Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

Bony turned, sought for and found the Vandyke beard and drew Mr. Dickenson’s head forward to him.

“Don’t move away,” he breathed.

On hands and knees, he “ran” towards the house over the lawn. He heard the sound of paper rubbing on paper, and then soft footsteps on the driveway. The murderer was leaving by the front gate and the triumphant Bony wanted to shout his name.

BaitingThe Hook

IN accordance with wishes expressed in Bony’s note discovered on the kitchen table the following morning, Inspector Walters roused Bony at eleven with a cup of tea and a biscuit.

“Ah… good-morning,” Bony greeted him.“Sawtell here?”

“Yes. Did the fish nibble?” asked Walters with ill-restrained eagerness.

“He did. Fetch Sawtell and we’ll discuss it.”

When the sergeant saw Bony’s striking silk pyjamas, his eyes widened but he made no reference to them. Invariably conservative in clothes, Bony was excused by the discerning Sawtell now seated at the foot of the bed as the inspector occupied the only chair. Damn it! A man was entitled to have one outlet for a love of colours.

“How did the fishing go?” he asked, and being Sunday morning, he lit one of his favourite cigars.

“The fish nibbled. He detached Mrs. Sayers’ silk nightgown from her clothes line. Same man Dickenson saw leaving Mrs. Eltham’s house. Clicked his teeth as though extremely cold.”

“Who is he?” asked Walters.

“It was too dark to identify him.”

“Did you trail him?”persisted the inspector.

“As far as to be sure he made no attempt to enter the house. The risk of arousing his suspicions was too acute. He’ll come again, and he won’t throw up the hook we’ll bait for him.”

Walters was grim.

“Why fish for him again?” he objected. “You said that if he attempted to strangle Mrs. Sayers, you would know who he is. If you know him, let’s go after him. Possession of those four nightgowns will be evidence enough for the Crown Prosecutor.”

“I agree with you… if we found those four nightgowns in his possession. But we cannot be sure they are in his possession. When he stole that nightgown last night, he completed his sketch of himself.” Bony lit an alleged cigarette, and the two men impatiently waited for him to continue. “I can now see him, but if he has destroyed those nightgowns, the remaining evidence I hold would not be sufficient. And further, there would be a row if we acted now on a search warrant and did not find those garments in his possession. I have sufficient evidence to convince you, to convince the Crown Prosecutor himself, but not sufficient clear-cut proof to induce the Crown Prosecutor to take action. We are left with no alternative but to catch the murderer in the very act.

“Who is he?” bluntly asked Sawtell.

Seeing the slow smile on Bony’s face, both men knew they were butting their heads against a brick wall. Bony pressed on, an edge to his voice:

“He murdered Mrs. Cotton presumably because she sold liquor. He murdered Mrs. Eltham presumably because she sold her affections. On the face of it, he murdered Mrs. Overton presumably because she gave herself to good works. Doesn’t make sense, does it? When you detect why he attempts to murder Mrs. Sayers you will have in the motives behind the attacks on the four women the inner motive: for actually there is only one motive, and it presents a clear picture of the man.”

“Wouldn’t that evidence of motive be good enough for the Crown Prosecutor, even though the stolen nightgowns weren’t found in his possession?” argued Sawtell.

“Not good enough for the Crown Prosecutor to advise action on a capital indictment. Assuming I had apprehended this fellow after he had removed the garment from the line, with what could he be charged? With the theft of a garment, to wit, a woman’s nightgown. Admittedly, we could have applied for a warrant to search his house. If we did not find those other three nightgowns in his house, he, being a first offender and neither an Asian nor a poor white, would certainly be discharged on a bond of good behaviour. I’m not going to gamble on the chance that he has retained the four nightgowns.”

“Catching him in the act would certainly clinch the job,” admitted Walters. “Howd’you propose to do that?”

“I shall be right inside the room where he attacks Mrs. Sayers.”

“In her bedroom?”

“In her bedroom.”

“Jumping cats!” purred Sawtell. “Shestand for that?”

“She will. I haven’t asked her yet, but she will.” Bony left the bed and from the wardrobe took a dressing-gown. Sawtell audibly gasped when he saw it, a creation of pastel blue with yellow collar and cuffs and a large bright red pocket. The sergeant couldn’t remove his gaze from it when it encased the striped yellow and green pyjamas. Bony snatched up a towel, saying: “The slightest incautious move on our part will frighten off thismako shark from the hook I’ll bait with Mrs. Sayers.”

Walters stood up to regard Bony with cold pensiveness.

“Have you calculated the danger to Mrs. Sayers?” he asked.

“I’ve already worked out the finer points,” Bony replied, brightly. He turned to Sawtell: “In your private laboratory, have you a camera fitted with an automatic flashlight?”

The sergeant nodded. Then he burst into low laughter.

“You’re not aiming to take a flashlight picture of the man strangling Mrs. Sayers, are you?”

“It is my intention to make the effort. In the compound I have observed a portable blacksmith’s forge and anvil. D’youknow anything of iron work?”

“I can make horse-shoes,” admitted Sawtell.

“Good! Try your hand on making a collar for Mrs. Sayers. Fashion it with sheet roofing iron, and use Mrs. Walters as your model. See that the bottom edge is packed with material so that the collar will not cut the lady’s neck, and that it fits well enough to prevent the man’s hands from slipping in under it to reach the throat. If you make it slightly too large for Mrs. Walters, it will fit Mrs. Sayers.”

The unease and doubt fled from Inspector Walters before the brilliance of this facet of Napoleon Bonaparte.

“Think you can do it, Sawtell?” he asked.

“Give it a try, anyway,” replied the sergeant. “When do you want it, Bony?”

“I’d like to have it by four this afternoon. And remember that the children will be about. Don’t let them see their mother as the model for an iron collar.”

Sawtell, as Bony was aware, did not need the forge and anvil to make the collar. He shut himself into the trade shop and began to work on a piece of galvanised sheet-iron. At one o’clock he was due home for dinner, and on his return he brought a large brown-paper parcel which he opened on Bony’s table. Within half an hour, Bony had mastered the mechanism of the flashlight attachment, to which the sergeant had added a long cord shutter-release.

Meanwhile, Keith Walters had been despatched to Mrs. Sayers with a note and a cylindrical-shaped parcel. He had received clear instructions on the way he was to take to Mrs. Sayers, and the way he was to return. Bony questioned him on his return, to be assured that the boy had carried out the instructions.

“You’re a good scout, Keith,” Bony complimented him. “Now, don’t be curious and ask questions. And don’t talk about that little job.”

The boy promised, and Bony spent two hours writing in his “office”. He was called for afternoon tea at four o’clock by Mrs. Walters, whose eyes were bright with controlled excitement, and on being taken to the lounge, he found Walters and the sergeant already there. Displayed on a small table was the iron collar.