Murder Must Wait Page 9

  “No. I mightn’t have heard it if it did ring. I was barely conscious of the thunder.”

  “What led you to think your husband had taken the infant with him to the office?”

  Shutters fell before the green eyes, and Mrs Coutts almost hurriedly pushed back her chair and rose from the table. Alice appeared in the doorway, and Mrs Coutts looked at her and would have spoken had not Bony remained with obvious expectancy of being answered.

  “Oh, I don’t really know, Inspector. Sometimes my husband teases me about my writing. Says it takes me away from everything.”

  “Including the baby?”

  “Of course not.” The green eyes were hardening. “He came in for lunch one day when the child was whimpering and I was in the kitchen. I couldn’t leave what I was doing, preparing something, and he accused me of neglecting the baby and said he’d take it with him to the office and let his fool of a secretary mind it. More in fun than not, naturally.”

  “Quite.” Bony expressed the hope of ultimately recovering the child, and Mrs Courts accompanied them to the front gate. Again in Main Street, he said:

  “Well, give, Alice.”

  “Filthy house,” Alice stated as though in the witness-box. “You said I wasn’t to ask the woman questions, and I didn’t ... out loud. She’s balmy on her writing, and everything else rots. She didn’t give a damn about the baby, and she deserved to lose it. I know the type. Baby probably died of sheer neglect, and she buried it in the garden.”

  “What a prognostication! Why were you and Mrs Coutts making faces at each other?”

  “Oh that! I was making excuses so that I could see the rest of her house.”

  “So that now we know....”

  “The pattern, Bony. Five babies kidnapped. Five tiny babies. Five boy babies. Five healthy babies. Five neglected babies. Sounds like a horrible nursery rhyme,” Alice recited grimly. “Three mothers in the same social set: two mothers outside. Three mothers drink sherry, one mother drinks gin, and one is thought to drink nothing worse than tea.”

  “It’s possible that the infants were not chosen for abduction because they were superficially neglected by the mothers, but because that superficial neglect made easy the abductions.”

  “You don’t think that, Bony.”

  “No, I do not believe it, because the abduction from the bank was not easy, and the abduction from the pram outside the shop and the pram outside the hotel was decidedly risky. Let us go into the Library and make a few discoveries about Mrs Rockcliff.”

  “Has it occurred to you that the abductions began after Mrs Rockcliff came to Mitford?” Alice asked when they stood in the portico of the Grecian front of the Municipal Library.

  “Yes, I have considered that point. Now, leave me to interview the librarian. If Essen is still here, interest yourself in the robbery.”

  Essen was no longer in the building, which, being a museum as well as a library, entertained Alice. For a while they remained together, examining cases of aboriginal relics, photographic sections of the Murray River, the bridge nearby, of the local fruit and wine industries. There were models of the paddle-wheel steamers, now almost extinct, models of waterwheels, pictures in oils, etchings, water-colours, and displays of native weapons.

  For a few moments, Bony studied a large-scale map of the district, showing Mitford to be the hub of radiating roads. Including the river, there were sixteen exits from the town, and through one of those exits five small infants had surely passed.

  Other than a young woman at a bench rebinding a book, and an elderly man seated within a glass-fronted office, the place was empty. Bony strolled into the Reference Room, where he found a Who’s Who and looked up Marlo-Jones. Born 1881, making him 71. DSc, Adelaide. Dip. Anthropology. Research Fellow in Anthropology, Adelaide. H’m! Well up in his field. Publications: ‘Ceremonial Exchange Cycle of the Warramunga Nation’. Married Elizabeth Wise. No mention of children. Recreations: gardening and walking. Knowledgeable old bean. Full of sting at 71. Would live beyond a hundred.

  Bony spent a further ten minutes with the famous, looking up one who ought to have been hanged four years previously, three who should be serving gaol sentences, and one concerning whom he was slightly doubtful. Then he studied the insect specimens in glass cases, and wondered who had classified the case of mollusca found in the Darling and Murray Rivers Basin. Alice was looking at a journal in the Reading Room when he entered the glass-fronted office.

