Behind the ragged circle of men on the
wharf, two large almost rusted-through anchors leant against a stone wall. In
front of the group, the Port of Fremantle was abustle. A flock of barges ferried
Australian soldiers to stately troop carriers waiting on Gage Roads, a stretch
of white-capped deep water off the mouth of the port. A destroyer tailed by a
light cruiser, both with White Ensigns snapping in the afternoon sea breeze, nosed
out through the north and south moles to act as shepherds for the converted ocean
liners and their live cargo. Sprouting at the moles’ tips, anti-aircraft
batteries pointed their barrels at the empty sky.
In the harbour, American, British and Free
Dutch depot ships, with broods of submarines tethered to their sides, lined the
southern wharf.
On that crisp day in the winter of ’42,
Fremantle – tucked far away from the battles of the Coral Sea and Midway – was a
safe refuge. Unless you happened to be a bookie’s runner.
The five men gathered on the wharf ignored
the naval traffic and distant troop ships. They stared down at a bloated body
with a yard-long, glistening anchor chained around the corpse’s ankles. Water
seeping from the victim’s loud checked jacket and powder blue trousers puddled
on the wide wooden planks.
Only Kent and a well-groomed man at his
side had taken off their hats.
The medical examiner, with a slight tremor
shaking his skeletal frame, stroked what chin he had. Kent looked up and asked:
“Was he alive or dead when he hit the water?”
“Too early to say,” replied the doctor, his
battered Gladstone bag open at his feet. “But, either way, I can’t imagine he
was happy about it.”
A snort of laughter came from the doctor’s
left. Police Inspector Patrick O’Halloran of Fremantle’s Finest was amused. At
O’Halloran’s shoulder, Lumpers Union organiser Johnno Johnson was less so.
“Stop pissing around and get this bloke outta
here,” he snapped at the doctor. “My men want to get back to work.” A dozen
yards away, the expressions on lounging wharf labourers gave lie to the claim.
“Right-o,” nodded O’Halloran. “We’ve seen
enough. Bag the body.”
As Johnson raised a beefy arm towards the
wharfies, the smoothie at Kent’s side held up a hand. Manicured fingernails
caught the light. “One moment.” There was a pause for effect. “If those navy
divers scoping hulls for limpet mines hadn’t spotted my man, would he
have been found?”
Martin Terrence Leary, bookmaker to all of
Perth and nicknamed (except to his face) “M.T” because that’s what your wallet
was like after laying a bet with him, didn’t wait for an answer. Tugging at
Kent’s coat sleeve, Leary moved away.
“That’s why I’ve hired you,” he said softly.
“Look at them – a quack who hasn’t drawn a sober breath since the Depression, a
copper whose laziness is only exceeded by his greed, and an empire-building
union thug.”
“Johnston’s Popeye anchor tattoo is quite intimidating.”
Leary allowed himself a tight smiled before
steering Kent towards the road. “Bobby Mahoney went missing five nights ago while
taking bets in pubs and along the wharves. The Dutch are tightwads but the
Yanks, Poms and our boys are mad punters.”
“What’s left to bet on?”
“The AIF turned Ascot racecourse into one
giant campsite but there’re still the country trots, the interstate doggies
and, frankly, anything’s fair game … well, fair-ish.”
“A rival bookie?”
“Any competitors are either careful or
dead.”
Leary drew a 4 x 6 glossy from inside his
suitcoat. The natty Bobby smiled into the camera lens. “I hope you don’t mind me
paying cash. Putting a private investigator’s bill through my accounts seems
unnecessary.” The photograph and a plain, bulky envelope slipped into Kent’s
hand.
A few steps later they stood by Leary’s
Bentley 8 Litre, the rear door held open by a pin-neat chauffeur. “Find Bobby’s
killer or killers and there’s a bonus,” said the bookmaker.
“And then I turn them in to O’Halloran?”
“I’ll save you the trouble. Meanwhile … a
lift?”
Kent angled his wristwatch away from the
sunlight. “I’m on the clock. I’ll start now.”
