Читать книгу The Bachelors of Broken Hill - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 7

Problems for Bony

Bony was delighted with his office, a small room situated at the end of a corridor and plainly furnished. He had only to turn in his chair and thump the wall to summon Sergeant Crome.

He liked Crome at their first meeting. Big, inclined to stoutness, not much hair, and grey at that, Crome was both dynamic and kindly, impatient with himself and tolerant unto others, and very early Bony sensed that he was perturbed by the discovery that he had not been equal to events. What Crome needed was a renewal of confidence.

“Sit down, Crome, and smoke if you want to,” Bony told him when Pavier had left after the introduction. “Before we’re through we’ll do a lot of hard smoking. Tell me about yourself. Married?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the sergeant, producing pipe and tobacco. “Have two girls in their early teens. I was a senior constable stationed at Bathurst when the Superintendent was an inspector. That was eight years ago. The Super’s been a good friend to me.”

“He gave me the impression that he could be. During the period you’ve been stationed here how many homicide cases have you been engaged upon?”

“Not including these two cyanide cases, nine. Of those nine, only one was difficult to break open. You see, sir, here in Broken Hill we don’t have gangster feuds, very few bashings, and rarely a sex crime.” Crome lit his pipe and tossed the spent match into the empty w.p.b. “Superintendent Pavier is the best senior officer we’ve ever had at Broken Hill. He’s trained most of us, and he invented a system to identify characters reported from other centres. Every train and aircraft is met. Social evils which experience has proved everywhere cannot be stamped out are here quietly controlled, and, despite the surplus of males, our women are safer than in any city in Australia.”

“What about petty offences—robberies?”

“Not much of that—until these last few months.”

“Convictions?”

Crome’s small grey eyes hardened. He hunted a purpose behind the bland eyes lazily looking at him.

“There’s been four robberies this summer, sir. We wound up only one. The other three were done by an expert. Someone who’s slipped into the Hill without our knowing him.”

Bony made a note.

“What is your criminal investigation strength?”

“I’m the senior officer. Under me is Senior Detective Abbot and seven plain-clothes men. One of them is fingerprint expert and photographer and records clerk combined. Good man. Our laboratory work don’t exist, but we depend on Dr Hoadly, and without him we’d be sunk.”

“Patrol cars?”

“Two. No two-way radio.”

“H’m! Well, now, relax and tell me about these two poisoning cases.”

“You know nothing about them?” Crome asked, plainly astonished.

“I’ve read the official summaries prepared by Inspector Stillman,” Bony said, almost languidly. “Nothing of any value in them. You tell me.”

Crome tried to keep the satisfaction from his eyes.

“Old Sam Goldspink was the first victim, and we didn’t know he died of cyanide poisoning till eight hours after. Consequently the scene was all mussed up in the minds of the witnesses. It was on a Friday afternoon, our busiest afternoon of the week down Argent Street. One of the assistants took the old chap a cup of tea, and, as he was talking to a customer, he told her to put the cup on the counter. When the customer had gone old Sam took up his cup of tea, drank it, turned round, and threw a seven on the floor of his shop.

“The fact was that Goldspink was under his doctor for heart trouble, and Mrs Robinov, the housekeeper, naturally thought that was the cause of death. When she was called, she emptied the shop, phoned the doctor, Dr Whyte, and had the delivery man help her carry the body to a fitting-room at the rear. Dr Whyte was up at the hospital with a midwifery case, and, knowing he couldn’t do anything about old Sam Goldspink, he didn’t hurry particularly.

“Meanwhile all the cups and things used for the tea and biscuits were washed up and put away. When the doctor did see the body he wasn’t satisfied, and we didn’t know anything was wrong till after the post-mortem that night. Didn’t suspect murder. The old man had no enemies; in fact, he was a bit of a character and well liked.

“When we knew it was cyanide, we got busy. The drill about the tea was this. Every afternoon at three Mrs Robinov took a large pot of tea, milk, sugar, and biscuits to the fitting-room, and when the assistants had a chance to slip away they went there and helped themselves. Generally, the first one who managed to get away from serving took a cup of tea to the boss.”

“Which one took him his tea that afternoon?”

“Girl named Shirley Andrews. Age seventeen. Been working for Goldspink for five months. Good character.”

“What type of employer was he?”

“One of the best. Used to boast that his girls left him only to be married.”

“When she put the tea cup on the counter, how far was it from the customer?”

“Shirley Andrews says about a yard. The assistant serving the customer, girl named Mary Isaacs, says a yard and a half. They think in yards, you know. The customer was standing at the time, although she had sat on a chair when first she arrived and had to wait to be served. Goldspink was between her and the cup of tea. It couldn’t have been the customer, but we worked like hell to find the woman.”

“She never came forward? Did you advertise for her?”

“We did,” replied Crome. “Same old tale—wouldn’t be mixed up in a murder case.”

“The public was informed it was murder?”

“Yes. Young Pavier saw to that. The Super’s son. Reporter on the Barrier Miner.”

“Pity. Were you able to obtain a description of the customer?”

“Yes, but not a good one. Both girls were a bit hazy about her.”

“You searched the premises, of course?”

“Found no trace of cyanide. Only poison found was arsenic in cockroach powder. Check-up with the chemists gave nothing. Didn’t expect it would. Have to sign for a minim of poison in Broken Hill, and can buy it by the pound in any of the surrounding townships. Tons of it used by the stations, you know.”

“Well, back to the housekeeper.”

“Mrs Robinov! Been housekeeping for Sam Goldspink for fifteen years. He left her all he had. She seems open and shut. Wasn’t short of money.”

“When was the will made?”

