Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

“One of your trackers?” inquired Bony.

“Yes. Not enough work for two, and this one’s a lazy devil. Always in mischief when Pedersen’s not here to keep his eyes on ’em.”

“Not as bad, though, as Mr. Dickenson, is he?” said the boy, and his father snapped out:

“Worse. Old Dickenson only drinks the acid out of car batteries.”

The Wood Pile

BROOME has no Main Street. It has no shoppingcentre, no shops fronted with plate-glass display windows. There are no trams, and no railway. Several airlines use the airport, but no one knows when a plane is due, or when one is about to depart. Sometimes a ship arrives to be moored to the long jetty at high tide. When the tide goes out the ship rests like a tired hog on the sand beside the jetty and the loading is languidly carried on while the tide comes in and re-floats the vessel.

The town is situated behind coast sand-dunes, sprawled on the flats north of the Dampier Creek. The streets are very wide, and all the houses sit down like old ladies wearing hoop skirts and being far too lady-like to take the slightest notice of their neighbours. Every house occupied by the white population is of the bungalow type, and every house is protected with storm shutters, some even wire-cabled to the ground, for when the summer willies blow they are apt to lift more than dust.

The police station was a large house squatting in about four acres of straggly trees, dying grass and bare earth. The floor rested on piles three feet above ground, and the rooms were many and airy.

At dinner on the day Bony arrived at Broome, there sat at table the inspector and his wife, their son Keith, aged fourteen, their daughter Nanette, aged thirteen, and Inspector Bonaparte, alias Mr. Knapp. Inspector Walters carved the roast. His back wasstraight, his hands dexterously employed the bone-handled carving knife and fork with the bright steel shield. His expression was severe. He said nothing, and, sensing the slight strain, Bony opened the conversation.

“You mentioned a gentleman named Dickenson who drinks the acid from car batteries,” he remarked. “What happens?”

Young Keith opened his mouth to reply but remained silent at a warning glance from his mother.

“Hospital,” replied Inspector Walters. “Old Dickenson is a queer character, but quite a decent old pot when sober. Receives a little money every quarter day, and that gives him about two weeks on the whisky. As he hasn’t any credit at the pubs, after his benders he will, if given the opportunity, milk a car battery and drink the fluid. Naturally, when found he has to be taken to hospital. Battery acid is bad for the stomach, so they say.”

“Wonder he doesn’t die,” observed Bony.

“Too tough to pass out for keeps. He doesn’t take it straight, mind you. Ten drops in a tumbler of water is the correct strength, I understand.”

“Poor old thing,” murmured Mrs. Walters. “They paint him blacker than he really is. Has been quite a gentleman. He was very rich at one time in his life. He owned an estate in Hampshire, England, and an ocean-going yacht.”

“Been living in Broome long?”

“Fifty years. What finally broke him was thewillie of March, 1935. Twenty-one luggers and a hundred and forty lives were lost, and old Dickenson’s remaining fortune went down with three of those luggers.” Walters snorted. “I’ve been asked to move him out of town, but I won’t do it. The only harm he does is tohimself. You can’t tell a man to move out of town when the nearest town is 130 miles to the north, and the next nearest 300 miles to the south.”

“All the kids like him,” edged in young Keith.“Tells us yarns about foreign places, and his adventures among the Indians in South America.”

“Oh!” murmured Bony. “That’s interesting.”

“Yes, and I don’t see why Old Bilge should lecture us about him and tell us not to speak to him. Old Dick…”

“How many times have I told you not to call your headmaster Old Bilge?” irascibly demanded Walters. “I’ve a good mind to write and tell him what you call him. Here’s your mother and I scraping and saving to give you a good education, and you go around saying ‘jist’ for ‘just’ and ‘gunner’ for ‘going to’. Anyway, you’ll have much for which to answer tomorrow.”

“I’ve heard something about this Cave Hill College,” Bony remarked soothingly, and Mrs. Walters was not quite sure about his right eyelid when he glanced at her. “Very good school, isn’t it?”

Walters explained that Cave Hill College was considered among the best in Australia, drawing boys from as far distant as Perth as well as from the vast hinterland.

“Must be about five hundred boys there now,” he went on.“And only a few day boys too. We couldn’t afford the boarding fees.”

“There is, of course, a State school?” pressed Bony.

“Yes. Quite a large school. Nan goes there. Doing very well, too.”

“Good!” Bony smiled at the girl, who flushed and fidgeted. “Why, Keith, do you boys call your head-master Old Bilge?”

The boy hesitated, and this time Bony’s eyelid did flicker.

“His name’s Rose.”

“Ah! I see now the allusion. Rose…perfume… Bilge… evil smell. What form are you in?”

The subject of Cave Hill College and the rising education fees provided the subject for the remainder of the meal, and Bony was given word pictures of the seven or eight masters under Mr. Rose. It would seem that, in the opinion of his hosts, the only reason for Broome’s continued existence was its college.

An hour later, Bony was seated at ease with Walters and Sergeant Sawtell in the closed office, and Walters was voicing his assumption that Bony had read the official summary of the two murders and the more detailed statements gathered by the C.I.B. detectives.

“Yes, I did go through the summary,” Bony admitted. “I didn’t go into the statements and reports because I like to keep my mind as free as possible from cluttering data. So, you see, I know next to nothing beyond that the medical report indicates that both victims were strangled by the same man. I would like you to tell me about it.”

The two policemen looked at each other.

“You relate the facts, Sawtell,” urged Walters. He turned to Bony. “Sawtell specialises with the Asians and the locals. Pedersen, who’s away, is the bush expert. We’re all a bit sore, youknow, that this bird got away with two murders. It bashes our pride. I’d like to ask a question.”

“Certainly. Go ahead.”

“Is it true that you have never failed to finalise a case?”

“Quite true,” replied Bony, and neither man could detect vanity in him. “It’s true because so far I’ve never been pitted against a clever murderer. It is my great good fortune that there is no such person as a clever murderer.”

Walters smiled frostily.

“This one is too clever for us, and for the Perth men, too,” he confessed. “The fellow we’re up against is as clever as the Devil.”

Bony was engaged in rolling one of his dreadful cigarettes.

“If your murderer is as clever as the Devil, who according to the authorities is high above par…”

“This fellow’s well above par, sir,” interrupted Sawtell, whose light blue eyes held fire. “He’s so far above par that he doesn’t leave finger-prints, he doesn’t murder for gain, he never makes the mistake of being seen immediately before and after his crimes, and he doesn’t leave foot tracks for our boys to fasten on to.”

“It promises more and more,” Bony almost whispered.“Your boys in the top grade?”

“Yes. Pedersen swears by two of ’em. He should know, for they accompany him on his routine patrols as well as on special jobs.”