Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

“Ah! You heard about that?”

“News passes quickly in Broome.” Mr. Dickenson sighed. “I feel sorry for Abie, and for Tojo and Hitler and all those others who drank the wine of power. I understand that he died of petrol fumes. Is that so?”

Bony sketched the scene at the storm-water drain that morning.

“Is it your opinion that accidentally he administered to himself too much petrol?”

“Why do you ask that?” countered Bony.

“Because I had the thought that it wasn’t petrol that killed him. And also because the blacks are today so wise as to the uses and dangers of petrol that Abie would not have made a mistake which could be credited only to a novice. When speaking of him the other day, you mentioned the possibility that he may have been trailing someone when scouting around the town in the small hours. I think now it’s quite probable, because I’m sure he did not die of petrol fumes.”

Bony waited, and the old man proceeded:

“When I woke on the bench last night it was very late and I was contrite. I knew you had visited me, because although the pistol was gone from my pocket my money was intact. I sat there for some time, and then felt the urge to take a long walk. I passed through Chinatown and took the track up the creek and then followed a path across the marsh which would take me to the airport entrance, my intention being to return to the town that way.

“On nearing the ground rise to the road where there is light scrub, I heard someone talking, and then as I drew nearer, I decided it was someone talking to himself. I found Abie under a tree. I asked him what he was doing there. He was drunk. He struggled to his knees and mumbled something, and he offered me a bottle.

“Another time, perhaps, I may have accepted his hospitality. I declined, and he seemed to insist. It was quite dark, you know. I took the bottle and found that it contained whisky… about a quarter full. Abie then fell on his back, and I thought he was very drunk. As he was lying close to the tree, I propped the bottle against it and left him.

“During the remainder of my walk, I pondered on Abie and his whisky, and I reached the conclusion that someone at the airport had given the whisky to him, or that he had stolen it from the airport. Then, this morning, I hear that Abie was found in a drain with a petrol rag over his face.

“When I thought Abie collapsed under the influence of whisky, it might be that he collapsed under the influence of whisky plus the influence of poison. Abie wouldn’t go all the way out to that tree with a bottle of whisky and another bottle containing petrol to have a go at the petrol after drinking the whisky.” Mr. Dickenson hesitated before adding: “Any more than I would take on the battery acid after a sip or two of whisky. And he wouldn’t take petrol with him to get himself over the effects of a bender on whisky. Theabos aren’t as provident as all that.”

During a full minute, Bony made no further comment.

“Your deduction is sound. You said you thought you heard voices as you approached the tree from the marsh. If thepoisoner was then with Abie, he would have heard your approach. He would then have heard what took place when you found Abie, and he would not have proceeded to stage the death-by-misadventure scene at the culvert, knowing that your testimony would nullify all his trouble. I think you were fortunate.”

“How so?”

“That thepoisoner was not with Abie when you arrived there. Had he been with Abie, and hidden in the darkness, he would not have staged the petrol fumes act. However, be advised and don’t sleep on public benches.”

Several Facets

BONY arrived at the cemetery a few minutes before the cortege. The ancient motor-hearse was driven by an elderly white man smoking a calabash pipe. Beside him sat a very fat Malay chewing tobacco. After the hearse came a senile car crammed with aborigines, with two on either running-board. Following the car were two vehicles which, imaginatively, could be designated trucks. They were loaded with men, their women and children and dogs. The men were shouting from truck to truck, the women were wailing, the children were bored and all the dogs were barking. Last to arrive, and only just in time to catch up, was Mr. Kendrake, the minister.

Bony followed the minister’s car along the central roadway, on either side of which stood ornate monuments to Japanese divers who had perished on the shell beds, and elaborate memorials to wealthy Chinese and Malayans.

The cortege halted in a far corner of the cemetery, and there Abie was laid to rest and the minister preached sternly on the evils of drink and petrol fumes. The women wailed throughout, and the dogs barked continuously, but the powerful voice of the minister cowed the men and the children to solemnity.

Standing on the outskirts of the crowd, Bony was sad: for this race was dying, and the remnant here clothed in rags and gaudy finery presented the dreadful tragedy of a once rigidly moral, supremely free people being devoured by an alien and stupid civilisation.

Two of the women captured Bony’s attention. One was a wizened old creature who was weeping with complete abandon. She was wearing a military overcoat which swept the ground at her feet, and on her head was a kind of turban of faded blue. The other was the maid he had interviewed at Dampier’s Hotel. She was dressed in a brown frock and wore nylon stockings. Irene smiled shyly at Bony, and when the service was over, he went to her.

“Hallo, Bone-ee! Thank you for the stockings. I’m…”

“Yes, I see you are wearing them. They look very nice, Irene. Who is the old woman crying so much?”

“She’s Lilia, Abie’s grandmother.”

“Ah! I ought to have guessed. She’s very old.”

“She says she remembers when there weren’t any white people in this country. She said she ought to have Abie’s overcoat, so they gave it to her.”

“She’s looking this way. Call her over,” requested Bony.

The girl beckoned and the ancient approached, looking like a candle snuffer with a turbaned monkey for its top.

“Where you bingettum hat, Lilia?” Bony asked, and the old woman blinked back her tears and shook her head. Irene explained that Lilia couldn’t understand English, and that to within a few years ago she had been a desert black. The girl spoke in a dialect strange to Bony.

“She says that Abie gave the hat to her a long time ago. She says he gave it to her last winter to keep her head warm.”

“Ask her to let us see the hat,” Bony murmured, and when Irene had made the request known, off came the turban and it was unrolled to be disclosed as a silk nightgown.

“Tell her it’s very pretty,” and whilst Irene was translating, Bony produced a stick of tobacco. The small eyes deep in their sockets brightened to black beads, and a skinny hand abruptly closed over the tobacco; the old woman glanced about to see if the gift had been observed, and in a flash the tobacco disappeared.

“Ask her if she knows who gave Abie the nightgown, Irene.”

The old woman negatived this question and Bony let her hobble away towards the trucks, and they watched her compete with the women and the children and dogs to gain a place.

“They’re going now,” Irene said, and Bony sensed that she, too, would have to compete for a seat. Smilingly, he let her go and then with amusement watched her ordering a youth from the car that she might ride in it.

Pensively, Bony walked to the airport gateway. He thought it improbable that Abie had stolen the nightgowns belonging to the three murdered women. To accept that probability meant accepting the theory that Abie stole at the instigation of the murderer, which wasn’t logical, for no white man would trust an aborigine to that extent. Abie could have taken it from discarded clothing sent to the Mission. Anyway, it was not nearly as important as Mr. Dickenson’s adventure.