Читать книгу Murder Must Wait - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 9

Baby Number One

Across the luncheon table in a quiet restaurant, Bony departed from practice by taking Alice McGorr further into his confidence.

“You know, Alice, your theory that it was a man who took the bottle of cow’s milk to the house, that it was a man who stole the baby, is not a little upsetting,” he said, as though it were a reluctant admission. “It doesn’t support what I read on the linoleum, yet still could be the truth. The story I read begins with the entry of a woman by the front door when Mrs Rockcliff was out. She was in the bedroom when she heard the man climbing in through the scullery window, and she crawled under the bed. The woman had a good look through the house. The man didn’t. It would seem that the man was familiar with the house and the woman was not. He heard Mrs Rockcliff open the front door on her return, and he slipped to the bedroom to stand behind the door, where he waited to strike her down. He departed via the scullery window; the woman left by the front door. As Essen found the front door snibbed back, and the door closed merely by the catch, either the strange woman forgot to release the snib, having a key or a strip of celluloid, or Mrs Rockcliff herself forgot to release the lock. We can assume that the man and the woman were not accomplices, and also that the woman was under the bed when the murder was committed.”

The end of this statement found Alice frowning, and Bony hastened to smooth away the perplexity.

“We will not permit this divergence of opinion to bother us just now. It will work out in the light of subsequent investigation. There is a point we must keep in mind, which is not to give homicide preference over abduction. The five babies may still be alive. We must proceed on the assumption that one or two, if not all, are alive, whereas Mrs Rockcliff is dead and her murderer cannot escape me. Therefore we give priority to the babies and hope that the murder of Mrs Rockcliff will assist us in locating them, or establishing their fate.”

The frown had vanished now, and the brown eyes were full of unmistakable approval. With absorbed attention she watched the intent face, forgetful of the food she ate, conscious of the power in her host, power generated by intelligence teamed with something she couldn’t fathom.

“The story you read from Mrs Rockcliff’s possessions is accurate,” Bony went on. “We cannot find a lead to her past life and we cannot find the source of her income. She told Dr Nott that her previous doctor was Dr Browner, of Glen Iris. She told the Rev Baxter, as well as Nott, that her husband had been killed in a road accident, but there is no record of a man of that name having been killed on the roads anywhere in the Commonwealth.

“The letters taken from her mail-box tell us nothing. Two were bills from local stores, one a charitable fund appeal, and the other a lottery ticket. So far we haven’t found anyone in Mitford with whom she was on friendly terms ... but we will.

“A neighbour told us she thought Mrs Rockcliff was headed for the Library when she left the house last Monday evening. It was dusk and, according to the neighbour, Mrs Rockcliff was a great reader. However, Mrs Rockcliff didn’t change her books at the Library, and the last batch of books she borrowed are still in the house. Where she went, whom she met. what time she returned home, we don’t know.

“We have very few clues ... as yet. We know that the unknown man stood six feet one or two inches, in his shoes, that he was slightly drunk, or is a sailor accustomed to long voyages. He wore gloves, and Essen is sure they were rubber gloves. His shoe size is eight. He weighs only a little more than I do, so that in view of his height he must be a lean man. The unknown woman wears a shoe size six, is heavier than I, and is accustomed to wearing high heels instead of the wedge shoes she wore that night. She too wore gloves, the first finger of the left hand being repaired. I incline to the belief that she is left-handed.

“We may gain further clues from the sweepings sent to the lab in Sydney, as well as from the clothes’ tags bearing those initials. Mrs Rockcliff’s dresses may be traced to the shops where she bought them. All in good time. This routine work we leave to the experts in such matters. Do you recall reading about a newspaper magnate, Lord Northcliffe?”

“Yes. He was out here when I was a small kid.”

“When someone asked him why he never learned to write shorthand, he replied: ‘Why should I have spent valuable time on such a task? I had always more important things to do.’ I am like Lord Northcliffe.”

Alice McGorr forbore to smile at this, to her, first sample of Bony’s vanity.

“So, having put the experts to work, you and I will continue placidly to browse and delve into the souls of men and women. This afternoon we visit the parents of the stolen babies, putting out of mind everything those Official Summaries have to tell us. Do you think you will be happy with Constable and Mrs Essen?”

“Yes, of course. They are both very kind.”

