The Bachelors of Broken Hill. Arthur W. Upfield

insulting, Stillman caused Favalora to scream with rage, Mary Isaacs to weep, Mrs Robinov to order him from the shop. Stillman caused Bill Crome to come within an ace of smashing a fist into his sadistic mouth, and Abbot actually formed his lips to give forth the raspberry.

      A damn-fool woman complained that during her absence from home at North Broken Hill someone had stolen one hundred and eighty pounds she had kept in the American clock on the sitting-room mantel. Barmy! Served her right. What the hell were banks for? Stillman, the swine! Ha! Ha! The wonderful Stillman was bogged down too. The mighty brain from Sydney wasn’t able to produce any results.

      Leads ... blanks. Theories built ... and pulled down. Questions, and ever more and more questions, leading nowhere, giving nothing. Stillman crawfishing out from under, pulling strings in Sydney to let him out and so leave the bag with Crome. Statements ... reports ... theories ... conferences ... disappointment ... hope ... disappointment ... patience ... patience.

      The inquest on Alfred Parsons adjourned sine die.

      Chapter Two

      Conference

      It was a large room overlooking Argent Street, and only when the heavy door was open did the clacking of typewriters penetrate. Through the wide-open windows drifted the distant noise of mining machinery and the nearer sound of trams and cars. A room befitting the senior officer of the South-Western Police Division of New South Wales.

      Superintendent Luis Pavier had never been known to betray irritability. He seldom smiled, and when he did the placid features blurred like a pond disturbed by a stone. There was a stillness about Pavier which had nothing to do with physical control.

      One after another he was lifting reports from his ‘in’ basket, reading and initialling, and dropping them into the ‘out’ basket. It was routine work, the pulse of a virile community with his finger ever on the pulse, the patient mostly normal, and occasionally revealing bouts of fever. There remained three documents on his blotter when he pressed his desk bell.

      The door opened to admit his secretary, who came to stand at his elbow and remove the contents of the ‘out’ basket. Pavier took up the documents from the blotter and turned slightly that he might look at the girl. She was young and good to look at.

      “I must ask you to do these again, Miss Ball,” he said, his voice placid as his face, and, like his face, betraying nothing. “You have a dictionary?”

      “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir, if I’ve made mistakes.”

      “I have underlined them.” He saw the mortification in her eyes. “You are doing quite well in Miss Lodding’s place, and I don’t expect to have from you Miss Lodding’s efficiency. You will only gain that by experience—and perseverance. You are still attending night school?”

      “Oh yes, sir.”

      “Stick to it. All right, Miss Ball.”

      “Excuse me, sir. The duty constable says there’s a man waiting to see you. The name is Knapp. He won’t state his business.”

      Superintendent Pavier glanced at his wrist watch, frowned, again looked up at his temporary secretary.

      “Knapp!” he echoed, and then added: “Bring him in.”

      Coincidence. Must be coincidence. Plenty of people called Knapp. An entire nation once called a foreigner that name. A face he had seen at a police conference a few years back danced among the leaves of memory, and then the living face was beaming at him in his own office.

      “Why, Inspector Bonaparte! How are you?”

      “Well, Super. And you?”

      “Quite a surprise. Sit down. Glad you called in on me.”

      The man dressed in an expertly pressed light grey suit sat on the indicated chair and crossed his legs. The amazingly blue eyes in the light brown face were friendly and happy, and from the inside pocket of the double-breasted coat came a long official envelope.

      “In Sydney yesterday I lunched with your Chief,” Bony said, toying with the envelope. “Among other matters we discussed was that of two poisoning cases which friend Stillman failed to finalise. I took it on myself to apply to my department for leave of absence to see what I can do about them, and I’ve been granted a fortnight. I have here a letter from your Chief. The matter is left entirely to you, as I made it plain that I had no wish to intrude into your domain save with your sanction.”

      Pavier accepted the proffered envelope, slit it open with a nail file, and extracted two letters. The topmost informed him that Inspector Bonaparte had been seconded to the New South Wales Police Department for fourteen days, and the other letter was a private epistle in which the writer explained that Queensland having loaned their ‘precious’ Bonaparte for fourteen days, would he, Pavier, see to it that Bonaparte was back with his own department at the expiration of that period, said Bonaparte being a notorious rebel. Dropping the communications to his desk, Superintendent Pavier said:

      “Accept my assurance, Bonaparte, that we’ll be very, very glad to have you with us. In view of the time that has passed since the last of the poisonings, two weeks will not enable you to accomplish a great deal, but we shall be very grateful to you for what you will, I am sure, do for us.”

      Bony completed the making of what looked something like a cigarette. The eyes were beaming, the teeth a white flash in a dark background.

      “Actually, Super, I am expected to finalise the most stubborn homicide case in five minutes,” Bony explained. “To have granted me fourteen days is excessively generous of my Chief Commissioner. He and I have been associated for many years, and I haven’t noticed any mellowing going on in him. You’ve met him, of course. Forthright in his views—and his language. Tells me I’m not a policeman’s bootlace, but I happen to be the only true detective he has. You see, Super, the cross I have to bear.”

      “Two weeks only,” Pavier said firmly.

      “Be not perturbed,” Bony urged, lighting the awful cigarette. “I am a tortoise, and for twenty years my superiors have tried their hardest to turn me into a hare. Stupid, of course, because so many hares never finish the race. I always finish a race, always finalise the case I consent to take up.”

      “Consent to take up!”

      “Precisely. Consent is the word. The number of sackings I have received no longer interest me. I have always been reinstated. Now don’t you worry over me. My Chief knows my methods, my dear Watson. I have your co-operation?”

      Pavier unknotted his eyebrows and slicked back his over-long white hair from the high and narrow forehead. The window light glistened in his dark eyes. They only indicated mood.

      “Had I been unaware of your reputation, Bonaparte, I might have been angered by your—er—independence.”

      The smile on Bony’s face evinced neither conceit nor arrogance, but assurance based on knowledge which is power.

      “I am naturally impatient of red tape and regulations which are apt to bring on gastric trouble,” he said. “So let us devote our attention to these cyanide cases which Stillman, as the living worshipper of the Civil Machine, so signally failed to finalise. I have never failed, due, I believe, to an iron determination not to be sidetracked by the whims of a superior, and to an inherent gift of perseverance. I am not a Stillman who can ignore defeat. I dare not fail, for failure would mean the murder of the one thing which keeps me from the camps of the aborigines. To explain further would occupy too much time. I hope to finalise these poisonings within the fortnight. If not, then, with or without official sanction, I shall continue my investigation until I do discover the poisoner.”

      “But you must obey orders,” expostulated Pavier, whose whole career had been governed by obedience to orders and the issuing of orders. “One cannot be a useful member of any organisation and not obey the orders of the organisation.”

      “I obey an order when it suits me,” Bony said, and Pavier marvelled that he