Arthur Upfield - An Author Bites the Dust

“I’d like another cup of tea,” Bony said.

The major-domo seated Mrs Blake and beckoned to a boy uniformed in white. He gave an order and the boy sped away into the building. He took Mrs Blake’s order and stalked to an alcove of palms where waitresses not engaged waited to serve. Neither Wilcannia-Smythe nor his companion-if she knew Mrs Blake-was aware of that woman’s entry on to this stage. The boy issued from the building carrying a blotting pad and note-paper, which he set down before Mrs Blake. She proceeded to write with a silver stylograph. When the waitress reached her with the tea things, she was slipping the note into an envelope and looking round for the boy.

Under cover of light conversation with Mrs Farn, Bony watched the little play with profound interest, his insatiable curiosity sharpened. The waitress set out the tea things and the boy stood back with the envelope on a salver. People left their tables and drifted away, and others were conducted forward by themagnifico. The boy came forward, weaving between guests and tables. When almost at their table, he turned towards Wilcannia-Smythe and his friend, and they heard him say, “For you, sir.”

Wilcannia-Smythe looked at him and then at the note preferred on the tray. Bony expected to see surprise registered on his face when he saw the handwriting, but Wilcannia-Smythe’s smiling face indicated no recognition. He spoke to his companion, obviously begging to be excused, opened the envelope and read the contents. She looked away and towards Mrs Farn and Bony, but not quickly enough to meet his gaze.

Wilcannia-Smythe slipped the note into a pocket and asked again to be excused, saying something that changed her expression. She nodded, and he rose to follow the boy, and Bony noted that he walked with the easy grace of the dancing master.

“Please get that waitress again, Mrs Farn,” Bony said urgently.

Having crossed the terrace, Wilcannia-Smythe stood before Mrs Blake. His back was towards Bony, but a man’s back can reveal much, and the straight and narrow back of Mr Wilcannia-Smythe revealed his suave greeting. Mrs Blake smiled frostily and waved her hand in invitation to him to be seated. He sat with his back to Bony, which was unfortunate.

The blonde in blue was undisguisedly perplexed, her eyes puckered, her left hand nervously teasing her handbag. No longer did she smoke with any evidence of enjoyment.

The distance between Mrs Blake and the unobtrusively watching blue eyes was not less than eighty feet, but every shade of expression, every movement of the dark brows, and the slight trembling of hands were noted. She was talking rapidly and she was not in a pleasant frame of mind. The light was reflected by her glasses in dots and dashes. The white head of the man she was addressing seldom moved save now and then to indicate dissent.

Had he been a lip reader, Bony could have followed what Mrs Blake was saying. Mrs Farn’s voice had become a gentle sound against thebabel of over-loud voices. He had not forgotten the honey blonde and he regretted that he could not keep both her and Mrs Blake under observation. Mrs Blake had to have priority.

Mrs Blake was becoming positively angry, and repeatedly Wilcannia-Smythe was shaking his head in denial of what appeared to be accusations. Then the red-headed waitress was standing between Mrs Blake and himself, and Mrs Farn was asking for another pot of tea.

“Who’s the girl who was with Mr Wilcannia-Smythe?” asked Mrs Farn. “Don’t look that way. She might think we are talking about her.”

“Oh, her! That’s Miss Nancy Chesterfield.”

Nancy Chesterfield! Bony covertly regarded the blonde. Nancy Chesterfield, indeed! One of the six guests staying with theBlakes that night he died. She was the woman who had accompanied Blake from the literary meeting to the hotellounge, and from the lounge to his home in his car.

“I think she’s the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen,” the waitress declared softly. “She knows how to dress, and that’s a gift, not an art. Wonder why that Wilcannia-Smythe left her to talk to Mrs Blake? Funny Miss Chesterfield didn’t go over there as well. Must be something up. Mrs Blake’s in a real tantrum. I must go. See you later, perhaps.”

Mrs Blake was fumbling in her handbag. Her face was coloured by emotion, and her eyes maintained their gaze on Wilcannia-Smythe. The hand groping in her bag seemed to be energized more by unrestrained anger than mental direction, because the result was delayed a full minute. Eventually she produced a handkerchief. It was a man’s handkerchief. She held a corner of it towards Wilcannia-Smythe. He became perfectly still, until after Mrs Blake had dropped the handkerchief on the table near him.

The watchful Bony thought it probable he was now seeing the light. The very last thing he had observed inside Blake’s writing-room before Wilcannia-Smythe had switched off his torch was a handkerchief lying on the writing desk. That was a white handkerchief, and so was this one produced from Mrs Blake’s handbag. If it were the same then it could be assumed that Mrs Blake had discovered it on the writing desk, that it bore Wilcannia-Smythe’s initials, and that, believing he had entered the building unknown to her, she had examined her husband’s possessions and missed the typescript and the note-book. Now she was demanding an explanation; most likely she was demanding the return of the note-book and typescript.

The fresh pot of tea was brought and Bony had to withdraw his attention from the play. He heard Ethel Lacy remark to Mrs Farn, “I don’t think they hit it off very well when he was staying there. He’s a mealy-mouthed, sarcastic devil whose face I’d like to slap. He was pretty thick with the Montrose woman and Mervyn Blake.”

She drifted away and Bony asked Mrs Farn what had led to the statement.

“I asked her what she thought of Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, and that’s what she said,” replied Mrs Farn. “I think Miss Chesterfield is going to leave.”

“H’m! Interesting, Mrs Farn, most interesting. Please go on talking. I think the subject was chickens. Thank you. Yes, I will take another cake.”

Once again stealthily observing Mrs Blake and the white-haired man, Bony saw that he was now standing and that the handkerchief was no longer lying on the table. Had not the interruption come, he might have been certain that Wilcannia-Smythe had taken possession of the handkerchief, instead of merely assuming that he had done so. Mrs Blake was now looking appealingly at Wilcannia-Smythe. Her mouth was trembling, and her hands were betraying her emotion. Wilcannia-Smythe sat down in the chair opposite, to her, thus enabling Bony to see his face.

He began to speak, his face devoid of emotional stress, the manner in which his lips moved denoting deliberate speech. He spoke for at least two minutes, Mrs Blake regarding him intently. Then abruptly, he rose and stood smiling down at her, made a little bow of finality and walked unhurriedly, not back to Miss Chesterfield but to the main entrance of the building. When he had gone, Bony’s gaze returned to Mrs Blake. She was biting her nether lip, and her left hand resting on the table was spasmodically clenching.

From the corner of his eyes, Bony saw something in blue rise up. The gorgeous Miss Chesterfield floated across the terrace to the front steps, daintily went down them, walked like Venus across the open space to the car park and there entered a smart single-seater. Its engine burred, and slowly Miss Chesterfield drove down to the highway and turnedcitywards.

“She’ll be furious, being left like that,” said Mrs Farn. “I know I’d be.”

“My wife often is,” Bony averred, absently. “Let us wait for the curtain. Will you have a cigarette?”