  “I am Detective-Inspector Bonaparte,” he said to the scholarly-looking man, and as usual noted the flash of astonishment, disbelief, caution, reserve. “You may wish to telephone to Sergeant Yoti. I am investigating the circumstances surrounding the death of Mrs Rockcliff, and I understand she was a regular borrower from this library.”

  Interest now predominated in the pale grey eyes.

  “Yes, Inspector Bonaparte, Mrs Rockcliff was a regular borrower. In fact, there are three of her books not yet returned to us. They are, presumably, still at her house.”

  “Do you happen to know her taste in literature? One of the books at her house is a biography, and two are classics.”

  “I do know that her taste wasn’t the usual run of the mill,” replied the librarian. “She liked biographies, having a special preference for world-famous authors. Her novels could be only the best. I was decidedly grieved about her.”

  “Was she interested in writing, or any of the arts?”

  “Not to the extent of practising one of them. She wasn’t very communicative about herself.” The librarian smiled, and Bony liked that smile. “So many women are, you know. They seem to think this is a Gossip House, and my assistants sometimes chide me with being too friendly. But I like to be helpful, especially with earnest people and students.”

  “Tell me, was Mrs Rockcliff aloof? I mean, did she give the impression of being without interest in other people?”

  “Well, hardly that, Inspector. She often talked to me. About literature, of course. I found her rather intelligent, and not objectionably so. Her interest in famous writers is shared by one of our bank managers. They became acquainted here, actually, and would often retire and talk for twenty minutes or half an hour. I’m sure Mr Bulford will miss her. He has a passion for Joseph Conrad, and she almost worshipped the Brontës.”

  “And the Library is open in the evenings?”

  “Until ten o’clock. We have discussion groups, and neither my daughter nor I regret the extra time we give.”

  “Your work must be more engrossing than mine,” Bony said. “I have to keep to one world, that of abnormal psychology; you may live in other worlds far more wholesome. You have had a robbery, I hear. Lose much ... books ... pictures?”

  “Nothing like that, Inspector. It’s most peculiar. The object stolen was an aboriginal rock drawing. I’ve only been in charge here for six months, having previously lived in Sydney, and I don’t know much about its history. I must dig up the records.”

  “A painting of the original rock drawing, I assume?”

  “No. It was actually the section or stratum of the rock on which the drawing had been done in white and yellow ochre. It must have weighed a hundred pounds, and it was supported by a special stand in the Reading Room.”

  “H’m! Peculiar thing to steal. Valuable?”

  “As a museum or collector’s piece, without doubt.”

  “And what did the drawing portray?”

  “No one knows. My predecessor might have known, but he died shortly after I took over. It even baffled Professor Marlo-Jones. He thinks the drawing might have something to do with the rain-making ceremonies of the Arunta Nation.”

  “As you say, an extraordinary thing to steal from a Library,” Bony agreed. “Well, thank you very much for your cooperation. I will see that the books are returned from Mrs Rockcliff’s house. Goodbye.”

  Alice was waiting for him in the main room, her interest being captured by the ceiling.

  “I like it, don’t you?”

&nbs
p; “The colour, yes.”

  “I think I’ll do our lounge ceiling in that colour ... duckegg blue ceiling and ivory matt walls for the lounge at least.”

  “You decorate?”

  “Too right. Get the brother to give a hand. Can’t afford to employ house decorators these days. Nice place this Library. I could spend a lot of time here.”

  “Alas, Alice, our time is spent.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Chiefs are Worried

  THE ‘BOYS’ room’ at the police residence, now occupied by Bony, faced the south and therefore was on the coolest side of the house ... a distinct advantage in February. In addition to the open door and the raised window, one end of the room was merely fly-netted, and could be shuttered were the wind too unfavourable. Thus the ‘boys’ room’ was ideal in which to work on a hot afternoon.

  When Alice knocked on the open door and was bidden to enter, Bony was seated at the desk, minus his coat and arrayed in tussore silk shirt, the rolled sleeves showing the smooth texture of dark skin and deceptively flaccid muscles. He smiled at Alice and indicated the chair opposite himself.

