An Author Bites the Dust b-11

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Quite normal, I believe. She scolded him sometimes for drinking too much. I fancy they got along very well. They lived to a great extent independently, and they worked independently, though for the same end.”

  “In their objective, therefore, they were united?”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “Tired of being questioned?”

  “No, Bony, I’m not.”

  “I would like to ask more personal questions.”

  “Do so. Have you a cigarette?”

  “Of course. Forgive me, please.” Having held a match to her cigarette, he said, “What was your interpretation of the meeting of Wilcannia-Smythe and Mrs Blake at the Rialto Hotel?”

  “I don’t know what to think about that,” she confessed. “It seems that Mrs Blake found Wilcannia-Smythe’s handkerchief and accused him of leaving it somewhere or other. I don’t understand it at all.”

  “Why did you leave without speaking to Mrs Blake?”

  Nancy Chesterfield hesitated, and Bony was sure she was marshalling her facts.

  “In the first place, I was furiously angry when Wilcannia-Smythe did not return to me, and in the second place, I felt that Mrs Blake was in such an emotional state that she would not appreciate it if I spoke to her.”

  “She has a temper?”

  “Yes. Also she has a forceful personality.”

  “That night you spent with theBlakes, you slept in Mrs Blake’s room. Where did she sleep?”

  “In the dressing-room, next to it.”

  “And where did Mrs Montrose sleep?”

  “In the room beyond the dressing-room. The dressing-room served both bedrooms.”

  “You met otheroversea visitors at the Blake’s beside the man Marshall Ellis, did you not?”

  “How did you know that? Yes, I did. Janet Blake has always been keen to entertain foreign literary people. Her correspondence with literary people in other countries is very large.”

  “What was your impression of Dr Chaparral?”

  “Good! I liked him. He could talk well and always interestingly.”

  “He played ping-pong exceptionally well, I understand.”

  “He held the South American Championship for three years running.”

  “And he was almost an expert on the customs and superstitions of the backward peoples of his country, was he not?”

  “Yes, he knew a great deal about them.”

  “And as he told his stories, Ella Montrose jotted them down?”

  Nancy Chesterfield frowned and regarded Bony with narrowed eyes. She nodded, and Bony pressed on, “What did she write on, do you remember?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Ella started off by making memos of the doctor’s stories on pieces of paper and then either rewrote them in a note-book, or left it to Blake to do. Some of them were extraordinary stories, and terribly gruesome.”

  “Did the note-book have a black cover?”

  “It certainly did. How do you know all this?”

  “Intuition.”

  “Fibber.”

  “You are correct. Thank you very much for taking me to lunch. It has been much better than if I had taken you. May I call on you at your office-when I want to?”

  “Of course. And I hope you will want to soon and often.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Report on Powder

  BEFORE leaving for Yarrabo by the afternoon train, Bony purchased writing materials and, in the G.P.O., wrote a letter to I. R. Watts, asking for the favour of an interview. Since lunching with Nancy Chesterfield, his desire to interview Watts for a check-up on Bagshott’s statements had increased because of his own liking for the man’s books. Bony felt that I. R. Watts would be able to give him an accurate and impartial opinion of the Blake-Smythes.

  When he alighted from the train at Yarrabo, he was for the second time accosted by Constable Simes’s little girl, who told him that her father would like him to call at the police station.

  “It looks as though it’s not possible for you to go to town without something happening,” Simes said. “A couple of hours ago, old Sid Walsh was found dead in his hut. Died some time during the night, according to Dr Fleetwood. The doctor rang up this morning asking for you, so that that can have nothing to do with Walsh’s death.”

  “Where is the body?”

  “Still in the old hut. Walsh lived on a half-acre block up the hill behind the church.”

  “Did Fleetwood say what he died of?” asked Bony.

  “Alcoholic poisoning.”

  “Oh! Relatives taken charge?”

  “Walsh hadn’t any relations-as far as we know.”

