Murder Must Wait Page 8

  The silence of the patient continued whilst Bony rolled and lit a cigarette. There might be something in the third degree system of the American police, even in the methods of the Hungarian police. But then, no. British methods, if slower, do produce greater obstacles to crime investigation, and so prolong the interest of the investigator.

  The interest provided by Bertrand Marcus Clark lay in Alice McGorr’s opinion that he tailed her not for the purpose of assault but for the purpose of learning her actions in company with Betty Morse. Was that intention to satisfy his own curiosity or the curiosity of another who employed him? Eventually, Bony was satisfied that Bertrand Marcus Clark was not going to enlighten him, and so politely he wished him well, for the time being, and departed.

  The morning sun was now really hot when he strolled from the hospital grounds to the boulevard, where he appreciated the black shadows under the trees. And then a car slid to a halt at the kerb and Dr Nott called:

  “Hullo there, Inspector! Did the Sister turn you away because it wasn’t visiting hours?”

  “Morning, Doctor!” Bony leaned on the door of the smart coupé. “I’ve been visiting Mr Marcus Clark, and Matron was most charmingly co-operative.”

  “You interested in that inky blackguard? Done over properly, wasn’t he?”

  “From appearances, yes. Mitford must be a rough place. Poor fellow.”

  “Peaceful enough generally, Inspector. We have our babythieves, our occasional murderer, but hoodlum stuff in respectable streets is rare enough to be news.”

  “Perhaps Clark fell into a drain or something. People are always digging holes in unlikely places. You look tired.”

  “I am. Four additions to the population last night. Expect four more between now and tomorrow.” The tired eyes were illumined with enthusiasm. “Two of a kind last night. Seven pounds apiece ... twin boys.” Bony could see the doctor’s chest expand. “Only lost one baby in the last six months, and that was the fault of the fool mother.”

  “Fool mothers are rare?”

  “Happily so, Inspector. But neglectful mothers are not. Some women don’t deserve to be blessed with a baby, and many oughtn’t to be allowed to keep the child.”

  “What, in your opinion, is the greatest factor causing a mother to neglect her child?”

  “Booze,” was the swift answer.

  “So! And the next factor?”

  “Writing novels.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Both are forms of escapism, and a normal woman should be happily content with the responsibility of a baby. Mrs Ecks drank to excess and, to my mind, deserved to lose her child. Mrs Coutts writes rubbishy novels. You met her, I suppose?”

  “Not yet. I may call on her this afternoon.”

  “When you do you will agree. How’s the investigation going?”

  “The baby-thieves are a little slow in announcing themselves, but they will. Criminals invariably call on me, some quickly, others a trifle reluctantly. I have but to wait. You know, I pride myself on being the most patient man in Australia.”

  Dr Nott chuckled, but Bony’s face remained calm.

  “Once upon a time,” Bony said, “I was with a murderer in an unfurnished house from which the light had been disconnected. All I did was to sit on the floor with my back to the front door and wait. And I had to wait only three hours for the murderer’s nerve to break, when he came to me with the request to be taken into custody. Subsequently he said he could see my eyes glowing in the darkness, and that I had a hundred pairs of eyes which closely hemmed him into a corner. Imagination, of course, Doctor. My eyes are quite normal.”

  Nott, who had listened without movement, abruptly pushed out the clutch and shifted from neutral to low gear.

  “Normal, eh! I wonder! Well, I must get along to see my babies. See you sometime, I hope.”

  “Oh yes. I may be lolling about Mitford for ten years. Au revoir!”

  The gleaming car passed through the hospital gates, and Bony sauntered along the boulevard and eventually entered the offices of Martin & Martin, Estate Agents, Auctioneers and Valuers, on Main Street. He asked to see the senior partner.

  “What is the nature of your business?” asked the clerk, his eyes superciliously registering this client.

