heart, I am compelled to have recourse to a practice which is really abhorrent to me. I have found that ten drops of battery acid in a small tumbler of water is efficacious, but this method of relief is restricted by suspicious people, with whom Broome is overcrowded. Anyway, I recalled that Mrs. Eltham possessed a car, and that the car was still within the garage at the rear of her house.

“Having been on the premises but not, of course, inside the house, at the time of the murder… with many other rubbernecks… I had noted that the padlock securing the garage door was a common one, and I gambled on possessing a key which fitted. Accordingly, when the Perth detectives left Broome, I sneaked into the yard from the rear at about three in the morning. It was very dark, as a sea mist was thick over the town. I had filled a small bottle with the battery acid, and was congratulating myself on having obtained sufficient to last me a whole week, when I fancied I heard movement inside the house. You see, I had re-locked the garage door, and was passing along the path at the side of the house on my way to the front street. I was wearing rubber-soled canvas shoes for the occasion. And so, I sat me down with my back to the veranda base and waited to see who would come out, either by the back or the front door.”

Mr. Dickenson ceased speaking while the barman refilled the glasses. The hair at the back of Bony’s head was stiff. Here, possibly, was the flaw in the picture for which he so patiently sought.

“All I could make out of the man who left by the kitchen door and passed me by within a yard was the blurred outline of his figure against the sky. If my old eyes weren’t sharp, I wouldn’t have seen even that. Although I was squatting down, and the fellow passed so close, I’m sure he was a big man. He was wearing a felt hat, like a stockman’s. I saw one arm, and it seemed abnormally long. And that was all I did see.”

“How did he walk?” asked Bony.

“That I couldn’t see. As I said, I was sitting down like Brer Rabbit, and the night was dark.”

“D’youthinkhe was carrying anything… large?”

“I didn’t get that impression. He wasn’t aComic Cuts burglar getting away with the swag, leastways, I don’t think so. He locked the kitchen door after him, because I went to find out. D’youknow what I think?”

“Tell me.”

“If he wasn’t the murderer who returned for something he had forgotten, then he was one of the woman’s friends who went in to take some small thing which might prove his visits to the house.”

“That was the night following the departure of the detectives?”

“That was the night.”

Despite examination of Mr. Dickenson, nothing further was brought out. Having given his information, the old man determinedly evaded adding to it. He drank like the gentleman he surely was, but his capacity astonished Bony. The evening mellowed, and Bony’s guest was in the mood to discuss the people of Broome in general, with additional biographical details of certain personalities. Time passed so swiftly that Bony was astonished when Johnno appeared.

“I arrive, eh!” he exclaimed. “Yes, one drink for me. Then we depart. Yes, plis. Brandy, Dick.”

Mr. Dickenson was tired, and Johnno assisted him down the veranda steps to the door. The night was black and white with no mezzotint. One could have read a newspaper in the moonlight, and be completely concealed in the shadows. Bony slid in beside the old man, and Johnno, loudly braying with thehooter, departed at top speed.