  “I’ll go and have a look at him. You come, too.”

  “All right! What about the doctor?”

  “Ring him. If he’s disengaged, ask him to come along to Walsh’s hut. He and I may as well discuss there the matter he wishes to see me about.”

  Simes regarded Bony with thoughtful eyes, and then turned to the telephone on his desk. The doctor said he would join them at Walsh’s hut. The constable and the inspector left the police station and walked up the road.

  “You don’t think there’s anything underneath this death, do you?” asked Simes.

  “N-no, nothing concrete.”

  They walked a hundred yards in silence before Simes again put a question.

  “You are not quite sure it’s natural causes, eh?”

  “As an ordinary layman, Simes, I should have no opinion,” Bony replied. “Being a layman, and having conversed, and even boozed, with Walsh, I must think that the doctor’s diagnosis is correct. However, through the chances of birth, there is another facet to my mental make-up-or should I say spiritual make-up? That other facet could be called intuition, and intuition causes me to think that Sid Walsh did not die from alcoholic poisoning. Stupid of me, isn’t it?”

  Having passed the church they came to an unmade road, overgrown with grass and bracken, and Simes and Bony took the path that curved to and fro along this unmade road. The path was of native earth, and the surface was only now beginning to dust after the rain of two nights before.

  As they stepped on to the path Bony paused for a moment, then stepped off it again and proceeded along its grassy edge. Simes copied him, and thus they went on, flanking the church property on their left and a private house and grounds on their right. Well beyond the church they came to a fenced half-acre of land on which was built a small hut. A branch path led to a rickety gate.

  The gate was open. Once more Bony paused to examine the bare earth about the gateway before entering and continuing along the path to the hut.

  It was a two-roomed structure in fair condition. About it the dead man had planted flowers and shrubs. They passed round to the back and found the open space that served as a back yard, clean and swept. In spite of his love for “guts-shudderers” and “drainers”, Sid Walsh had taken pride in his bachelor quarters.

  “He had a dog,” Simes said. “I let a neighbour take it away.”

  “A neighbour!”Bony echoed, looking about the landscape.

  “Yes. A quarter of a mile away beyond those trees. Did you see any suspicious tracks?”

  “How could I?”Bony demanded, brows knit. “Since Walsh came home last evening from a session at the hotel with me, you have tramped up and down that path, the doctor has done so, and at least two other persons have also done so. Still-I don’t know what you Victorian Police would do without me. Do you remember those two sets of tracks left by the men who abducted Wilcannia-Smythe?”

  “Yes.”

  “One of those men came here last night-and after Walsh got home. The one who is slightly pigeon-toed and has a corn on the fore-part of his foot. I could not see enough of any one of the tracks he left on the path from the highway to the gate to enable me to be sure about him. But his tracks are on the path from the gate to this back door. In fact, you are standing beside a clear specimen imprint of his right boot.”

  Simes stiffened before bending to gaz
e at the ground. After a few seconds, during which his attitude did not change, Bony also stooped and pointed out the track.

  “Size sevenboot or shoe,” said the constable. “But-but how the devild’you know he’s got a corn on his right foot, and that the corn is on the front part of it? That’s what gets me. Yes, that’s the track of one of the men who tied up Smythe. Yes, that’s the track all right-now that you’ve pointed it out.” He straightened and said, “It connects the Smythe hold-up with Walsh’s death, doesn’t it?”

  “It wouldseem to, Simes,” Bony said reprovingly. “You have not, of course, come across the tracks of the abductors’ car, or either of the men’s tracks anywhere in the township?”

  “No! Oh, no.”

  “The footpaths are excellent registers of pedestrians. Those two men and the car must have come from beyond the limits of the township, at the very shortest. We might see the car’s tracks again at the junction of the path with the highway. We’ll have a look round here presently. It’s singular that I’ve detected the tracks of only one of those two men.”

  “You’re telling me,” Simes agreed. “Here comes the doctor.”

