Читать книгу An Author Bites the Dust - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 10

Bony Seeks Collaboration

The police station at Yarrabo was situated at the lower end of the straggling settlement, and the officer in charge was tolerant but efficient. His interests were few and sharply defined. Outside his official duties he had three loves, his daughter, his garden, his painting. From the front veranda one had to bend back one’s head to look up at the summit of Donna Buang.

There was a picture in oils of Donna Buang, as seen through the policeman’s eyes from his front veranda. The picture was a little distracting to Bony, who was seated opposite the constable.

“Anything I can do, sir, to help I’ll be delighted. I assume that you read my report, among all the others, on the Blake case.”

Constable Simes spoke quickly, crisply. If he was yet forty, his face belied it. He was large, hard, fair, blue-eyed and round-jawed. He was impervious to Bony’s examining eyes.

“I read the entire official file on the Blake case before I went to bed at four forty-five this morning,” Bony stated, as though giving evidence. “Reports and statements, however, are limited to facts, whereas the summary provides a few assumptions based on the known facts. When you and I have to make a report, we confine ourselves strictly to facts as we think we know them. When a person makes a statement, he also sticks to facts—unless he has reason to give false information. Strangely enough, the majority of cases successfully finalized have rested on the ability of the investigator to prove facts from assumption. Care to work with me?”

“Yes, certainly, sir.”

Simes said it with official stiffness, and now Bony smiled, and all the little stirrings of hostility towards the Queenslander vanished from the constable’s mind.

There was genuine happiness in Bony’s voice when he said, “Good! Let me explain a few points that will assist us in getting together. Firstly, I am not a policeman’s bootlace. We have the authority of my Chief Commissioner for that, and he is a man of astonishing acumen. Now and then, however, he does admit that I am that paradox, a rotten policeman but a most successful detective. I am glad to hold the rank of inspector only on account of the salary.

“My present task is to reveal how Mervyn Blake came by his death. No one knows that, and the medical experts seem to have agreed that he died from natural causes. I am here simply because your own C.I.B is snowed under with work, and Superintendent Bolt doesn’t want the case to grow too cold. He asked me to keep it warm for him, believing it would interest me—which it does.”

He lit the cigarette he had been making and again smiled. Simes looked at the cigarette, and wanted to smile.

“I would like you to banish two things from your mind,” Bony went on. “The one is to forget that I am an inspector, and the other is to forget to call me ‘sir’. I want you to be entirely free in your attitude to me, because I want your collaboration off the record as well as on it. I want you to have no hesitation in expressing assumptions and presenting theories, not because I want to use you up, as the current expression goes, but because if you are able to be free with me, you will, doubtless, provide valuable data which you would not do did you continue to regard me as an official superior. I have all the known facts. Now I want your opinions, your assumptions, your suspicions. Do you get it?”

For the first time, Constable Simes smiled.

“You make it easy to collaborate—er—er—”

“Bony. Just Bony. Now I want to ask questions. Ready?”

“Go ahead,” Simes invited, and then added, “Of course, not remembering what you asked me to forget, I am permitted to smoke?”

“Naturally,” agreed Bony. “You see already how well it works. No stiffness, no official barriers. Well, to begin. How long have you been stationed here?”

“Slightly more than nine years.”

“Happy here?”

“Yes. I like these mountains and the people who live among them. I was born at Wood’s Point. I went to school there, and for six years I worked among the timber.”

“Like promotion?”

“Of course. It’s overdue.”

“It’s habit with officers who collaborate with me to gain promotion.” Bony said, seriously. “You do that painting?”

Simes nodded, saying, “Yes, but I’m no artist. Several real artists have told me my work shows promise, and they urged me to study. But I paint to amuse myself, and some day I may have the chance to study.”

“Not being an artist, I think it a fine picture of Donna Buang. What do you know of Miss Pinkney?”

“Nice old thing,” Simes said, and Bony was glad he had succeeded in getting behind the policeman’s official facade. “She and her sea-captain brother settled here in the early thirties. He was a bit of a tartar, and he didn’t approve when she fell in love with a timber faller. My sister knew him. Despite the captain’s ruling, they were to be married, when he was killed at his work. Miss Pinkney’s never been the same since, and when her brother died she stayed on and lived alone. You are her first paying guest. Treating you all right?”

“Better than a paying guest,” Bony asserted warmly. “Does she associate with the locals?”

“Oh yes. Attends church and works for the Red Cross. I believe my sister is the only real friend she has. There’s a particular bond of sympathy between them, as my sister’s husband, who was a forestry man, was caught in the fires of ’38.”

