RIne I. R. Watts
THE following morning, at half past ten, Bony rang Nancy Chesterfield from a public telephone in Flinders Street. It was a hot and sultry day, and inside the box the heat was unbearable.
“Good morning, Nan,” he said, in greeting. “Can you come out for morning tea with me?”
“I could, but I won’t, Bony,” she replied. “It’s far too hot and my office is ever so much cooler.”
“Then could I call on you? It would not be time wasting.”
“By all means. I’ll order a second cup of tea and biscuits,” she said. “Honestly though. I couldn’t possibly get away this morning. I’ve got a big news story to deal with. But if you will come up to me, I can spare you half an hour.”
Five minutes later he was seated beside her desk, and thanking a young lady who had poured tea for them.
When the girl had gone, he said briskly, “I am not going to detain you very long. This is a busy day for me, too,” and she sensed the earnestness beneath the smile he gave her. “I’m getting warm. Metaphorically, of course. In temperature, I have long since passed the ‘getting’ stage. This tea is delicious. What a train journey, to be sure! Cast your mind back to your visit to theBlakes when Dr Dario Chaparral was staying there. Ready?”
Nancy Chesterfield laughed delightedly.
“What a volcano you can be,” she said, mockingly. “D’youknowthat when we lunched the other day, you didn’t tell me what you thought of Janet Blake and Ella Montrose?”
“And forgot to thank you for the introduction you posted to me,” he hastily supplemented. “I thank you now-for being a downright good sportswoman. I found both the ladies very charming. How did you know I called on Mrs Blake?”
“Ella wrote from Melbourne that same night. She said, inter alia, that she could not approve of the company you keep at Yarrabo.”
“She need not be further concerned. The company is deadThey are conducting a post mortem on the body this morning.”
“Oh!” The exclamation came slowly, and the grey eyes contracted.
“Died the night before last. Alcoholic poisoning. Well now, about this Dr Chaparral. Will you go back in mind to that evening, or evenings, when you dined with him at theBlakes ’ table?”
“Very well.”
“You will remember that he told many stories which were so interesting to Ella Montrose that she noted them on slips of paper.”
“Yes. I can even recall some of the stories he related.”
“Good! Can you remember if he related the queer story that in certain districts of his country it is believed that the dust of a long-buried human body, if mixed with food, will poison the eater?”
“How horrible! No, I can’t remember anything like that. He told stories of the customs of primitive peoples, and of their practices and beliefs. But not such a story as you have mentioned, Bony. Tell me more about it.”
“There isn’t much more to tell. I don’t know much more thanthat, and what I do know is based chiefly on an incident in one of I. R. Watts’s novels, The Vengeance of Master Atherton. Have you read it?”
Nancy Chesterfield replied in the negative as she shook her head.
“I have it with me,” Bony said, indicating the small case at his feet. “Unfortunately, nowhere in the book is the year of publication stated. As I have already applied to his publishers for his address, and was refused it, I am diffident about approaching them. But I must know. And I must know where Watts obtained the data concerning what he calls ‘coffin dust’ in his novel.”
“I’ll ring them, shall I?”
“If you would.”
Whilst waiting for the connection, Bony said, “I wrote to I. R. Watts a few days ago asking for an interview. The publishers did tell me that he lives in Victoria. I could get the address out of them through police pressure, but that would not, I think, be diplomatic just now.”
The bell shrilled and Nancy picked up the instrument. She announced her name and said she was writing a literary article and wanted the year of publication of Watt’s particular novel. Then, having put down the instrument, she said, “It was published in Australia in 1942.”
And Dr Chaparral visited theBlakes in 1945. It disproves a theory that someone heard Dr Chaparral at theBlakes ’ table relate a story about coffin dust, and passed it to I. R. Watts, who, however, knew the story in 1942 or previously.”
“Do you think-”
Bony held one hand.
“Please,” he pleaded. “I do not think anything just now. You must not, either. Nor mention this matter to anyone. Cross your fingers and promise.”
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.