Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

Well satisfied with his interview with Dr. Mitchell, who would not permit him to leave too quickly, and who appeared hungry for details of Bony’s career, Bony strolled back towards the police station. The sun was westering, and a soft cool zephyr met him from the salmon-coloured sand-dunes. The wind was a little stronger when he came to a break in the sand-dunes, and he stood gazing out over the turquoise sea, which bore on its placid surface one dark-brown sail.

It seemed then so impossible that far beyond the horizon, far away in the sea-wastes to the north-west, could be born a monstrous wind which with its strangling hands could destroy little stout ships and every soul aboard them. It is said that no insurance company will do business with lugger owners and their crews, so treacherous is that beautiful and serene section of the Indian Ocean.

Well, who would believe that here in this little drowsy town of comfortable bungalows and windowless shops, cut off from civilisation by hundreds of miles of virgin land, there could flourish a human being capable of being ecstatically triumphant when feeling through his hands the life of another seeping into the vacuity of death?

Turning to continue his way, Bony saw Mr. Dickenson.

The Derelict of Broome

MR. EARLE DICKENSON sat on the public seat placed in the shade of a poinsettia tree from which he could view the sea. He was tall and thin, and his beaked nose appeared always as though frost-bitten. His hair was white and abundant and was carefully brushed back from a noble forehead. The pointed white Vandyke beard greatly added to the air of distinction, but the general effect was ruined by his disgracefully old and soiled clothes.

The Asians accepted him with the tolerance accorded to all beggars, dogs and crocodiles. The white members of this very mixed community looked upon him with marked disfavour and, as has been noted, had made several attempts to have him kicked out of town.

Culturally, Mr. Dickenson was superior to anyone residing at Broome, excepting possibly the masters of Cave Hill College. He had travelled much off the tourist routes of the world and had associated with all manner of men. He had really lived the years of his long life, and there was no doubt his constitution had successfully defied John Barleycorn. Proof that the children loved him was provided by the fact that never a child had been known to be rude to him.

On this particular afternoon, Mr. Dickenson wasdepressed, a condition caused four times every year by financial embarrassment. His credit had been dead for half a generation, not one of the hotels consenting to advance even one whisky unless paid for. So depressed was he that when Bony sat down on the other end of the seat, he did not withdraw his moody gaze from the shimmeringly blue Indian Ocean.

Bony was aware that in every city the police are greatly assisted by the informer, and that every small town has its “town drunk” who can be equally helpful. The “town drunk”, however, is a different proposition from the city slum informer, and must be handled expertly and sympathetically… especially sympathetically.

“This view should enchant an artist,” he remarked.

Mr. Dickenson slowly turned to regard the speaker, and what he saw did not quickly captivate his interest. The slim, dark man at ease on his own seat was presentable enough, but… a stiff whisky and soda would… When Mr. Dickenson again turned to regard his seat companion, the examination was made with prolonged calculation. The fellow was dressed in faultlessly creased gabardine trousers and an expensive tussore silk shirt. His shoes were good and brilliantly polished. A stranger, too. He might be worth touching.

“It is not always so… enchanting,” he said. “You have chosen the best time of the year to visit Broome. It is, I think, the twenty-sixth of June. Correct me if I am in error.”

“You are quite right. Is the date important?”

“Merely that it is precisely four days prior to an important date.”

“Indeed,” murmured Bony.

“Should you be in Broome on June the thirtieth, I would be in the happy position of suggesting a drink.”

“Which infers that you are not in that happy position today.”

“Alas, my dear sir.”

Two boys came riding bicycles along the road, obviously returning from school, and both respectfully called out:

“Good-day, Mr. Dickenson!”

“Good-day to you, young men,” replied the old man, waving his hand, which Bony noted was long-fingered and clean. To Bony he said: “You are visiting?”

“Yes. I am staying for a few weeks.”

“To appreciate the place you must stay at least a year. There is none other like it in the world, and on that point I speak with authority. Should you have an interest in such matters, you will find the white section of the community of exceptional psychological interest. The whites are entirely lacking in the spiritual attributes making for personality. Observe this person approaching.

The person was arrayed in white duck and wore a white sun-helmet. He was well nourished. His gaze did not deviate from a point exactly to his front and distant probably a million miles. His facial expression was that of a Yogi meditating in a blizzard. Having watched him pass on, Mr. Dickenson laughed, a rumbling deep in his chest, and he said:

“Ninety-nine per cent of them are like that, atrophied from the frontal bone upward. I think it is due to the climate in alliance with temperance. To defeat this climate, to keep oneself mentally alive, one must drink. Moderately, of course. At which of the hotels are you staying?”

“I am staying with Inspector and Mrs. Walters. Mrs. Walters and my wife went to the same school.”

“Indeed! Nice people. I have found Walters generous and understanding. His duties do not permit him to become mentally defunct. That man who passed us is a solicitor. Plenty of money. They all have plenty of money. They made it the safe way, financing and trading with men who gamble with ships and their very lives. They stayed snugly ashore, and when the willies come they huddle in their palatial bungalows while brave men, both white and black, go down in the jaws of the sea. In no part of the entire world is snobbery carried to such astonishing limits. Yes, I like the Walters, man and wife. Sawtell, too, although he is inclined to bully me on occasions.”

“They have been very busy lately, I understand,” Bony observed. “Two murders added to their routine work.” Mr. Dickenson’s interest appeared to wane and Bony stood up. “Might I suggest an appetiser before dinner?”

Mr. Dickenson was on his feet in four-fifths of a second.

“Regretfully, sir, I cannot meet kindness with kindness until the thirtieth.”

“Then on that day I will be your guest. Shall we go along?”

As they advanced to the veranda steps of the Port Cuvier Hotel, Bony’s companion buttoned the neck of his old shirt. On the wide veranda a number of languid people seated at small tables were being served by a youth in the uniform of a steward, and, when they were mounting the steps, Mr. Dickenson remarked loudly:

“You’ll find this place more respectable by day than by night. The sins of society are never practised in broad daylight… not in Broome.”

Hostile eyes stared at them. A woman tittered. Bony and his companion sat at a vacant table. Bony surveyed the drinkers. They were a cosmopolitan crew, giving the impression that they were acting in a film of blood and murder in any one of a dozen Asiatic ports. The steward came to stare down at Bony and regard Mr. Dickenson with supercilious disdain. Bony turned to Mr. Dickenson.

“What is your fancy, sir?”

Mr. Dickenson named whisky… with soda. Bony ordered beer, and Mr. Dickenson said he would regret his choice. The steward brought the drinks and Bony did regret it before the steward left, and called for gin and vermouth.