  “Essen still busy?” he asked.

  “Yes. Rushed back to his lab., as he calls his darkroom, immediately after lunch. He’s got something cooking in that rathole. He says he’s on an important lead in that Library job, but I think he’s brewing something.”

  “It could be the heat, Alice, but it does sound involved. Something cooking ... we think ... brewing something.”

  “Must be,” Alice agreed, removing her hat and gently mopping her forehead. The short-sleeved dress revealed the almost masculine arms, and the plunging neck-line mocked the scrawny neck supporting the large head so ill served by the full blonde hair drawn so tightly back.

  “So Essen is excited,” murmured Bony. “It’s possible that that Library theft might concern us, and what you say of Essen’s speed from lunch table to darkroom tends to promote possibility to probability. You know what was stolen?”

  “Yes, although you didn’t tell me.”

  “You distracted my mind by discussing interior decoration. Anyway, we must wait for Essen. He has made an excellent job of these pictures.”

  Alice accepted the copies made of the picture of Mrs Rockcliff and her baby, and the manner in which she studied them almost convinced Bony that her primary interest was in the infant and remained so. Without doubt, the mother instinct in Policewoman Alice McGorr was exceedingly strong.

  “As you say, a good job,” conceded Alice. “You ought to see Essen’s pictures of his wife and baby. Just perfect. What did you have these done for?”

  “Chiefly for the newspapers. Yoti has been complaining about the reporters from both Melbourne and Sydney, and we must give them something. Someone might recognise the dead woman under another name.” Alice sniffed, and Bony detected the thought it expressed. “You dislike my methods?”

  “It’s not for me to say.”

  “You are thinking I am being too deliberate, too slow. You are remembering that the murder was forty hours old when discovered and that it’s now seventy-odd hours later ... with nothing to show.”

  “Perhaps I am. Murder is a job for a team.”

  “Two teams are working on it: one in Melbourne, the other in Sydney. A good team would have telephoned me last night or this morning the examination results of those clothes’ tags, that wall section containing the hair grease of the murderer, the analysis of the floor sweepings. I am still waiting. Teams of experts rushed to Mitford to investigate the abductions of Babies 2, 3 and 4. Teams rushed about, wearing out Sergeant Yoti, annoying Essen, drawing their salaries and expenses and achieving precisely nothing.

  “Now you just browse through these Summaries on the four stolen babies prepared by Inspector Janes, who conducted the three investigations. Note anything contradictory, abnormal, even absurd when applied to your own knowledge of backgrounds, and finally give me your opinion of Inspector Janes’s team work.”

  As Alice accepted the closely-typed documents there was faint resentment in her brown eyes, for even now she was unable to be sure if Bony mocked her, was being sarcastic or merely teasing. She read the first Official Summary and made a note. The second Summary produced two notes written in a sprawling hand and with the deliberation of the poorly educated. Once she looked up at Bony to see him completely relaxed, eyes closed, and in her own was something akin to wonderment, for Alice McGorr had been brought up in a world of cynicism and distrust.

  She was engaged on the last Summary when voices without upset concentration, and again looking at Bony, found him in the same position but with one eye open.

  “Hi, get up out of that and polish my car,” roared Essen. “It’s no time for sleeping, and if you don’t want to work get back to the Settlement.” Mumble ... mumble. “I’m just telling you, Fred, that’s all.”

  Essen came in, broadly smiling. Bony’s second eye opened, and he nodded to a vacant chair, saying:

  “Your tracker loafing on the job?”

  “Does little else but sleep on the job. Got a favourite shrub just beyond your door. Don’t blame the coot really. It’s hot enough to make anyone go on strike.”

  “Catch your burglar?” Bony asked.

  “No. What a fool thing to achieve. Slab of rock four by five feet and about three inches thick. Got in through a back window, easing the catch with a knife. Left glove smudges on the window glass. One smudge on the inside of the window tallies with the glove print we found under Mrs Rockcliff’s bed, the mended glove.”

