Anchors Aweigh

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 9^th 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.”

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Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN