Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

“The night before last. The murderer also almost succeeded in killing her little dog. It had to be destroyed.”

“A pity. It was an affectionate little animal but not, Iimagine, anything of a watch dog. Yes, it could have been young Blake. He was in town late the evening before last, and I remember that he was in town that night Mrs. Eltham was murdered. Did you ever see Mrs. Overton alive?”

“No.”

“Doubtless you have seen her body. She would in life have been physically strong. Blake is not a large man, or powerful. Still…”

“You doubt that it was Blake?”

“I would require clear proof before I would believe it.”

“It was not Blake, you think, whom you saw that night leaving Mrs. Eltham’s house?”

“That is what I believe.”

“Does your opinion alter when I tell you that Richard Blake is Ronald Locke, the Sydney murderer? You may remember the case.”

“I remember the case. It does not alter my opinion. Do we now relinquish our interest in Mr. Flinn?”

“No. We maintain our interest in Mr. Flinn… you and I. I’m so glad you have assented to assist me. As you do, I don’t think Blake is the man we want. However, his arrest will allay fear in the people of Broome, and I would be so pleased did you not make public your opinion just expressed, and further that you do broadcast the news item that Blake has been arrested for the murder of Mrs. Overton.”

Mr. Dickenson stroked his Van Dyke beard and permitted a twinkle to enter his eyes.

“It was, I think, Shakespeare who wrote: ‘O, what may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side.’ My friend, I like subtlety. Provided that hebe not subjected to too much mental…”

“Betweenourselves, Locke won’t be charged with murder,” Bony cut in. “But I want everyone, including this Broome murderer, to believe that he has been. You will understand why?”

“Perfectly. Further slight inconvenience for Locke will not come amiss. I will continue to take an interest in Flinn, and should you think I could be of assistance in other directions, call on me.”

“It’s very good of you,” Bony said, warmly.

“It’s good of you, sir.”

They parted, and Bony saw Mr. Dickenson enter the laneway which would take him past the rear of Mrs. Overton’s house. Two minutes later, he entered the house from the front, finding Sawtell in the kitchen.

“Coo! What you got there? Fishing lines?” asked the sergeant.

“Yes I fish for men. An hour ago the inspector sent Clifford out for Locke. Would you like to dash off home for breakfast?”

“You must have seen blazing hunger in my eyes. Won’t be long.”

“Oh, don’t hurry. I’ll spend the time in meditation. Bring Abie back with you. Follow routine. What tracks he indicates, make a cast. They might be useful later on.”

The sergeant having left, Bony wandered through the house. The doctor had reported that Mrs. Overton had been strangled by a man standing behind her, and such were the injuries that, in his opinion, it was the same man who had killed Mrs. Eltham and Mrs. Cotton. The body had been removed to the morgue by the undertaker and his Malay assistant, and the inquest would be held this day… to be adjourned as those previous inquests had been.

A plane for Perth was due to leave at nine, and Walters would now be preparing his reports for Headquarters to accompany Bony’s personal letter to the chief of the C.I.B. Another plane was expected to leave about six in the evening, and Bony urged that Clifford take his prisoner down to Perth in that. It would leave them a man short in the team, but old Dickenson could step into the breach.

The time he was alone he spent going through the dead woman’s papers. He read the letters found in the post box. There were no locked drawers, and no safe, so that he had access to everything. He learned that Mrs. Overton was interested in church missionary work, and that she had contributed to missionary literature. There was a man in Melbourne who wanted to marry her and it appeared that her dead husband’s mother approved. A legal firm in Perth managed her financial affairs. Nothing of importance, but several matters of interest. Two of Mrs. Overton’s correspondents mentioned Mrs. Sayers, who, it appeared, was much admired by Mrs. Overton, and one writer referred to Mrs. Overton’s attachment to the boys at Cave Hill College, and her work at the Methodist Sunday School.

The dead woman’s background was excellent. Bony studied a photograph of her, a Junoesque type of woman. She had lived a virtuous life in Broome, for that was on record, and there was nothing among her papers or within her home even to hint of anything to the contrary. To use current phraseology: why pick on her? That was the puzzler. Why pick on Mrs. Cotton? Excepting in her business, Mrs. Cotton had not been particularly interested in men. Mrs. Eltham was the kind of woman who does manage to get herself murdered. Where was the common denominator uniting these three women in the mind of a murderer? The victims of Jack the Ripper were all of one class. Landru chose his victims among women having property. With those two series of murders there was a common denominator.

Hearing Sawtell’s voice at the front, he gathered the letters and papers and thrust them into a drawer, and was standing on the cemented area between the rear of the house and an open-fronted wood-shed, when Sawtell appeared with Abie.

The sergeant joined Bony. The tracker, wearing his “uniform” of military greatcoat, stockman’s felt hat and military boots remained just off the path running past the house to the cemented area.

“This feller binalonga street,” Abie said, pointing to the path. “He bin walk here,” and he pointed to the cement.

“Take him into the house,” Bony instructed, and Sawtell beckoned the tracker to the kitchen door and told him to: “Track ’emalongahouse floor, Abie.”

Abie having entered, the sergeant said, softly:

“Won’t find much. Too many of us tramping through the place.”

“You never know,” murmured Bony. “These fellows can do extraordinary things. Hop in and put on the light. He might pinch the settee or something.”

Sawtell grunted and went inside. Bony stood at the edge of the cemented area and regarded the clothes line and wondered if Mrs. Overton, as those others, had lost a nightgown. He was hoping she had, for on that fact would rest the certainty that the murderer would steal a fourth nightgown before attempting his fourth murder.

The two men emerged from the house, and Abie said, again pointing to the path:

“That feller him bin in house. You bin in house. Mr. Knapp him bin in house. Mister Inspector Walters, him bin in house, too. Doctorbin in…”

“Old Bill, the mortician, and Ally, his offsider, they bin in house,” interrupted Sergeant Sawtell. “All right, Abie. Youfindum which way that feller go from here.”

Exhibiting importance in every movement, Abie proceeded along the path to the back gate, his pace a jog trot, the upper portion of his thick-set body angled forward, presenting a picture having much similarity with that of a hound held in leash. On reaching the gate, the two men were immediately behind him. Turning to them, the aborigine laughed. There was nothing to produce merriment: it was his reaction to his fancied position of importance in the eyes of big-feller policeman boss.

“That white feller who bin come in other gate and runabout house, he come along this gate. Himbin go…” white-feller words failed him, and he waved a hand towards the grass paddock. “Him bin go out there. P’haps him bin know-emAbie see which way, eh?”

“P’haps, Abie,” agreed Sawtell.“What about other feller, eh? Other feller bin no wear-um boots, eh?”