“I’ve always impressed on the minds of young constables that there isn’t the slightest excuse for a policeman not being a gentleman,” Pavier observed. “You obtained a copy of Stillman’s official summary, of course?”

“Yes. Disappointing in real value. Throws much of the onus on Sergeant Crome for having permitted the customers to leave Favalora’s Cafe before questioning. In fact, Stillman wriggled out by blaming all and sundry, excluding himself.”

“No one blames Crome for that affair at the cafe more than Sergeant Crome,” Pavier said. “The circumstances, however, relieve him of some of the blame. It was a hot and sultry day, unusual for Broken Hill, where the summers are very hot with little if any humidity. The temperature today, for instance, is somewhere about ninety-eight degrees but isn’t trying. Old Parsons was just the type to collapse from the heat. And Crome knew him, too.”

“Crome didn’t get along with Stillman?”

The Superintendent gave one of his rare smiles, and this one was minus laughter. Bony side-stepped the subject.

“If Crome will work with me,” he said, “we’ll put Stillman hard and fast into his box. Well, thanks for the lunch.”

Pavier went first down the stairs to the street, satisfied that Bonaparte and Crome, and Crome’s staff, would team well, and pleased that first impressions had not endured. Arrived on the pavement, he heard Bony exclaim:

“Jimmy! How are you, Jimmy?”

Pavier did not hear the ensuing conversation, crossing the street to Headquarters, and Bony kept an eye on the Superintendent, smiling at Jimmy the Screwsman, who was emphatically uncertain of the situation.

“On holidays, Inspector,” asserted Jimmy, inwardly cursing his luck. He watched the smile fade from the blue eyes. “Honest, Inspector. Haven’t taken a trick now for years-true.”

“Of course you haven’t, Jimmy. Been long in Broken Hill?”

“Since October. Decided to go straight, and found the only chance of doing that was to get right away from the cities.”