“M’m! Makes a difference. I understand that she didn’t like Blake because he threw stones at her cat.”

Simes chuckled. “She told him he was the illegitimate offspring of a shanghaied drunk. She told him that if he threw one more stone at Mr Pickwick, she would get through the fence and kick his face down to his backside.”

“Dear me!” murmured Bony. “I would never have believed it of Miss Pinkney.”

“I understand that she used once to sail with her brother, who owned his own ship.”

“Was the unpleasantness about the cat the reason the Blakes were never friendly to her?”

“Not the real reason. They would not associate with anyone here at Yarrabo. They stood well with the local store and garage, and Mrs Blake often subscribed to the vicar’s various funds. But that was all.”

“Mrs Blake subscribed? Not Mervyn Blake?”

“Mrs Blake’s name always appeared in the vicar’s lists.”

“Tell me more,” urged Bony. “Tell me from the time they came here.”

“They bought the property slightly more than two years ago,” Simes proceeded. “They managed to get the place renovated and that writing-room built despite the chronic shortage of materials. It took—”

“Did they find the money for the purchase or was the purchase financed?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know that,” admitted Simes.

Bony made a memo.

“We will establish the point,” he said. “Go on.”

“Well, what with the scarcity of materials and the shortage of labour, the work took something like five months,” Simes continued. “After it was done, they began to entertain, having several people staying over the weekend, and sometimes having a house party for a week or more. The visitors were mostly literary people, I think. Very often they were mentioned in the papers, according to my sister, who reads the social pages.”

“M’m! Did you ever contact the Blakes?”

“I spoke to Mrs Blake several times. She owns the car. Seemed all right to talk to, but wouldn’t relax, if you know what I mean. She might have been different had I been an inspector, or a sergeant. Blake himself was supercilious. Had a high opinion of himself. Spoke as though I were the village constable and he the squire.” Simes grinned. “Might go down in England, but not in Australia.”

“He was English, was he not?”

“Yes. Came to Australia shortly after the First World War—at least, I think so. I’m not quite sure about her.”

“She was born in Melbourne,” Bony stated. “Do you know the reason why they came here from Essendon?”

“Yes. Blake suffered from gastric trouble. I have the idea that the trouble was eased by the change.”

“You have the idea!” Bony echoed.

“Yes, only that. I think my sister spoke of it.”

Bony made another memo.

“He seemed to be quite well?” was his next question.

“Quite. Used to walk a great deal. Swung along as well as I. He was a well preserved man. In fact, I was surprised when I learnt he was fifty-six.”

“He didn’t look the suicide type?”

“He did not.”

“The post mortem revealed that he suffered from stomach ulcers. Also that his heart was not strong, and that his system was saturated with alcohol. Not one of these conditions is thought to have been responsible for his death. Neither is it thought that all three in combination could have been responsible. The Government Analyst was puzzled by the condition of the dead man’s liver and other organs. Did you know that?”

“No,” replied Simes.

“Very well. Let us assume that you did know the Analyst’s confidential report. Does it support any theory you have that Blake was murdered?”

Simes regarded Bony steadily for a full three seconds before he answered the question in the affirmative.

“I’ve always thought that murder was most likely,” he added.

“On what grounds?”

“On something that Inspector Snook would not accept seriously,” Simes answered, a dull flush stealing into his face.

“I noted that the date of your report was five days after the date of Blake’s death. Blake died on the night of 9th November. It is now 4th January. Since you wrote that report you have had opportunity to review all the data you then set down, and also to review your opinions held during those vital five days, opinions you did not express in your report but doubtless did express to Inspector Snook, eh?”

“No, I expressed no opinions, Bony. I was not invited to.”

“In fact, you were discouraged from giving opinions. Well, having met Inspector Snook on another case, I can understand that. Now tell me what you did, saw, and heard following the summons by Dr Fleetwood. Relate your reactions, your own opinions. Forget that I have studied your official report. Light your pipe and let your mind relax. Begin with the weather that morning. I suppose there are more murders and suicides influenced by the weather than the detectives wot of.”

Simes smiled slightly and relit his pipe.

“I can begin with the weather easily enough,” he said. “It had rained the night before, and I was very pleased because the garden was suffering from a long dry spell. The morning that Dr. Fleetwood rang me was bright and, compared with the previous day, cool. I reached Blake’s house about ten minutes to nine that morning, and I went straight in as the front door was open. Dr Fleetwood was in the hall waiting for me Also in the hall were Mrs Blake and a woman I knew subsequently as Mrs Montrose. Both were crying.

