Arthur Upfield - An Author Bites the Dust

Bony decided against getting in touch with the publishers, because there was yet reasonable time for I. R. Watts to answer his letter, and when again in the street, he asked to be driven to the Colombian Consulate.

Killing with Kindness

THEY arrived at the Colombian Consulate a few minutes before noon, and were admitted to the presence of a man not unlike but less well dressed than Bony. Having introducedthemselves, the Consul expressed eagerness to be of all possible assistance, backing his words with constant movements of hands and eyes. Shook sourly resigned the talking.

“You have been the Colombian Consul for how long, sir?” Bony began.

“Three years, yes.”

“Did your countryman, Dr Dario Chaparral, pay his respects when he visited Victoria at the beginning of last year?”

“It is so, yes.”

“Was that his first visit to Australia?”

“His first visit, no, gentlemen,” replied the Consul. He slapped his forehead and implored them to be patient with him whilst he thought. Then, “Ah! I recall. Dr Dario Chaparral first paid a visit to Australia in 1936. I was then not the Consul for my country, you understand? Yes? I was then in business in Sydney.”

“You could not tell me, I suppose, if Dr Chaparral visited Victoria on his first visit to Australia?”

“But I could, gentlemen. Dr Chaparral himself informed me that during his first visit to Australia he was unable to come to Melbourne.”

“Did he visit you on his first visit-when you lived in Sydney?”

“Yes. Yes, that is so. On several occasions he dined with me and my wife at my home there.”

“Where did he stay?”

“At Petty’s Hotel, most of the time,” replied the Consul. “During his visit to Sydney he stayed over the week-end with literary friends. You understand? Yes? Dr Chaparral is a literary personage.”

“Could you tell me who these literary people were? I should be grateful if you could.”

“But of course I could. Dr Chaparral when in Sydney stayed for several days with Mr and Mrs Alverstoke of Ryde, and he stayed also with Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, who had a house on the Hawkesbury River.”

“H’m! I thank you, sir,” Bony said, smilingly.

“Can you tell us anything more of Dr Chaparral?”

“Perhaps, what is it, ah, yes, but little. Yes!” The bold black eyes in the lean face passed their gaze swiftly from one to the other of his callers. “Dr Chaparral is a doctor of medicine. He is famous in Bogota, where he is in residence. He has written several novels and other works on the aboriginal inhabitants of my country.”

“Thank you, sir. You have placed me in your debt,” Bony said, to which the Consul countered with, “It is but a pleasure, Mistaire Bonaparte.”

“What are the Doctor’s hobbies?” pressed Bony, and Snook revealed signs of impatience.

“His-his-what do you say?”

“Hobbies, games, collections?”

“Ah, but yes! He is a philatelist. And I remember also that he told me he was beginning to play golf. That was in Sydney. The last time he came here to Melbourne, he said golf was too much walking and he had played very hard the table game, what was called ping-pong.”

Bony rose smilingly to his feet, and with a cluck of impatience Snook got to his. The Consul rose with alacrity, as though glad that this police inquisition was nearing its end. Bony regarded him with his strangely deceptive blue eyes, which now were softly beaming. The Consul, however, was not deceived. He sensed that the most vital question of all was to be put.

“Have you heard of the practice in parts of your country of taking the dust from a long-buried coffin for the purpose of poisoning an enemy?”

Despite his preparedness, the Consul failed to maintain the open frankness with which he had met Bony’s previous questions. Although his hesitation was but for a second, both policemen noted it, and he knew they had noted it.

“A silly superstition, Mistaire Bonaparte,” he said, his hands fluttering like the wings of a moth. “In the far interior of Colombia there is a belief that the remains of a long-dead body can poison the living and leave no trace. Me, I cannot believe it. It is what the English say an old wives’ tale.”

“When or where did you hear of that superstition? From Dr Chaparral?”

“Ah, no, no, no!” replied the Consul. “I heard about it when I was going to school. Everyone knows about it in my country. The mass believe it to be true. There have even been cases when the law has punished personages for robbing old graves of coffin dust, as it is called.”

Snook spoke for the first time; in his voice was contempt.

“Must be a pleasant occupation,” he said.

Bony took up his hat, and the Consul revealed relief.

“Thank you, sir, for your kindness in receiving us,” Bony said and shook hands. “By the way, does your country manufacture ping-pong balls?”

“Yes, but of course,” replied the Consul. “My country exported in 1945 more than a hundred thousand gross. There are two firms in Bogota making them.”

“Thank you again, sir,” and this time Bony bowed and walked out, followed by the mystified and therefore angry Inspector Snook.

“What’s this coffin dust racket?” he demanded when they were again in the police car. “You’re not going to put it over that Mervyn Blake was poisoned with coffin dust, are you?”

“Now do I look like a fool?” Bony mildly inquired. “Years ago I heard about coffin dust being used to murder a man in France, and I have often wondered if there was anything in it.”

“Then what connection has it with the death of Mervyn Blake?”

“So tenuous as not to be seriously considered, my dear Snook. Naturally, I have been interested in the Blake case, but I am on leave, and when on leave I permit myself many interests. Ask the driver to take us to the Chief Customs Officer, Marine Division.”

The Supervisor of Customs called up his henchmen. The date on which Dr Chaparral landed at Melbourne was dug out of the files, and the man who had examined his luggage was summoned.

“Do you remember checking through the luggage of a Dr Dario Chaparral who landed here from South America on 10th February last year?” Bony asked him.

“It’s a long time ago,” the customs officer replied doubtfully.

“He is a native of Colombia, South America. He brought with him at least one box of ping-pong balls.”

“Yes, I remember him now. The ping-pongballs does it. He had four boxes, each containing two dozen balls. The boxes were still sealed as when sold by the manufacturers in Colombia. I broke open the boxes to make sure of the contents, and the passenger paid the duty on the goods. The passenger also had in his effects a complete ping-pong set.”

“Were there any balls with the set?” pressed Bony.

“Yes, several. As they had been in use, the passenger was not asked to pay duty on them, or on the set.”

“You noticed nothing peculiar about the balls, I suppose?”

“If I had done so, I’d have passed the goods to the Research Group for X-ray examination. I hope I didn’t miss anything?”

“No, I don’t think so,” replied Bony. “Thank you very much.”

Again in the police car, the two officers sat in silence, Bony cogitating on what he had been told, Snook two degrees further infuriated.

At last he said, “You not going to play ball?”

“Not when I am unable to see the ball.”

“All right! What do we do next? Instead of sitting here like a couple of lovers, what about suggesting where we go from here? The driver and I are entirely at your highness’s service.”

“Well, I suggest we go somewhere for lunch,” Bony said, mildly. “After lunch, I’d like to visit a doctor at Essendon, and an undertaker in that same suburb. Let’s lunch well. I’ll be the host.”