Murder Must Wait Page 3

  “Might have been a widow,” soothed Mr Thring.

  “Never told me, if she was. She lived too quiet, if you ask me. Not natural for a young woman like her. She must have spent most of the daylight hours reading. I’ve seen her taking armfuls of books to change at the Municipal Library. D’you think the child was kidnapped, Inspector? Like those others?”

  “Too early to decide,” countered Bony. “Mrs Rockcliff could have taken the baby out in the afternoon, and left it with an acquaintance ... perhaps at the hospital. We’ll find out.”

  “She didn’t leave it anywhere but in the house,” declared Mrs Thring. “She went out at ten past eight, as I told you. At half past seven she took the baby in from the crib on the front veranda. It was in the house all right when she went out that night.”

  Bony stood, saying:

  “I am glad we are able to establish that, Mrs Thring. Tell me, did you notice what Mrs Rockcliff was wearing?”

  “Yes. She was wearing her blue suit. I’m not positive, mind you, but I think she was carrying her library books.”

  “Quite so. Mr Thring, you stood in the hall when Constable Essen entered the bedroom. Can you recall if the bedroom light was on?”

  “No, Inspector. Constable Essen switched it on.”

  “You then crossed the hall to stand just behind Constable Essen, who stood in the bedroom doorway. Can you recall if the blinds were drawn or not?”

  “They were drawn,” Thring replied without hesitation.

  “It would appear that Mrs Rockcliff drew the blinds before she left the house that evening,” Bony persisted. “It was then ten minutes past eight and it wasn’t dark enough to warrant switching on the light and lowering the blinds. She didn’t lower the lounge blinds before leaving. When previously she left the baby alone in the house at night, did she draw the blinds?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Mrs Thring. “And the light on, too.”

  “H’m! A point having perhaps no importance,” Bony purred.

  “I think she left the light on when she went out to give people the idea she was in,” said Mrs Thring. “It looks like that to me. Not putting on the light this last time seems to hint she thought she wouldn’t be away more than half an hour. What time was it she was murdered, do you know?”

  Bony warded her probing questions. Thring accompanied him to the front gate, where he apologised for his wife, who, he said, suffered from an ulcer.

  The rubbernecks had gone, and a constable strange to Bony sat on a chair before the door of No 5. Bony, once again conscious of the sun-god, passed along the street of these middle-class homes to arrive at another street which would take him to Main Street. Here the houses were larger and the gardens more spacious. The still air imprisoned the odours of tar and of street dust, the scent of roses and the tang of grapes and peaches. Only such as he could have detected the fragrance of the vast untamed land beyond the extremities of the irrigation channels, the fragrance of the real, the eternal Australia where dwell, and will for ever, the spirits of the Ancient Aclhuringa.

  He was wondering how he would react did Mr Thring confess to having sliced his wife’s throat with a table knife, when he became conscious of a voice containing nothing of gall and venom.

  “Where do you come from?” demanded the voice.

  Bony glanced to his left. The voice could have proceeded from the stout woman standing inside a wicket-gate into a thick hedge of lambertiana. She was shapeless in a sun frock, and from her wide shoulders a large straw sun hat was suspended by the ribbon about her neck. Her face was large and round. Her eyes were small and brown. At the corners of her mouth was a humorous quirk.

  “Was there something?” asked Bony, who was an admirer of a famous radio comedian.

  “Yes. Where do you come from? You’re not a River Murray contact. An oddity, yet true. A rarity, and yet not so rare. I find you most interesting. Where do you come from?”

  “Madam, your interest is reciprocated,” Bony said, bowing slightly. “How much money have you in the bank?”

  “What? ... Er ... Oh! I didn’t intend to be rude. Good education, eh! Good job, by your clothes.”

  “Your continued interest, Madam, is still reciprocated. What is all this about? Who are you? What are you? How are you?”

  The round and weathered face expanded into a smile. The large brown hands expressively gripped the points of the pickets. From behind her in the secluded garden a man said:

  “Come here, dear. I wish to show you the pictures of bottletrees in the Kimberleys. The magazine is very good this month.”

