Arthur Upfield - An Author Bites the Dust

“She wore the trousers?”

Walsh shook his head and gazed into his empty glass.

“No, she didn’t wear the trousers,” he said, without looking up. “He was man enough to stand up to her. The drunker he was the calmer he was. Without raisin’ his voice he’d tongue-lash her from here to Young and Jackson’s. Ever been in there? Grand pub and all. He’d use words I never even heard of, tellin ’ her she wasmakin ’herself cheap andlowerin ’ herself to be popular, just to feed herun’oly vanity.

“Any’ow-pitythey uses such small glasses these days. Good, hefty pint-pots is one of the four ’undredfreedoms we been robbed of.”

With renewed interest in life, he left Bony for the bar, and on his return took up the conversation where he had broken it off.

“Any’ow, he took pretty good care to plant his empties for me to collect and dump in an old gravel pit back of my place. A few times he forgot where he did plant ’em, and the last time he forgot was just before he rattled the pan. Once I found three of ’is bottles under a japonica. Another time I found a bottle and a glass, and a-no, that wasn’t it. It was two bottles and a glass. I found ’emburied near the front gate.”

Mr Walsh wiped his eyes with what once might have been a handkerchief. He looked at Bony suspiciously, and Bony suggested a refill.

When again he came shuffling in, Bony said, “He must have been drunk to bury a glass with his empties.”

“Blind all right,” Walsh agreed. “In all me days I never seen a bloke stand up to it like he did. If you seen him coming like a parson to a funeral you could bet he was as drunk as Chloe.”

“When was it he buried the glass?”

“When was it? Lemme think. TheMelbun Cup was run on theToosdee. It was on theFridee before. No, it wasn’t. It was theFridee after, because there was a policeman in plain clothesmuckin ’ around the placetryin ’ to prove that Mervyn Blake was short circuited, sort of. He was short circuited, all right.”

“How do you know?”

“Poison.”

“Oh! Sure?”

“Too true. Poisonouta a bottle, a brandy bottle, dozens of brandy bottles. Hundreds. Boy, oh boy! What a death! And here’s me can’t even get a bit giddy on this guts-shudderer.”

“Better try again,” urged Bony, and for the seventh time, Walsh tried again. When he had lowered the tide once more, Bony yawned and said without interest in his voice, “You didn’t throw the glass into the gravel pit, did you?”

“I did not,” Walsh replied with indignant emphasis. “It was a real cut-glass tumbler. Throw that away! I got it home right now.”

“That was a find, all right. Use the glass at all?”

“Ya. I puts me false teeth in it at night. Never use a glass fordrinkin ’ except in a pub.”

“One way of employing a find. How did you get on when Blake wanted to give you a drink?”

Without any fault in articulation, Walsh said, blinking at his interrogator, “He was a card, that Blake bloke. I’d bedoin ’ a bit ofweedin ’ or a bit ofdiggin ’, and he’d come along and sort of pass me casual like, and say in a whisper, ‘Inmewritin ’-room, Sid.’ Or it might be, ‘In thegarridge.’ And then I’d let him get well ahead andsorta follow him careless like after I takes adecko to see where his old woman was. When I caught up to him, he was all set and we’d have a couple of drainers.”

“Drainers!” echoed Bony, and Mr Walsh grinned.

“Ya. Drinks what goes down withoutswallerin’. ”

Bony chuckled. “Two more drainers,” he said. “And then I’m going home.”

“Pretty good ’ome, too,” remarked Mr Walsh, standing at the door, the glasses in his shaking hands. He winked, evilly, and added, “When yougets the chance, you have a look round for Miss P’s little store. She’s got some whisky theresomewheres what was never bottled inOrstralia. Musta been some what her brother brought ashore.”

Mr Napoleon Bonaparte was determined that the next drink was to be the last, and so far he had not arrived at his objective.

“They used to have plenty of company, didn’t they?” he asked over the last glass.

“Ya, plenty,” replied Walsh. “All sorts. All la-de-dastuck-ups, too.”

“They tell me they often played ping-pong.”

“When they ’ad guests, most of the time. Blake, he never played. Reckoned he couldn’t see the ball.”

“What did you have to do? Pick up the balls?” Bony asked lightly.

“I’d have to find ’em,” replied Walsh. “I was always ’untin’ for ping-pong balls. Why, I remember about a year ago spending all of three days doingnothink else. They had achampeenstayin ’ there. Broughthis own balls. Thought theywas made of gold orsomethink by the way Mrs Blake made me hunt for ’em. I seen Mr Pickwick playing with one, but I didn’t sayanythink about it. They could afford to lose a ball now and then.’Ave another?”

“No, thanks. I’m finished. You ought to be, too.”

“I am,” Walsh agreed with astonishing alacrity. “It’s me for a hard-earned feed. I’mgoin ’ your way.”

It was unfortunate for Bony that Mrs Blake was accompanying Ella Montrose to the railway station, and that they passed them before he could part from the friendly Mr Walsh. Both ladies recognized his salutation with frigid smiles which did not include the said Mr Walsh, who eventually parted from Bony at Miss Pinkney’s gate with a loud, “Hooroo! See you again some time.”

Throughout dinner, and afterwards, Bony’s mind constantly reverted to the little problem concerning Mrs Blake’s picture gallery, and he was still thinking about it when he entered the police station at half past eight that evening.

Mrs Farn might have climbed high had she married a Napoleon Bonaparte, or an author with social ambitions. She welcomed Bony with smiling eyes and the confidence of a woman able to live outsideherself , and at once took him to her small lounge and there introduced him with formality to Miss Ethel Lacy.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” the girl said, and Bony still liked her voice. “Mrs Farn’s been telling me all about you, and I’m just thrilled to bits at meeting an author.”

“I hope that Mrs Farn hasn’t been giving away too many of my secrets, Miss Lacy,” Bony said over their clasped hands. “As a sister-in-law, she is sometimes a little trying. She has been telling me about you, too, so we may have to join forces in mutual defence.” He sat down and leant forward to gaze at Red-head as though all the thrills were his. “I’m not a famous author, you know, and you have met a number of really famous writers. I do wish you would tell us something about them, what they are like, what they talked about and what they ate. What did you think of poor Mervyn Blake?”

“He reminded me of the feeling I had when I saw a fat spider inside a daffodil,” Red-head asserted, giving a very prettily excited shrug. “He was all right, you know. Nothingsexual, or anything like that. Always a thorough gentleman. But the spider had a horrid look of being satisfied with itself, and Blake had a look like that. He was clever all right. Could talk about anything under the sun.”

“You’ve read his books, I suppose?”

“Several. They’re very high-brow, and all that.”

“Did you like them?”

“Ye-es,” she replied with the air of one who must not admit dislike of a book without a story and music without a tune. Then suddenly she smiled straight into his eyes and said, “No. I only read bits of them. You see, I never had a good education.”

“Neither didI,” Bony told her with charming assurance. “Please go on. What did you think of Mrs Blake and Mr Wilcannia-Smythe and the others?”

“Yes, do tell, Ethel,” urged the supporting Mrs Farn.“That Miss Chesterfield now. She was there, wasn’t she, the night Mervyn Blake died?”