“Eight years ago. There are no relatives—no possible schemers.”

“No mention of a codicil or a new will?”

“Not a squeak.”

Bony gently worked to and fro his interlocked fingers, and Crome could not understand the smile of satisfaction.

“Interesting, Crome. The motive will be an unusual one—when we dig it out.”

“Motive!” exploded the sergeant. “There isn’t a motive. There can’t be a motive, considering the killing of Pop Parsons in the same way.”

“There’s a motive all right. There is a motive even for me to light this cigarette. Tell me about Parsons.”

“I made a hell of a boner about Parsons,” Crome said, his voice abruptly savage. “I was caught right off balance when it happened. Parsons was a retired miner living with his in-laws. I’d known him for years. He had a small pension which ceased at his death. Big man who ate hearty and drank a little. He went into a café one Friday afternoon last December. The place was busy as usual. Sat opposite a man named Rogers, an accountant.

“Rogers says that Parsons—he didn’t know him—asked for tea and sandwiches, and that he took his time over the meal, reading a Digest. He was still there when Rogers left, and Rogers says he thinks that then Parsons had eaten the sandwiches and had drunk one cup of tea.

“The tale is taken up by the waitress, a fool of a girl. She says there was quite a rush of customers at the time. She remembered Rogers, and she knew Parsons, who often went there on a Friday afternoon. When Rogers left, a woman took his place and ordered tea and cakes. The woman left when Parsons was still reading his magazine, and a second woman took her place opposite Parsons. This second woman was there when Parsons drank his remaining tea, pulled a face, got up, and muttered something. She didn’t take much interest in him, and the next time she saw him he was lying over the wreckage of a table—dead.”

“The name of the second woman?”

“We don’t know.”

“Don’t know!” echoed Bony. “But you inferred you obtained a statement from her.”

“The statement is unsigned and undated. It was posted at the GPO some time between nine and one the next morning.”

“Your theory?”

“That on seeing Parsons sprawled across the table she remained in the café to see what would happen, like many other curious people. She saw the proprietor rush out, and she saw the doctor and me come in. When she knew that Parsons was dead, she slipped away, determined not to be mixed up in the affair. Surprisin’, the number of people who shy away from having to go into a witness box. Anyway, either her conscience persuaded her to write the statement or a husband or someone did. We advertised for her, but she never came forward like Rogers did.”

“The woman who took Rogers’s place—did she contact you or you her?”

Crome shook his head.

Bony made a note and Crome gnawed his lip.

“No motive suggests itself for this second murder?”

“Not one—only lunacy, and that’s not a motive,” replied Crome. “There was cyanide in Parsons’s cup. I did have the intelligence to grab the cup. I should have—Oh, what’s the bloody use?”

“‘It is folly to shiver over last year’s snow,’ as Whately or someone wrote,” Bony stated with conviction. “You searched the café for traces of cyanide?”

“After me and Abbot finished with it you’d not recognise it for a café,” answered the sergeant. “Not a trace. We looked for cyanide in and under and on the roof of the house where Parsons lived with his niece and her husband. Nothing. There was no discord in that home. Parsons hadn’t any enemies. Never got a lead. Never got a lead in the Goldspink case, either.”

“Ideas?”

“One. Lunatic going round dropping a pinch of cyanide into tea-cups. There’s only one common denominator in the two cases. Both men were bachelors. Makes the set-up all the more screwy.”

“Makes it a little less ‘screwy’,” argued Bony. “There’s another common denominator. Both men were elderly. They weren’t friends, I suppose?”

“No. And they weren’t related or belonged to the same club. One was a Jew, the other a Gentile. One was poor, the other rich. One had been a miner, the other a shop-keeper. They had nothing in common excepting age and single blessedness. There’s no sense, reason, no anything.”

“Do we get a cup of tea in this place?”

“Eh!” The expression of bewilderment on Crome’s face caused Bony to chuckle. “Tea! Yes. The girl brings it round.”

“If by a quarter to four we are not supplied with refreshment, Crome, we go out to a café. Without morning and afternoon tea, the civil servant cannot be civil. When a civil servant snarls at me, I say, silently, of course: ‘What, no tea?’”

Crome stuffed tobacco into his pipe as though plugging a hole in a ship, and Bony went on softly:

“Homicide is a common occurrence in any community, and we grow weary of stepping from the corpse to the murderer and showing him the utterly childish fool he is. But sometimes, and rarely, we are presented with a murder committed by an artist, and then all boredom created by the fool amateur is vanquished. It is so with this murderer of yours who pops a pinch of cyanide into a tea-cup. Why, we don’t know. When we do know, we shall have to return to our amateurs who couldn’t leave more clues if they sat up all night for a week thinking them out. Surely this is an occasion for rejoicing. Have you ever met an artist in murder before? ... No? Now that you most certainly will, you should be happy. I am.”

Crome put his pipe on his desk. His face grew slowly purple. He muttered the great Australian expletive “Cripes!” and broke into a roar of laughter.

The Superintendent’s secretary came in with a tray, and Bony rose to accept his cup of tea with a smile.

“Thank you. Miss Ball, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The girl smiled at him shyly.

“The tea and biscuits will cost you two shillings a week, sir,” she told Bony. “We can just manage on that.”

“It’s worth two pounds a week, Miss Ball,” averred Bony, producing his contribution. “And we should all shell out every month for a present for you.”

“Thank you, sir. I like to prepare the tea, but I’m only allowed to do it because Miss Lodding is away on sick leave.”

The girl departed, and Bony dunked his biscuit. Crome said:

“The Lodding woman is the Super’s secretary. Face like a stomach ache.”