  “A moment, Henry. I am confronted by a remarkable specimen not possibly belonging to the Murray Valley tribes.” To Bony: “Who am I? I am Mrs Marlo-Jones, Dip. Ed. What am I? A damned nuisance. How am I? Delighted to meet you. Come in and meet Professor Marlo-Jones. Chair of Anthropology, you know. Ex, or now retired.”

  The gate was swung wide in invitation. When the invitation was wordlessly declined, the gate was swung shut. Behind this somewhat original woman appeared a giant of a man, a decided personage. Possibly seventy, he stood and acted as a man of forty. The grey eyes were young and full of light. Above the high, tanned forehead the thick hair was more dark than grey.

  “Great Scott!” he said, loudly. “Good heavens! Where did you get it?”

  Genuine curiosity kept Bony standing before these unusual people. He was startled that they could see him, know him as the branch he was from the maternal vine whose roots are deeper far than the deepest artesian bore in Australia.

  “Lizbeth, you have offended this man,” rumbled the aged youth.

  “Hope not, Henry. I want to be friends with him.”

  “Of course, Lizbeth.” To Bony: “Please tell us who you are.”

  “I am Napoleon Bonaparte,” conceded Bony.

  “To repeat one of the questions you put to me, Mr Bonaparte, what are you?” asked the woman less belligerently.

  “I am a detective.”

  “You had to be,” she agreed. “Tracking would come naturally, like breathing. And your third question, I ask you. How are you?”

  “Somewhat doubtful,” admitted Bony. “Since a moment or two ago. Now, if you will pardon me, I will attend to my own business.”

  “Oh, don’t go yet,” urged the woman. “We’re quite sane, really.”

  “I have never doubted that,” was the gravely uttered falsehood.

  “Then do come in for a few minutes. I’ll make you a billy of tea, and I have some real brownie.”

  Bony heard the car slide to a stop at the moment when he was undecided whether to be amused or angry by these persons’ persistent attitude of superiority. He saw the man look beyond him and gaily wave a hand to whoever opened the car door. Then he heard Sergeant Yoti say:

  “Thought you’d like the car, sir.”

  Amusedly Bony witnessed dawning astonishment in the woman’s eyes. The man said loudly:

  “Please present us, Sergeant.”

  Yoti regarded Bony, caught his slight nod of assent.

  “Professor Marlo-Jones and Mrs Jones. Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, of the Queensland Police.”

  Bony bowed. The Marlo-Joneses automatically copied him. They said nothing, and when they regained balance Bony was smiling.

  “Strange pair, Sergeant,” remarked Bony when the car was moving.

  “Harmless enough,” replied Yoti. “They say he’s a clever old bird, she does a lot of good at one thing and another.”

  “A real Prof.?”

  “Too right! Retired, of course. Lives here to be near the aboriginal settlement up-river. Writing a book about them. She teaches botany.”

  Softy Bony laughed.

  “Thought I was a new flower, I believe. Wanted me to stay for a billy of tea and a slice of brownie ... her idea of a smoko tea suitable for a half-caste.” The laughter ran before bitterness. “Guess to what I owe my self-respect, and my rank.”

  “Haven’t a clue,” declined the now caut
ious Yoti.

  “The facility with which I thumb my nose at superior people. Stop at the Post Office, please. I wish to telegraph a request to Superintendent Bolt, down in Melbourne.”

  Chapter Four

  Alice McGorr

  SUPERINTENDENT BOLT, Chief of the Criminal Investigation Branch of the Victoria Police, was verging on sixty and hated the thought of compulsory retirement. He had many friends and admirers in the Department, and one of them was First Constable Alice McGorr.

  Bony had never met Alice McGorr, and he had not heard her story from Superintendent Bolt, although aware of Bolt’s warm regard for her.

  It appeared that old man McGorr was the finest ‘can opener’ of his generation, having served an apprenticeship with an English firm of safe makers and kept his knowledge up-to-date. Bolt was a sergeant when he came in contact with McGorr, who at the time was on vacation from gaol, and was chiefly instrumental in terminating the ‘can opener’s’ holiday.

