Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

The Magnet and the Filing

SITUATED on the barren, inhospitable coast of the north-west of Australia, Broome’s only excuse for existence is pearl shell. Before Japanese aircraft put a stop to the industry some ten million pounds’ worth of the finest-quality shell had been raised from a thousand miles of shell beds, pearls of exquisite lustre and size being the plums which attracted adventurers from all parts of the world. Following the drastic restrictions imposed by war and its resultant economic conditions, millions upon millions of dollars’-worth of shell is now maturing and just waiting to be picked up and despatched to hungry markets.

Prior to the events which attracted Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte to Broome, the majority of the people walked with somnambulistic tread and day-dreamed of the glorious past when booze was cheap, when money was as plentiful as the dust, and when ribs were tickled with knives and craniums caressed with sandbags… over the rape of pearls.

The first of two murders having several points of similarity mildly stirred the people of Broome. The second crime, however, inoculated them with an energy serum. They waited expectantly for the police to produce the murderer, but nothing happened. They stared at the homicide squad flown up from Perth, and became really annoyed when still nothing happened. Actually, the people of Broome should have been proud that one among them was alert enough, and clever enough, to commit two murders without leaving a clue indicating eitherhimself or the motive.

The senior police officer stationed at Broome was an administrator, not a detective. His job was keeping general law and order over a land area of about a third of a million square miles, not tracking down an intelligent murderer. He was assisted by juniors-one of whom was an expert in the bush and the handling of trackers-and when they failed to uncover the murderer of the first victim, and met with no quick success following the murder of the second, he washed his hands and called for the C.I.B.

A detective-sergeant accompanied by a photographer and a finger-print expert arrived from Perth. They remained two weeks. Thereafter, Sub-Inspector Walters continued with his administrative duties, and the murderer continued to stroll about Broome in the cool of the evening.

At four o’clock on the afternoon of June 25th, Inspector Walters sat before a typewriter in the station office, grimly determined to write a private letter in official time. He was two inchesunder six feet, lean and tough. His greying hair was stiff, and authority gleamed in his dark eyes and was stamped on his thin-lipped mouth.

The envelope he rolled into the machine was addressed to: “Mr. Sylvester Rose, Headmaster, Cave Hill College, Broome.” The letter which followed the envelope ran thus:

Dear Sir.

Reference my son Keith Walters. I have regretfully to draw your attention to what appears to be a conspiracy among a section of your boys to which my son belongs. I am aware that in these modern times handwriting is considered of small importance and that spelling is an art no longer necessary to be cultivated. You will, I am sure, agree with me that sound pronunciation of our language must be, with force if necessary, inculcated in the rising generation, that English shall not deteriorate to thegibberings of baboons.

I have repeatedly heard my son pronounce the word “just” as “jist”; for “I am going to” or “he is going to”, he persists in saying “I’m gunner” or “he’s gunner”. Vocal reprimand being unavailing to correct this fault, I have administered corporal punishment… still without result. Cross-examination has elicited the fact that a number of your boys in collaboration deliberately invent these horrible distortions which, when practised, become permanent in their speech.

Knowing how much you have the boys’ welfare at heart, I am confident that you will bring your very wide experience to bear on this problem, the solution of which appears to be the detection of the ringleaders of this conspiracy.

I remain as always, my dear Mr. Rose,

Yours very sincerely,

Henry Walters. Inspector of Police.

Having signed his name in calligraphy appearing much like helmets on the heads of tin soldiers, Inspector Walters sealed the letter, stamped it and tossed it into his “outward” basket.

The police office was, save for himself, deserted. Sergeant Sawtell had gone to the airport to meet the inward plane from Perth. Constable Pedersen was out in the barren McLarty Hills with one of his trackers seeking a wild aborigine who was wanted for wife-maiming, and Constable Clifford was making inquiries concerning the indentures of a Malay shell-diver.

The month being June, and mid-winter, the temperature of the office was moderately low, and now the shadows of the palm trees were long across the open space between the large bungalow-styled station house and the roadway which it fronted. The storm shutters were raised high, and the entire front wall was open and fly-netted. When a flashing new car swept in through the open gateway and drew to a stop before the steps leading to his office, Inspector Walters almost snarled. He was pretending to read a report when through the swinging fly-netted doorscame a woman. Under forty, and wearing honey-coloured slacks and a peasant blouse, she was still vivid and markedly self-possessed.

“Good-afternoon, Inspector,” she said, her voice brittle. Her bold brown eyes were hard as she faced Walters, who had risen to his feet. “I’ve called to give you a piece of my mind. Have you any objection?”

“This department is always at the service of the public.”

“Well then, it’s my considered opinion that when two defenceless women are murdered and no one is arrested for it, it’s a shocking disgrace to the Police Force. I don’t understand it. No one in Broome understands it. What kind of policemen are you people? Tell me that, instead of standing there like a dumb cluck. You can catch a poor Chinese for smoking opium, but you can’t catch this person who strangled two women. Two women, mind you, not one. You can tell that gang of ruffians who came up from Perth that I’ll make their thick ears burn if they don’t produce results.”

A second car drew up outside the station, and Inspector Walters attempted to assure the lady that the Perth homicide men would make an arrest when they were ready, that another detective was coming north to continue their investigation.

“Well, we people of Broome want results,” went on the woman. “You policemen think you’re the bosses of Broome, and you are going to learn your mistake… all of you…from the Chief Commissioner downward. I’m the boss of Broome, and don’t you forget it. Mind you, I’m talking officially. Privately, I consider both your wife and you as my friends. What was the name of that fool from Perth?”

“You are referring to the senior detective?”

“You know I am.” The woman turned to glare at two men who entered the office: one wearing official uniform, the other in smartly cut civilian clothes. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You tell him from me that if he doesn’t stop these murders I’ll expose his fool doodling in theWest Coast News, and in case you don’t know it, Mr. Walters, I own that newspaper… and thePerth Saturday Record… and about half of thePerth Daily Reporter. Is Esther at home?”

“Yes. She’s somewhere in the house.”

“No, no! Don’t bother. I’ll find her.” The woman turned from the still rigid Inspector Walters. She nodded to the second policeman, who had sat down at a desk and was taking up a pen. The civilian had his back to them. He was studying a wall map of Broome and the surrounding district, and as though conscious of being examined, he turned to meet the angry brown eyes with eyes as blue and as bland as the Indian Ocean that day.