The Grocers' Son, page 14
I decided coffee was in order, so as I wandered down the corridor to our kitchenette, I double-checked my review for Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison in the Mirror, which I’d picked up on my way to the office. There was a paperboy on the corner of Arden Street who’d flipped a copy into my car and had grabbed the sixpenny bit I had ready for him.
I’d compared the film with The Africa Queen, something I’d thought was a stroke of genius, and hoped the readers would too. I knew Philip Mason, Vince’s lover, would have a field day reading it out this evening after the seven o’clock news during his radio show on 2GB. I tried to tune in if I could, not to flatter my ego, but merely to check whether my prose flowed well when spoken out loud. Not once, I’d picked up a few awkward constructions that I’d fixed thereafter.
Back at the desk, I was halfway through filling out the contract for the Clovelly publican, which I intended to drop into him to sign after work, when Savage Milford arrived, bearing a large manilla envelope from Billy. As the purchase of Ray’s house in Bellevue Hill required two witnesses for each of the signatories, I called Tom in, who added his moniker with a flourish, nearly leaving the room with my pen in his hand.
Savage had already been to Harry’s parents’ house and I noted that Arnold had been the second witness to Mary’s signature. His signature seemed a bit spindly, as if he’d been having trouble holding the pen steady. It made me inexpressibly sad to think that perhaps, if his doctor was correct, we wouldn’t be celebrating the same sort of Christmas at the Joneses that we had done last year.
I spent a good thirty minutes going through the contents of the envelope from Billy making notes for our office meeting this afternoon. There was much to discuss, and I tossed up whether to get stuck in right now by myself. However, our meetings when Tom, Steve, and I, and sometimes Harry, threw ideas around were always much more helpful right at the start of an investigation, so I put the envelope to one side and fed a sheet of paper into my typewriter.
Although I had two weeks up my sleeve before my monthly crime report was due for the Sydney Morning Herald, I decided that for the rest of the morning I’d make notes and start to get my head around the subject I’d decided to write about. Recently, a tram conductor, running the footboard of a toast-rack tram to collect fares, had been killed when a gang of youths had attempted to steal his leather ticket bag. The conductor had lost his balance, fallen from the moving tram and had been hit by a passing car. Youth crime sounded like a good story and an issue that needed serious attention, not to mention the dangers of ticket collectors on the O-class trams and the perils they faced in heavy rain. I made a note to interview the widow if I could.
I opened the concertina folder in which I kept newspaper clippings, filed alphabetically, and in packets by subject. No one had been more surprised than I had been when Brenda Brighteyes had phoned to tell me she’d started a clipping service for her customers at ten shillings a week. She had a lot of clients that ran local businesses and they wanted to keep an eye on what their rivals were up to—comparing prices for services and the like.
So, I engaged her to keep clippings of anything to do with local, city, and suburban crime. I pulled out the file on youth crime I’d made then put the folder on the edge of my desk. I hadn’t noticed that Baxter had taken up position at the back of my typewriter.
Swipe. Cat: 1. Concertina folder: 0.
I grumbled, scrabbling on my hands and knees to pick up the contents of many of the inner packets that had spilled over the floor, cursing my cat, who lay on his back, his head dangling over the edge of the desk, purring loudly. Eventually, everything gathered and thinking how long it would take me to resolve the mess, Baxter joined me on the floor, rolling onto his back for a tummy rub.
Clyde Smith, war vet, ex-cop, tough guy lying on his stomach on his office floor, rubbing noses with a large grey tabby. I wondered what that said about me.
*****
“What’s to be the focus of this meeting, Clyde?” Steve asked.
I’d eaten at my desk and we’d started just after Tom and Steve had returned from their lunch, using Harry’s office with its large blackboard.
“The murder-suicide of Elwood Pearson is peripheral for the time being unless we run across anything pertinent. If you do think something’s worthwhile looking at, make a note for us, Steve, and we’ll discuss it after we’ve dealt with the Yaxley business. Agreed?”
Steve nodded, he and Tom sitting on the edge of Harry’s large meeting table. I’d already drawn three columns on the blackboard and had headed each of them with our names, listing in each column words that stood for the tasks we’d either allocated each other, or had taken on.
“Okay, Tom, you first. Where are we on Eileen Yaxley’s journal, the Department of Lands documents on his Gulgong property, Willoughby Purchase’s will, and the search for the hired farm worker?”
“Mrs. Yaxley certainly collected a lot of contemporary newspaper cuttings at and around the time of her brother’s death. There was something puzzling though; most of the press reports were about the protests outside the gaol and very little about Purchase himself. As he predicted in his letter, news of his hanging wasn’t on page one, which was covered in Australia Day articles. You had to drill down to page seven, then the article was probably no more than three column inches.”
“Did you find anything of interest in her journal before that?”
