Murder Must Wait Page 4

  “Well done, Miss McGorr. The teats when bought would have a standard-sized hole in them, no doubt.”

  “Yes, sir. You see, the makers say the size of the hole is just right for the average baby, and that it induces the baby to exercise its mouth and throat muscles when getting its food. Much more often than not, though, a baby isn’t strong enough, or too lazy. It’s like drawing at a cigarette that’s too tightly packed. So the mother enlarges the hole with a needle.”

  “And then the baby is content?”

  “Yes. But the hole mustn’t be too large or else the baby will have hiccoughs,” Alice continued gravely.

  “H’m, reminds me of the beer swill,” said Bony, not daring to smile. “I’ll replace these bottles. Wait there, please.” On returning, he went on: “Mrs Rockcliff leased this house, but furnished it herself. Last Monday evening she went out at shortly after eight o’clock, leaving the baby in the cot at the foot of her bed. It appears that she often went out at night, leaving the infant unattended.

  “I will not tell you more than that now, and before we go to lunch I want you to do what you like with the place to find the answers to these questions. One: What was Mrs Rockcliff’s character? Two: What were her habits in the house? Three: Why does the bottle in the bedroom contain cow’s milk, and the bottle on the kitchen bench preparatory food? And any other information you may glean.”

  For a full hour Bony silently watched Alice McGorr at work, effacing himself. She examined the bedclothes, the interior of the baby’s cot, and the clothes in the wardrobe. She rummaged into drawers and cupboards, removed the contents of shelves and expertly looked at cooking utensils. She brought the washing in from the line. She fingered the curtains, examined the backs of the few pictures, lifted the linoleum along the edges. She glanced through the magazines and opened the covers of the few books. And when she was done, her hair was wispy with dampness and her hands were dirty.

  “That woman was proud of her baby,” she said, when seated at the lounge table and smoking the cigarette from Bony’s special case. “The baby’s clothes are hand-made, and expensive material. The needlework is simply glorious. I can see her making those little garments, every stitch a beautiful thought for the baby.”

  “And yet Mrs Rockcliff left the infant alone for hours at night,” murmured Bony.

  “It doesn’t square,” Alice McGorr admitted, her eyes puckered, three vertical lines between her brows. “What did the woman do for a living?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “No money ... handbag?”

  “No handbag, money or bank-book. Her picture has been shown at every bank and no one can identify her.”

  “She must have had money to live, and she lived well. She knew how to cook, and wasn’t satisfied with plain ingredients. She hated dirt and untidiness. She took an interest in geographical subjects and read travel books in preference to novels. Her taste in clothes was beyond what I understand, but then I never had a hope. Her clothes were expensive. She must have had money ... more than I earn.”

  “I haven’t omitted the matter from my calculations,” Bony said. “Go on, please.”

  “Things don’t square, sir,” she reiterated. “She had to go out at night and leave the baby alone in the house. She wasn’t hard up. The baby’s clothes are all made with the most expensive materials. It lacked for nothing. She didn’t entertain, for no one entertains these days without having empty bottles in the back yard. But she had to draw money from some place or person. D’you know what place or what person?”

  “No.”

  “I think she lived here under an assumed name,” Alice proceeded, her eyes almost closed. “There’s something here I don’t catch. You said her name was Pearl Rockcliff, but on some of her clothes is a name tag with the initials P.R. overlaid on others which could be J.O. or J.U. And she didn’t buy her clothes second-hand, I’ll bet a pound.”

  Because he hadn’t observed her taking special interest in clothes’ tags, Bony secretly gave her a hundred marks. He was rather liking the role of maestro encouraging a pupil.

  “Go on,” he said softly.

  “Mrs Rockcliff took care to rub out all evidence of her life before she came to Mitford. She came here to escape the consequences of a crime, or because she feared someone. Her Christian name wasn’t Pearl. It was Jean or Joan ... for preference.”

  “Why Jean or Joan for preference?”

  “The paper said the woman’s age was about thirty, and thirty years ago it was the fashion to name baby girls Joan or Jean or Jessica.”

  “There are, then, fashions in Christian names?”

  “Oh yes. Read the death notices and compare names with ages.”

  “I should do so, but ... What do the feeding bottles tell you?”

  “Before Mrs Rockcliff went out that night, she fed the baby. The baby didn’t take all the food, and she took the bottle to the kitchen, where she should have washed it. She didn’t wash it because she must have been in a hurry. The steriliser is still on the stove, face powder is spilt in the bathroom cabinet and two dresses have fallen from their hangers. Everything else is tidy, so she would have replaced them. The baby was being fed on a preparatory food; I found a large tin partly used, so the bottle on the kitchen bench is the baby’s real bottle.

  “The person who came to steal the baby brought the other one, the one near the cot. It was brought to keep the baby from crying while it was being taken away. It was a man who stole the baby.”

  Alice McGorr fell silent, flushing slightly as though suddenly conscious of talking too much, assuming too much to this man Bolt had often told her was the finest investigator in Australia. Quietly, Bony pressed her.

  “Why do you vote for a man? It should have been a woman.”

  “A woman would not have risked a bottle having a teat with a hole so small. A tiny baby might not have been able to draw the milk and would have yelled, which would be the last thing she would want to happen. A woman would have been sure about that teat. A woman, in any case, wouldn’t have brought the milk at all. She’d have brought an ordinary dummy and dipped it in malt extract or honey, which she could have carried in a small jar. That would keep any baby quiet for ten minutes at least ... all the time she needed to take it out of the house.”

  Bony rose, smiling.

  “Put on your hat,” he ordered. “We are going to lunch.”

  He watched her putting on the absurd hat without bothering to stand before the mirror over the mantel. As she was flushing when she joined him in the hall, he said:

  “I’ve known Superintendent Bolt for many years. Bolt calls me Bony. Even my Chief in Brisbane invariably does so. All my friends so address me. It would be nice if you could make yourself believe you are one of my friends.”

  She said wistfully that it would not be difficult, and added that she would be very happy to call him Bony on the condition that he called her Alice.

  As his illustrious namesake is said to have done when pleased, he pinched her ear, laughed outright at her startled face, and opened the front door. Bolt would have been astounded that he got away with that pinch.

  Chapter Five

  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 bed
room 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 elite of this localised community. Dr Delph’s house was of colonial architecture, its veranda masked by striped blinds, the main door being reach ad 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 bottlefed?”

  “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 hot. 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?”