“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 Bony must 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 barons 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.
“I’ll tell you everything,” he said. “When you put forward the assumption that Mervyn Blake was murdered, I think your assumption may be one day proved fact. I’ve always thought that Blake might have been murdered, though I’ve had absolutely nothing on which to base the belief.
“Mervyn Blake was my friend. We had been friends for many years. What I took from his writing-room he gave to me some considerable time before he died. I took only what was mine, and I took it because Mrs Blake refused to give me what was mine. Mrs Blake never liked me. After her husband died, she never troubled to conceal her dislike.
“The Blakes, you will know, often entertained oversea authors. Some of them were widely travelled. The great majority were excellent raconteurs. At the end of an evening in the company of one of these visitors, Blake would record in a note-book the gist of the stories they told. In the course of years there were a great many anecdotes and queer stories entered into that note-book. Sometimes Mrs Montrose would record the stories and Blake would subsequently enter them in his book. On other occasions I would make the notes and afterwards give them to him.
“Not being a writer yourself, Inspector, you would not appreciate the great store of plots contained between the covers of that note-book. Blake at first intended to use them for short stories. Mrs Blake, in fact, did use a number of them. As I said just now, Blake gave them to me by promise. He did so repeatedly, and also he said he had bequeathed them to me in his will. Poor fellow, he put it off and put it off. I took what was my own.”
“Is there anyone who would support that contention?” asked Bony.
“Yes. Mrs Ella Montrose would support it. And so would Twyford Arundal, the Adelaide poet.”
“And you went to stay at the Rialto Hotel to seize the opportunity of taking those notes without the widow’s permission?”
“When I learnt that the note-book was not mentioned in Blake’s will, I wrote to Mrs Blake stating the facts,” Wilcannia-Smythe said. “She wrote in reply, saying that she knew nothing of any such intended bequest, and that she would not part with anything belonging to her husband. I went down to Warburton, put up at the hotel, and then travelled to Melbourne one day to visit Mrs Blake, who was staying with Ella Montrose. Mrs Blake was adamant. I returned by the evening train, alighting at Yarrabo. I saw the cook board the bus for Warburton, and knew she would be off to the cinema. So I went to the house, sat on the back veranda and waited until it was dark. One moment, I’m a little out of order. I committed an additional crime. I entered the house through the rear door, which the cook had left unlocked, and knowing where the spare key of the writing-room was kept, I took it, intending to replace it before the cook returned from the cinema.”
Bony eased himself in his chair.
“And the two men who tied you to a tree, who were they?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“They did remove the note-book and typescript from your effects at the Rialto Hotel, did they not?”
“Yes.”
“What was the typescript matter?”
“Notes intended for transference to the note-book.”
“Who else, do you think, might be interested in that notebook, other than yourself and Mervyn Blake’s widow?”
“A considerable number of people,” replied Wilcannia-Smythe. “In its way, the note-book housed quite a famous collection of anecdotes. It represented a gold mine for any writer.”
“And you think it probable that Mrs Blake persuaded a friend or two to get it back for her?”
“Yes. But who, I cannot tell you. I did not recognize the voice of the one man who spoke. I did not recognize either of them by their physical appearance. And I did not recognize the car.”
“Was there anyone staying at the Rialto who was well known to you?”
“No.”
“And you left the note-book—where?”
“In the larger of my suitcases.”
“Thank you. Now let us discuss another matter—the contents of the note-book. How much were you conversant with the contents?”
“Very little. The note-book contained a large number of stories told when I was not present.”
“So that the note-book could contain a story of coffin dust and you not know of it?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Would Mrs Montrose be more familiar with the contents of the book?”
“Yes. And so would Mrs Blake. Ella Montrose was closer to Blake than I was. She was always with the Blakes when they had important people staying with them.” Wilcannia-Smythe frowned for an instant, and then added with greater warmth than hitherto displayed, “I believe I am not exaggerating when I say that all told there were close upon a thousand excellent stories in that book. Blake’s writing was exceedingly small. As I said just now, the book was a gold mine, more valuable as a gift to a writer than a tho
usand pounds. Blake intended giving it to me. I think I can find one or two of his letters in which he states that intention.”
“H’m! Still, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, your actions in gaining possession of it were most reprehensible,” Bony said severely. “If Mrs Blake should prosecute, or report the loss, you will certainly find yourself in an unpleasant situation. However, I appreciate your candour. Now kindly assist me in another matter by throwing light upon several people well known to you. Dr Dario Chaparral visited Australia for the first time in 1936. He stayed with you for several days. Was he then interested in ping-pong?”
