Bony - 11 - An Author Bites the Dust

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Ella wrote from Melbourne that same night. She said, inter alia, that she could not approve of the company you keep at Yarrabo.”

  “She need not be further concerned. The company is dead They are conducting a post mortem on the body this morning.”

  “Oh!” The exclamation came slowly, and the grey eyes contracted.

  “Died the night before last. Alcoholic poisoning. Well now, about this Dr Chaparral. Will you go back in mind to that evening, or evenings, when you dined with him at the Blakes’ table?”

  “Very well.”

  “You will remember that he told many stories which were so interesting to Ella Montrose that she noted them on slips of paper.”

  “Yes. I can even recall some of the stories he related.”

  “Good! Can you remember if he related the queer story that in certain districts of his country it is believed that the dust of a long-buried human body, if mixed with food, will poison the eater?”

  “How horrible! No, I can’t remember anything like that. He told stories of the customs of primitive peoples, and of their practices and beliefs. But not such a story as you have mentioned, Bony. Tell me more about it.”

  “There isn’t much more to tell. I don’t know much more than that, and what I do know is based chiefly on an incident in one of I. R. Watts’s novels, The Vengeance of Master Atherton. Have you read it?”

  Nancy Chesterfield replied in the negative as she shook her head.

  “I have it with me,” Bony said, indicating the small case at his feet. “Unfortunately, nowhere in the book is the year of publication stated. As I have already applied to his publishers for his address, and was refused it, I am diffident about approaching them. But I must know. And I must know where Watts obtained the data concerning what he calls ‘coffin dust’ in his novel.”

  “I’ll ring them, shall I?”

  “If you would.”

  Whilst waiting for the connection, Bony said, “I wrote to I. R. Watts a few days ago asking for an interview. The publishers did tell me that he lives in Victoria. I could get the address out of them through police pressure, but that would not, I think, be diplomatic just now.”

  The bell shrilled and Nancy picked up the instrument. She announced her name and said she was writing a literary article and wanted the year of publication of Watt’s par­ticular novel. Then, having put down the instrument, she said, “It was published in Australia in 1942.”

  And Dr Chaparral visited the Blakes in 1945. It dis­proves a theory that someone heard Dr Chaparral at the Blakes’ table relate a story about coffin dust, and passed it to I. R. Watts, who, however, knew the story in 1942 or previously.”

  “Do you think—”

  Bony held one hand.

  “Please,” he pleaded. “I do not think anything just now. You must not, either. Nor mention this matter to anyone. Cross your fingers and promise.”

  Attempting a smile, she obeyed.

  “I believe you could tell stories far more bizarre than Dr Chaparral even imagined,” she said.

  “Do you think he drew upon his imagination?”

  “He must have.”

  “You have played ping-pong at the Blakes’ house, have you not?”

  “Often. I have never seen anyone play better than Dr Chaparral. He is a wizard.”

  “Do you remember if he made any differentiation with the balls? Did he favour one kind and reject another?”

  “No, I don’t remember that he did. He brought the balls with him from overseas. The Blakes had none left, and they could not be bought anywhere in Melbourne at the time. You know, you are making me as confused as a rabbit in a car’s headlights.”

  Bony suddenly smiled, and abruptly rose to his feet taking up his case and his hat.

  “I am just as confused as you are. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. Will you dine with me this evening and then do a show?”

  Nancy hesitated, decided to sacrifice an important engage­ment, and consented.

  “Make the reservation, will you?” he implored, worry written plainly on his face. “Choose a dinner with an orchestra and a show with bright music. I am more grateful to you than I can express. I’ll ring you about four o’clock to arrange where to meet you. Some day I’ll tell you a story that will make a newspaper scoop, if you would like to use it.”

  “I hope it will be soon,” she said. “Curiosity is suffocating me. And thank you so very much for wanting to take me out tonight.”

  Bony bowed and departed.

