Bony is Generous
ONCE UPON A TIME Lorne was charmingly beautiful. Situated above a wide, sandy and safe bathing beach, its doom was inevitable. Crowded hotels and a fun fair, souvenir shops and crude cafes attracted the flash elements from the city. When Bony saw Lorne, he shuddered.
Senior Constable Staley had become used to Lorne and the peculiar type of people who flock to it. He had always to be firm and natural. He was red, angular, abrupt. And he was ambitious. His “off-sider”, Constable Roberts, was his opposite, and therefore they made an excellent team.
Staley was writing a report when Roberts entered his office, lounged to the desk, wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, conversationally:
“Bloke outside asking to see you.”
“What’s he want?” snapped Staley, without looking up.
“Just to look at you.”
“Talk sense. Send him in.”
“… stated that on May 2nd, at about four AM, he was outside the Hotel Terrific talking with a friend when a man came up to him and called him a…’, wrote Staley. He heard someone enter his office, and proceeded with his writing: “He did not know this man, and asked him what he meant by calling him a…”
A gentle cough interrupted the flow, and Staley sighed, dropped his pen and straightened in his chair.
“Well! What is it?” he barked at the slim, dark man seated on the only available chair. The dark man was lighting a cigarette, and over the burning match he said:
“I am Detective Inspector Bonaparte.”
“And I’m…” He was about to add that he was Pontius Pilate when stopped by the warming in the brilliant blue eyes probing into his brain.“Yes, sir. I remember now, sir. A memo came to hand a couple of weeks ago notifying me you would be in the district.”
“What is the condition of the road across the mountains to Colac?”
Now on his feet, Staley replied to the effect that the road was rough but passable. In reply to an inquiry about air services, he said that Bony could catch a plane at Colac that night at eight for Mount Gambier, and at seven nextmorning a plane left for Adelaide.
“I could reach Colac by eight, I suppose?” pressed Bony.
“Yes, you could easily do that, sir.”
“Then please make the plane reservation for me.”
Staley reached for the telephone, and Bony cut in with:
“Firstly, however, contact a doctor and ask him to come here. I’ve bumped my head against a meteor or something, and it’s rather painful.”
Staley’s light-grey eyes became pinheads in his red face. Only now did he note that the caller’s face was neither brown nor white but something like the colour of the dead ashes of a camp fire. Crossing to the inner office door, he said, stiffly:
“Constable Roberts! Bring Doctor Close. If he’s out, telephone Doctor Tellford.”
Dr Close lived next door to the police station. He walked in three minutes later, and Staley introduced him. The doctor examined Bony’s head, and Staley heard him ask what had happened, and heard Bony say that a piece of rock must have fallen from the sky, when he was out walking that morning. The doctor grunted, and Staley knew he thought this man’s story didn’t matter as he was in capable police hands. The doctor said that the blow must have been severe. However, the scalp did not need stitching and he would send in a salve to reduce the extensive bruising. And a slight sedative. When the doctor had gone, Staley said:
“Get that wallop through some funny business, sir?”
“I think it likely, Senior. I was on a tightrope when the rock fell on me. Be a Samaritan now and ask your constable to bring me a pot of tea and a couple of aspirin.”
“Yes, sir. The sedative, though.”
“I’ll take that, too.”
Funny business meant personal violence. This Bonaparte had been seconded to investigate the killing at the Split Point Lighthouse and that killing had been forward in Senior Constable Staley’s mind. Split Point was in his district, and he had done his best in the resultant investigation. Again going to the door, he told Roberts to ask his wife to bring a pot of tea for Inspector Bonaparte. Roberts turned purple and hurried away.
A boy came with the salve, and Roberts took it in. When Mrs Staley came to the back door with the tray, he took that in, too, finding his superior engaged with the telephone and Bony rubbing the salve on sore places. He was passing out again when Staley snapped:
“Shut the door.”
Staley was able to make the plane reservations, and then Bony was drinking his second cup of tea and looking more wholesome. On his desk had appeared a hair comb. From the comb his gaze rose to encounter the blue eyes.
“I want that comb to reach Superintendent Bolt,” murmured Bony. “What would be the drill?”
“Post it to my Divisional Headquarters, sir, and they would send it to Melbourne.”
“Far too much red tape, Staley. I hate red tape. And, your headquarters would be curious. The post office might be faultless, but I cannot trust that comb to it.”
“Roberts could take it to Superintendent Bolt if you gave the instruction. Hashis own motor bike. He’d like the trip.”
“Good! Let’s pack it.”
The comb was packed in cardboard and placed in a stout official envelope, Staley’s curiosity mounting.
“Type a letter for me.”
The uniformed man sat at the typewriter, and Bony dictated following the usual procedure:
“ ‘Iam going to Adelaide for a few days. Meanwhile please have your people examine the hairs on this comb to ascertain if they came from the head of the man in the bath. I shall inform you when I expect to return to Lorne, and would like one of your senior men to be here when I do return.’ ”
Staley’s grey eyes almost squinted as they watched Bony sign the letter and slip it into the envelope containing the comb. He had had to transfer from the detective branch to receive promotion to Senior Constable, and his ambition was to go back to the detective branch where he would be Senior Detective Staley. His gratification was keen when Bony said:
“Thank you for your cooperation, Senior. I shall not forget you in my final report. You could, of course, not know the contents of this envelope. It would be advisable for your Divisional Headquarters to understand only that I asked you to have a letter delivered to Superintendent Bolt.”
