Arthur Upfield - An Author Bites the Dust

“I am strongly inclined to believe that, too, Mrs Farn,” Bony said earnestly. “I like your Priscilla Pinkney, and through her I am going to get right into the background of that night Mervyn Blake died. There were, you remember, six guests, Blake and his wife, and the cook and the maid. Can you tell me anything of the cook, Mrs Salter?”

“Quite a respectable woman.”

“Yes, I have been informed on that point. I mean can you tell me what your impressions are of her, assuming that you have met her?”

“I haven’t met her,” Mrs Farn said. “I have heard of her.”

“What of the maid, Ethel Lacy?”

“I know her and her parents. Hard-working girl but a little frivolous.” Mrs Farn paused to consider. “Ethel has always worked in neighbouring guest-houses and hotels. She likes to be among people. I fancy she liked working for theBlakes when they had guests. In fact, she told me that she was sorry she had to leave them.”

“Where is she now?”

“Working at the Rialto Hotel.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“To the Rialto? No.”

“Would you give me the honour of having afternoon tea there with me this afternoon?”

Mrs Farn’s eyes betrayed doubt, but Bony hastened to add, “I should like to see this Ethel Lacy-and another person, a Mr Wilcannia-Smythe. If you accompanied me, I could pretend to be an old friend. I suppose we could hire a car for the afternoon?”

“Ye-es.”

“The proposition does not appeal?”

“Oh, it’s not that,” he was assured. “You see, the suggestion takes my breath away. The Rialto is a fearfully expensive place.” Mrs Farn smiled and then laughed. “Thank you. I shall be delighted to go. I’ve always wanted to.”

“Good! I’ll call for you at-let me see-half past three?”

“Yes, that will do.”

Bony pondered, gazing at his feet

“I did think of asking Miss Pinkney to come along, too, but perhaps-no. Not this time. You might know other people there whom you could point out to me. You see, Mrs Farn, I haven’t as yet been able to get my mental teeth into this case, and I’ve got to start somewhere. I may get the start at the Rialto. I may get the start during a conversation with Miss Lacy, and I rather think that an entree through you would be of assistance. If you could claim me as a relation, now. I am not precisely unpresentable. I could be your brother-in-law on a visit from South Africa.”

Beau Bonaparte

THE Rialto Hotel is built on a lower slope of Donna Buang, and from the vantage of its magnificent terrace the visitor may look over the tree-lined river and the Valley of the Yarra to the gum-clothed BawBaws. At Christmas and at Easter the place is full to capacity with people who prefer pocket wallets to bank accounts in which to slip extra profits, but in the first week in January it is possible to lounge on the terrace over the teacups without being overwhelmed by vulgarity.

Mrs Farn and Bony arrived in Constable Simes’s car and strolled up the white front steps to the spacious terrace fronting the entire building. There were some forty people seated at tables near the low stone balustrade, and, notwithstanding the paucity of visitors this afternoon, the scene was gay with red and white striped sunshades, the colourful frocks of the women and the almost equally colourful ensembles of the men.

A magnificent major-domo welcomed the arrivals with a bow and broken English, and conducted them to a table, where, unnecessarily, he re-arranged the chairs. They were admiring the remarkable view when a waitress in black, relieved with white apron and cap, reached them with afternoon tea.

The waitress said, “Good afternoon, Mrs Farn.”

Half turning, Bony looked at her. She was an attractive red-head.

“Good afternoon, Ethel,” Mrs Farn said, brightly. “I was hoping you would serve us.”

“I saw you come up and so I put myself forward to serve.”

She took careful note of Mrs Farn’s escort, from his sleek black shoes to his sleek black hair, with the pin-striped grey suit in between. She gazed with calm inquiry into the clear blue eyes, and at the straight nose and the finely-moulded mouth. She was twenty-nine according to the records, and Bony thought it remarkable that she had successfully evaded marriage. He liked her voice.

“This is my brother-in-law from South Africa,” Mrs Farn said, having been coached on the trip from Yarrabo. “I wanted him to see the Rialto and the view. He’s staying at Miss Pinkney’s cottage. Have you been busy over Christmas?”

“Very. We had three hundred and sixteen for Christmas dinner,” replied Ethel Lacy. Her interest in Bony, however, did not wane, and she could not forbear to probe. “You come from South Africa, sir? What part?”

“Johannesburg,” Bony lied. “I am on theJohannesburg Age, and I’ve come to this country to visit my late brother’s wife and to gather material for a series of articles and perhaps a novel or two.”

“Oh, a writer!”Red-head was impressed. It was obvious that she wanted to linger with them, but she had noted the look of disapproval on the face of the major-domo that a member of his staff should be familiar with the patrons. With a rustle of starched clothes, she departed, and Mrs Farn began to pour the tea.

“Did I do it rightly?” she asked.

“Superbly, Mrs Farn,” he told her, smilingly. “I am sure, even thus early, that I am going to fall for her. She will be worth my brokenheart, and my wife’s amusement when I tell her. Can you see Mr Wilcannia-Smythe on the terrace?”

Mrs Farn’s dark eyes went into action, and without a hint of the conspirator, she examined their fellow guests.

Then, “He’s sitting on your right-three tables away-with a blonde dressed in blue. The man with the white hair.”

“A beautiful position,” Bony remarked loudly.“A magnificent view, indeed. It was a happy thought to come here.”

He moved carelessly so that he could examine the man with the white hair and the beautiful blonde he was entertaining. She was laughing and he was presenting his open cigarette-case.

Forty-two was his recorded age. His hair was snow-white and worn over-long, sweeping back from the broad forehead in leonine waves. His eyes were hazel, and at the moment were regarding his companion with light mockery. It was an extraordinary face, but without the strength that should have been there in accordance with his hair and the shape of his head.

“Yes, a restful place, indeed,” Bony went on, and added softly, “D’youknow the woman?”

“I’m sure I’ve seen her,” replied Mrs Farn, two vertical lines deep between her eyes.“How vexatious!”

“Perhaps the Lacy girl would know,” Bony suggested.

“Yes, she might. I’ll try to attract her attention.”

“Do. Is there anyone else here you recognize, and in whom I could be interested?”

Mrs Farn once again surveyed the company, the frown still deep between her eyes. This suddenly vanished, and she said, “Yes. Mrs Mervyn Blake is coming up the steps.”

Beyond Wilcannia-Smythe and his friend, Bony observed the widow of the dead author, and his first impression was one of slight disappointment. It puzzled him why this should be, for she was dressed in a natural linen frock, wore smart shoes and stockings, and her abundant hair was correctly groomed. Wearing neither hat nor gloves, she appeared as though she were staying at the hotel. She was still handsome, still graceful as she walked from the steps towards the main entrance to meet the major-domo.

To him she said something and the man nodded and spoke, but with what he said she disagreed, shaking her head with sharp protest. The major-domo then conducted her to a table at the back of the terrace near the main entrance.