  Once in the street his face no longer registered worry. He was actually smiling as he walked up Collins Place to Collins Street, and then down along that thoroughfare to a cafe that had become a favourite with him.

  Before ordering more morning tea he rang up Police Head­quarters, and asked for Superintendent Bolt.

  “Good morning, super! Great day for the blacks,” he said in greeting.

  “Good morning. Rotten day—even for the blacks. Where are you?” came the loud and distinct voice.

  “At the Café Italiano, which I estimate is five hundred and seventy yards from your palatial office. Care for a cup of tea, or an ice-cream or something?”

  “I’d like the something with ice in it. How’s the work going?”

  “Work, did you say? I’m on holiday. You coming along?”

  “Can’t. I’m up to my eyes. But I’m open to see you here to talk business. Any progress?”

  “Very tenuous. Can you spare your delightful Inspector Snook?”

  “Yes. The milk in my tea was sour. He looked at it, so the clerk says. What you want him for?”

  “To chaperon me round Melbourne. I want to make a few calls, and I haven’t the authority.”

  “You could name someone more pleasant as a compan­ion,” Bolt said.

  “Impossible. I’d like the companionship of the officer mentioned, super.”

  “Righto! I’ll send him to you. Cough it up, Bony. You doing any good?”

  “I think I am,” Bony replied. “I’ve waded into a flood, and now I can see my way to wading out of it. You know the usual run of these investigations. I’ll hand it to you on a lettuce leaf one of these days—with very many thanks for a most engrossing holiday. Well, tell Snook his morning tea will be waiting.”

  Three minutes later Detective-Inspector Snook alighted from a police car and entered the cafe.

  “Do you want the car for the sightseeing?” he asked, and when Bony said it was an excellent idea, he sat down and regarded the Queenslander with cold, granite-grey eyes. The short-cropped grey hair added to the deathlike pallor of his square face gave the impression that he was bloodless.

  “It’s a fine day for tea,” Bony observed. “Milk and sugar?”

  “You mucking about on that Blake case?” Snook asked, and Bony admitted it. “Have you found who shot Blake, or was it a knifing?”

  “It was coffin dust.”

  Snook grunted. The significance passed over him.

  “What was the foreign matter found by the toxicologist in Blake’s stomach?”

  “Been worrying you, eh?” and Snook almost leered. “Blake must have accidentally swallowed a lump of chewing gum after he ate his last dinner. Nothing poisonous in that.”

  Bony, smiling affably, sipped his tea. He said, “I want to make several calls in this city, and as I’ve no official authority, I am glad you consented to come along. The first call I want to make is on the Income Tax people. Happen to know any­one there, so that our time would be saved?”

  “Yes. What do we go there for?”

  “To locate the address of a gentleman whose work I admire. Ready? The idea of a police car is excellent.”

  Arrived at the offices of the Income Taxation Commission, Inspector Snook asked for a Mr Trilby, and without having to wait they were shown into a single office inhabited by a man who looked like a bookmaker. Bony having been pre­sented, they were asked to be seated.

  “I want the address of a taxpayer named I.
R. Watts,” Bony said. “Because I do not want Watts to learn that I am making inquiries through the Investigation Branch, I cannot compel his publishers to give me the address. And that they decline to do.”

  The imitation bookmaker raised a switch, lifted a tele­phone and requested the address of a taxpayer named I. R. Watts. Then he began a conversation with Snook on the recent form of Test cricketers, and this subject occupied the time until a buzzer sounded and the telephone again came into use.

  “H’m! All right! Thanks,” murmured the expert extor­tionist. Replacing the instrument, he grinned at the visitors, and said that in the State of Victoria there was no taxpayer by the name of I. R. Watts. He would contact the publishers, if Bony desired.

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  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 intro­duced themselves, 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-pong balls 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.”

  “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?” sneered Snook.

  “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?” snarled Snooks, 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. Au revoir!”

  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?”