An Author Bites the Dust. Arthur W. Upfield
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in the writing-room, but I have been into the house. The previous owners were most friendly. Since then I’ve often come here and spied over. They used to play croquet on the lawn—well-known people, many of them. Their names were in the papers. I could watch them playing ping-pong on the veranda, and they never knew I was looking at them.”
Poor Miss Pinkney! Poor, lonely Miss Pinkney. How happy she might have been had the Blakes offered to be neighbourly! Bony pictured her looking into the forbidden garden like a child looking through plate glass at a display of toys.
“Who would be the man sitting on the veranda?” he said.
“A man on the veranda!” she echoed. “Oh! I don’t know. Some relation of the cook’s I suppose. There’s no other domestic now. Let me see.”
Bony offered his hand and she accepted the proffered assistance to mount the banana case. The delighted Bony watched her as she raised her head stealthily to the top of the fence until her eyes were one inch above it. The next instant she was down again with him, her eyes big in the pallor of her dusk-dimmed face.
“That’s Mr Wilcannia-Smythe,” she breathed. “I wonder what he’s doing there. Let’s look again.”
Together they mounted the case upon which there was just room for them to stand. Together their heads rose until their eyes were one inch above the boards.
Chapter Four
Concerning Mr Wilcannia-Smythe
It was not possible for anyone seated on the house veranda to observe Miss Pinkney and Bony peering over the division fence. The evening being far advanced, the gloom beneath the lilac-trees was too profound for such observation, and consequently Bony was amused by the excessive caution displayed by his fellow spy.
Miss Pinkney became a little more daring. She raised her face high enough to rest her chin upon the hands clasped to the fence.
“What’s he doing there?” she whispered, without moving her head.
“Merely looking at the mountain, I think.”
“I can see that, stupid.”
Before the surprise occasioned by the epithet took full effect on Bony, Miss Pinkney stood straight up and impulsively turned to him.
“Oh, Mr Bonaparte, I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I didn’t mean to say that. Indeed, I didn’t. It must have been my brother in me. I was so intensely absorbed in that man on the veranda.”
“It’s nothing, Miss Pinkney,” he assured her. “Look now! He’s left his chair.”
Miss Pinkney again crouched and gazed towards the house. Wilcannia-Smythe, if indeed it was that well-known author, was moving towards the five wide steps down to the lawn. He came down the steps without revealing evidence of either haste or a desire not to be seen. He sauntered across the lawn towards the writing-room. It was still light enough for the watchers to see him quite clearly, and Bony now recognized Wilcannia-Smythe by the description of him in the summary.
It became quickly obvious that he was making for Mervyn Blake’s writing-room, to reach which he would necessarily pass the watchers within ten or a dozen paces. Gradually the two heads sank behind the division fence, and the watchers were compelled to be content with narrow chinks between the boards.
They were unable to see Wilcannia-Smythe actually enter the small building since the door was on its far side, but as he did not re-appear beyond the building, both decided that he had entered.
“What has he gone in there for?” breathed Miss Pinkney.
“It’s difficult to tell,” Bony answered, actually more interested in Miss Pinkney’s fierce excitement than in the meanderings of Mr Wilcannia-Smythe, which were probably quite legitimate. “I am wondering if the door was locked and he had a key. I believe you said that the only occupant of the house, now that Mrs Blake is away, is the cook.”
“And she’s out, I’m sure, Mr Bonaparte. I heard the picture bus stop at the comer. I know she very often goes both on Wednesdays and Saturdays. D’you think that person is up to no good?”
“I wouldn’t venture an opinion just yet,” Bony said, and neither spoke again for at least four minutes during which period the last of the light faded out of the sky. Then he said, “I wonder if Mrs Blake has returned home. I can see no light in this side of the house.”
“She can’t be home,” declared Miss Pinkney. “I would have heard her car.”
A speculation was born in Bony’s mind as to how much of the local life was registered by Miss Pinkney’s ears in addition to her eyes.
“Whereabouts are the kitchen and the maids’ room, do you know?” he asked.
“On the far side of the house. The domestics’ bedroom is next to the kitchen.” Controlled by mounting excitement, Miss Pinkney clasped Bony’s arm. “Do you think—oh, what are you thinking? Look! Look at the window.”
The window was presented obliquely to them, but they could see the reflection of an electric torch beyond the glass. Not once in two minutes did the beam fall directly upon the window, and Bony at last decided that Wilcannia-Smythe was not this time an invited guest.
“I’d like to see what he’s doing,” he murmured, and instantly Miss Pinkney voiced agreement with him.
“Would you stay here on guard if I went over to find out?” he asked.
“Of course. I’ll caterwaul like Mr Pickwick if I see any danger. I don’t know where he is. I think he went up into the trees.”
“I’ll go over the fence. You stay right here and don’t move away.”
Again Miss Pinkney impulsively clutched his arm, saying, “Don’t climb the fence. It’s too frail. It might collapse under your weight. I know where there are three loose boards. I’ll show you.”
She was down off the case before he could begin the movement, and she led him along the fence and nearer to the house next door until she halted where sagging boards offered him access to the next garden.
Recalling that he was supposed to be an ordinary citizen, he said dubiously, “I suppose it will be all right. It would be most awkward if someone found me in there. Anyway, I’ll just see what the fellow is doing. You be sure to remain on guard. I’ll not be long.”
Bony stepped through the hole in the fence. Beneath the trees the darkness was complete, and he moved away, not towards the writing-room but towards the large house, keeping well within the darkness provided by the lilac-trees.
Eventually he came to a soft gravel path laid between the fence and the house and bordered by standard roses. This gave place to an open space which he was sure although he could not see, was the driveway from the gate to the front entrance. There was no light in any of the front rooms or the hall. He passed across the front of the house and then could make out the outline of the garage beyond it. Another path led along the far side of the house where the kitchen and the maids’ room were. Still he could see no light, and he became sure that there was no one in the house.
The presence and activities of Mr Wilcannia-Smythe were now of decided interest. He proceeded to investigate.
Stepping on to the lawn he was able to reach the writing-room without making a betraying sound, confident that now not even Miss Pinkney could see him. The door was closed, an exceedingly faint line of light at its foot. He ran his hand softly over the door and found the Yale lock.
Crouching against the wall, he edged round the corner and so came to the window, drawing near to it with caution until he was able, with one eye, to peer round its frame into the room beyond.
Mr Wilcannia-Smythe was seated at a large writing table and reading what appeared to be typescript. For the purpose, he was using a small electric torch, and he was wearing kid gloves.
The window was not fitted