  “Crime and criminals provide an absorbing study, Simes. You see, crime works out, broadly, along the same pattern. I am reminded of whatCreon wrote-‘Man’s crimes are his worst enemies, following, like shadows, till they drive his steps into the pit he dug’. The steps part of it interests me more than the shadows. Ah! Afternoon, doctor!”

  “Good afternoon, Inspector Bonaparte. Why did you want me here?”

  “Merely to get you out into the fresh air,” Bony replied, smilingly. “Actually, of course, because I think it possible that Walsh’s death may be connected with the Blake case. Has the body been moved since it was discovered?”

  “Yes,” Simes replied. “Walsh was lying on the floor of the living-room.”

  “Let us enter.”

  The doctor frowned at Bony, saying, “You don’t suspect foul play, do you?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “It’s fantastic-if it is foul play.”

  They entered, and Simes produced a stick of chalk from his pocket and drew on the bare boards of the floor the outline of a human figure.

  “That’s about where helay, doctor, wasn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes. About there,” Fleetwood agreed. “There, you see, is where he was slightly sick. He drank two bottles of whisky.”

  “Two bottles, eh? Where?” asked Bony.

  “In the bedroom. Let’s go in there.”

  The sinister figure on the old bed was covered with a blanket. Beside the window was a small deal table. Upon it stood a hurricane lamp, boxes of matches, several cheap reprints of racing stories, a glass and two whisky bottles, a corkscrew and a bottle opener. One of the bottles was empty. About a noggin of spirit remained in the other.

  “Have these bottles been touched by either of you, or by anyone else in your presence?” asked Bony.

  Simes said he didn’t think so. The doctor said he had not touched the bottles or the glass.

  Bony said, “Both these bottles were opened quite recently. There is still distinct moisture in the empty bottle. On what do you base your opinion that he died of alcoholic poisoning?”

  “On my knowledge of the man’s habits over a long period,” Fleetwood replied.“And also upon the outward evidence of death on the features. There is a ghastly, vacant expression on the face, which is suffused and bloated. The lips are livid, and the pupils of the eyes are much dilated. That Walsh died in convulsion is also evident. All are the outward signs of death by alcoholic poisoning.”

  “He and I were drinking at half past five yesterday afternoon,” Bony said. “He appeared to be much more sober than I felt when we parted.”

  “That’s not significant. However, I am not sure of my diagnosis. A post mortem would prove or disprove it.”

  “Would you mind conducting the examination?”

  “No. But the situation is involved because the man has no known relations from whom permission could be obtained.”

  “A Justice of the Peace, acting as Coroner, could give the authority,” Simes advised.

  “In that case-”

  “Thank you, doctor, we’ll have the examination done.”

  “I shall be interested in view of what Professor Ericson said about the powder you handed to me.”

  “Ah! You have his report! Let us go outside to hear it. Bony led the exodus, and they walked across Walsh’s tidy back yard to sit in the shade cast by several gum-trees. “You may speak freely before Simes, doctor. He is collaborating with me.”

  “Wish you’d tell me where you obtained that powder.” Fleetwoodsaid, his grey eyes hard. “I’ll read Professor Ericson’s letter. Here goes: ‘Dear Fleetwood. I am glad to hear from you and to know that all is well with you and yours. Thank you for the little task concerning the packet you sent along. It was quickly apparent that it is neither mineral nor vegetable, and that, as you thought, it is animal matter. What animal, however, it was difficult to prove. Even now friendMathers, who assisted me, and I am not in complete agreement.

  “ ‘Weare agreed that the dust is the residuum of a long-dead animal body. We are agreed also that theptomaines have survived the decomposition of the body and are still unimpaired in the residuum. In Mathers’s opinion, the dust is of the body of one of the canine species. In mine, it is that of the body of any primate excepting man, but in my mindexists the thought that it may be the residuum of a human body.’ ”

  Dr Fleetwood looked up from the letter and regarded Bony with the frown even deeper between his eyes.

