Arthur Upfield - An Author Bites the Dust

“There is Mr Martin Lubers,” Mrs Blake went on. “He is a great friend, and he has done a very great deal in his own sphere to assist the growth of public appreciation of our literature. Often we need a check upon our vanities, and Mr Lubers provides the check. A country’s literature, you will agree, is a plant that must feed on the spirit of its people, and become deep-rooted in the generations of its writers. We in Australia have been inclined to force the plant to grow in accordance with our pet ideas, and therefore it tends to become a hybrid. Mr Lubers, being a Director of Wireless Talks, is distinctly valuable to the growth of our literature.”

They went on from picture to picture, every one of which was autographed. There were forty-three altogether. They came to the picture of a man who was a poor imitation of the late G. K. Chesterton, even to the black ribbon attached to the pince-nez. He was introduced as Mr Marshall Ellis, and passed by to come to Nancy Chesterfield.

“Miss Chesterfield is a beautiful woman,” Bony commented.

“And a very talented one, Mr Bonaparte,” supplemented Mrs Blake. “Nancy has always been a powerful supporter of Australian writers. She has done more, perhaps, than anyone else to bring our writers to the notice of the public.”

They were coming to the end of the gallery, and Bony thought it strange that literary people did not possess a particular cast of countenance like army officers, naval men, and churchmen. Those before whom he had passed had no common denominator. The pictured Americans, Europeans, South Americans, and Australians would have been of interest to any criminologist had they been included in a Rogue’s Gallery. Standing a little back, he wondered which of them had murdered Mervyn Blake.

Mrs Montrose came in, and he sensed a subtle change in his hostess. Mrs Blake reverted to that shade of stiffness he had felt on first meeting her, and the absurd thought entered his mind that she had revealed to him a side of her character never revealed to her friends. Mrs Montrose once again examined him with her fine eyes, seemingly trying to probe into the inner recesses of his mind.

“I do wish you would come to our next literary meeting on the twenty-fifth of the month, Mr Bonaparte,” she said. “So many people would like to meet you. May I send you a little note of reminder?”.

“The twenty-fifth!” he murmured. “I’m not sure, but it is unlikely that I shall be in Victoria on that date. However, if I should be, I’d be delighted.”

As they gravitated towards the door, Bony made another comprehensive examination of the picture gallery. The feeling that there was something not quite in order returned strongly to him.

In the hall, he said, “Permit me to offer my sympathy in your bereavement, Mrs Blake. There are other novels by your late husband I have not yet read. It will be a pleasure tinged with sadness. If it is at all possible, I’d very much like to have a portrait of him for inclusion in my book.”

Mrs Blake smiled wanly.

“I appreciate your kindness, Mr Bonaparte, as my husband would certainly have done. I’ll try to find a picture for you. The last time he sat for his portrait must have been at least ten years ago.”

They accompanied him to the shaded porch and appeared reluctant to let him go, these two handsome women with their dark eyes and positive personalities. They shook hands with him, and smilingly bade himaurevoir, and he heard them speaking of flowering shrubs as he walked along the well-kept driveway to the front gate.

Sid Walsh reached it first, opened it, and they passed out together.

Further Donations

SMILINGoilily, Mr Sidney Walsh closed the gate after Bony and proceeded to walk with him to the corner and the main road.

“Bit cooler today,” he observed, the watery brown eyes craftily assessing. “Good day, any’ow, for a guts-shudderer.”

“Meaning?”

“A drop of the doings, a deepnoser, a snifter, a Jack London, a gargle, a lady’s waist, a corpse reviver, and so on and so on,” replied the casual gardener. “I am myself partial to guts-shudderer, meaning what used to be called whisky but what’s colouredmetho.”

“Ah! But I understood that one of your complaints against the Government is the limited output of beer.”

“Beer’s easier to say than guts-shudderer.”

“I incline to agreement,” Bony said, finding the change from one strata of society to another somewhat jarring. “Have you finished work for the day?”

Walsh changed the old suitcase he carried from his left to his right hand. He dragged his left foot just a fraction, making a soft noise as the boot scraped over the loose surface of the sanded footpath.

“I’ve finished work for a long time,” he said, slowly. “Made up me mind about it today. I’ve got a bit sunk here and there and I’m now going to retire, sort of. One thing, I won’t have to pay no ruddy income tax.”

“For most people that will happen to them only in the next world.”

“I mean to make it happen in this one.” Walsh spat and did not miss the fly on the fence of the vacant allotment. They turned left at the corner andproceeded down the main road, Bony’s destination being Miss Pinkney’s garden gate. Never could the charge of snobbery be levelled against him, but he hoped that Miss Pinkney would not see him in the company of his derelict. There was neither the superiority nor the inferiority complex in Sid Walsh’s make-up.

“What about a drink?” he said.

Against his inclination, Bony accepted the suggestion and five minutes later they were occupying a quiet lounge. With Bony’s money, Walsh went away to the bar, and Bony gazed with idle curiosity at the old suitcase that had so often necessitated a change of hands. Picking it up, he found it quite heavy. Walsh returned, wiping his lips with the tip of his tongue, indicating that he had got in ahead of his fellow debauchee.

They wished each other luck, without meaning it, and Bony suggested refills, the suggestion being accepted withan eagerness a trifle pathetic. Seated in an old chair, Bony’s mind travelled erratically until it alighted on the long wall upon which hung three rows of portraits. What was wrong with that picture of Mervyn Blake?

Walsh returned with the filled glasses, and sat down.

“Been living here long?” Bony inquired.

“Twenty odd years.”

“Did you work for the people who lived in Mrs Blake’s house before she took it?”

“Too right, I did. Old Ben Thornton owned that place. You interested in the property?”

“I’d like to buy it if I could,” replied Bony.

Walsh regarded Bony with distinct respect.

“You couldn’t,” he said. “TheBlakes had a lot done to it. Still, you don’t know what Mrs Blake might do about it. You asked her?”

“Oh no,” Bony said quickly. “Don’t you mention it, either. ”

“Me! I’m the most secret bloke in the ’ole ofOrstralia.’Ave another?”

“At my expense.”

When Walsh was again absent, Bony leaned back and closed his eyes to recreate the picture of the portraits on the daffodil-tinted wall. They were arranged so symmetrically, and there was something wrong with them.

He was finding the problem tantalizing when Walsh returned, to sit down and look intently over his glass, and to say, “That Mervyn Blake was a funnysorta bloke. Up today and downtermorrer. Some days he wouldn’t say good day, and the other days he was all over a bloke-when he wanted me to buy an extra bottle for him.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Ya. Mrs Blakeuster scream at him fordrinkin ’. He’d go off the guts-shuddererfor weeks at a time, and when he was on it he was on it and made no bones about it, if you know what I mean. Then he’d get me to buy a few extras on the quiet. Brandy itwas, and it would be me to get rid of the bottlesso’s she wouldn’t know about ’em.”