An Author Bites the Dust b-11

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “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.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  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.

  “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.”

  “May I use your telephone?”

  “No, I regret I must refuse your request. You see, my superiors thought fit to issue a regulation that our office telephones must not be used for private calls. On the ground of economy, you know. They often have a fit of that kind. What did you say you were doing in Mervyn Blake’s writing-room on the night of 3rd January? Mrs Blake did not arrive home until about ten o’clock, remember. Without meeting her, you slipped over Miss Pinkney’s fence, and then walked down the road to your hotel.”

  “All that, Inspector, is an untruth.”

  “On leaving Mervyn Blake’s writing-room, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, you forgot to pick up your handkerchief. Mrs Blake subsequently found it and, the next afternoon on the Rialtoterrace, she gave it back to you-as proof that you entered her husband’s writing-room.”

  “The handkerchief Mrs Blake gave me at the Rialto was one I left behind at her house when spending a week with them.”

  “That conflicts with Mrs Blake’s story.”

  “I am not aware of the story alleged to have been told by Mrs Blake. I say that the handkerchief she gave me at the Rialto was one which I left behind at her house.”

  “Miss Pinkney-” Bony craftily began when his victim cut him off.

  “Miss Pinkney is a half-witted, gossiping old bitch,” Wilcannia-Smythe stated matter-of-factly, and without emotion. “I’m astonished that you should take the slightest notice of what she has been saying. She’s the most dangerous woman in Australia. TheBlakes were always complaining about her.”

  “I was about to say,” Bony murmured, “that Miss Pinkney has a very remarkable cat to whom she has given the name of Mr Pickwick.”

  No additional statement was added to that one. Bony regarded Wilcannia-Smythe with guileless eyes, picked up another cigarette, and would have lit it had not a constable entered with two trays. The stenographer took them from him, placed the larger before Bony, and carried the other to his table.

  An appetizing odour arose from the covered dish. Bony poured himself a cup of tea. It was then that he lit the cigarette. Wilcannia-Smythe rose once more and walked to the door.

  The door was locked, and he turned to say, “I am not conversant with the law, but I do know that you haven’t any right or any justification for keeping me here against my will.”

  “Hawkins! Did you lock that door?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Seewhat’s the matter with the lock. Mr Wilcannia-Smythe! As you say, I cannot detain you here against your will. I can, however, have you arrested and charged with entering and stealing.”

  “With entering and stealing!” repeated Wilcannia-Smythe. “Entering where and stealing what?”

  “I will leave that to your intelligence,” Bony said and, lifting the cover, helpedhimself to a hot sausage roll. The stenographer, observing the action, left the door wide open and returned to his table where he made a few swift notes and then proceeded with his supper.

  Wilcannia-Smythe advanced from the door. Behind him the door closed with a faint click, and he swung round quickly to look at it. Bony lifted his foot from the mechanism beneath the desk, and went on eating his roll, although he was far from being hungry. Wilcannia-Smythe advanced again, to sit down in the chair he had vacated. There were several tiny glass-like beads adhering to his noble forehead. Munching his roll, Bony asked, “Did you ever hear the story about coffin dust?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Concerning Cabbages

  “COFFIN dust!”

  In the quiet of the room the words sounded like ivy leaves coldly caressing the door of a vault. Wilcannia-Smythe sat utterly still, his eyes seemingly frozen into immobility. Through bloodless lips he said, “No. I have not heard such a story.”

  “Have you read any of I. R. Watts’s novels?”

  “You mean I. R. Watts’s romantic tales? No, I have not read them.”

  “You should, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe,” Bony said pleasantly. “I commend hisThe Vengeance of Master Atherton. Sound story, well constructed. In that novel the author relates how a man poisoned his wife’s lover with the dust he gathered from a coffin long occupied. You have met Mr Watts?”

  “I have not.” Wilcannia-Smythe had returned to animation. As though talking to a child, he implored, “Please tell me what all this about coffin dust and Watts’s alleged novels have to do with me. Are you mad, or am I?”

  “We will leave the coffin dust for the present,” Bony said, sipping his tea. “Do you know where I. R. Watts lives?”

  “I do not, Inspector. As one who has devoted his life to Australian literature, I would not know anything of any writer producing less.”

  “Was it literature that interested you in Mervyn Blake’s writing-room that evening when Mrs Blake was away until a late hour, and her cook had gone to the pictures?”

  For a moment the hazel eyes widened, but the mouth became firm. The man was the victim of vanity, and to break a way into the real spirit Bonymust needs use sharp implements.

  “The fact, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, that you are an eminent litterateur who would naturally shrink from reading a Charles Dickens serial story, becomes quite insignificant when placed beside the fact that I am a detective-inspector. You are interested in what is loosely termed by people of your description, literature. I am interested in crime. Kings and statesmen, ministers of religion, tradesmen and ba
rons of commerce, wharf labourers, and, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, authors, have been known to commit serious crimes. You don’t interest me as an author; you do interest me as a possible criminal.”

  “You are an insulting cad,” whispered Mr Wilcannia-Smythe.

  “On the night of 3rd January you were on enclosed premises, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe,” went on the calmly inexorable Bony. “Further, you were seen to put in your pocket certain documents that you found in the writing-room of the late Mr Mervyn Blake. When you left the writing-room, you were observed to escape over a near fence into property owned by a Miss Pinkney. And you made your escape after Mrs Blake arrived at her home in her car. I think that the lurid weekly journals, as you call them, will not have the slightest consideration for an author, even so eminent an author as yourself.”

  Wilcannia-Smythe did not relax. He remained silent. Bony tried again.

  “It is possible, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, that you have a very good answer to the charge of being on enclosed premises and of having removed documents from the writing-room owned by the late Mr Mervyn Blake. But assuming-and the assumption is possibly not so far-fetched as one might think-assuming that Mr Mervyn Blake was foully murdered, your subsequent actions in his writing-room would have a peculiar significance to a jury.

  “I don’t want to detain you, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, because I am after much bigger game,” Bony went on. “I am inclined to think that your actions were not particularly serious. Actually, I am not greatly concerned in you, but I am concerned by the contents of the documents you removed from the writing-room, and which subsequently were removed from your baggage at the Rialto Hotel.”

  The tip of Wilcannia-Smythe’s tongue passed to and fro between his lips. He brought his gaze to rest upon the clear blue eyes now revealed to him by the electric light overhead. He changed the position of his slim body. When he spoke his voice was low and as controlled as formerly.