“The doctor led me through the house to the back veranda, where there were several people, then down to the lawn and so to the writing-room. The door was closed. I saw that there was no handle and that it was fitted with a Yale lock. The doctor took a key from his pocket and opened the door, which I then saw opened outwards.

“Blake was lying with his head almost touching the door when it was closed. He was dressed in pyjamas. I stepped over the body and the doctor came after me and reclosed the door. He spoke for the first time and said, ‘There’s something about this affair, Bob, that I don’t like.’

“The doctor and I have been a little more than acquaintances for several years,” explained Simes. “He told me that when he reached the house he was met by a guest named Wilcannia-Smythe who stated that when Blake didn’t turn up for breakfast at eight twenty he went out to the writing-room. Finding the door closed and being unable to open it because of the lock, he knocked twice and received no answer. Then he went round to the window, which was also closed and fastened, and looking through it saw Blake lying just inside the door.

“He returned to the house and asked the maid if there was another key to the writing-room, and she gave him a spare key, which she took down from a hook in the hall. Wilcannia-Smythe then collected another guest named Lubers, and together they went to the writing-room. Wilcannia-Smythe opened the door. Neither went in. First one and then the other tried to rouse Blake and found that he was dead. They then shut the door and returned to the house where they told Mrs Blake and advised sending for the doctor.

“The doctor reached the house shortly after eight forty. He was taken to the waiting-room by Wilcannia-Smythe, who remained outside the building while the doctor made his examination. The examination didn’t take more than two minutes, and immediately after it, the doctor left closing the door, and he and the guest went back to the house where Fleetwood telephoned to me.

“All that,” continued Simes, “was what the doctor told me after he and I had entered the room and he had closed the door. Then he told me that he had given the dead man a thorough overhaul six weeks previously, and had found him quite fit, except for stomach ulcers, which were drying up. He was very doubtful of the cause of death and said he’d be unable to sign the certificate until he had made an autopsy. That, however, was not the reason why he called me, and he asked me to stand by the window and see if I could see what he had seen and still saw.

“I did as he suggested. The room was not in great disarray, and there was no evidence of a struggle. The dead man’s clothes were folded neatly on a chair, and over the back of it hung his dinner jacket. The bedclothes were normal. On the writing desk was a kerosene pressure lamp, a glass jug that had contained milk and a glass that had also contained milk. There was a bottle of brandy almost half full and another glass, and an empty dry ginger bottle. In addition there were several books and papers and the usual appointments. There were four bookcases against the walls, and a couple of chairs, and a typewriter on a table. There was no wardrobe or any other bedroom furnishings other than the bed. Over the floor was thick wall-to-wall felt covering.

“At first sight it appeared that Blake had been taken ill during the night and had got as far as the door when he collapsed. He was lying in a partial huddle, the top of his head and his right shoulder about five inches from the bottom of the door. His left arm was under his chest as he was lying almost completely face downward, and his right arm was bent as though his last effort had been to raise himself. He had been slightly sick.

“I saw several distinct scratches on the paintwork of the door. They were low down and on the outer edge. When the doctor saw me looking at these marks, he told me they had been made by the dead man’s fingers. The fingers of the right hand were badly lacerated when he tried to get out of the room and was too weak, or in too much pain, to reach up for the lock.

“I couldn’t see anything else of significance. Not for a minute or two, anyway.” Simes chuckled. “I’m only an ordinary policeman, not a trained detective. The doctor wouldn’t help me, and so I went on staring at this and that, until I saw that the felt inside the closed door was damp. It was so damp that I must have been blind not to have noticed it before. The colour of the felt was rose and the wet place was much darker. The rain the night before had beaten in through the door to a limit of about fifteen inches, and on this wet patch lay the dead man’s head and his shoulders and right arm.

“I went over to the corpse and knelt beside it. The hair at the back of the head was damp, and the collar and upper part of the pyjamas. Then I saw that under the body the carpet was quite dry. I could follow the edges of the dry place without moving the corpse and thus see that the rain had beaten in through the open door after he had died.

“I asked the doctor if he were sure that the guest had told him the door was closed when he went to call Blake for breakfast, and Fleetwood said he was sure. He asked him the second time about it when making the examination, and the guest asserted again that the door had been shut.

“The doctor asked me then if I worked it out as he had done,” proceeded Simes. “I wasn’t sure what time the rain had begun, because I went to bed about half past eleven the previous night. I knew that it had stopped when I got up that morning at six, and that it hadn’t rained after I got up. So the rain on the dead man’s head and shoulders and on the carpet must have fallen before six o’clock. I said, ‘After Blake was dead, someone came into this room and stayed for at least a minute before going out again and shutting the door’.”