Arthur Upfield - An Author Bites the Dust

“Our little business can be accomplished within fifteen minutes,” he said briskly. “It was good of you to oblige by coming to see me. I, too, am a busy man, and so we both can appreciate the value of time.”

The evening sunlight slanted across Bony’s shoulders to fall upon the desk and to illumine the face of the man whose hair was snowy white and over-long, to be reflected by the hazel eyes, now wide and inquiring, to harden the lines about the sensitive mouth.

“You were recently in Victoria, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe,” Bony proceeded. “Whilst there you stayed at the Rialto Hotel, Warburton. Am I correct?”

“You are. What of it?”

“I am given to understand that when walking alone one night you were waylaid by two men who took you in their car to a lonely place and there tied you to a tree. In that predicament you were found the next morning. I want you to tell me all you can about those two men.”

“I’m afraid I am unable to tell you anything about them.”

“Why not?”

“It was a dark night, and both men had handkerchiefs drawn across their faces under their eyes.”

“Indeed! Well, that’s a beginning. You noted their physique?”

“Yes, I did that, of course. One of the men was a very large person, and the other was as tall but thin.”

“Let us deal first with the large man,” Bony said, pleasantly. “How large would he be? As large as my secretary? Please stand, Hawkins.”

That, most likely, was not the constable’s name, but he did as suggested and Wilcannia-Smythe turned to look at him. He was six feet tall if aninch, and he must have weighed over fourteen stone of bone and muscle.

“Yes, I should think that the larger of the two men would be as big,” conceded Wilcannia-Smythe.

“What size boots do you wear, Hawkins?”

“Size nine, sir.”

The constable sat down. Not a sign of perturbation did Bony detect in the hazel eyes or about the mouth of the white-haired, youngish man.

“The other man, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe. You say he was tall and thin. Was he as tall as Hawkins, d’you think?”

“Yes, I think he would be. You see, it was very dark that night. They didn’t waste much time in getting me into the car, or when they ordered me out and made me walk up the hill to the tree. Anyway, I don’t know what this is all about. I suffered no hurt. As I told the Yarrabo policeman, I think it was a case of mistaken identity. I don’t think there’s any more I can tell you. I’m terribly sorry, you know, but that’s how it is.”

“Would you prefer a charge against those two men?”

“I don’t want to, really.” Wilcannia-Smythe smiled, and added, “You see, Inspector, actually I owe them something. They presented me with a rather thrilling experience. Being a novelist, that is of value to me. I can make use of it in a future work.”

“Yes, of course,” Bony agreed. “H’m! There’s that to be said about it. Still, we cannot allow desperate men like that to waylay peaceful citizens and leave them tied to a tree all night. Your experience would have been less thrilling perhaps had the night been bitterly cold, or had your situation not been discovered by the workman for, let us assume, two days. Frankly, I think it odd that you don’t wish to charge them.”

“It is not at all odd,” Wilcannia-Smythe said, still with perfect calm. “I am a public figure. A fact worth mentioning, I think, is that this evening-at eight o’clock-I am to address a literary gathering of distinguished people. In view of what I have said, you will agree that I would not like that little experience of mine to be published in the press, made a feature by the lurid weekly journals. I have most certainly no desire for such publicity. Hence my refusal to prefer a charge.”

“Would you, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, be surprised were I to tell you that neither of those men was large-as large as Hawkins-and that neither was as tall as Hawkins?”

“I would, even although I would have to agree, if you proved it, because, as I have repeatedly said, the night was dark.”

“Well, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, I can prove it. Both those men wore shoes or boots size seven. We have just heard Hawkins say that he wears size nine. In addition to the known size of the boots, or shoes, worn by those men, is the length of their stride, and the weight of their bodies. You did not know those men?”

“Know them! Of course not. What is all this about anyway?”

Bony smiled, but Wilcannia-Smythe could not see his eyes as the sunlight was behind the inquisitor’s head.

“Well, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, it’s like this. I am inclined to believe that you did know those men. In fact, I am so strongly inclined to believe it that I want you to tell me who they are. Wait one moment. Telling me who they are does not mean that you would have to lay a charge against them. Those two men are suspected of being concerned in another and much more serious crime.”

“I am sorry I cannot oblige you,” Wilcannia-Smythe said, and sighed with vexed impatience. “In view of your assurance that I would not be legally associated with them, I would name them if I could.”

“H’m! Just too bad.” Bony lifted another cigarette from the pile. Wilcannia-Smythe stood up.

“I shall have to go, Inspector,” he said. “As it is, I must rush. I have to dress and then be at the Town Hall by three minutes to eight.”

“I must know the names of those two men,” Bony said, slowly, distinctly, and coldly.

The hazel eyes suddenly blazed, but the face remained passive and the voice was without a tremor.

“I cannot assist you. I am very sorry, but I cannot assist you, Inspector.”

Wilcannia-Smythe turned away from the desk towards the door.

“Please sit down,”came the quiet voice, and the constable looked round.

“But, my dear man, I must go! Look at the time! Those people cannot be kept waiting.”

“Please sit down.”

Wilcannia-Smythe shrugged his elegant shoulders and sat down.

“I am not greatly concerned, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, to disappoint a number of people interested in books,” went on the quiet voice. “As you cannot recall the names of those two men who abducted you that night, and as you made such a gross mistake about their physique, let us pass to another subject. Do you know Clarence B. Bagshott?”

“No, I don’t know the fellow.”

“Do you know I. R. Watts?”

“Neither do I know I. R. Watts. If you cannot let me leave to attend my important function, I shall refuse to speak any more. You cannot compel me to stay, and I refuse to stay a moment longer.”

“What were you doing in Mervyn Blake’s writing-room on the night of 3rd January?”

Mr Wilcannia-Smythe was superb. Not a hair came out of place. Not an eye-muscle twitched. He resumed his seat and leant forward and tapped a manicured finger upon the edge of the desk. He did not speak. His hazel eyes regarded the blue eyes beyond the desk litter. Bony did not speak. The clock ticked away its seconds. The light waned, and the light within the office began to soften. Still neither man spoke. The wall clock struck eight.

“Ring for my supper, please, Hawkins,” Bony said. “You could order something for yourself.”

“Very well, sir. Thank you.”

The constable got up, crossed to the desk, pressed a button and lifted a speaking tube.

“Supper for the Inspector, please, and a tray for the stenographer,” he ordered, and returned to his table.

Bony picked up a file and began to read a report on the theft of a motor boat. Wilcannia-Smythe continued his silence.

Having read about the stolen motor boat, Bony yawned, tossed the file back on the desk, and said, “I think you are being very foolish, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe.”