Staley instantly agreed. He went out with Bony to the single seater, saw him drive away to Colac, and returned to instruct his constable about the trip to Melbourne. If the hairs on that comb had come from the famous dead man, then… Who knows?
When, three days later, Staley was thinking of knocking off for lunch, Constable Roberts appeared at the office door, excitement in his dark eyes, his round face expressive.
“Car pulled up out front. Looks like the Chief Commissioner.”
He vanished, and Staley swept litter into drawers and tidied his desk. He had just that period of time, when heavy footsteps sounded on the bare boards of the outer office.
The man who entered was moulded like a cigar. The top of his head, revealed when he hung his felt hat on a peg, was like pinkish marble rising from the fringe of greying hair resting on his large ears. Like his feet, his head was absurdly small in comparison with his waistline. It was known that his brown eyes could bore like a gimlet, exhibit infantile innocence, compel a sinner to shed tears of remorse.
“Good day, sir!” said Staley, stiffly erect.
“Day, Senior! Inspector Bonaparte not shown up yet?”
“No, sir.”
“H’m! Said he would be here at one.” The brown eyes bore into Staley, and Staley did not flinch by a flicker. Superintendent Bolt sat on the spare chair. “You heard from Inspector Bonaparte since he was here? Sit down.”
“Thank you, sir. No. I’ve heard nothing from him.”
Bolt produced a pipe and filled it from a tin of cut tobacco. Staley thought that Superintendents should possess at least a tobacco pouch, if they would smoke a pipe instead of cigars.
“You know what he sent me?” Bolt asked, and Staley nodded, aware that prevarication would be useless.“Hair from that comb identical with the hair of the corpse in your Lighthouse. Didn’t tell you where he found the comb, did he?”
“No. He’d received a heavy blow on his head. Had a doctor see to it before he went to Colac”
“Bashed, eh! Not so good, Staley. Your Divisional Officerknow about that?”
“No, sir. Inspector Bonaparte did not make a complaint… officially. Hinted that he wanted to bypass D H.”
The large man grinned, slowly nodded his small head, regarding Staley as though he were a specimen bloodstain.
“I’ll remember that,” Bolt said. “Ballarat District could do with another senior plainclothes man. Attractive?”
“Very much, sir. Job here is slow… drunks chiefly. Wouldn’t…”
The door was opened and Bony stood smiling at them. Bolt heaved himself from the chair. Staley stood. He was faintly astonished by the look of relief on Bolt’s face.
“Oh, Super! Nice of you to come down. Glad to see you,” Bony exclaimed, and to Staley: “That road to Colac is disgraceful. I suggest we have lunch somewhere and gossip about the neighbours. Know a place where we can gossip in seclusion, Super?”
Staley had a brain wave. He said he was sure his wife would provide lunch if they would not demand Sole Marnier. Bolt said he was dieting, and Bony voted for tea and a sandwich. It was Bony who insisted that Staley sit with them at the light lunch tastefully served by theSenior’s wife. After lunch they sat in the small lounge, where Mrs Staley assured them they could smoke to “their heart’s content”. And there Bolt glared at Bony and softly whispered the one word:
“Give.”
“Those hairs came from the dead man’s head?”
“They did.”
“Then the clothes and the suitcase I found did belong to him. Actually, Super, I have had no doubt of it. Do we talk off the record?”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Bolt, resignedly.
“And our pact of non-interference is to continue?”
“Yes… blast you!”
“How like you are, Super, to my own Chief Commissioner,” drawled Bony. “Well, to begin. Having decided I would have to locate the dead man’s clothes… as your men failed to do… I found them, complete from hat to shoes. The suit was tailored by a small Adelaide firm who specializes in uniforms for merchant marine officers. It was built for a customer by the name of Baker. This Baker walked in one day, had himself measured, chose the cloth, paid for the suit, said he would return for it three months later.
“That was eighteen months ago. All that the tailor remembers about him is that he came off one of the ships, and was a youngish man. On being shown a picture of your man in the tank, he thought there was a shade of resemblance… to use his own words. The cost of the suit was twenty-three pounds, and the books showed that it was paid for with cash.
“The underclothes and the shoes, having been manufactured by firms whose products sell all over Australia, give us nothing. The shoes are so new that I cannot assess the man’s character and characteristics.
“Robbery was not the motive. There was a wallet containing eighty-nine pounds in notes and seven shillings and five pence in coins. I now hand this money to you, Super. The notes and the wallet give nothing. The Adelaide people tried to raise prints. One singular aspect concerning the money is the coins found inside the wallet. Normally they would be carried in a trousers’ pocket. I incline to the thought that the killer pushed the coins into the wallet when he divested the corpse of its clothes.”
