Murder Must Wait. Arthur W. Upfield

lock when you pulled it shut on leaving. You are sure you did that, Mrs Bulford?”

      “Quite, Inspector.”

      “I heard my wife close the door and the lock snap,” added Mr Bulford.

      “What would be the odds favouring anyone hiding in the building before the bank was closed to the public?”

      “Odds in favour! A million to one against. There is nowhere to hide. You shall see for yourself.”

      “I was hoping to. When is the bank chamber cleaned?”

      “Every morning. A man comes at seven-forty-five. I let him in, and he leaves when the bank is opened for business.”

      “Does he ever use the back door?”

      “Yes. The kitchen, you see, is on the ground floor. There’s a door from the kitchen to the back yard, but it is fitted with a Yale lock and never left open. The kitchen window is protected with iron bars. The cleaner couldn’t have had anything to do with it. He’s been engaged here for over twenty years.”

      “You have other children?”

      “Two boys,” replied Mrs Bulford. “They are at boarding-school in Melbourne.”

      “Mrs Bulford. The baby was born at the local hospital?”

      “Yes, it was.”

      “Your doctor?”

      “Dr Nott. Whatever ...”

      “Pardon me, was the infant bottle-fed?”

      “It was,” answered Mrs Bulford, frowning.

      “Healthy?”

      “Naturally,” came the echo of Mrs Delph’s reply.

      “Do you entertain much?”

      “No. We give a sherry party on the third Tuesday in every month.”

      “Er, the bank pays,” interrupted the manager. “Usual thing, you know. Important clients and others who cannot be overlooked. And, of course, our personal friends.”

      “These parties ... the usual time?”

      “From four-thirty to six.”

      “Where are we going?” asked Mrs Bulford, and Bony presented the next question as though he hadn’t heard her.

      “Do the same people come to your house every month?”

      “The majority, yes. All known very well to us, of course.”

      “Mrs Delph ... is she one of your guests?”

      “Yes. So is her husband when he can get away from his practice.”

      “Does Mrs Rockcliff have an account here?”

      The question probed. The eyes behind the rimless glasses flickered, and the shutters fell.

      “No, Inspector. We never heard the name before we read about it in the paper, and the staff couldn’t recognise a client from the picture brought by a constable.”

      “Is it true that the woman’s baby has vanished?” asked Mrs Bulford.

      “Unfortunately, yes. Forgive me if thought impertinent. On that afternoon your baby was stolen, what was the nature of your engagement?”

      “Oh! A cocktail party given by Mr and Mrs Reynolds.”

      “Our best clients, Inspector,” interposed the manager. “I was supposed to be at their house before six that day. I left the chamber at five-thirty to brush up before leaving. It was then I found the cot empty. It was on the landing outside this room.”

      “What time did you leave?” Alice asked, and Bony frowned, for he had already told her this detail, and it was the question he was about to put.

      Mrs Bulford glared at Alice. “At about half past four,” she snapped.

      “Then it was intended that the baby be left alone for something like an hour and a half?” persisted Alice.

      “The child was quite all right, and, we thought, quite safe,” replied Mrs Bulford firmly and frigidly.

      “When investigating these cases,” Bony said, suavely, “it’s necessary to explore every avenue to ascertain whether the thief’s success was due to chance circumstances or to close knowledge of the parents’ habits. And so these questions which may seem too personal. How often prior to the date the child was stolen was it left alone in the building?”

      Mr Bulford’s face slowly reddened, but no change came to the face of his wife, who replied with some asperity:

      “That I cannot recall, Inspector. Several times, probably. It has happened when my husband and I have visited together, or he had to go out on business or play tennis when I, too, had an engagement.”

      “You said that you give a sherry party every third Tuesday in the month. Do Mr and Mrs Reynolds also have a set day every month?”

      “Oh, yes. It’s always on the second Wednesday.”

      “You meet there the same people who come to your parties?”

      “Yes, everyone in our social circle, you know.”

      “Of course. Do you employ a domestic?”

      “That’s impossible,” replied Mrs Bulford, indicating that lack of domestic assistance was her major cross.

      Bony stood, bowed his leave to Mrs Bulford and followed Alice and the manager down the stairs to the hall, where he said he would like to glance into the banking chamber.

      It was quite small, the wide counter crossing the width of the partitioned offices behind it. They were shown the strong-room, and finally the manager’s office ornately furnished with a large table desk commanded by a swivel chair, and several well-upholstered chairs for the clients.

      “Very snug,” Bony observed. “A client should find it a pleasure to ask for an overdraft, and you, Mr Bulford, to grant it.”

      Mr Bulford chuckled ... suddenly a different man.

      “As a matter of fact, Inspector, every bank likes to accommodate a client, and always finds refusal distasteful.”

      “Ah! I shall remember that when next I interview my bank,” Bony vowed. “I’ve always thought my bank manager to be an ogre.”

      When Mr Bulford had opened the side door and Bony was about to leave, the manager said, hesitantly:

      “That poor woman, Mrs Rockcliff ... did it happen that she disturbed the baby-thief, d’you think?”

      “It could have been like that, Mr Bulford. She had habitually left the baby alone in the house. Indicates a pattern, doesn’t it?”

      The telephone in the parlour called the manager, who closed the door after them with a slight show of haste. Alice walked on to the street. Bony leaned against the door with an ear to the keyhole, where he could hear the manager’s voice, but could not distinguish the words.

      On joining Alice in the taxi, he said:

      “I think that will do for this afternoon. It’s nearly five.”

      “I want a drink,” Alice stated.

      “Pardon!”

      “Drink, please.”

      “Nearest milk bar, driver,” ordered Bony.

      “The River Hotel,” firmly countermanded Alice.

      Chapter Seven

      A Drink for Alice

      The car slipped through a wide avenue of date palms which laid bars of black shadow across the road so that it was like traversing a tiger’s back, and ultimately the palms gave place to ancient red gums framing