An Author Bites the Dust. Arthur W. Upfield

man who had asked him to forget rank and title. Bony’s dark face was stern.

      Simes said, “Mrs Blake was seated on a chair in the hall, and Mrs Montrose was standing close beside her. Mrs Blake was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, and she was softly sobbing.”

      “Was it a clean handkerchief?”

      “Yes. It appeared hardly used. The ironing creases were still evident.”

      Bony’s brows rose a fraction and he smiled faintly.

      “When you saw her again was she still crying? You did see her again?”

      “Yes, I saw her again when I told her I would have to report the death of her husband to headquarters,” Simes replied. “She was still in the hall with Mrs Montrose.”

      “The handkerchief?”

      “It was a little wet ball. Oh, Mrs Blake was genuinely upset, there is no doubt about that.”

      “Naturally, Simes, she would be upset. Now for Mrs Montrose. How was she behaving? Tell me—exactly.”

      “When I first saw her, she was just standing beside Mrs Blake and allowing the tears to run down her face unchecked. She was not standing when I saw her the next time, and she wasn’t crying.”

      “You’ve got a good memory, Simes,” Bony said. “And the artist’s gift of observation. It should take you a long way. After you contacted your headquarters, you sought out every guest and the domestic staff and warned them not to leave the house. You took a statement from everyone. All that you put in your report, but into your report you did not put your private thoughts concerning the impressions they made on you. We’ve been studying the reactions of others, now let’s have your personal opinions.”

      “If you think it’s important—all right,” Simes assented.

      “Everything is important, even the most trivial occurrence or the most casual remark. Now for all the persons you met inside and outside the Blake’s residence. Wilcannia-Smythe discovered Blake dead. Begin with him.”

      “All right, I’ll see what I can do,” agreed Simes, and for a little while regarded the wall behind Bony’s back. Then, “Wilcannia-Smythe betrayed no emotion. He spoke precisely. He might have found a hundred dead men before he found Mervyn Blake. The man with him, Martin Lubers, was agitated. He seemed to me more natural than the other man, for after all most of us would be upset under the circumstances. The third man was Twyford Arundal, who lives in Adelaide—small, scented, a thorough twerp. Three years in the army would do him a great deal of good. He was anxious to tell me that after he had gone to bed he did not leave his room until Lubers called him with the news that Blake was dead. Then Marshall Ellis, from England, and Miss Chesterfield.

      “These two were on the back veranda. He was smoking a cigar, she was writing on a letter pad. You will recall that Miss Chesterfield is a journalist. She was nervously taut, understandable in a journalist on a probably good story. Good looker, but direct in speech and manner. Ellis was impatient when I asked him to tell me about himself, as though he were a personage to be questioned by no one lower than the Chief Commissioner. A surly brute.”

      “Excellent, Simes, excellent,” Bony cried delightedly.

      “Mrs Montrose would make a good tragedienne. She’s the type who is happiest when able to give vent to emotionalism—Mrs Blake is different. She would fight the wind instead of bending to it. That’s all, except for the two domestics.

      “The cook’s name is Salter. I don’t know her personally. She came from the city. Her husband is with the Forces in Japan. Struck me as being a good type. The maid is a local girl. Name of Ethel Lacy. Parents soundly respectable. She’s a bit of a gadabout, but otherwise O.K. She was engaged by Mrs Blake for the duration of the house party, and it was not for the first time.”

      “Good looking, I understand.”

      “Very. Knows it, and can take care of herself. I’ve often thought that, rightly handled, she could tell us quite a lot about the Blakes and their guests.”

      “We’ll keep her in mind,” Bony said, and added slowly, “It’s a lovely case, one of the most attractive ever to come to me. No gore, no blood-stained knives, no pistols and sawn-off shotguns, and, apparently, no poisons. Man dies and no one can find out what killed him. Was apparently on excellent terms with wife and guests, and also with the domestic staff. By the way, was there any other domestic—chauffeur, gardener, or such?”

      “No. A local jobbing man has been employed there for a day now and then. Man by the name of Sid Walsh. Whisky soak, but harmless. You’ll probably meet him soon. Miss Pinkney asked me to tell him she wanted him for the day.”