Arthur Upfield - An Author Bites the Dust

“Miss Pinkney is downright in everything she does and thinks,” Dr Fleetwood said, and laughed. “A good woman, though. Genuine and all that.”

“Have you any opinion of what caused Blake’s death?”

The smile vanished from the lean features.

“Yes, an opinion based on a probability. His death was not caused by stomach ulcers, from which he had suffered for some time. His heart was sound, meaning that its condition was normal for a man of his years and manner of living. It seems probable that he ate or drank something which of itself is harmless and yet becomes a virulent poison when in contact with something else. For instance, strawberries are harmless and yet in some people strawberries will produce a violent upsetting of their health.”

“Thank you, doctor. Did you visit Blake, or his wife, at their home?”

“No. Blake came to me for an overhaul.”

“Well, thank you for giving me so much of your time Please let me know through Constable Simes the result of your work on that powder, will you? And you will treat the subject of our talk with strict confidence, I know. Thank you again. I must be off. Tomorrow I have to meet a cosmic blonde. Have you ever met a cosmic blonde?”

“Cosmic?”

“Yes, cosmic, doctor. I understand that they are more dangerous than the atomic genus of the species.”

The Cosmic Blonde

AT half past seven the following morning Bony boarded the train for Melbourne, and as this modern railroad wonder took more than two hours to traverse the forty miles, he had plenty of time to prepare for the interview with Nancy Chesterfield.

Having dawdled through morning tea, he arrived at the offices of her newspaper at half past eleven. He expected to be shown into a cubby-hole of a room, or a vast space covered with reporters in shirt-sleeves either writing furiously or yelling for boys. He found Miss Chesterfield seated in a most luxurious chair on the far side of a magnificent writing desk littered with a hundred and one odds and ends. On the floor was a thick carpet. The room was a fit setting for the jewel of a woman occupying it.

“Good morning, Mr Bonaparte,” she said, offering her hand as one accustomed to welcoming all who have, or may have, news value. The letter of introduction he had withheld in favour of his card, and his vanity was fed by the belief that his name had paved the way to her presence. She studied him for a fleeting instant before saying, “I’ve seen you before.”

“Strangely enough, I have that same impression, Miss Chesterfield,” he told her, making his famous bow. “I’ll try to recall where whilst you’re looking at this letter addressed to you by my friend, Clarence B. Bagshott. I trust I am not occupying your most busy minutes?”

“Of course not. Sit down. Cigarette?”

“Thank you.”

“So you are a friend of Clarence B.” she said, accepting the letter and smiling at him, clever enough to put the smile into her remarkably lovely eyes, but not to hide from him that her welcome was professionally cautious.

He refrained from looking at her as she read Bagshott’s letter. She might be tough, as Bagshott had said, and he had most likely not exaggerated, but to Bony this morning she did not look tough or even brittle. He sensed a keen brain, and was confident he could match it with his gift of intuition and his mastery of guile. He felt her power, and judged that to be not only the power of sex but, in addition, the power of the successful in a chosen profession. That was akin to the power he himself possessed, and so he was not perturbed.

“Where, Mr Bonaparte, did we meet?” she asked, looking up from the letter. He brought his gaze from a picture of a saturnine man in a wing collar and a fearful-looking tie to rest upon her flawless face.

“It was at the Rialto Hotel last Thursday afternoon,” he replied. “You were having afternoon tea with a man with snow-white hair, and I was in the company of a woman with jet-black hair. There were four tables between us.”

“At Warburton! So it was. I remember seeing you. You reminded me of BasilRathbone when he played inThe Lives of a Bengal Lancer. Now tell me about yourself, Mr Bonaparte. I like your name.”

“Permit me to assure you that it is not a fictitious name,” Bony countered, chuckling. “Sometimes I find it a positive burden, but-I am ambitious, you know, and my name might very well assist me to fame. At the Rialto I was entertaining my sister-in-law. My brother would not carry our father’s name and so adopted the name of Farn. He was lost in the fires of ’38. As there is no extra accommodation at the house occupied by my sister-in-law and her brother at Yarrabo, I am staying near by. I visited Bagshott, with whom I have corresponded for several years. It was through him that I learnt a little about Australia, enough to make me want to visit your country. I’m so glad I came to see it for myself.”

“And he suggested that you call on me?”

The dark-grey eyes were devoid of guile.

“No. I suggested to him that he give me a letter of introduction. It was a suggestion that came easily to mind immediately he mentioned your name. He gave me ample warning, however.”

“Indeed, Mr Bonaparte!”

“He warned me that I should want frantically to cast off at least twenty years. I said that the warning was ample, but, Miss Chesterfield,” and Bony bowed in deference, “in this particular instance Clarence B. made an under-statement.”

Nancy Chesterfield felt rising annoyance, only to be banished by the smile on the dark face and the twinkle in the blue eyes.

“You remembered, of course, seeing me at the Rialto?” she shrugged.

“Oh no! I didn’t know you when I saw you at the Rialto,”came the statement without hesitation and with skilful assurance. “It came about like this. From time to time Bagshott sent me bundles of theRecorder. I understand that in his letter to you he mentioned that I am on the staff of theJohannesburg Age. I have always liked your section of theRecorder, and alsoyour Personality Pars. We have tried to make our women’s section conform to the standard you set. In addition, Bagshott has sent me copies ofWyndham Nook in which your articles on writers have been exceptionally interesting. Then, being a stranger in Australia, I thought perhaps you might have declined to see me. Hence the bludgeon of Bagshott’s letter.”

Nancy Chesterfield smiled.

“You needn’t have been doubtful on that point, for I couldn’t have declined to see a man with your name-after the commissionaire reported that, you seemed quite sane.” The grey eyes gleamed, and the impressionable Bony was delighted by her sense of humour. She asked, “What is your work on theJohannesburg Age?”

“I am a special writer,” he replied, and did not feel quite so complete a liar since very often he wrote special articles, which were read with keen interest by Crown Prosecutors. What followed was more difficult. “I am able to get through an amount of free-lance work too. And I completed my first novel just before I left home.”

“Good! What are you calling it?”

It was a question for which he was quite unprepared.

“The provisional title isI WalkOn My Toes,” Bony answered with creditable celerity. “However, my present ambition is to write a book about Australia, and I want to include a section on Australian literature. I’ve read many anthologies and several novels by leading Australian authors. I have been hoping for the opportunity of meeting several of them, and I did think that Bagshott would be able to help me. He’s rather a peculiar fellow. He insisted that here in Australia authors are divided into two classes, one producing great literature, the other merely commercial fiction. Naturally my interest lies in literature, and he said that that being so he could not assist me save in sending me along to you.”