  “I hate to express doubt, but are you sure?”

  “Camera proves it,” answered the enormously satisfied Essen.

  “Go on,” commanded Bony. “You have my attention, I assure you.”

  “There was more than two in this robbery, but how many I don’t know. The windows open over a cement path encircling the entire building. There must have been more than two because the object stolen was carried out via the back door, round the side of the building to the front, where they must have had a utility or truck waiting.”

  “Right on Main Street! In full glare of street lights!”

  “Street lights are switched off at one am. Constable Robins made his last round at O.NR am. There was then no vehicle outside the Library. Near-by residents don’t recall hearing a motor arrive or start up, but as Main Street is on a slight slope, the vehicle could have coasted from the west end, stopped at the Library, and then pushed off down to the other end. It could have travelled a full half mile without the engine running.

  “What is certain is that they went to the Library to pinch that rock drawing, and that one of them was the woman who crept under Mrs Rockcliff’s bed at the time she was murdered.”

  “The librarian told me he doesn’t know the meaning of the drawing, and, further, that old Professor Marlo-Jones doesn’t know what it means, either,” Bony added. “It would appear that the meaning has no significance, that it was stolen for its value as a museum piece, or stolen at the behest of an unscrupulous collector. Marlo-Jones may be able to help. He might know of such a collector. Being busy with the burglary, you were unable to interview Mrs Ecks on the lines I suggested?”

  “I was, but the Sergeant agreed to let Robins do it. Found out that when Mrs Ecks’s baby was pinched there were altogether four prams, as we know. Of the five babies outside the pub, Mrs Ecks’s baby was the only boy.”

  “Good. Substantive evidence that the abductor wanted only male children.” Bony made a note. “I think we ought to do something about the hospital, see that every precaution is taken that a baby boy or two isn’t stolen from the infants’ ward. There were male twins born there last night.”

  “Be hell and damnation if those twins were pinched,” Essen said. “What d’you reckon is behind these abductions? I don’t get it.”

  “You will, eventually. Patience, Essen, patience. The enemy is on the move. They made a slip when putting Mr Bertrand Marcus Clark to tail Alice. They ...
now, as Alice would say, what’s brewing?”

  Voices, deep and loud, drew near. Heavy feet clomped on the cement outside the door, and then the door was filled by a mighty man having short, straight, grey hair, a ponderous paunch, and the feet of a dancer. After him came Yoti.

  Essen jumped to attention. Alice, observing the movement, also stood. Bony stepped forward, a smile on his face, but no smile in his eyes.

  “Why, it’s Superintendent Canno, and all the way from Sydney.”

  “Good day, Bonaparte. How are you?”

  “Excellent. But, being among friends, Bony to you. Permit me to present my cousin, Alice McGorr, Miss McGorr is studying my methods. Hopes to set up a private school for third-rate detectives.”

  “Haw! How do, Miss McGorr?” Canno sank gracefully into Essen’s chair. Yoti said something and went out. Alice and Bony sat. And Canno added: “Friend of mine, name of Bolt, mentioned something about you assisting Bony. You must find him very trying at times. Everyone else does.”

  “I find him always original, and so nothing else matters,” replied Alice, who then thought that association with Bony had destroyed all discipline in her. “Shall I go along and ask Mrs Yoti for some tea?”

  The Chief of the Sydney CID chuckled like rumbling thunder.

  “Damn good idea, Miss McGorr. And I’m not going to argue with you over our mutual friend.” He stood when Alice got up, chuckled again, and sat when she had gone.

  “That lass has a hell of a reputation,” he announced. “What are you up to with her, Bony?”

  Bony washed his hands, saying:

  “You ask her that, Super, and then find out how it feels to be bounced out of the room and on the path outside. Anyway, I am pleased to be seeing you. Why come?”

  “Just for the pleasure of seeing you.” Canno loaded a large pipe and applied a match, Bony waiting. Essen, now seated, waiting as he had not been dismissed. “Had to run down to Albury, so decided to come over here to see how you’re going. How are you going?”