“I thought they would make you comfortable. I have been made warmly welcome by Mrs and Sergeant Yoti, and I am additionally pleased by not having to stay at a hotel where my movements can be so easily checked.”

When in the taxi which Bony hired for the afternoon, he said:

“The first of the abductions took place on October 20th. The parents are a Doctor and Mrs Delph. The Delphs employed a nurse girl, and the girl was told to call for a parcel at a frock shop on Main Street. It was a busy shopping afternoon. The shop is narrow and long, carpeted and crowded with racks, dress stands and that kind of thing. As the girl explained later, it isn’t a shop into which to push a pram. So she left the baby in the pram braked against the shop fronts. She had to wait several minutes before being attended to, and when she went out to the pram it was empty. No one came forward to say they had seen anyone interfering with any pram.”

“Pretty slick, wasn’t it?” observed Alice, powdering her nose, and Bony was suddenly grateful that she didn’t use lipstick.

“As you say, slick. We will now call on Dr and Mrs Delph. You concentrate on the reactions of the parents to my questions. Unless a pertinent point should arise which you think I have missed, say nothing. You are my cousin, interested in crime investigation.”

“Very well,” Alice assented demurely.

Their taxi entered a wide boulevard fronting the tree-lined river and backed by the residences of the élite of this localised community. Dr Delph’s house was of colonial architecture, its veranda masked by striped blinds, the main door being reached via three wide stone steps guarded by stone lions.

The glass-panelled door was opened by a woman, sharp-featured and angular, of the type who speak loudly in the belief that it is socially impressive. On Bony announcing himself and his business, her face became momentarily vacuous, but she asked them to enter and invited them to be seated in the Tudor-furnished lounge. Mrs Delph herself did not sit down. She waited, examining them alternately with disfavour, waiting for the scum to make known their wants.

“I am hoping it’s possible to glean further information concerning the abduction of your child, Mrs Delph,” Bony opened smoothly. “Exactly how old was the baby when it vanished from its pram?”

Mrs Delph uttered a cry of anguish, sank to a settee and closed her eyes. Instantly Bony was regretful of having spoken so abruptly. Glancing helplessly at Alice, he was astonished to encounter contempt. Presently Mrs Delph was able to say:

“The little darling was just four weeks and two days when that fiend took him from his pram. Oh, why come to torture me in my loneliness?”

Sobs shook her body, and were partly muffled by the cushion into which her face was buried. Bony patiently waited for her grief to subside. Alice McGorr crossed her long nyloned legs, and the window light gleamed on the smart brown shoes. The upper shoe began to wag as though the owner was intolerant of grief, and that shoe displeased Bony. Eventually Mrs Delph regained composure to launch into details of the abduction as given by the nursemaid, and Bony listened with attentive sympathy.

“Tell me, Mrs Delph,” he requested, “was he a healthy little fellow?”

“Naturally, Inspector. He was a beautiful baby. I ought not to have allowed that wretched fool of a girl to take him for his airing, but I was so tired after my return from hospital.”

“A tragic blow,” murmured Bony, again noting the impatient shoe. “Believe me, Mrs Delph, I regret opening the wound, as it were, but please be assured that we are doing and shall continue to do all in our power to restore the infant to you.”

“Oh no! You’ll never find him after all this time,” wailed the unhappy mother. “They’ve killed him most likely. I’ve given up all hope.”

“How long had you been home from the hospital when it happened?”

“How long? I must think. Oh, my poor heart!”

It was a question not previously put to Mrs Delph, and therefore her hesitancy was excused.

“Eleven days, to be exact. I wasn’t at all well, and my husband agreed to engaging that girl, that awful fool of a girl. She produced excellent references, too.”

“Pardon my next question, please. Was the child bottle-fed?”

“Oh yes. I ... I couldn’t, you know. I was too ill.”

“Was the child raised on cow’s milk?” Mrs Delph was now emphatic.

“No, of course not. It wouldn’t do, what with cows feeding off the same grass as myxomatised rabbits and things. The little mite was doing splendidly on a preparatory food.”

“Who was your doctor?”

“My doctor ... at the hospital, you mean? Dr Nott. I was at his private hospital, of course, not the Public.” Mrs Delph sat up and mopped her eyes with a useless lacy item. “Dr Nott specialises with babies, Inspector, and he even takes the babies at the Public Hospital, too. He and my husband have an agreement permitting my husband to do the outside work, which he prefers.”

