Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

“C.I.B. reports that no one of the three men sent up here is suffering from psoriasis. That reduces a problem still further, for the chemist’s list of sufferers is confined to two women, a boy of sixteen, and a man who has been away with the pearling fleet for eight or nine weeks. My own office in Brisbane reports that the fingerprints on that glass I purloined at the Dampier Hotel are those of Ronald Locke.”

“Is… that… so?” Walters drawled. “Is… that… really… so? Sawtell! Our Richard Blake is Ronald Locke.”

The sergeant came to his feet as though actuated by invisible wires.

One Monday Evening

SO Richard Blake was Ronald Locke, and every policeman in Australia saw red when he thought of Ronald Locke. Bony was no exception when walking through Broome after dinner.

Ronald Locke was, in 1940, the head steward in an exclusive club. Although only twenty-six years of age, he was remarkable for his charm of manner and perfectibility as a gentleman’s gentleman. At his trial witness after witness testified to his excellent character. He was tried and convicted and sentenced to death for strangling a girl of eighteen because, to use his words-“she nagged at me to marry her before the baby was born.” It so happened that a few months before this trial the Executive Council in another state had commuted a death sentence to life imprisonment because “the murderer had a low intelligence.” That produced severe criticism by the Press, but it was much more severe when the Executive Council of the State in which Locke committed his crime reduced the death sentence to ten years’ imprisonment… “because of his previous good character.” To make matters worse Locke was released on probation after serving only half his commuted sentence… and promptly disappeared. In an editorial of a metropolitan newspaper, quoted in every Police Gazette all over Australia, it was stated: “Justice is mocked when, following a fair trial conducted by a learned Judge before a jury of intelligent men who find the accused guilty, politicians commute the sentence because the murderer has a low intelligence or had, previous to his crime, a clean record. Are murderers to be hanged only if they have high intelligence or have been previously convicted for stealing apples from an orchard?”

Bony’s interest in a murderer swiftly waned once he had finalised his investigation of the crime, but even he had been exasperated by the interference of vote-catching politicians with the course of justice. His sympathies were ever with the victim, and the victim’s dependents, and now that he had this Ronald Locke in reach, he was in no haste to have him brought in and charged with breach of parole. Locke couldn’t get away, not far, in this North-West so pitiless toward the fugitive

It was natural for both Walters and Sawtell to jump to the belief that Locke had killed Mrs. Cotton and Mrs. Eltham, but this youngish man of only thirty-two did not fill the frame into which Bony was building with his bits and pieces the murderer he sought. The barman at Dampier’s Hotel would not, however, be ignored.

Bony was unconscious of whither his legs were taking him, and he was unconscious of the resplendent car which glided to a halt beside him, until the vibrant voice of Mrs. Sayers came like a soft blow:

“Hello, Mr. Knapp! What’s she like?”

“Oh! Good-evening, Mrs. Sayers. To what lady do you refer?”

Mrs. Sayers was seated beyond the lowered rear window, her eyes mischievous, her hair not quite as auburn as on Activities Day. Behind the wheel lounged a man uniformed with distinct nauticalflavour. He was chewing hard, and looking straight ahead, and his lean and weathered face was as crinkly as a prune.

“The lady you were dreaming about, of course.” Mrs. Sayers giggled. “But I won’t pry. When are you coming to tea? I’m dying to find out what’s behind those big blue eyes.”

Bony chuckled.

“You remind me of Red Riding Hood,” he said. “I would be happy to call tomorrow afternoon, if convenient.”

“Do. About three. Bring Esther with you. I want to make up for abusing her husband for not catching the murderer. Nice old stick, but I like ’empliable.”

“You will find me pliable, I think. Like the elm, I bow to every storm.”

“Was I…” Mrs. Sayers again giggled. “Was I a storm that afternoon in the police office?”

“Perhaps a little one… in a tea-cup. Harry Walters has been greatly worried lately, and, after all, he is not a common detective.”

“No, of course he isn’t. Well, bring Esther tomorrow, and I’ll make it up. Good-bye!”

Bony stood back and, being hatless, bowed. He watched the car glide along the road without a pang of envy.

Recalled now to the business in hand, to make himselfau fait with the lay-out of Broome, he continued on his way, passing the gate through which Mrs. Sayers’ car had disappeared. The house was particularly spacious. Set well back from the road, it was almost surrounded by wide lawns on which, each side of the house, grew a huge palm tree. Beyond the right-hand palm could be seen a clothes line.

Bony passed on to enter Chinatown by a different route and came to the Seahorse Hotel, which, were it not for the iron shacks across the street, would have looked out over the entrance of Dampier’s Creek to Roebuc Bay. On a seat at the edge of this sidewalk sat Mr. Dickenson, the old man appearing to be asleep. Ignoring him, Bony passed up the hotel veranda steps, and on the veranda was accosted by a man whose accent betrayed his northern European origin.

“Have aleetle drink, sir? Me and the flies don’t agree.”

“One with you and one with me,” Bony dictated, and they entered the empty bar. To the left was a lounge furnished with tables and chairs, and there several Asians were entertaining their lady friends.

“Votyou have?” asked the man who couldn’t drink with the flies.

“Beer, please.” The drinks came up.

“Youyust visitor here, eh?”

“Yes. Peculiar place, Broome. What’s wrong with it?”

“Vongmitit? It’s allvong. No boats. No men. No shell… onlyleetle . Look!” Bony was urged to look out through the doorway. “Millions of dollars… down in the sea… and no boats, only few, to peek up dose dollars. One time plenty boats, plenty divers… Jap divers. Now no Jap divers. Now only few southernAsians, and some of dose now go back to their countries because Government don’t like ’em. The Government say no dollars. Short of dollars. No dollars-no petrol. No dollars-no houses. Millions of dollars outdere… you know Kalgoorlie? Ivork in Kalgoorlie gold mines. More dollars in seadan in all Kalgoorlie gold mines.”

“Well, then, what’s wrong with the people?” Bony pressed, being uninterested in economics or politics. The lean and sunburned man chuckled ironically.

“Derpeople! Look you, the price of shell todayees five ’undredand fifty pounds a ton. Before thevar a hundred pounds a ton. Der people here don’tvant more boats, more men, more divers. No nous. No, vot you say? No brain. Deythink if too much shell brought inder market go bung. You go into lunatic place and askvot’svong with them. Same thing.”

With difficulty, Bony left the Seahorse Hotel. On the sidewalk he pretended to trip, looked down at his shoes, and crossed to the seat, to which he raised a foot to tie the lace.

“Flinn inside?” he asked softly.

“Went through to his room a half-hour ago,” murmured Mr. Dickenson without moving. “He took lunch at the Port Cuvier, and afternoon tea with Mrs. Sayers. Left when Mrs. Sayers went out in her car.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dickenson. By just keeping a general eye on him, we’ll finally get his background.”