Sergeant Allen did not return from Sydney; but a detective-inspector named Handy came down, to go out with Wilton and Joe Peace for three days. He spent two days inquiring into the past of William Spinks, during which he often interviewed Marion, and tried to interview the mother, but was prevented by that woman’s quick and probably unreasoning hostility. After being satisfied about the origin of the money which had set Marion up in business, he returned to Sydney to the relief of many people in general and Constable Telfer in particular.
As far as concerned the people of Bermagui, it seemed that the police investigation into the disappearance of the Do-me, and those with her, had been a failure, and was recognized as such. Much to Blade’s relief opinion remained strongly in favour of the missing launchmen. In such a small community everyone was familiar with everyone else’s affairs, and everyone at Bermagui knew that neither Bill Spinks not his mate owned a pistol, only a rifle which discharged a .32 bullet, and was used for dispatching sharks brought to the gaff by anglers. No motive for killing Mr Ericson could even be imagined; for everyone knew what he was planning to do and how the Spink family were to benefit by those plans.
The first swordfish of the new season was brought in for weighing by a Mr Rockaway, who had settled at Wapengo Inlet, ten miles south of Bermagui, where he had built himself a fine house and a jetty to take his fifty-foot launch. Thereafter Bermagui tried hard to get into its busy stride for the very important big game fishing season. Christmas passed. Then on New Year’s Day six anglers between them brought to Mr Blade’s scales six swordfish and two mako sharks. It certainly appeared that Mr Blade’s hope that the shadow on Bermagui would quickly pass was to be realized.
A little after three o’clock on fifth January, a man of average height and weight, dressed in a smart double-breasted suit of light grey tweed, entered the club secretary’s office. The visitor’s eyes were blue, his hair black and inclined to waviness, and his skin dark. A good-looking man, yet he was not a white man.
“Mr Blade—Mr Edward Blade?”
“Yes. Will you sit down?”
“Thank you. May I smoke?”
A cigarette was rolled more swiftly than Blade had ever seen done. He was entranced. Then he was again hearing the pleasantly modulated, clearly accented voice.
“Detective-Sergeant Allen has spoken to me most highly of you, Mr Blade. He tells me that you are a man to be confidently trusted, and one eager to be of assistance to all and sundry. Also that you are conversant with everyone here, the history of the place, its geography, and that you will gladly advise me on how to become the complete angler.”
“Sergeant Allen is generous. I shall be delighted to assist you in any and every way.”
Blade was experiencing slight awe of this visitor to Bermagui, who was so immaculate, so easy in manner, and still so unusual. He looked not unlike an Indian prince. He spoke, as they do in Dublin, the purest English. Even more remarkable than his appearance and speech was his obvious self-confidence.
“I do not think you have ever heard of me. My name is Napoleon Bonaparte.”
Blade bowed from his chair behind the table. The famous name claimed his interest, but did not enlighten him. Had his visitor said he was Marco Polo or Nero he would have wondered no more than he did at any man having such a name in this year of grace when it could be so easily changed for another by deed poll.
“May I be encouraged to rely on your discretion?” inquired Mr Napoleon Bonaparte.
“Certainly.”
“And to hope that you will regard what I want to say with the strictest confidence?”
Blade nodded his agreement, and Mr Napoleon Bonaparte’s blue eyes beamed upon him. Despite his “backing and filling”, the visitor was a likeable chap.
“It is not my intention to announce my profession, Mr Blade, and therefore I have taken care to inform those at the hotel that I am a cattleman down from the Northern Territory on a prolonged holiday. Fame is so apt to become a devouring fire that I keep mine under a quart-pot. I see that you do not associate me with the police, although I have told you my name. I am a detective-inspector from the Queensland Criminal Investigation Branch; now attached, by arrangement with my Chief Commissioner, to the New South Wales C.I.B.”
“Indeed!” murmured Blade.
“My visit to Bermagui is a dual-purpose one. Having been asked to investigate the affair of the missing Do-me, I see my way quite clear to the indulgence of what I am told is the finest sport in the world, swordfishing, at someone else’s expense.”
The features of Inspector Bonaparte’s face were immobile, but in his eyes gleamed humour which made Blade suspect impish cynicism. It occurred to him suddenly that this Bonaparte man was really quite charming.
“So the police have not yet given up the mystery,” he said.
“By no means. In fact, they are only beginning on it by asking me to take over the investigation. Poor Sergeant Allen admitted defeat, complaining of the paucity of clues and leads, and cursing the sea and a particular launch named Marlin which he did not seem to favour. Then Inspector Handy agreed with him in all but the sea and the launch. And so, having read all their reports and having gone through their collection of statements, I decided that this was a meaty bone for me on which to try the teeth of my brain.
“It is certainly an out-of-the-way case. I have to admit that I shy clear of crimes of violence where there are fingerprints and revolvers, bodies and missing valuables, and a nark or two in a thieves’ kitchen waiting to inform for the price of beer. I like my cases minus bodies and minus clues, if possible. Which is why this Do-me case so attracts me. Three men go to sea in a fishing launch, and neither launch nor men are ever seen again. Then the head of one of them is brought up in a ship’s trawl, and it is seen that its owner was murdered with a pistol bullet. There is no motive to account for the killing, and everything points away from either the launchman or his mate having done the killing.”
“I am glad to hear you say that, Inspector,” interrupted the club secretary. “I have known the Spinks family for several years, and young Spinks was a hard-working, dependable man, frank and straightforward. As for his mate, Bob Garroway, a lad of only nineteen, he has been hereabouts for five or six years and was well liked.”
“Well, it will be all cleared up one day, Mr Blade. I have never failed to finalize a case, and it would be unthinkable for me to have any doubt regarding this one. I suppose you don’t know who Ericson was?”
“No.”
“I will tell you, Mr Blade; because I shall want your collaboration, as this case will take me far from my usual background. I am not familiar with the sea. Now, Ericson retired three years ago from New Scotland Yard, London, where he was a superintendent, in fact, was one of the famous Big Five. Years before retiring, he had met the present New South Wales Chief Commissioner of Police, and these two men became warm friends.
“When he retired Ericson was a wealthy man, having inherited money, and he built himself a house at a place called Warsash, bordering Southampton Water, where he owned his own yacht and spent much of his time fishing. It was after reading an article on swordfishing here at Bermagui that he wrote his friend out here asking for further details of life in Australia, and the result of that was his acceptance of an invitation to come out here, make the Chief Commissioner’s home his headquarters, and from there test this sport of swordfishing.
“He arrived on September the third, and four days later visited the Commissioner’s dentist to have work done on his teeth. Thus it was that his head was identified.