An Author Bites the Dust b-11

by Arthur W. Upfield

  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 theBlakes ’ 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. TheBlakes 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 CafeItaliano, 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 introducedthemselves, 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 Hawkesbur
y 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-pongballs 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?” sneeredSnook.

  “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?” snarledSnooks, 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. Aurevoir!”

  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?”

  “For social calls or business, you tantalizing swab?”

  “You wouldn’t interfere now in this Blake case, would you?”

  “Of course not. As I told you, it’s all yours.”

  “Get the reservation for this afternoon. And come along to Menzies and lunch with me. I may confide.”

  “Good-oh! If you don’t ‘toik’, you’ll be for it.”

  The enormous Chief of the C.I.B. thoroughly enjoyed his lunch. For one thing, Menzies is a place where one can enjoy lunch, and for another Napoleon Bonaparte could be a charming host. Bolt was told just as much as Bony thought was good for him, and that much was a great deal for Bony to bring himse
lf to tell anyone. No mention was made of the adventure of Wilcannia-Smythe, of the novels of I. R. Watts, of the death of Sid Walsh.

  The story of Mr Pickwick’s ping-pong ball gave Bolt food for thought, and the fact provided by Ethel Lacy, that there was brandy kept in the garage, and the bottle possibly exchanged for that on Blake’s writing table after he died, brought forth the remark, “I felt it in my bones that there was something screwy about that bloke’s death. Snook assured me he had experimented with the ruddy door, and that the experiment proved his theory that the wind had closed it. The meteorological people supported it with a report that that night the wind did blow in gusts of up to twenty miles an hour. Then, of course, there was the toxicologist’s negative report. How do you get over that last?”

  “No man is infallible, super,” replied Bony. “I wonder if his mind was predisposed to the thought that Blake died through what is termed alcoholic poisoning. If it was, then he might have been content to seek only for one of the common poisons. The other point, the weather, ismore clear. Evidence of several people goes to prove that at Yarrabo-at Yarrabo, mind you-there was hardly any wind throughout the night.”

  “You gettingwarm?”

  “Yes. You know how it is. In the beginning one has to test doors. None of them will budge. One goes on testing doors, and then, unexpectedly, a door will open, and beyond that door there are the keys to unlock several of those doors that wouldn’t budge.”

  “That’s how it moves,” Bolt agreed. “You haven’t told me about all the doors you’ve opened, have you?”

  “No.” Bony smiled into the shrewd, brown eyes of his enormous guest. “I shall, eventually, finalize this case to my satisfaction, and therefore to your own. I’ll hand it over to you, tied up neatly, and append to it my grateful thanks for having made my leave very enjoyable. I shall look for no credit but I want payment.”

  “That’s not like you, Bony. All your exes will be refunded, of course.”

  “The payment I desire is recognition of Constable Simes, who is being unprofitably used up at Yarrabo. He has revealed marked intelligence, and his collaboration has been invaluable. I’ll give you the ammunition with which to urge his promotion. You’ll find it in my report. It is little for me to ask for in view of the sacrifices my unfortunate wife has to make, and the sacrifice I have now to make by cancelling an evening’s engagement with the most vital woman I’ve ever met. My plane leaves at three, I think you said. Where do I pick up a transport car?”