Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

When Bony closed the kitchen door and stepped down to the compound the night was dark and fragrant with the scent of ozone, eucalyptus and roses. The clouds were thinning, and two widely separated stars were tired and pale.

Ten minutes later Bony joined Mr. Dickenson, who was seated with his back to the wide trunk of one of Mrs. Sayers’ two palm trees. The old man was correctly sober and very much awake.

“All quiet,” he said, softly.

Having settled beside Mr. Dickenson, Bony surveyed his skylines. He could see the outline of the house, and the outlines of Briggs’ cottage and the garage. He could also see the futuristic pattern made by the garments on the line. There was a light on the front veranda, and another in the lounge, and because it was a quarter to ten, Bony knew that Briggs would now be returning from the hotel and that Mrs. Sayers would be seated in her lounge and facing the door.

The proof he had provided that she could, without warning, be strangled had impressed Mrs. Sayers. She had accepted Bony’s orders covering this night as willingly as her henchman had done.

Old Dickenson had gained his position under the palm tree before Briggs left, and he was able to watch the rear door. He had reported that he had seen nothing moving except Briggs. There was a dog chained to its kennel at the rear of the garage, and Briggs had fed the animal before leaving for the hotel. Its value as a watch dog was established when it voiced no protest at the arrival first of Mr. Dickenson and then of Bony.

Punctually at ten, Briggs could be heard coming in from the front gate. Skirting the house, he entered the rear door. A few moments later he closed the storm shutters and fastened several windows, and twenty minutes after, he left by the rear door. The watchers heard the key being turned in the lock and withdrawn. Then the veranda light was put out and that in the lounge. Mrs. Sayers’ bedroom was on the far side of the house, and Bony was confident that she would obey orders and lock her bedroom door despite Briggs’ search of the entire house.

Satisfied that all these precautions had been taken, Bony settled to wait for the fish. He had sat here through several nights, accepting the additional precaution against an attack on Mrs. Sayers with patience, and patiently awaiting this particular night when there was reason for clothes to be left on the line.

The hours passed. At eleven the Seahorse Hotel closed, and thereafter the raised voices in that direction weakened into the silence. Now and then a dog barked, but never did Mrs. Sayers’ dog so much as yelp in a dream. A night bird flew into the palm tree and for a little while preened its feathers. The sound of it could be heard by the two men. From the direction of the airport the noise of a car leaving town continued to dwindle for a long time before it was submerged.

Unfortunate Abie. And fortunate Mr. Dickenson. The murderer had struck at Abie swiftly and surely when the tracker had attempted blackmail. There was no doubt in Bony’s mind of blackmail. The price of silence… at least a half-bottle of whisky… had been paid. The price had been paid under that tree opposite the entrance to the airport. Having paid the price, the murderer withdrew that he would not by chance be discovered with a dying aborigine. Subsequently, having given the poison in the whisky time to do its work, he went back to move the body to the culvert and there had arranged the body and the petrol-soaked cloth over the face. Clever? No… stupid. He had repeated mistakes… the old mistakes. When wearing rubber gloves, he had wiped clean door-handles, and he must wipe clean the petrol bottle before leaving it at Abie’s side. And the cork… it might never be known why he tossed it so far away.

Yes, fortunate Mr. Dickenson. He had, indeed, been fortunate when finding Abie during the period the murderer was absent, for had he seen the murderer with Abie, his life would have been cut off abruptly. There were other aspects…

The night bird flew out of the tree and vented its long wailing cry. The sound roused Bony from meditation, and thirty seconds afterwards a cold finger touched the nape of his neck and moved rapidly upward into his scalp. Again that extra sense inherited from his maternal ancestors gave its warning, and he reached out and pressed lightly on Mr. Dickenson’s arm.

The void below the skylines remained featureless. No dog barked. No motor hummed. The silence was heavy as Bony waited for the warning to materialise. Presently it did in the sound as of paper being rubbed lightly on paper.

This sound ceased. Taut nerves were struck a blow by the shrill crowing of a rooster in the neighbouring garden. The crowing died in a gurgle as though the bird realised its silly miscalculation of the dawn. Again the sound of paper rubbing on paper… this time louder. Someone was walking on the lawn, sliding his feet forward as though to prevent tripping over one of Mrs. Sayers’ croquet hoops.

Then Bony saw the figure silhouetted against the featureless backdrop of the cloud-covered sky. It was growing slowly larger. It was coming to the palm tree. Then it vanished when it entered the black void beneath the branches of the tree just beyond Mr. Dickenson. It would be just tragic luck if the intruder fell over Mr. Dickenson’s legs.

Bony accepted a big risk of being discovered. He found Mr. Dickenson’s knee, placed his hand under it and the other about the ankle and lifted the leg until the knee almost touched the old man’s chest. Mr. Dickenson, realising what was meant, soundlessly lifted the other leg. Bony followed suit.

Nothing emerged from the limitless silence. Precisely where the unknown man was standing could not possibly be determined. That he remained within the blackness beneath the wide-spreading fronds of the palm tree was certain. Even had Bony not seen him enter that darkness, the icy finger continuing to run up and down the nape of his neck was sufficient acknowledgement of the menace. Softly, and yet dreadfully distinct, there came to Bony and Mr. Dickenson the sound of tapping teeth.

The temptation to spring forward and blindly seek to reach and arrest this teeth-clicking man Mr. Dickenson had both seen and heard leaving the house of murdered Mrs. Eltham had sternly to be resisted by the taut Bonaparte. What the old man was thinking and feeling Bony could imagine, and during those moments of suspense he felt admiration for the self-command of Mr. Dickenson. Not a tremor evinced itself in the arm Bony lightly was grasping.

Although the man could not be seen, he could continue to be heard. Bony could “feel” him standing within a foot or two of his companion’s bunched legs. He was probably waiting to be sure of his next move, assessing the odds in his favour. He was like the swordfish leisurely following the bait-fish trolled behind the angler’s launch, “eyeing” it, “smelling” it, waiting to be sure before striking. The greatest fish Bony had ever raised was now following the bait on that clothes line, not the clean, fighting swordfish but the stalkingmako shark, the shark that can hate and will endeavour to leap into the boat to get at the angler.

The teeth-clicking stopped. The next minute was as an hour, Bony motionless in the stern of his launch and waiting, waiting for the shark to make up its mind to strike at the bait.

Abruptly the arc of lesser darkness toward the clothes line was blotted out, and then it returned to frame the shapeless mass of the unknown as he left the darkness beneath the tree and went forward slithering his feet over the grass. The fish was coming after the bait. In two seconds, one second, it would push its fearful snout out of the ocean to seize it.

Bony went forward to lie prostrate and seek the sky-line above the hanging clothes. He saw the clothes against the sky jerk and struggle as though alive. He saw the shapeless mass of the “shark” at the bait, witnessed the “shark” slip down into the sea of darkness towards the house.