“No, not nearly to the extent that he was on his last visit.”
“How long prior to his first visit to Australia did you know him?”
“I heard of him about a year before,” Wilcannia-Smythe replied, “through the Blakes. They were corresponding with him for several years before 1936, and when he came to Australia on that occasion, they came to Sydney especially to meet him. Ella Montrose also came up from Melbourne.”
“Was the note-book employed at that time?”
Wilcannia-Smythe hesitated before answering.
“I’m not sure. I am inclined to think that it was.”
“Thank you,” Bony said. “Although you feel you cannot admit any knowledge of I. R. Watts—er—professionally, you must know, privately, something about him—where he lives, what he has done, other than his novels.”
The left extremity of Wilcannia-Smythe’s upper lip lifted in a sneer.
“When Watts first began to issue his tales, we examined them as a matter of course,” he said. “On finding that they could not be considered as a serious contribution to Australian literautre, no one troubled about the fellow. He kept himself to himself. He made no advances, nor did he attempt to enter any literary circle. For years I have held the opinion that I. R. Watts is a pen-name of someone very well known in Australia, possibly someone in the political or religious spheres. We made no attempt to find out as we were never concerned with his work.”
“H’m! That’s a point of interest, Mr Wilcannia-Smythe,” Bony said, rising to his feet. “Why do you think that Mervyn Blake was murdered?”
“Why?” The grey eyes gleamed but the face remained calm, and almost expressionless. “I believe he was murdered because he was perfectly well when he went off to bed that night, and because of the way he looked when we discovered him the next morning. He had been in the hands of doctors for several years, and not long before he died he was overhauled by the Yarrabo doctor who found nothing wrong with his heart, and that even his ulcers were drying up.”
“Have you any thoughts of a motive for murdering him?”
“None. I’ve no doubt that Blake was heartily disliked by those who turn out commercial fiction and whom we could never recognize. He had no personal enemies that I knew of.”
“Do you think it probable that Mrs Blake instigated the successful attempt of getting back the note-book you—er—purloined?”
“No, I do not. And yet no one else knew I had taken it—excepting, perhaps, the Pinkney woman, or the person who seems to have informed you. Which reminds me, Miss Pinkney hated Blake for having tossed a stone at her cat.”
“I heard of that episode,” Bony said, and began to walk to the door with Wilcannia-Smythe. Opening the door for the distinguished novelist, Bony gave the merest hint of a bow, and Wilcannia-Smythe passed out without speaking. Back again at the desk, Bony said, “Constable! Try to get on to Superintendent Jacks.”
Five minutes later, Bony heard the voice of the Chief of the C.I.B. speaking from his own bedroom.
“A hundred hours of sleep are due to me, and you—Never mind, Bony. What can I do?”
“Contact someone here who will despatch a cablegram to the police at Bogota, Colombia, South America.”
“All right. Tell the constable to ask Inspector Inns to ring me. What d’you want from Bogota? Postage stamps?”
“No. Coffin dust.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Way of an Alkaloid
BONY returned to Melbourne by the first plane leaving Sydney the following morning, and reaching Yarrabo at a quarter to one, he walked direct to his lodging, where Miss Pinkney awaited him with lunch. On the table in his pleasant room were several letters.
Nancy Chesterfield wrote expressing regret that he had been obliged to cancel the proposed dinner and show, and hope that he would be able to make it another time. There was a note from Dr Fleetwood asking him to call as soon as he returned to Yarrabo. And there was a short letter from I. R. Watts.
Watts gave his publisher’s address, and he used his typewriter to inform Mr Napoleon Bonaparte from South Africa that he much regretted his inability to meet him as he was that day leaving on a visit to Adelaide. However, on returning to Melbourne, which he hoped to do late the following week, he would write again and arrange a meeting. The signature was barely decipherable. The letter had been posted in the city.
I. R. Watts was becoming something of a mystery, and without doubt he would have to be unearthed to provide much in addition to an opinion of the influence exerted by the Blake-Smythe clique on local literature. He was a piece of the puzzle that would have to be fitted into place, and any opinion he might have would be of lesser importance than the answer to the question, where did he get the story of the coffin dust he used in his novel The Vengeance of Master Atherton?