“Before his death? The week he was charged after admitting to the Candal Creek killings was more about the arresting detective than her brother. Ian Henderson sure got a lot of publicity. Apart from that, she filled up pages with anecdotes, things he used to say, and one or two family photos. A nice one of him, Donald Weaving, and Milly Spaulding, dated 1927—”
“Hang on,” I said, “Eileen showed Harley and me a photograph of him that he’d given her with an inscription on the back, dated in the same year.”
“To my dearest Lina, from your loving brother, Will. 1927,” Tom read from his notes.
“How the hell did you get that, Tom? You weren’t there when she showed it to us.”
“It’s called doing what you pay me for, Clyde. You told me about it and I popped around and asked if I could see it. I was interested to find out if there was a studio name on the back. You said it was a portrait of him—mid-chest, shoulders, and head—unlikely to be a family snap taken with the family Kodak Brownie.”
“And was there?”
“Nope, but there is one on the back of the photo of the three of them together that she’d stuck in her journal. And you’ll never guess where it was taken, Clyde.” He played a drum roll on the edge of the desk between his knees then said, “Filterson Photography, Moonlight Street … wait for it … Gulgong, N.S.W.!!”
“Gulgong in 1927,” I said. “That’s interesting—he sold his land to Farmer and Company around 1923. He must have still been going back to the town.”
“The land was sold again in 1925 to a Mr. Smiley Tarcutter, who, according to the record of sales from the Department of Lands, still owns it,” Tom added. “There’s more though … according to Eileen’s journal, you’ll never guess what Donald Weaving’s nickname was.”
“Smiley?” I ventured.
“You got it, Clyde. He got it because that’s one thing he never did. Smiled.”
“So, what do we reckon, gents? In 1931, when he disappeared, Don Weaving might have gone into hiding on Willoughby Purchase’s former farm, which he bought in 1925 using an alias.”
“No phone number for Mr. S. Tarcutter, or for the photography studio—it may have gone out of business—I checked for both,” Tom said.
“Good work, young fella,” I said.
“By the way, Clyde. Do you think you could make a print of this photo of Harley’s parents together? I know Don Weaving’s in the photo, but if you were Harley, wouldn’t you want to see your real mother and father together?”
“Freddy has a better photo of the two of them,” Steve said. “I asked him if he kept photos of Will and Milly and he showed it to me. Interestingly enough, he said it had been taken at Howard’s eighteenth birthday party. He keeps it on the side table in his office. I’ll ask him if I can borrow it.”
“Howard’s eighteenth birthday would make it 1928, wouldn’t it?” I said. “A year after the Gulgong studio photos.”
“It’s a very beautiful photo of them both,” Steve said. “Willoughby in tails and Milly in a slinky evening dress. I think that might be a nicer photo to give to Harley.”
“Well, maybe Eileen hasn’t told Harley who his natural mother was yet, so let’s hold our horses. However, it’s a great idea. But, and the big but is, what excuse do you use to borrow the photo from Freddy? There’s no possible way a photo of Willoughby and Milly could have anything to do with the investigation into his father’s death.”
“Maybe you could phone Howard,” Tom suggested, “and see whether he has any of the photos taken at his birthday party, or if he knew who took them? The studio might still be going, and it would be worthwhile checking to see if they still have the negatives.”
“It would have to have been one of the big studio portraitists, judging from the quality of the photo,” Steve said. “Anyway, Clyde, if Howard doesn’t remember, perhaps his parents will.”
It wasn’t done much anymore, but in my own lifetime I remember a corner set up with a neutral backdrop and a studio photographer taking photos of people attending engagement parties, receptions after weddings, birthday celebrations and the like.
“Very well, I’ll give Howard a call. But none of us mentions anything to Harley, all right? Now, the other three things on your list. The documents from the Department of Lands, Purchase’s will, and the farm hand that he may or may not have hired—what else have you learned?”
“As you already know, the land was sold first to Farmer and Company then to Smiley Tarcutter. There are no more changes of title. That’s why I said it was still in the name of the last purchaser. He could have rented it out, or leased it, but the only way we could find that out is to go there I suppose, or ask someone who lives in the town who might know.”
“I’ll give the local cop shop a call,” I said, making a note for myself.
“As for Willoughby Purchase’s will, it’s interesting. The last will he made was in 1927—”
“There’s that date again,” Steve said.
“And he left the entirety of his estate to Don Weaving.”
“Nothing to his sister?” I asked.
“No, Clyde.”
“That’s very odd,” I said. “Considering how close he was to her.”
“According to the Public Trustee’s file, there was no estate to be distributed. He had a bank account with five pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence at the time of his death. That money was eventually sent to Mrs. Yaxley six months after her brother’s execution, when the deceased estate administration documents were lodged. The solicitor advertised, as required, in all the newspapers and when Don Weaving didn’t claim what little there was, the will was administered, or discharged … or whatever the word is.”
“So, despite all the money he seemed to have had during his time working for Elwood Pearson, he left this earth with a few pence short of six quid in the bank?”