Two poker-faced men regarded the wallet Bony put down on a nearby chair. To the wallet was added a watch.
“When the murderer decided to hide the clothes to prevent identification, he removed that watch from the dead man’s wrist. It also has been examined, without result. Jewellers and wholesalers inform me that the watch is not of a make or brand known to be on sale in Australia. The movements were made in Switzerland, and the case made in the United States, from which country it could have been exported to a jewellery firm in either Singapore or Hong Kong.
“Inside the case is stamped a maker’s serial number which will enable you to trace the watch. There is, too, a number very faintly scratched, and my jeweller friends think it was done by a firm who repaired the watch at some time. I am informed that it is the usual practice of watch repairers to maintain a card index system in which is recorded data covering the customer’s name and address, when a watch is received and when delivered or posted to the customer. You might have inquiries made of all the jewellers andwatchmenders in Australia, excepting South Australia, which has already been covered.”
Bony paused to light a cigarette. Neither Bolt nor Staley spoke.
“With the watch, which was thrust into the pocket of the dead man’s light raincoat, I found a ring, a signet ring.” Two pairs of keen eyes looked at the ring set down beside the watch and the wallet. “You will observe that the ring has been soldered and is now broken.
“The jewellers to whom I submitted the ring did not rave about its value. In fact, they were professionally horrified to observe that although the ring is of 18-carat gold the solder used is 9-carat. They assured me that no goldsmith worth his salt would make such an error. They also assured me that even though the solder had come apart it had been applied by a man knowing something of gold work.
“Find, therefore, the jeweller who has an apprentice or young assistant to do such work, and you may find the record of the transaction either in his books or in his mind. Thus the ring and the watch may give you more about this man callinghimself Baker.
“You will see that the ring is engraved with the letters BB and doubtless the letters stand for Benjamin, Bertrand, or Bernard Baker. As the ring is of standard make and sold by the thousands, only the mistake made by the goldsmith will benefit our investigation.
“With the clothes was a suitcase, and inside the case was a brown paper parcel. Inside the parcel were thirty-three ropes of pearls. Here are two of them. They are imitation, and the retail price in this country is about five guineas.”
The pearls were placed beside the other exhibits. Bolt waited for two seconds, before asking:
“Where are the other thirty-one strings?”
Staley’s interest was transferred from the pearls to Bony’s face, on which was a beaming smile. He flashed a glance to the big man, and saw there an expression of hope, fading. That an Inspector should smile so at aSuperintendent, astounded him and outraged his sense of discipline. What Bolt said shocked him.
“Won’t give, eh, you little cuss. Not ready yet to give, and won’t until you can say who killed our corpse… like Sherlock Holmes. Blast you, Bony!”
“But I don’t know,” protested Bony.
“But you know where you found the clothes and the suitcase. Where?”
“Where the clouds have a silver lining,” Bony replied. “Now accept what I have given. Your dead man was an officer on a merchant ship. His name is Baker. He smuggles ashore imitation pearls on which to make a large profit. Surely, Super, with your great team of scientific experts you will quickly establish the identity of your corpse, his movements and associates. You have the watch repairs to help. And there is the ring. Let me have the information, and I will the more quickly tell you who killed him. Now make a note.”
Bolt sighed as though with indigestion, and looked at Staley. Staley produced a notebook and pencil.
“I want to know whether any of your men at any time visited Mr Edward Penwarden at his workshop. I want to know if any of the Repair Gang who worked at the Lighthouse before last Christmas ever went inside Penwarden’s workshop. And if the foreman of that Gang remembers having sent the casual hand to Penwarden’s workshop for any purpose.”
Staley completed his scribbling. Bolt said:
“Casual hand! What casual hand?”
For the second time Bony blandly smiled.
“Didn’t know about the casual hand, did you, Super? Thought not. No mention of him in the Summary. No notice taken of the casual hand. Not important. No wonder you cannot obtain results.”
Bolt’s breathing was asthmatic.
“By Crikey!” he began, and was waved to silence.
“No ire, Super, no ire. Bony must have his little triumph now and then. Now I must be off. Give my thanks to your wife, Senior. I’ll call some day and thank her in person. Aurevoir, Super. Don’t follow me too closely, as I have to be careful of the company I keep. Let me know through Staley what is learned from those clues.”
Superintendent Bolt had that look in his eyes which made sinners repent.
“You take care of yourself,” he snarled. “I don’t want trouble with your people, damn you. So long!”
He glared at Staley as both listened to the light footsteps crossing to the outer door. He sat down, and taking up his cold pipe applied a match. Staley sat, too, and typed Bony’s notes. Nothing was said as Staley boxed the clues safely, and when Bolt rose to go to his car, he stared hard at Staley, saying:
“No dogging now. That feller’s as touchy as a young gal. But have business to do frequently at Split Point. We don’t interfere, understand. You do nothing except keep a careful eye on his personal safety. And if he takes you into his confidence, you’re lucky.”
Staley stood stiffly. “Very well, sir.” He heard the ponderous feet crossing the outer office, and when all was silent he said aloud:
“Am I coming, or am I going?”