  “My business is to unmask murderers ... and other incidentals.” Bony witnessed the superciliousness fade. “I am a detective-inspector. The name is Bonaparte.”

  Mr Cyril Martin was sixtyish, looked like an undertaker on duty, and spoke like a saw eating into the heart of a redgum log.

  “Sit down, Inspector. What can we do for you?”

  “The subject interesting me at the moment is the late Mrs Rockcliff,” opened the seated Bony as he crossed one creased trouser leg over the other. “You rented her the house in Elgin Street, I understand.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. We gave the particulars yesterday to the constable.”

  “You let the house to Mrs Rockcliff for a period of twelve months?”

  “Yes.”

  “At the monthly rental of ten pounds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Calendar months?”

  “Yes. The constable obtained all...”

  Bony smiled. “I like my information first-hand,” he said. Mr Martin did not smile.

  “The rent was paid promptly?”

  “Oh, yes. On the 12th of every month.”

  “Was that rent date a term of the lease?”

  For the first time Mr Martin evinced hesitation.

  “Er, no. It was an arrangement Mrs Rockcliff herself made with us. She offered to pay the first three months’ rent in advance in lieu of a reference, which normally we would insist on having.”

  “How did she pay the rent?”

  “In cash.”

  “To whom?”

  “To my clerk in the outer office.”

  Bony produced his cigarette-case, and Mr Martin hastened to forestall him.

  “Most extraordinary affair, Inspector. I met Mrs Rockcliff only twice. She seemed to be quite a nice woman, too.”

  “The victim of homicide isn’t necessarily not nice, Mr Martin,” and the estate agent chuckled as Bony’s observation was smilingly made. “Could you be more precise in your impressions of Mrs Rockcliff?”

  “Yes, I think so. I should say she was well educated. She spoke well, culturally, if you know what I mean.”

  “Australian or English?”

  “I’m doubtful on that point. She had no pronounced English accent. And, like you, she didn’t have the Cockney-Australian accent, either.”

  “Who owns No 5 Elgin Street?”

  The timing of this question was well chosen ... when Mr Martin was looking directly at the questioner. The shutters fell.

  “A Miss Mary Cowdry who lives in Scotland,” he replied with less spontaneity.

  “What is Miss Cowdry’s address?”

  “Well, the last time we heard from her she was living at a hotel in Edinburgh. She travels a good deal, and we send the rent along when she writes for it.” Mr Martin again chuckled. “She’s what we call one of the floating owners. We have several clients in that category.”

  “How do you transmit the money to Miss Cowdry?”

  “Oh, through the bank.”

  “What bank?”

  “The Olympic.”

  Mr Martin nicked a handkerchief from his breast pocket, cursorily wiped his nose, furtively mopped his forehead. Despite the fan, it certainly was close in the office. Bony rose to leave, glancing at his wrist-watch.

  “When could we expect to have the house released by the police?” asked the Estate Agent, also on his feet. “Rental houses are few in Mitford, as elsewhere, Inspector, and the demand for them is heavy.”

  “Possibly in a week, Mr Martin. It could be later. Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “You are welcome.”

  Bony doubted it as he passed from the offices to Main Street and the h
ot sunshine. It was ten minutes after eleven, and morning-tea time, and he was passing Madame Clare’s Hat and Frock Salon when Alice McGorr almost collided with him.

  “Such haste,” he admonished her. “In Mitford, too.”

  “I’ve spent all my money,” she said.

  “I can easily believe that, Alice. The hat suits you very well.”

  The soft brown eyes searched his face for irony, and, as she was beginning to expect, saw nothing of it.

  “My, it’s hot, isn’t it!” she exclaimed. “Were you going to ask me to morning tea?”

  “Your perspicacity is astonishing, Alice. I thought of it the moment you bumped into me.”

  “Only way to make you notice me.”

  “Most unseemly, such was your haste to read my mind on the subject of morning tea. Here we are.”

  At the table inside the comparatively cool cafe, she asked:

  “What have you been doing this morning behind my back?”

  “I visited the hospital and did my best to comfort the sick. Poor unfortunate little man. You did ill-use him.” Alice was examining her recent purchase with the aid of a small mirror. “You appear to be quite unconcerned about your victim.”

  “He’s lucky that his neck’s not broken.”

  “Generous of you. What have you been doing this morning?”

  “Off duty. You told Essen to tell me. I bathed their baby, and then decided to buy a hat. On the way, I thought I’d call at the Station for you ... thought you’d like to choose the new hat. The duty constable told me you had gone for a walk, and Sergeant Yoti had his office full of reporters. They were badgering him with questions and he was snarling. I asked the desk constable where Essen was, and he said down at the Municipal Library ... there’s been a robbery.”

  “Robbery at the Public Library?” exclaimed Bony. “Well, I expected it, you know. People will read books, and now that the government has cut down on the importation of books, people are bound to rob the libraries to get them. It’s a crime which I acclaim. May I have another cup of tea?”

  Chapter Ten

  Degrees of Neglect

  THEY WERE about to visit Mrs Norman Coutts, when Bony asked: “Yesterday, when returning from the River Hotel, you did a sum in mental arithmetic and arrived at Neglect causated in Booze. Pardon the verb. To what else could child neglect be attributed?”

  “I’d say bargain-hunting at the store sales. A lot of women leave everything, desert anything for the chance of a bargain.”

  “Of our five babies, we have examined the background of four, and in no case have we found physical neglect. D’you know anything about writing novels?”

  “Do I look as though I wrote novels?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Now I have to pardon your verb. And myself for using it. I never kid. My reason for asking you is that Mrs Norman Coutts writes novels. In Dr Nott’s opinion, that is another cause of child neglect.”

  For fifty yards Alice pondered on this angle, her stride matching her companion’s, head straight, shoulders back, mouth grim and tight. Unless she fell in love and married, she was doomed to become a replica of the lady novelist whose picture was menacing the readers of current magazines and was at the moment occupying a corner of Bony’s mind.

  “D’you want me to keep to the subject of infant neglect or to argue about verbs?” she asked, as they turned into a side road.

  “The subject of neglect, that we might arrive at the degree of neglect. After calling on Mrs Coutts, we shall probably know that she merely forgot about her baby when in the throes of inspiration, not neglected it to the extent of physical distress. We can then consider whether the degree of neglect covering the five babies has anything to do with their abduction.”

  The house occupied by the Town Engineer stood well back from the street and was seemingly built on a well-tended lawn which successfully defied sun and heat. The house was of the bungalow type, having a spacious front veranda, now shaded by coloured blinds.

  The front door was opened by a tall blonde, arrayed in a gay Japanese kimono and armed with a foot-long cigaretteholder, and instantly Bony was reminded of Mrs Thring and the lady novelist in the magazines. She was obviously displeased, and ungraciously conducted them to what could be the lounge. Here the furniture was good enough, but the carpet felt lumpy beneath their feet, the hearth was strewn with cigarette-ends, and the one table by the window was littered with books and writing materials. The close, fuggy odours of food, cigarettes and lemons were at least authentic.

  “Well, Inspector, what is it?” asked Mrs Coutts, seating herself before the writing materials. “Have the police found my baby?”

  “Regretfully, no, Mrs Coutts,” replied Bony, who was unaware that Alice, although seated demurely, was again pricing everything visible. “I’ve been assigned to the investigation into the kidnapping of your baby, and the others, and I’m trying to get the general picture clear. Tell me, what was the weather like that afternoon your baby was stolen from the front veranda?”