“Who fed the baby, Mrs Delph?” interjected Alice.

“I ... oh! What was that?”

One visible eye pinned Alice like a butterfly to a board.

“Who really fed the baby?” Alice repeated firmly.

“My cook actually did that,” replied the doctor’s wife. “She has had several children and is an excellent woman with babies. As I said, I was not well at the time.”

“Yes, of course,” interposed Bony. “The nurse girl was employed only to look after the child in a general manner, I assume.”

“That was so, Inspector. She didn’t live in, you see. She came every day.”

“Have you ever met Mrs Rockcliff?”

“That poor woman!” Mrs Delph again collapsed to the cushion. “I don’t know what will happen next. No, I never met her. She didn’t belong in our set.”

“Have you met the mothers of those other stolen babies?”

“Only Mrs Bulford and Mrs Coutts. I wouldn’t know the others, socially. Why are you asking all these questions, Inspector?”

“In order to find your missing baby and return him to you. You have not received a demand for ransom?”

“No.” Mrs Delph again won composure. “I ... we would have paid it, if it had been demanded.” She added sharply: “Did any of those other women receive a ransom demand?”

“No. How long has Dr Delph been in practice here?”

“Almost seven years now. But we’ve been married only two years, and although I’m not young I wanted a baby of my own.”

“Was it customary for the nurse girl to collect parcels when the baby was in her charge?”

“It was not. The chauffeur-gardener does that. But that day he had to take my husband to four outlying cases, and I wanted that dress. I never dreamed she would leave the child outside the shop.”

“You know the shop, of course?”

“Certainly.”

“It was a busy afternoon, and the shop too crowded to accommodate a pram. Because of this the girl left the pram outside. Don’t you think too much blame is attached to the girl?”

“No, I certainly do not,” replied Mrs Delph, grey eyes granite-hard. “She could have wheeled the pram just inside the door. It would have been all right there. Madame Clare wouldn’t have minded, knowing it was my baby. There was no excuse for leaving the pram outside ... unless the girl was an accomplice of the thief ... which wouldn’t surprise me.”

Bony rose.

“Beyond your family circle, you know no person who took an inordinate interest in the child?”

“No one. Please, no more questions. It is all so terrible, and I can’t bear to talk about it.”

“Thank you for being so co-operative under such tragic circumstances,” murmured Bony, and Mrs Delph again closed her eyes and sighed. “Au revoir! And do permit yourself to hope.”

The sound of Mrs Delph’s sobbing accompanied them to the front door. Together they walked the gravelled path to the street gate, where Alice turned quickly to look back at the house. In the taxi, Bony gave an address to the driver and to Alice said:

“Why were you so intolerant of Mrs Delph’s natural grief?”

“Because she was putting it on,” Alice replied bitterly. “I know that kind. She’s tough, heartless, selfish to the backbone. And a dirty snob.”

“You don’t mean that Mrs Delph was pretending to be grieved?”

“Over to you. We left her flat on the settee: she watched us walk to the gate, from behind the window curtain. They will touch the curtains when they’re watching. I could never understand why.”

Alice sat bolt upright when it was easy to relax, and the straw hat angled severely over her brow as if to emphasise her mood.

“Where are we going now?” she asked, hopefully.

“To interview the nurse girl.”

“Good! We’ll get something out of her.”

“You will soft-pedal,” Bony said quietly.

She looked at him, then her anger subsided and she said, as soft as a whisper:

“I’m sorry, Bony. I ... that woman infuriated me. I’ll play poker.”

“Good girl.”

After that neither spoke till the taxi stopped outside a small house in a sun-heated street appearing to have no beginning and no end.

“I will enquire if the nursemaid is home,” Bony said. “Should I beckon, please come to my aid.”

The door was opened to him by a matronly woman who said her daughter was working at the cannery, and so followed a further journey of fifteen minutes to reach the huge iron structure which swallowed fruit by the truck-load. The manager conducted them through the maze within.

Here a hundred people were working. From a distant point gleaming tins were conveyed by belt and wire guides to the benches where girls were de-stoning peaches and other fruit. Seven semi-nude men tended the fires beneath the vats cooking jam. Above the rattle of machinery was the hammering of the ‘casers’, and case after filled case was being added to the mountain along one wall.

Amid this ordered chaos, they were presented to Miss Betty Morse.