Bony Entertains
THE BAROMETER hanging on the wall of the reception hall at Wideview Chalet began to fall at about four o’clock, and when Bony arrived back from his visit to theBagshotts ’ the sky was festooned with white streamers heralding wind and rain.
He found Sleeman and the artist in the lounge and was invited to join them in a drink, and thereupon he stipulated one round only, knowing that he had work to do at the Police Station before he retired to bed that night.
To his surprise, Alice, the maid, brought the order, and when she was questioned about the absence of George she explained that George had received a telephone call from the city. He had obtained leave of absence for the rest of the day and would not be back until the coming of the first bus from Manton the following morning. As she presented the serving tray to Sleeman, he placed the tip of a finger on the back of her hand and said:
“You see to it that the scullery door is kept closed tonight, Alice. We don’t want any more nerve shocks like that one you gave us the other night. All that fuss over a rat.”
The girl flushed.
“I hate rats,” she said. “They make me shiver all over. I don’t mind snakes. I’ve killed several upon my dad’s place, but rats I abominate, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Having received back the chit-book signed by Sleeman, Alice tripped away through the service door, and Raymond Leslie began a story which did not greatly interest Bonaparte, who was glad to get away after forcing a smile at the tale’s climax.
At dinner, he found Downes absent and, remarking on this, he was informed that Downes had had visitors that afternoon and had gone off with them. Bony was also informed that the Watkins couple had left. Thereupon, observing Miss Jade seating herself at her solitary table, he arose and crossed the almost forlorn dining room and bowed to her.
“Madam, I seek your favour,” he said softly.
Miss Jade gazed upward into the beaming eyes and decided that he was not being cynical or trying to be funny. With his left hand, he indicated the table at which sat only three men.
“If you would take dinner at our table, Miss Jade,” he said, “we would be honoured, and I feel sure that we would at least attempt to talk interestingly.”
Miss Jade rose to her feet.
“It is most kind of you, Mr. Bonaparte,” she said in the tone of voice she always used with her guests. “I would be delighted. Tomorrow we have quite an influx ofguests, and the place will no longer seem deserted.”
“That is bad news,” Bony said gravely. “A houseful of guests will distract your mind from us fortunate men here this evening.” They crossed to the one guest table in use and Bony said, grandly: “Gentlemen, Miss Jade had done us the great honour of consenting to dine with us. I have promised that we will talk intelligently.”
“We’ll do our best in that respect,” Lee, the squatter, boomed, placing the chair for Miss Jade.
That dinner, with Miss Jade as a member of his table, was the third item of that day which Bony was to remember for many a year. Miss Jade’s presence was a stimulant to them all, and they were a stimulant to her. She was vivid, and a good foil to the artist and to Bonaparte.
A few minutesafter half-past eight Bony entered the Mount Chalmers Police Station, and there to his surprise he found Superintendent Bolt with Mason. At his entry into the office, Mason slipped outside to close the front door. Bolt, observing Bony’s dinner clothes, said:
“There’s no doubt that some fellers strike lucky patches in life. Lolling around all day, and eating and swilling at the taxpayers’ expense when ordinary men like me and Mason have to work for a crust.”
“It’s a crying shame, Super,” Bony lamented. “But tell me the reason for your tour this evening in a flash car run at the taxpayers’ expense.”
“Just came along to see you, Bony,” rumbled the huge man. “Friend of yours rang me to ask if I would call on you just to make sure you haven’t gone batty. Seems to think the old mind’s got off the rails.”
“Really!”
Bolt nodded and pushed across the foolscap envelope.
“From Colonel Blythe,” he explained. “The Colonel said there’s an enclosure from your Chief Commissioner to himself, and that I was to be sure that you read it. Seems to think that too much luxury is affecting your brain, and advises you to take the hint given by your Chief Commissioner and go home.”
Bony lifted his gaze from his task of rolling a cigarette. There was no answering smile on his face. He said, slowly:
“There are times when my Chief, and others whom I will not name, causes me intense weariness. It is my Chief’s paramount failing to assign me to a case and then impatiently demand instant results. He lent me to Colonel Blythe, and almost immediately demanded my return. I’d not like to think where I would have got in my career if I had ever taken the slightest notice of him. Now then, let us to work-business before pleasure. Have you any developments to announce?”
Superintendent Bolt sighed and shook his head.
“Marcus has slipped us,” he admitted. “And none of Grumman’s luggage has come to light, nary a single item of it. I’m getting a bit worried at the nix results, and our Commissioner is a bit like yours in the expectation of results. Whatd’youknow?”
“That patience always wins the game,” Bony replied. “Have you done anything in re-checking up on those people I named to Mason?”
“Yes.” Bolt took a notebook from a pocket and from it abstracted several flimsies.
“The woman, Eleanor Jade, is all correct so far as background goes. She began in a small way, and worked up. There’s nothing whatever against her, and when she applied for her drink licence she was supported by the police in her application. Everything is plain and straight-forward. The same can’t be said about the drinks steward, George Banks. He told us that he’d been in Miss Jade’s employ for over three months, and that prior to being engaged by Miss Jade he had been working at various hotels following discharge from the Air Force. Now he did work at several hotels during the periods stated in the references he showed to us, but when we described him to the licensees who had written the references, not one could recognise him. Banks is dark and pale of face and of medium weight but the man recalled by the reference-writers all agree that the George Banks employed by them was six feet tall, thin, fair-haired and grey-eyed. We think that George Banks is not that steward’s name, and that he pinched or borrowed the references. The real George Banks hasn’t been traced so far. I haven’t had the Chalet steward hauled over the coals, remembering our agreement about spheres of activity.”
