Arthur Upfield - An Author Bites the Dust

“I could, Bony, old boy. But you hesitate. Be your age.”

“I think she’d be interested in me,” boasted Bony.

“No doubt of it. That’s why I’m trembling for you. She is catastrophic to anyone having your sentimentality of heart. They talk about atomic blondes-Nancy is a cosmic blonde. She’s got all the doings ten times each way, and why Hollywood hasn’t snapped her up at a million dollarsper diem beats me.”

“I saw her the other day.”

“You did!” exclaimed Bagshott.

“Yesterday, in fact. I’ll need to remember my advanced age. Honestly, she would like to meet me. You see, I’m a South African journalist, a special writer on the staff of theJohannesburg Age. I’m visiting Australia to study the people and to gather material for a novel or two.”

“You don’t say!” Bagshott leaned back in his chair and laughed without restraint. Then, “I’ll write the letter of introduction,” he agreed. “But we must be careful. Nancy will be sure to check up on you by cabling theJohannesburg Age. You’d be sunk then.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Bony calmly said. “Twenty-four hours before I presented your letter of introduction, I should myself prepare the editor of that journal with a message of enlightenment.”

Donation by Mr Pickwick

EARLY the wind swung to the north, and by nine o’clock the temperature was above normal and rising fast. Such a day as the morning promised could not be better spent than in lounging in the shade produced by the lilac-trees at the bottom of Miss Pinkney’s garden.

Into this inviting shade Bony brought an easy chair, several books, and an easy mind. It was his own time, a day of his leave, and it was nobody’s business how he spent it. He had not been seated five minutes when Mr Pickwick emerged from a gooseberry bush and laid at his feet the ping-pong ball.

“It’s too hot to play ball this morning,” he told the cat. “I wonder now why Miss Pinkney named you MrPickwick? ”

Questions! Endless questions! Bony’s life was a continuous effort to find answers to questions, all manner of questions. They were not unlike living creatures parading before him without cease. Some were aggressive, like “Who killed Cock Robin?” Others were languid fellows, such as “Why had Miss Pinkney named a cat Mr Pickwick?”

He was in no mood to seek answers to questions this warm morning, and yet could not withstand them. Why had Wilcannia-Smythe burgled Mervyn Blake’s writing-room? Why had he taken away selected pages of typescript and a note-book?

Wilcannia-Smythe entered the writing-room that evening to obtain data he knew or suspected existed, but did not know in what form. Had he known in what form he would not have had to read the typescript and several pages of the note-book. That indicated that the things he took away actually belonged to the dead author and were not his own possessions that Blake had borrowed. And why the excessive caution in wearing gloves? There seemed to be no reason for that unless he thought it likely that Mrs Blake would discover and report the theft.

Mrs Blake had not reported the theft. Instead, she had gone to the Rialto and taxed Wilcannia-Smythe with the theft, producing his handkerchief in proof. The more clever they are, the more stupid the mistakes they make once they follow an unfamiliar path.

Convinced that a theft had been committed, the normal procedure to follow, in order to find out what data had been stolen, was to have Wilcannia-Smythe arrested and his possessions examined. That, however, would mean applying to Superintendent Bolt, for Bony could not act officially outside his own State, and he did want to reach the position of placing the completed case before Bolt, and thus putting one over the unpleasant Inspector Snook.

Then Nancy Chesterfield had not acted normally that afternoon on the terrace of the Rialto Hotel. She was in the company of Wilcannia-Smythe when Mrs Blake arrived. They had not witnessed her arrival; Mrs Blake had been met by the head waiter, of whom she had inquired for Wilcannia-Smythe. The head waiter, it was obvious, had told her that Wilcannia-Smythe was on the terrace with a lady, but he did not know the lady’s name, because had he told Mrs Blake with whom Wilcannia-Smythe was taking afternoon tea, Mrs Blake would instinctively have glanced over the company to find her.

Mrs Blake had entertained Wilcannia-Smythe for a full week before her husband died, and probably often before that, and yet, following her appeal to him, was rudely left at her table. Instead of returning to Miss Chesterfield, Wilcannia-Smythe walked into the building. And instead of crossing the terrace and greeting Mrs Blake, Miss Chesterfield, who had been Mrs Blake’s guest and was her friend, had quietly left and driven away back to the city.

H’m! Strange people.

Bagshott’s several assertions might not be very much overdrawn. That he was given to over-statement, Bony was aware, but over-statement is notmis -statement. Were these writing people as altruistic as the public believed? Were these eight people now under review as friendly as the summary gave one to think? He was reminded of shops that have ornate fronts and frowsy backs. Was the Blake’s house party but a facade behind which dwelt jealousy and hate and envy? Had disappointment, disillusionment, sickening sycophancy and greed for fame created the murder lust and released it?

Oh yes, the case was well worth his attention and the sacrifice of his leave, which ought to have been spent on holiday with his wife. In a day or two he would go to town and call on Miss Nancy Chesterfield with Bagshott’s letter of introduction. That would be an experience, and probably a pleasant one, but he would have to mind hisp’s andq’s, and meanwhile study some of this Australian literature, and swot up a few quotations.

He stretched and sighed. Sleep would have been preferable to the study of literature, but the character he was gradually assuming was going to be difficult to maintain. He had pretended to be a swagman. He had pretended to be a wealthy cattleman. He had even set himself up as an opal buyer, an insurance agent, and a drummer, and had once pretended with fine success to be an Indian rajah. He felt, however, that to pretend to be a South African journalist was going to take a lot of effort to achieve even moderate success.

“Ah well, Mr Pickwick, let’s look into these damn novels,” he murmured to the cat, who had stretched full length at his feet. “I’m sure it will be quite a task on a day like this.”

Inunder ten minutes he was finding it so. Wilcannia-Smythe was unfortunate, for the day was distinctly hostile to his work, despite the smooth and balanced prose, the clever simile, the brilliant paradox and the rest. With boredom not wholly generated by the book, Bony read for an hour before forming an opinion. Without doubt the author was a brilliant writer, and equally without doubt he was a poor story-teller. He was able to lay bricks with the tradesman’s proficiency, but he lacked the architect’s vision of the mansion to be built.

The Bachelor of Arts said to the cat, “If that is first-rate literature, Mr Pickwick, my education was faulty.”

With grim determination Bony picked up Mervyn Blake’s last novel, published ten years before. The temperature in the shade was now in the vicinity of ninety degrees, and this was emphatically unfair to the dead author. Judgment, however, was delayed when, with vast relief, Bony saw Miss Pinkney emerge from the house carrying a tray of morning tea.

“Now don’t you get up,” she cried a moment later. “I’ve brought you a pot of tea and a few scones I’ve just baked. Only just a smear of butter, mind you, to recall that we were once civilized and had plenty. Oh, Mr Pickwick! There you are! I hope he’s no trouble to you, Mr Bonaparte.”