I don’t understand it. No one in Broome understands it. What kind of policemen are you people? Tell me that, instead of standing there like a dumb cluck. You can catch a poor Chinese for smoking opium, but you can’t catch this person who strangled two women. Two women, mind you, not one. You can tell that gang of ruffians who came up from Perth that I’ll make their thick ears burn if they don’t produce results.”

A second car drew up outside the station, and Inspector Walters attempted to assure the lady that the Perth homicide men would make an arrest when they were ready, that another detective was coming north to continue their investigation.

“Well, we people of Broome want results,” went on the woman. “You policemen think you’re the bosses of Broome, and you are going to learn your mistake… all of you…from the Chief Commissioner downward. I’m the boss of Broome, and don’t you forget it. Mind you, I’m talking officially. Privately, I consider both your wife and you as my friends. What was the name of that fool from Perth?”

“You are referring to the senior detective?”

“You know I am.” The woman turned to glare at two men who entered the office: one wearing official uniform, the other in smartly cut civilian clothes. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You tell him from me that if he doesn’t stop these murders I’ll expose his fool doodling in theWest Coast News, and in case you don’t know it, Mr. Walters, I own that newspaper… and thePerth Saturday Record… and about half of thePerth Daily Reporter. Is Esther at home?”

“Yes. She’s somewhere in the house.”

“No, no! Don’t bother. I’ll find her.” The woman turned from the still rigid Inspector Walters. She nodded to the second policeman, who had sat down at a desk and was taking up a pen. The civilian had his back to them. He was studying a wall map of Broome and the surrounding district, and as though conscious of being examined, he turned to meet the angry brown eyes with eyes as blue and as bland as the Indian Ocean that day.