Arthur Upfield - An Author Bites the Dust

“I always lunch at the office,” snapped Snook. “I’ll drop you at Menzies, as you want to be flash, and pick you up later.”

“As you like,” Bony said quietly. When the car was in motion, he asked, “Was any brandy found in Blake’s garage?”

“What was found was listed in the official file.”

“In the official file there is no mention of brandy being found in the garage. Neither is there any mention by any member of the household that Mervyn Blake kept brandy in the garage, and that there was brandy in the garage that last evening of his life.”

“So what?” sneeredSnook.

“The bottle of brandy in the garage was taken to the writing-room and the bottle then on the desk was removed-some time after the man expired and before the rain stopped at half past four in the morning.

“Which means?” snarledSnooks, the sneer no longer in his voice.

“A slight point of interest. Ah! Menzies Hotel! Who, in all Australia, hasn’t heard of it?”

“I think I will lunch with you,” Snook said, glaring at Bony.

“Not now, my dear Snook. I have decided against any further calls today. Aurevoir!”

Bony smiled, quietly closed the door and strolled into the hotel. Snook bit his lip and snapped at the driver to take him back to Headquarters.

Bony sought a telephone compartment and raised Superintendent Bolt.

“Had a pleasant morning?” Bolt asked, and chuckled.

“Very. Poor Snook is heading for a nervous breakdown. You should look after him better. Can you get me a reservation on a plane for Sydney this afternoon?”

“For social calls or business, you tantalizing swab?”

“You wouldn’t interfere now in this Blake case, would you?”

“Of course not. As I told you, it’s all yours.”

“Get the reservation for this afternoon. And come along to Menzies and lunch with me. I may confide.”

“Good-oh! If you don’t ‘toik’, you’ll be for it.”

The enormous Chief of the C.I.B. thoroughly enjoyed his lunch. For one thing, Menzies is a place where one can enjoy lunch, and for another Napoleon Bonaparte could be a charming host. Bolt was told just as much as Bony thought was good for him, and that much was a great deal for Bony to bring himself to tell anyone. No mention was made of the adventure of Wilcannia-Smythe, of the novels of I. R. Watts, of the death of Sid Walsh.

The story of Mr Pickwick’s ping-pong ball gave Bolt food for thought, and the fact provided by Ethel Lacy, that there was brandy kept in the garage, and the bottle possibly exchanged for that on Blake’s writing table after he died, brought forth the remark, “I felt it in my bones that there was something screwy about that bloke’s death. Snook assured me he had experimented with the ruddy door, and that the experiment proved his theory that the wind had closed it. The meteorological people supported it with a report that that night the wind did blow in gusts of up to twenty miles an hour. Then, of course, there was the toxicologist’s negative report. How do you get over that last?”

“No man is infallible, super,” replied Bony. “I wonder if his mind was predisposed to the thought that Blake died through what is termed alcoholic poisoning. If it was, then he might have been content to seek only for one of the common poisons. The other point, the weather, ismore clear. Evidence of several people goes to prove that at Yarrabo-at Yarrabo, mind you-there was hardly any wind throughout the night.”

“You gettingwarm?”

“Yes. You know how it is. In the beginning one has to test doors. None of them will budge. One goes on testing doors, and then, unexpectedly, a door will open, and beyond that door there are the keys to unlock several of those doors that wouldn’t budge.”

“That’s how it moves,” Bolt agreed. “You haven’t told me about all the doors you’ve opened, have you?”

“No.” Bony smiled into the shrewd, brown eyes of his enormous guest. “I shall, eventually, finalize this case to my satisfaction, and therefore to your own. I’ll hand it over to you, tied up neatly, and append to it my grateful thanks for having made my leave very enjoyable. I shall look for no credit but I want payment.”

“That’s not like you, Bony. All your exes will be refunded, of course.”

“The payment I desire is recognition of Constable Simes, who is being unprofitably used up at Yarrabo. He has revealed marked intelligence, and his collaboration has been invaluable. I’ll give you the ammunition with which to urge his promotion. You’ll find it in my report. It is little for me to ask for in view of the sacrifices my unfortunate wife has to make, and the sacrifice I have now to make by cancelling an evening’s engagement with the most vital woman I’ve ever met. My plane leaves at three, I think you said. Where do I pick up a transport car?”

“Take the police car-outside. I can walk back. I’ll fix the payment for you. I know a thing or two about Simes that you don’t know. Wouldn’t care to tell your old pal why you are toddling off to Sydney, I suppose?”

“Of course. I’m going to run the rule over Wilcannia-Smythe. Be a good fellow, super, and telephone the Sydney Branch to have him in the ice-box when I arrive.”

A Stubborn Subject

BONY’S plane touched down at Sydney shortly after 5.30 p.m., and on reaching ground he was accosted by a man who was evidently a plain-clothes policeman.

“Inspector Bonaparte?” he said, softly. When Bony nodded assent, he took over the suitcase, and announced that a police car was waiting. Twenty minutes later, Bony was shaking hands with the Chief of the New South Wales Criminal Investigation Branch.

“Sit down, Bony, you old scoundrel,” the Chief urged, and almost pushed Bony into a chair beside his desk. “Good trip?”

“I prefer travelling by car, via Bermagui where the sword-fishing is particularly good just now,” Bony replied. “Bolt evidently rang you up.”

“Oh yes! Said you were interested in awritin ’ bloke named Wilcannia-Smythe. We contacted him and he promised to be here at six. Do you want him taken up?”

“No. Not at present, anyway. I would like to interview him in a comfortable office, with a stenographer unobtrusively in a corner. The interview may take some time, possibly all night. And possibly all day tomorrow, too.”

The New South Wales Superintendent raised his bushy black brows and pursed his thin lips.

“You may have this office for the time being,” he said. “I won’t be here, D. V., until about eight tomorrow. I’ll get you a man to record the words. You eaten? What about grub before you start in on this bird?”

“H’m! Three minutes to six,” murmured Bony. “Thanks for the suggestion. Do my man good to bekept biting his nails for half an hour. Give instructions that once he is here he is not to be allowed to leave.”

“That goes. Come on. I know a place.”

It was fifteen minutes to seven when Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, who was seated in a waiting-room, was approached by a uniformed constable and told that “the Inspector is disengaged now”. He was conducted into a large, severely-furnished office where Inspector Bonaparte was standing behind the file-littered desk.

“Good evening, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe. Please be seated,” Bony greeted him, and the constable indicated a chair on the opposite side of the desk, and then seated himself at a small table.

“Good evening,” countered Wilcannia-Smythe, and sat down. “I hope you are not going to take too much of my time. I have an important literary gathering to address at eight.”

Bony regarded the clock fixed to the wall above the constable’s table, and then sat down and lit one of a respectable pile of cigarettes he had made.