  “The weather! What an extraordinary question.” Mrs Coutts fitted a fresh cigarette to the long ebony holder, and Bony presented the match. “You know, the suspect is often caught out when asked where he was on the night of the crime, isn’t he? I write, as you may know, straight novels, not these beastly thrillers.” Carelessly, she indicated the partially filled sheet of foolscap on the pad, the pile of covered sheets to her right hand and the wad of virgin paper on her left. “The weather that day. Why, it was hot and thundery. In fact, it did thunder now and then, but as usual I was busy with my writing, and the baby was asleep.”

  “Your husband saw the child sleeping in the cot when he left for his office. At what time did your husband leave?”

  “Ten minutes to two. He always leaves at that time.”

  “And you found the cot empty at half past three, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there a particular reason to visit the cot at that time?”

  “My husband and I rose from lunch at about a quarter to two. He went to his room for something and then, as I told you, he left the house by the front veranda. I came here to write as the inspiration was very strong. I worked until half past three, and then remembered I hadn’t cleared away or fed baby. So I went to the cot, and found him gone.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Rang my husband, of course. I thought that he had taken the child with him to his office. A moment after he said he hadn’t done anything of the kind and would ring the police, I flew to the front gate, hoping I might see the person who must have taken it.”

  “You saw a car outside a house towards Main Street, an elderly woman on the far side of the road who was carrying a suitcase, and two boys running away as though to escape the thunderstorm?”

  “That is right, Inspector. That is the scene I gave the police.”

  “You said then that you could not recognise the elderly woman with the suitcase. Since then, Mrs Coutts, has memory of that woman reminded you, say in general, of anyone you know?”

  “I wasn’t able to see her face as she was hurrying away from me. The police thought those two boys might have noticed her, but they hadn’t. You know all that, of course. You don’t think that woman stole my baby, do you?”

  “No. But if she could be found she might tell us of something she saw which could assist us. Your description of her to the police was rather vague, understandably, naturally, in view of your distress. I was hoping that since then memory of her might have recalled to mind someone you do know, someone with whom we can make a comparison.”

  “I see what you mean. Well, she was not unlike Mrs Peel, or Mrs Nott, the doctor’s wife, or even Mrs Marlo-Jones ... shortish, stoutish, quick in movement. But it wasn’t one of those women.”

  “Why are you so definite?”

  “Because that woman was wearing bright blue, so unkind to the elderly woman, Inspector. The other women I have m
entioned usually wear pastel colours. And when they forget their age they wear dizzy florals.”

  “H’m!” Bony rose to go. “The baby was only seven weeks old. Was he a healthy child?”

  “He never had a day’s illness,” replied Mrs Coutts, remaining seated. “He hardly ever cried, and he slept well, too. That’s why I didn’t bother about him immediately after lunch that day.”

  Mrs Coutts nodded to Alice, and, on glancing at Alice, Bony found her nodding in reply ... or in sympathy. Alice departed, and Mrs Coutts hastened to say:

  “I find my writing so very absorbing, Inspector. I become quite lost in it, and very often the characters take full possession of me.”

  “It must be absorbing.”

  “Yes. I hope to succeed as a novelist. I’ve written several short stories, you know. I gained first prize at our Mitford Literary Society.”

  “Congratulations! How many have you had published?”

  “None, as yet, Inspector. Our President, James Nyall, the well-known Australian novelist, says I have to master the art of writing down to please editors. One has to learn to commercialise one’s talents. Not that I really want to do that, but I must be practical. My husband, who is very practical, insists that if a story isn’t acceptable to an editor it’s worth nothing. So silly of him.”

  “Perhaps one oughtn’t to be too practical in any of the arts,” Bony suavely agreed. “Er ... The Mitford Literary Society, by the way. Do Mrs Peel and Mrs Nott and Mrs Marlo-Jones belong?”

  “No. Mrs Marlo-Jones has given talks, but, as she says, she’s far too busy to undertake another interest.”

  “You have met these ladies, socially?”

  “Oh yes. At sherry parties, and that sort of thing.”

  “During the vital period of time, after your husband returned to his office and you found the baby missing, were you called to the telephone?”