  McGorr died in durance vile, and it happened that Mrs Bolt heard through her church association that Mrs McGorr and the children were facing the rocks. She visited the house owned by the widow to see what was what, and arrived an hour after Mrs McGorr had been taken to hospital with a fatal complaint.

  Mrs Bolt was invited into the front room by Alice, a thin slab of a girl of fifteen who explained that her mother had been desperately ill for a long time. There was no animosity towards the visitor and Mrs Bolt learned that the eldest son was nineteen and in steady work, the eldest girl was eighteen and still in her first job as a stenographer. Next to this girl came Alice, who was followed by a girl of six and finally twin boys aged two and a fraction. She learned as well, from other sources, that Alice McGorr had been running the home for eighteen months, nursing the mother, caring for the small sister and the twin baby brothers.

  The Bolts, having no family, became the parents of that one, when the mother died soon after entering hospital, and not one member of the family took the slightest interest in safes and the problem of opening them without keys.

  Alice McGorr went to night school, and when Alice looked at Superintendent Bolt she was beautiful to see. She studied between making beds, sweeping rooms, even as she cooked, and Alice passed the Intermediate. They lived in an inner industrial suburb, and Alice took a keen interest in the people of the district, becoming the social worker of the church ... and something more. She had the knack of spinning threads of information into patterns, and the bread Bolt launched upon the water was returned to him by the baker’s batch.

  When the twins left school and went to work, and the eldest son’s wife took over the home, Alice joined the Force. She had all the gifts the job demanded. She could fight like a tiger before she entered the training school for women, and when she passed for duty she could master the instructors in ju-jitsu. They put her into the worst districts, and she was never hurt. Attempts to cripple her were made by thugs, and the thugs were crippled by their own. A gunman shot at her, and the gunman had his face slashed. A low type once told her what he’d do to her, and the bad man’s wife bided her time and emptied a pot full of boiling cabbage over him. No one seemed to know why, save Bolt and the church minister.

  The evening came when Alice was instructed by the Senior Officer of her district to report to Superintendent Bolt at his private house. Bolt said:

  “Alice, will you do me a favour?”

  “Of course. Anything,” she replied with quiet earnestness.

  “I got a pal,” Bolt went on. “He’s the most conceited man in Australia. The most aggravating cuss in the world. He thinks he knows everything ... sometimes. I’ve known him for years, and we’re still pals. He’s half-abo but whiter than me. He’s...”

  “Couldn’t be, Pop.”

  “He is, so don’t argue. The name’s Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  “I’ve heard things, Pop. Go on.”

  “Bony ... he’s Bony to all his friends ... seems to have been persuaded to investigate the abduction of those four babies at Mitford. Bit out of his line, ’cos he concentrates on difficult homicides. Anyway, he’s up at Mitford, and has asked me to send you up to off-side for him. You know, just like that. No thought of us being in the Victoria Force and him working for New South Wales. Oh, no! Such matters as State boundaries and inter-State jealousies wouldn’t register with Bony. Just asks ... just expects. Will you go?”

  “I’d like to.”

  “Good! I’ve arranged it. You’ll have no authority in Mitford, of course ... being Bony’s private assistant. There’s a plane for Broken Hill in the morning at ten which will put you down at Mitford. Catch the bus leaving Airways House at nine-thirty. Apply there for your ticket, which will be paid for.”

  “All right! No uniform, of course.” Alice rose. “Thanks, Pop! I’ll not let you down, or your pal. Those vanished babies will be right in my handbag in no time. I’ve read all about them ... poor little mites.”

  At eleven the next morning Alice McGorr landed at Mitford and was welcomed by First Constable Essen.

  “Ordered to meet you, Miss McGorr, and told to take you straight home. You’re staying with us, and we have to make you take morning tea before you join up with the Big Boss. Give me your case.”

  Alice McGorr liked Essen and his wife. She liked her room. She fell in love with the baby. She liked Main Street. She liked the smell of the town itself, of fruit ripening, fruit drying, fruit cooking, fruit rotting, and could not name that other smell, the indefinable, the haunting essence of the untamed hinterland of saltbush plain and mulga forest.

