Sand on the Gumshoe: a century of Australian crime writing

Richardson was nonplussed. ‘How the devil did you get a lead up to him?’ he asked in amazement.

‘It wasn’t so difficult,’ said Price. ‘The newspapers really did the job for me.’

He gestured to the ‘doctored’ photographs of the dead woman which were scattered about the desk.

‘You probably wondered why I used such a flattering photo of old Pansy, but I wanted to know who she was before she became nobody except old Pansy. The letters there are from people who knew her years ago. They all thought she was dead, but all of them could remember her as a Mrs Emily Dalton, who had a son named James Arthur Dalton. In other words the man we just left. Quite simple after all, wasn’t it?’

‘But why would he poison his own mother? That’s what we’ve got to prove, isn’t it?’

‘These letters describe Emily Dalton as a woman who became an habitual drunkard years ago, and who was in and out of inebriates’ homes until they finally lost track of her,’ said Price. ‘As we know, she became old Pansy, and I think we’ll find that Dalton, who was steadily rising in the world, was plagued by the nightmare of people finding out her relationship to him. It would be damning to a cove with his social and political ambitions.’

‘What a swine!’

‘Oh – well – I don’t know,’ said Inspector Price slowly. ‘Human nature is unpredictable, and perhaps he thought she would be better dead.’

‘Good heavens, sir! You’re not defending a murderer, are you? And a murderer who put away his own mother?’

‘This is a hard, hard world, my boy. If you’ll read through those letters, you’ll find that James Arthur Dalton has always been a model son, even in circumstances which must have been always exasperating and very often frightfully humiliating. The letters point out that he looked after his mother devotedly, giving up everything for her sake.’

‘That puts a different complexion on it, of course, but it can’t make much difference to the jury, for all that.’

‘That’s so. It’ll be almost impossible for the jury not to see the crime in its worst light. To them it will be a case of a coldblooded poisoner killing his own mother.’

‘What else could he expect?’

‘That’s so,’ agreed Inspector Price again. ‘They can hardly be expected to be interested in pictures of a younger James Arthur Dalton almost carrying his mother from hotel bars and wine saloons. Some of the people who wrote these letters, though, thought it very pathetic. They refer to the patience and devotion and loyalty of young Jimmy to his mother. It seems to me that the scales of justice in this case are off the balance, that it’s old Pansy who should be in the dock for ruining the life of her son.’

‘Her influence certainly warped it.’

‘Warped it is the word. Did you know that he got his limp when he was hurt a dozen years ago while rescuing her from the bedroom she had set on fire while boozed? Ironical, isn’t it? And I can’t help feeling sorry for him, but I don’t know that the Crown Prosecutor won’t let him down as lightly as possible seeing that she was so full of booze that she must have died painlessly.’

‘It seems a hell of a pity,’ said Detective Richardson, whose sympathies had now swung completely to the pleasant-mannered hotelkeeper. ‘He was such a smart and capable type of fellow. I’m sure he would have gone a long way.’

Inspector Price’s telephone interrupted them. Price listened carefully, and laid the receiver back in its cradle thoughtfully.

‘You’re very right about Dalton being smart, my boy,’ he said. ‘He was smarter even than I thought. He must have been suspicious about our visit. He rang the local police station after we left, and asked if there had been a burglary, which was our excuse for going out. The local sergeant told him that there had not been one, which was only natural of course.’

‘He’s smart all right,’ said Richardson. ‘Fancy bowling us out like that! I’ll bet he’s even missed the glass you took!’

‘I never bet when I think I’m going to lose,’ returned Inspector Price. ‘I feel quite sure that he’s missed the glass, and I feel quite sure, too, now, that there’ll be no case for the jury.’

‘You mean – you mean – that he -!’

‘That’s just what I do mean, my boy. You heard me tell the sergeant to go round to the hotel. Well, that’s why I wanted him to go, but I think he’ll be too late.’

They gazed at each other in silence until the telephone bell again buzzed sharply. Inspector Price picked up the receiver. His conversation was short.

As he replaced the receiver, he said. ‘Yes, Dalton was smart. He knew we were on his wheel, and he took the same fatal medicine as he dished out to old Pansy. He even left a brief confession, which tidies up the whole business very nicely. Poor devil. As I said before, I can’t help feeling sorry for him.’

MAX AFFORD

Max Afford was Australia ’s most prolific radio dramatist. Before television, there was radio and it took a man of Afford’s skill and professionalism to turn out as many hours of entertainment as he did right up until his death in 1954. Born in Parkside, Adelaide, in 1906, Afford was a journalist before turning to radio serials and stage plays.

From 1932 until his death, Afford wrote many of the most popular serials of the time including Digger Hale’s Daughter, Hagen ’s Circus, and Danger Limited. It was said that in the 1930s Afford was one of the few people to make a living from writing drama. His radio success spilled over onto stage. He created Australian theatrical history by having two plays presented professionally – Lady in Danger in May 1944 and Mischief in the Air in August 1944 (both produced by J.C. Williamson at Sydney’s Theatre Royal). Lady in Danger was also staged on Broadway.

Afford wrote five detective novels. These were: Blood On His Hands (London, J. Long, 1936; Sydney, Frank Johnson, 1945), Death Mannikins (London, J. Long, 1937; Sydney, Frank Johnson, 1945), The Dead Are Blind (London, J. Long, 1937; Sydney, Collins, 1949), Fly by Night (London, J. Long 1942; as Owl Of Darkness, Sydney, Angus & Robertson, 1945). In December 1948 the short story ‘Vanishing Trick’ appeared in Frank Johnson’s new magazine, Detective Fiction. The magazine was short lived but an extremely worthy production which included the work of such writers as Frank Walford, Bob McKinnon, Audrey Francis, Richard and Alfreda Phillips, and Norman Way.

Following the first issue, Johnson received a letter from Arthur Upfield who said: ‘I thought the range of stories very good and give best marks to Max Afford.’ Johnson also reprinted some of Afford’s novels in his Magpie paperback series, Afford receiving the munificent sum of ?25 for every 10,000 copies sold.

Jeffrey and Elizabeth Blackburn, stars of a long-running Afford radio series as well as several novels, made a late curtain call in Detective Fiction. ‘Vanishing Trick’ typifies the mannered, slightly tongue in cheek, stories of the period – heavy on drawing rooms, witty dialogue and deductive brilliance.

The Vanishing Trick

1

‘No ghost,’ said Sally Rutland firmly. ‘But we’ve got a kinda haunted room!’

She pronounced it ‘hanted’ since Sally Rutland hailed from Dallas, Texas.

Mr Jeffrey Blackburn, seated in the deep leather chair in the panelled room at Kettering Old House, looked