“Thank you, Super. What about the guests?”
“Well, your artist pal, Raymond Leslie, is clear enough,” Bolt went on. “Very well known in his line and the double check failed to shoot holes in his statement. Your other pal, Wilfred Dowries, wasn’t staying at Wideview the night of Grumman’s murder. I sent a man to make a few enquiries from Miss Jade while you all were having lunch. Miss Jade stated that to the best of her knowledge Downes is just a gentleman of leisure. Away back in 1937 he stayed at her guest house at St. Kilda, stayed with her for about six weeks. He rang her on the ’phone during the evening of that day Grumman was found dead, and then stated he had learned of her new venture up here and asked if he could be given accommodation. That’s all we know so far about him. We haven’t completed the check on Lee and the Watkins people.”
Bony looked steadily at the big man, pinching his nether lip between forefinger and thumb.
“Thanks, Super,” he said. “Now, Mason, what did you get from the curators?”
“Chiefly support for your own theory,” answered the Sub-Inspector. “The mixture of grass put down in that lawn is quite suitable for the locality. The two experts I interviewed both agree that the marks were caused by abnormal weight when the grass was stiffly brittle with frost. The abnormal weight crushed the grass stems and the surface roots, and then the action of the sunlight during the subsequent sharp thaw burned the bruised grass, which was not able to withstand the effect of frost as the uninjured grass did.”
“What’s the strength ofall these Devil’s foot-marks?” interposed Bolt. “Mason told me what you told him, but what’s it all about?”
“Well, you see, it turned out like this,” Bony began in explanation. “That night Grumman was poisoned, his body was carried from his room down over the lawn to the wicket gate at the bottom and then to the road and into the ditch where it was found. Grumman’s weight was eleven stone and some odd pounds. If the weight of the man who transported the body to the ditch was ten stone, there was a combined weight of more than twenty-one stone, or three hundred pounds, or a little more than two and one half hundred-weights, concentrated into the area of a man’s shoe sole. When the killer of Grumman walked down that lawn with the body, he left shoe-tracks as plain as though he had walked on sand, the tracks branded upon the grass as though the shoes were red hot.”
“Ah!” Bolt breathed. “And you are an expert on tracks, aren’t you?”
“I have done a little,” Bony modestly admitted.
“Then you know the size of the shoes, eh?”
“Oh, yes! They are size twelve.”
“Size twelve! Same boots, or shoes, you saw on the ramp that night Grumman was corpsed.”
“I know the man whose shoes most likely made those marks.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Bolt. “You know the man who made those foot-marks?”
“Pardon me, but I did not say that. I said that I know the man whose shoes most likely had made those marks.”
Two pairs of eyes bored into Bony’s eyes. Bony fell silent.
“Well, go on, man!” urged the Superintendent. “Who is he?”
“It would be unfair of me to state the name of the man whose shoes most likely made the marks on Miss Jade’s lawn,” Bony told them firmly. “When I know the name of the man whose feet were in the shoes belonging to the man who most likely owns the shoes, I shall suggest that you order his apprehension.”
“Then you think that the shoes which made the marks had been stolen and used for the occasion?” enquired Bolt.
“That may have been possible. I am not sure of anything. Tomorrow, Mason, I’d be obliged if you called on theBagshotts and told them that a man alleging himself to be a collector of clothes and foot-wear for the war victims of Europe has been operating in the district. He is known to be a person of ill repute, and the police would like to know if he called on theBagshotts and if they gave him any old clothes and shoes. Will you do that?”
“Certainly.”
“Why put that over on theBagshotts?” demanded Bolt.
“Because the imprints on Miss Jade’s lawn were made by shoes or boots sizetwelve, and because Bagshott wears shoes of that size.”
“O-oh!” breathed the Superintendent.
“My contention is that because a man’s shoes have made certain imprints it doesn’t follow that that man’s feet were inside the shoes when the imprints were made by them.”
“And you have reason to think that Bagshott’s feet weren’t in his shoes when his shoes made the marks on Miss Jade’s lawn?”
“That, Super, sums up the situation. Now, let me have a few minutes with the bust of our dear friend Marcus.”
Mason went to work unpacking a common butter box.
“Professor Phisgig insists that the result is only a rough approximation,” Bolt pointed out. “The face is a remarkable likeness to the photographs; it’s the shape of the head which the Professor insists is not accurate.”
Mason placed on the table a plaster bust. It was the normal size of a man’s head. It might well have been a copy of a piece of Grecian sculpture. The features possessed classical symmetry.
Bony gazed at it for a full minute. For almost that period he looked at it in profile, and then for three minutes he gazed at the back of the head. Eventually he placed it on the floor and looked at it from the back and from a higher level. Bolt stolidly smoked. Mason did nothing but stare at the bust, saying nothing.
“If Lombroso were living today and could study that head, and then was asked to outline the character of the original, he would say that Marcus was the good boy of an upper-middle-class family,” Bony observed.
“Instead of which he is the bad boy of an aristocratic family,” Bolt contributed. “The Italian criminologist was a bit out-here and there.”
“I agree with him, however, that genius is a form of degeneracy,” argued Bony.“Further than that I will not accompany him. However, there are exceptions to every rule, and the rule is that evil within the mind is stamped upon the features. Marcus is an exception. By the way, do I remember correctly from your records of Marcus that he was known to be in Victoria in 1937?”
“Yes. He killed a man named Langdon in June of that year.”
“And he was not apprehended?”
Bolt shook his head. Bony rose to his feet.
“I’ll be getting along,” he said. “Thanks, gentlemen and comrades, for your co-operation. I have an intuition that Marcus is not as far away from us as the facts and assumptions indicate.”