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      Bony Novels by Arthur W. Upfield:

      1 The Barrakee Mystery / The Lure of the Bush

      2 The Sands of Windee

      3 Wings Above the Diamantina

      4 Mr Jelly’s Business/ Murder Down Under

      5 Winds of Evil

      6 The Bone is Pointed

      7 The Mystery of Swordfish Reef

      8 Bushranger of the Skies / No Footprints in the Bush

      9 Death of a Swagman

      10 The Devil’s Steps

      11 An Author Bites the Dust

      12 The Mountains Have a Secret

      13 The Widows of Broome

      14 The Bachelors of Broken Hill

      15 The New Shoe

      16 Venom House

      17 Murder Must Wait

      18 Death of a Lake

      19 Cake in the Hat Box / Sinister Stones

      20 The Battling Prophet

      21 Man of Two Tribes

      22 Bony Buys a Woman / The Bushman Who Came Back

      23 Bony and the Mouse / Journey to the Hangman

      24 Bony and the Black Virgin / The Torn Branch

      25 Bony and the Kelly Gang / Valley of Smugglers

      26 Bony and the White Savage

      27 The Will of the Tribe

      28 Madman’s Bend /The Body at Madman's Bend

      29 The Lake Frome Monster

      This corrected edition published in 2020 by ETT Imprint, Exile Bay

      This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission.

      Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers.

      ETT IMPRINT & www.arthurupfield.com

      PO Box R1906,

      Royal Exchange

      NSW 1225 Australia

      First published in 1948.

      First electronic publication by ETT Imprint in 2013.

      First corrected edition published by ETT Imprint 2020.

      Copyright William Upfield 2013, 2020

      ISBN 978-0-6487390-5-0 (pbk)

      ISBN 978-1-922384-55-3 (ebk)

      Digital distribution by Ebook Alchemy

      Chapter One

      The Great Mervyn Blake

      The large room rented by the Australian Society of Creative Writers for its bi-monthly meetings was comfortably filled on the afternoon of 7th November. The Society was fairly strong and quite influential, for many of its members had arrived in the local world of belles-lettres and its president was the well-known Mervyn Blake, novelist and critic.

      He was the chief speaker this afternoon, and he spoke with the assurance of the successful. His speech began shortly after tea, which was served at half past three, and it finished at four minutes to five, being followed by polite hand-clapping. At five o’clock he left the building in company with Miss Nancy Chesterfield, the social editress of the Recorder.

      Blake’s age was somewhere in the early fifties. He was large but not fat, florid of face but not flaccid of muscle, and his over-long hair still matched the colour of his dark-brown eyes. He carried his years exceptionally well, for Prosperity riding on one shoulder and Success on the other kept those shoulders well back.

      “Glad you were able to make the grade this afternoon,” he said when he and Nancy Chesterfield were walking along Collins Street to the Hotel Australia. “Do we pick up your case at your office?”

      “Yes, please, Mervyn. I left it with the commissionaire so there’ll be no need to go up for it. My compliments on your speech. But—”

      “But what?”

      “I wonder. Do you think if the modern novelist turned out his wares similar in length and scope and digression to, say, the novels of Sir Walter Scott and Thackeray, that they would be acceptable to modern publishers?”

      “No, most certainly not. Modern publishers have to and do pander to the demands of the modern and now comparatively educated herd. Old time publishers took pride in their part of the production of fine literature. Nowadays they demand sensationalism slickly put across, for their shareholders must be given their pound of flesh. Anyway, it’s a heck of a dry argument, and at the moment I’m sick of telling the would-be great how to write novels. And I am sick of literary people—which is one reason why I had Janet to ask you out for the night.”

      “Bored with your house party?” she asked when they came together again in the crowd on the footpath.

      “The boredom even brandy won’t dispel.”

      They did not speak again until they had relaxed in one of the lounges of the famous hotel. Then he ordered gin and vermouth for his companion and brandy and dry ginger ale for himself. She noted that he called for a double for himself.

      “What were the other reasons you used to persuade Janet to invite me?” she asked. He drank the brandy as though it were a light beer and signalled to the waiter.

      “The mirror in your bag will provide one of the reasons,” he said. “I wish I weren’t old. I wish I weren’t married. I wish I were your age and yet in possession of all the experiences and the success I have today. Dammit! No sooner do we reach the top than we are old and able to enjoy only—brandy. A double, please, waiter. The lady will miss out this time.”

      “And the other reasons?” pressed Nancy Chesterfield. Dressed in a beautifully tailored black suit and pale green blouse with a fashionable black hat emphasizing the brilliance of her almost golden hair, she would have made any man proud to be her cavalier.

      “Another is that I want you to give a full report of what I said this afternoon. Publicity is an author’s very breath of life,” he said with brutal candour made charming by the way he smiled. The second double brandy had been set before him and he drank it quickly, then said, “That’s better. Again, waiter, and another gin and vermouth. Been on the wagon, Nancy, since before lunch. A week-end party is quite all right, but one that goes on for a week becomes very wearing. I’m glad they didn’t want any encouragement to stay put. I didn’t want them with me. Marshall Ellis is a bore, and I am unable to understand why his face hasn’t been pushed in long ago. Wilcannia-Smythe gets under my skin at times. Lubers is a humourless iconoclast whom I find irritating, and Ella is exceedingly depressing after twenty-four hours. That leaves Twyford Arundal, who is really amusing when he’s properly drunk. Janet has been a little difficult, and I have been boozing too much.”

      “Quite a tale of woe. Poor old Mervyn! Never mind. Janet likes having people about her, and the end of the house party is in sight, isn’t it?”

      “Yes. Of course, I’m with Janet up to a point. One must mix. One must use people, especially influential people, and the lion of the moment is decidedly influential in London. Make no mistake, I use you, too, but then in my own fashion I’m fond of you. Your coming home with me will save my reason. Your glass is empty.”

      They left the Australia at five minutes past six and proceeded to a car park for Blake’s car. Nancy

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