  “Pardon my ignorance,” Bony said. “What areptomaines?”

  “Basic organic chemical compound which is derived from the decomposing animal or vegetable protein. It bears a resemblance to an alkaloid.”

  “And is, therefore, poisonous?”

  “I said it bears a resemblance, not that it is an alkaloid.”

  “This particular protein could possibly be poisonous?”

  “Oh yes, not only possibly but probably. When injected in the form of an alcoholic extract the rabbit died, remember.”

  “But the rabbit that ate the powder on a leaf did not die.”

  “That is so.”

  “H’m!” Bony gazed downward at his dusty shoes. Then, “So far so good. In layman’s phraseology, if the stuff is eaten it is not poisonous, if it is injected it is. Might not the powder be poisonous if eaten by a body saturated with alcohol?”

  “It might, inspector. I will not commit myself. It would have to be proved by experiment. Is it in your mind that some of that powder was taken by old Walsh-probably in his whisky?”

  “It is, doctor. It is also in my mind that the putting of any powder similar to that examination by Professor Ericson in Walsh’s food or drink is an extremely remote possibility. But because of that possibility, I should like you to conduct a post mortem. You might then be able to determine if Walsh drank two bottles of whisky. If, say, you determined that he drank, or could have drunk, no more than one bottle of whisky, then I should be disinclined to believe that he died from alcoholic poisoning, because a large number of men in any given community can drink a bottle of whisky in an hour or two without noticeably ill effects.”

  “I’ll do the P.M.,” Fleetwood said. “And if I find that death was not due to alcoholic poisoning, that it was caused by another poison, an alkaloid, for instance?”

  “It will strengthen a theory in my mind that this death is connected with the death of Mervyn Blake. It will compel an inquest, and in that both Superintendent Bolt and InspectorSnooks will take exceptional interest-long before I am ready to permit their interest to be roused. Is Professor Ericson in a position to assist you with the post mortem?”

  “Yes, and I feel sure he would be very willing,” replied the doctor. “That’s an idea. Ericson could go very much farther than I could to establish the poison, if there is poison.”

  Bony
rose to his feet and loosened his shoulders.

  “Assuming that the professor assented, when would you make the examination?”

  “Tonight, if the professor is agreeable. If not tonight, then first thing tomorrow. I could do the preliminaries this evening.”

  “Could you delay your findings, assuming you found poison?”

  “For two days, perhaps, before reporting to the Coroner. We could find excuses.”

  “Good. I am placed, doctor, in the position of fighting for time.” Bony reached forward and touched Fleetwood upon the label of his coat to emphasize his words. “Cicero said, ‘Certain signs precede certain events’! I am now threatened by certain events preceding me, and that is a situation I find irksome.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Points of Interest

  HAVING assured Bony of future co-operation, Dr Fleetwood departed, and before his shadow had passed over the old front gate, Bony and Constable Simes were inside Sid Walsh’s bedroom.

  “We must preserve these bottles,” Bony said. “Wrap them in newspaper. Perhaps there’s an old case handy.”

  Without commenting, Simes went to work salving the two whisky bottles.

  “When found, did Walsh have his false teeth in his mouth?” Bony asked.

  “I didn’t notice,” replied Simes.

  “All right. Don’t touch that glass yet. Deal with the bottles by pushing your little finger into the top of them.”

  Bony caught his breath, hating what he had to do. He pulled the blanket down from the face of the dead man, forcing himself to look upon it and mentally shrinking from the awful picture it presented. Simes heard him say, “You didn’t lead a good life, Walsh, did you? Your liking, or weakness, for what you termed guts-shudderer, was your ruin. But you loved flowers, and that must be credited to you. You died with your teeth in your mouth and with your boots on your feet, and you died before you could go to bed. Just too bad. Well, we’ll find out all about it.”

  Covering the face, Bony made a superficial examination of the bedroom, and then looked over the living-room. He went outside and found a lean-to wash-house, and there he poked about for several minutes.