  She liked No 5 Elgin Street, although she had read about the murder in the paper when on the plane. Essen conducted her to the lounge.

  “Miss McGorr, sir,” he said, and withdrew.

  “Ah, Miss McGorr! I’m delighted that you were able to come. Please sit down, and smoke if you wish.” Bony set the chair for her, smiled at her, the shock she gave him never rising to his eyes. He held a match to her cigarette, sat down and asked after Superintendent and Mrs Bolt.

  She liked Napoleon Bonaparte.

  He listened ... and wondered. The face was a tragedy and yet heroic. The tragedy lay in the almost entire absence of chin. The eyes were softly brown, large, beautiful when she was telling of Superintendent Bolt. Her hands were beautiful, too, and well kept. Later, on suggesting she removed her hat, he marked the wide forehead, and disapproved of the blonde hair-do, drawn hard back to a tight roll. The hat was low-crowned and of white straw. It was better off than on. Her clothes ... there was something the matter with them ... and before he could make up his mind where, she gave him a letter from Superintendent Bolt.

  Dear Bony. Now you have it. Think yourself in luck. Remember what I told you about her. She will serve you well, for she has the most extraordinary variety of capabilities I’ve ever come across. You can unload your secrets, confess all your low sins, and she won’t tell ... excepting to me. Yet be warned. There’s no weakness anywhere, save with children and sick people, and you may take my word for that.

  Attached to the letter was a report by a detective who had interviewed Dr Browner of Glen Iris. Dr Browner declared he had no knowledge of a Mrs Rockcliff, and during the last eighteen months had had no case of an expectant mother which had not been completed by the birth of the child.

  Having dropped the letter on a pile of papers, he found her eyes directed to him, and they didn’t waver, but held in the mutual summing-up. She was, perhaps, thirty-five, tall and angular, with good shoulders and well-developed arms. When Bony smiled, her look of appraisal vanished.

  “The Biblical writer stated that there is a time to be born and a time to die; he should have included a time to be frank,” he said. “I will be frank with you now. When I want photographs, I apply to an expert. When I want to know why a man died in convulsions, I apply to a pathologist. I want to know more about babies, which is why I asked especially for you. You do know something about babies?”

  “I was thirteen when
Mother fell ill, sir. There were twins as well as a little sister. Yes, I know something about babies.”

  “And learned more when you joined the Force.”

  “More about parents, sir.”

  “I have agreed to investigate the disappearance of five babies in this town, Miss McGorr. You would like to work with me?”

  The eyes only betrayed eagerness.

  “I would indeed, sir.”

  “We will work in harness. Later I’ll want you to study the Official Summaries on the four missing infants, and will outline what is known of the fifth child, who was, almost certainly, stolen at the time the mother was murdered in this house last Monday night. Those Summaries were compiled by men—mark—by men who when glancing into a pram couldn’t tell the sex or the child. Could you?”

  “With very young babies, it would mean guessing, but I wouldn’t often be wrong.”

  “H’m! Wait there. I have something to show you.”

  The brown eyes watched him leave the room. She sat with remarkable passivity, her shapely hands resting on the table and in sharp contrast to the hard and muscular forearms. A smile hovered about her unfortunate mouth, but it had vanished on his return with two feeding bottles, which he placed side by side on the table.

  “Tell me what difference you find in those bottles,” he asked. “You may touch them, they have been tested for prints.”

  Alice McGorr viewed the contents of each bottle against the window light. The liquid in each was a coagulated mass of seeming solids and bluish water. She took up each bottle to examine closely the teat, and then, arranging them as he had done, she sat down.

  “Although of different makes, sir, both bottles are of standard size,” she began. “This bottle contains a preparatory food, and this one contains cow’s milk. The teat of the bottle of preparatory food has been in use for some time, it’s soft from constant sterilisation. The teat on this bottle of cow’s milk is quite new. It has been sterilised, but very seldom used, if at all. There’s another difference, too. The hole in the old teat has been enlarged with a hot needle, but this other one, the new one, hasn’t been treated like that.”