Visting pub after pub wasn’t an issue. Visiting
and drinking ponies of shandy seemed against nature but Kent kept sipping, kept
asking questions. In his pocket, the envelope lay like a talisman. Just one
phone call and his luck had changed. Maybe. Shaking heads and bugger-offs
strengthened the “maybe”. Either the bar flies were scared to admit seeing
Bobby or they had other motives. Telling the truth wasn’t an option.
Lunchtime. Day Two. One more phone call. As
he started to climb the stairs to his Mouat Street office, he heard muffled
ringing. The office’s locked door delayed him then, panting, he snatched up the
receiver. “Hello” came out in a gasp.
A woman’s smoky voice asked: “Louis Kent?”
Another gasp.
“Is everything alright?”
“Asthma,” he lied.
“It should keep you from shooting Japs out
of palm trees in the Pacific.”
“There’s that,” agreed Kent.
“My name’s Polly. I hear you’re the private
dick who’s been asking about Bobby Mahoney.”
Normally, Kent would’ve chafed at the Yankie
slang but her emphasis on the second part of the job description gave her a free
pass.
At two, he edged down narrow stairs into
the Twin Anchors, an underground bar off High Street. In a far corner, a
handful of US navy personnel with gob caps askew, lit Chesterfields, drank
whisky and played poker around a small table. In another corner, three lance
corporals from the Australian 9th Division rolled their own, drank Swan
Lager and sized up the Americans. A mix of nationalities and uniforms lined the
bar.
At the staircase end of the bar, Kent’s
caller perched on a stool. Polly patted the stool beside her. Kent felt himself
picking up his pace. He imagined cartoon-like steam hissing from ears.
She ordered, he paid. They paced their
drinks as she explained she’d overheard two boozy customers – the bar’s not
hers – skiting about making easy money deep-sixing a bookie. Stretching across
to straighten Kent’s tie, she whispered: “Details cost cash.”
He nodded, she continued. “I gather Bobby
saw Johnno Johnson and some of his blokes meeting Yank sailors in a cargo shed
on Friday night. There were crates of bourbon, cartons of cigarettes.”
“Smuggling?”
“Darl, it’s unlikely they were donating to
the war effort.”
“Bobby was a low-level runner. Why would he
care?”
“This isn’t about fags or grog. It’s about
who was there with Johnno.” Polly flicked her hair towards the mirror behind
the bar. “I’ll go freshen up. You can think about how much the mystery person’s
name is worth.”
Only 70 percent of the customers watched
her walk through the rear door towards The Ladies. The other 30 percent were
playing poker.
Turning away, Kent squinted at the mirror. He
and his reflection agreed he was getting too old to hunt killers. After 15
minutes, he eased himself off the stool. With Polly there wasn’t that much freshening
up needed. Pushing open the rear door he felt it strike something solid.
Something solid in high heels. Polly lay on the scuffed carpet, convulsing. On
his knees beside her, Kent heard a grunted: “… ran.”
“Which way did he run?” An empty question.
“I’ll call for …” he began. Her face tilted down, eyes finally shut.
Leaning forward, Leary lifted a Dunhill
lighter towards Kent’s cigarette. There was an almost imperceptible shake of
excitement in the bookmaker’s hand. “Great progress,” he said.
Crammed into Kent’s office and sitting on straight
back chairs, the pair were close enough to play pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake. With
his free hand, Leary briefly tapped Kent’s knee as an admonishment. “But you
still don’t know who killed your informant or where the murderer ran off to.”
Kent shook his head. “Friday night. Johnston
is doing a smuggling deal with some Yanks. Obviously not the first. Bobby
blunders by. No need for anyone to panic – someone in the bookie business isn’t
going to snitch. But maybe there’s no need to tell the police. What if a cop is
already there … with his hand out? So, it could be ‘ran’ not as in ‘run’ but as
in ‘O’Halloran’.”
Leary lit his own cigarette and exhaled at
the ceiling. “Police Inspector Patrick O’Halloran. Literally a greedy pig.”
“You indicated he was as bent as a nine bob
note.”
Leary pushed back his chair as far as it
would go, which wasn’t far. “Mr Kent, I owe you a bonus. It’ll be here by six.”
“You’re not planning anything rash, I
hope.”
“Dear, dear, no. But, on the subject of
rashes, let’s just say there’s an itch I need scratch.”
# # #
Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN
