The Widows of Broome. Arthur W. UpfieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
Bony novels by Arthur W. Upfield:
1 The Barrakee Mystery / The Lure of the Bush
2 The Sands of Windee
3 Wings Above the Diamantina
4 Mr Jelly’s Business/ Murder Down Under
5 Winds of Evil
6 The Bone is Pointed
7 The Mystery of Swordfish Reef
8 Bushranger of the Skies / No Footprints in the Bush
9 Death of a Swagman
10 The Devil’s Steps
11 An Author Bites the Dust
12 The Mountains Have a Secret
13 The Widows of Broome
14 The Bachelors of Broken Hill
15 The New Shoe
16 Venom House
17 Murder Must Wait
18 Death of a Lake
19 Cake in the Hat Box / Sinister Stones
20 The Battling Prophet
21 Man of Two Tribes
22 Bony Buys a Woman / The Bushman Who Came Back
23 Bony and the Mouse / Journey to the Hangman
24 Bony and the Black Virgin / The Torn Branch
25 Bony and the Kelly Gang / Valley of Smugglers
26 Bony and the White Savage
27 The Will of the Tribe
28 Madman’s Bend /The Body at Madman's Bend
29 The Lake Frome Monster
This corrected edition published in 2020 by ETT Imprint, Exile Bay
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission.
Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers.
ETT IMPRINT & www.arthurupfield.com
PO Box R1906
Royal Exchange
NSW 1225 Australia
First published 1951.
First electronic edition published by ETT Imprint 2013.
Copyright William Upfield 2013, 2020
ISBN 978-0-6487390-6-7 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-922384-57-7 (ebk)
Digital distribution by Ebook Alchemy
Chapter One
The Magnet and the Filing
Situated on the barren, inhospitable coast of the north-west of Australia, Broome’s only excuse for existence is pearl shell. Before Japanese aircraft put a stop to the industry some ten million pounds’ worth of the finest-quality shell had been raised from a thousand miles of shell beds, pearls of exquisite lustre and size being the plums which attracted adventurers from all parts of the world. Following the drastic restrictions imposed by war and its resultant economic conditions, millions upon millions of dollars’-worth of shell is now maturing and just waiting to be picked up and despatched to hungry markets.
Prior to the events which attracted Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte to Broome, the majority of the people walked with somnambulistic tread and day-dreamed of the glorious past when booze was cheap, when money was as plentiful as the dust, and when ribs were tickled with knives and craniums caressed with sandbags ... over the rape of pearls.
The first of two murders having several points of similarity mildly stirred the people of Broome. The second crime, however, inoculated them with an energy serum. They waited expectantly for the police to produce the murderer, but nothing happened. They stared at the homicide squad flown up from Perth, and became really annoyed when still nothing happened. Actually, the people of Broome should have been proud that one among them was alert enough, and clever enough, to commit two murders without leaving a clue indicating either himself or the motive.
The senior police officer stationed at Broome was an administrator, not a detective. His job was keeping general law and order over a land area of about a third of a million square miles, not tracking down an intelligent murderer. He was assisted by juniors—one of whom was an expert in the bush and the handling of trackers—and when they failed to uncover the murderer of the first victim, and met with no quick success following the murder of the second, he washed his hands and called for the C.I.B.
A detective-sergeant accompanied by a photographer and a finger-print expert arrived from Perth. They remained two weeks. Thereafter, Sub-Inspector Walters continued with his administrative duties, and the murderer continued to stroll about Broome in the cool of the evening.
At four o’clock on the afternoon of June 25th, Inspector Walters sat before a typewriter in the station office, grimly determined to write a private letter in official time. He was two inches under six feet, lean and tough. His greying hair was stiff, and authority gleamed in his dark eyes and was stamped on his thin-lipped mouth.
The envelope he rolled into the machine was addressed to: “Mr. Sylvester Rose, Headmaster, Cave Hill College, Broome.” The letter which followed the envelope ran thus:
Dear Sir.
Reference my son Keith Walters. I have regretfully to draw your attention to what appears to be a conspiracy among a section of your boys to which my son belongs. I am aware that in these modern times handwriting is considered of small importance and that spelling is an art no longer necessary to be cultivated. You will, I am sure, agree with me that sound pronunciation of our language must be, with force if necessary, inculcated in the rising generation, that English shall not deteriorate to the gibberings of baboons.
I have repeatedly heard my son pronounce the word “just” as “jist”; for “I am going to” or “he is going to”, he persists in saying “I’m gunner” or “he’s gunner”. Vocal reprimand being unavailing to correct this fault, I have administered corporal punishment ... still without result. Cross-examination has elicited the fact that a number of your boys in collaboration deliberately invent these horrible distortions which, when practised, become permanent in their speech.
Knowing how much you have the boys’ welfare at heart, I am confident that you will bring your very wide experience to bear on this problem, the solution of which appears to be the detection of the ringleaders of this conspiracy.
I remain as always, my dear Mr. Rose,
Yours very sincerely,
Henry Walters. Inspector of Police.
Having signed his name in calligraphy appearing much like helmets on the heads of tin soldiers, Inspector Walters sealed the letter, stamped it and tossed it into his “outward” basket.
The police office was, save for himself, deserted. Sergeant Sawtell had gone to the airport to meet the inward plane from Perth. Constable Pedersen was out in the barren McLarty Hills with one of his trackers seeking a wild aborigine who was wanted for wife-maiming, and Constable Clifford was making inquiries concerning the indentures of a Malay shell-diver.
The month being June, and mid-winter, the temperature of the office was moderately low, and now the shadows of the palm trees were long across the open space between the large bungalow-styled station house and the roadway which it fronted. The storm shutters were raised high, and the entire front wall was open and fly-netted. When a flashing new car swept