Having enjoyed Miss Pinkney’s lunch, Bony left the cottage and strolled down the highway to the doctor’s house. The sun’s rays were hot. There was no breeze to temper the heat, and no trees to give shade until he was almost at the doctor’s open drive gate, and therefore he was able to appreciate the dimmed and cool interior of the doctor’s study.
“We finished the P.M. yesterday morning,” Fleetwood said. “I have the result in this report. Perhaps you would rather I told you in layman’s language than read the report to you.”
“Yes. I am concerned only with bald facts,” Bony assented.
“Good! Professor Ericson came here and after a preliminary examination of the dead man’s heart and stomach, we took certain organs to Melbourne, where a more extensive examination was undertaken. That examination convinced both of us that Walsh died from failure of the heart brought about by the action of an alkaloid similar to that contained in the powder you gave me to analyse, and which I passed to Professor Ericson.”
Bony had been watching the lean lips forming the words, and now he moved his gaze to encounter the grey eyes.
“Does the fact that Walsh drank spirits to excess have any significance?” he asked. “The rabbit to which you gave some of that powder on a lettuce leaf did not die, remember.”
“The rabbit died some time last night.”
“Oh!”
“We may assume, we think, that the alkaloid does act more swiftly when brought in contact with alcohol,” Dr Fleetwood proceeded. “Walsh was a man whose body was saturated with alcohol. The alkaloid in the stomach was thus able to pass into the blood stream very swiftly. With a non-drinking man the poison would be very much slower in action, and possibly non-effective unless administered in doses given over a considerable period.”
“The joint opinion of yourself and Professor Ericson would not be contested by opposing medical opinion?”
“It might,” replied Dr Fleetwood. “In fact, if there were a trial the defence would almost surely raise an objection—unless the prosecution could produce more of the powder, or name it, and prove its origin. However, in view of what the examination has revealed, I could not certify that Walsh died from prolonged alcoholic poisoning self-administered. I am afraid the case will have to go to the Coroner.”
“There is none of the powder left?”
“None. The remainder was used by Professor Ericson.”
“What, do you think, would be the Coroner’s finding?”
“On the evidence put forward by Ericson and myself, the finding would be, probably, that Walsh die
d of virulent ptomaine poisoning. Nothing more than that, unless, of course, it was stated that Walsh had been given some of that powder in his drink, and some of the powder was produced. Have you any more of it?”
“No, unfortunately,” Bony replied. “If the body of Mervyn Blake was exhumed, could it be established that he had or had not died of that particular alkaloidal poison?”
Fleetwood bit hard upon his nether lip. “That particular poison is not common, nor as well known in its effect as, say strychnine. I fear that medical opinion would inevitably differ widely—if there were no evidence supporting the suggestion of homicide.”
“How much longer can the report be kept back from the authorities, do you think?”
“Another day, perhaps.”
“Very well. Please delay as long as possible. I am expecting information cabled from Colombia, South America, where it is an old belief that the residuum of a long-buried human body will kill without leaving any trace. The substance is known as coffin dust.”
The doctor breathed an exclamation. Softly he repeated the words, his professional equanimity shaken.
Bony said, “May I use your telephone?”
He sat at the table waiting to be connected with Superintendent Bolt. The doctor stood before the semi-masked window, his hands clasped beneath his straight back. He had often been able to make death gentle in its touch, but for the first time he was confronted by death introduced by murder.
He heard Bony’s voice, “Yes, Bony here, super. Speaking from Yarrabo. Oh yes, I got along very well with friend W.-S. I am now interested in another man who writes novels. Name is I. R. Watts. Yesterday Snook and I called on the Income Tax people to find out his address, as I understand he lives in Victoria. We interviewed a man named Trilby, and he had their files searched and said there was no taxpayer of that name. I have now the thought that I. R. Watts might be the pen-name of the taxpayer who collects royalties paid to I. R. Watts. Will you put that to Trilby, and let me know if I. R. Watts can be traced by them? Yes, I know, super. Yes, but I don’t want Watts to be told we are interested in him, and if we approach his publishers, they will surely tell him the police are looking him up. Good! And not a word to friend Snook, mind you. Yes, I agree. He’s got a lot coming to him. Let me know about Watts as soon as you can. Ring Constable Simes. He’ll fetch me to the telephone. What’s that? Oh! Yes! Yes, of course! I never fail—you know that. Good-bye!”
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