“When I called around to see Mrs. Yaxley and asked to see the photo of him, she told me that Long Bay had posted his belongings to her, Clyde. Bit uncaring if you ask me. When she visited his grave inside the prison, she asked if she could have them while she was there, but they said they’d post what they had. No one bothered to come by to give them to her.”
“Heartless arseholes,” Steve said.
“Did you make a list of what was sent?” I asked.
Tom leafed through the file he had on the table behind him and passed me a sheet of paper. Poor bastard, I thought, reading the H.M. Prisons headed letter that had been sent with his belongings. The contents of his pockets—two and six in change—his reading glasses, cigarette case, lighter, watch, and signet ring. Hat, shoes, socks, garters, trousers, shirt, tie, jacket, and cufflinks.
“No underwear,” I mumbled to myself.
“I noticed that too.”
“I don’t wear any either,” Steve said, shrugging.
“Why not?” Tom said.
“When you get a bit older, Tom, you’ll find out. Us grown-up blokes have knackers that hang so low they get tangled up in our boxer shorts. Very painful when you sit down.”
Tom’s look of amazement made me smile. “He’s pulling your leg,” I said. Tom rolled his eyes and punched Steven’s bicep with his knuckle.
“Arsehole,” he said, chuckling along with Steve.
“Now how about the hired help, Tom? Any luck with that?” I asked.
“The records for Gulgong are held in of Mudgee, so I rang the town clerk and he said I’d have to come out there and go through the archives, and with a ‘bloody good reason to let me rummage around’. Those were his words.”
“Your turn, Steve,” I said, underlining one of the two notes on the blackboard written under his name. “Father Quinn.”
“Rodney Alexander Quinn, born February, 1899. At the age of nineteen, served as a padre during the last year of the Great War. One brother, Ross, born in 1920. Parents deceased. Took up a living in a small church in Wilbertree, outside Mudgee. In 1935, he threw it in. Didn’t serve in the last stoush because he was the sole caretaker of his invalid brother.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“Beaten up by persons unknown at the age of eleven, left with brain damage—impaired intellect was what I found out, otherwise now a strong and healthy-looking thirty-seven-year-old.”
“And where is Quinn now, any idea?”
“He’s living in a house on a small acreage in Bombira, another small town a few miles outside Mudgee.”
“Phone number?”
Steve shook his head. “Sorry, Clyde.”
“Sounds like another visit,” I said.
“You know Freddy said Terry Armstrong was out that way?”
“I’ve been thinking that, too, Steve. I might give him a call and see if he could help out in some way.” I jotted down yet another note for myself to follow up on.
“My search into Ian Henderson, the detective who disappeared, was a bit of a tangle,” Steve said.
“How so?” I asked.
“His records were requested in 1934 by the then minister of police, Walter Childs, and never returned,” Steve said. “There’s a note saying the minister’s assistant secretary signed the request. Can’t follow it up with him—another man who’s well and truly in the grave. There might be something at Darlinghurst nick about his service record there, but after twenty-four years it’s highly unlikely.”
“That’s inconvenient,” I said.
“Very. However, what I did find out was that although Henderson was based at the Darlinghurst branch, he was sent up to Gulgong to investigate the Candal Creek killings. While he was there, Purchase walked into the nick and handed himself in.”
“Why would they send a city detective from a suburban branch to investigate the deaths of four men out the back of beyond? Surely a senior detective from the head office could have managed it?”
“All I could find out was that Henderson originally came from Wellington, which is up that way. Maybe the chief superintendent thought he’d know the area and the locals better than a city detective who hadn’t worked anywhere but in Sydney. Bush people can be very suspicious of outsiders—especially city cops,” said Steve.
“Anything else on him?”
“Darlinghurst cop shop in the twenties and thirties, Clyde? What do you reckon?”
“Up to his eyeball in grift and turning a blind eye while lining his pockets, I suppose.”
“There was nothing on his disappearance either. Nothing. Maybe you could have better luck than me. I’ve been gone from the force too long now.”
“I have more on Henderson, which I’ll tell you a bit later,” I said.
“Well, then, Clyde, what about your list?” Steve asked, glancing at the blackboard.
“Documents came through from Billy this morning, delivered by his new solicitor, who’ll be looking after our affairs while Billy and Sam are overseas,” I said. “First off, Farmer and Company existed for only two years—probably to facilitate the sale of Purchase’s land to Smiley Tarcutter in 1925. A search for the two owners of the company showed they were quite elderly at the time and have, of course, since passed away. The solicitor who dealt with both transactions caught a bullet in the Solomons. He has a sister who worked as his secretary at the time, but she moved to the Northern Territory after the war. I’ve made myself a note to see if I can find her, in case she remembers anything.”
“This sounds like a hell of a lot of work,” Harry said from the doorway.
“Oh, hello. How long have you been standing there?”
“Since Steve’s eloquent description of strangling his bollocks in his undershorts,” Harry said.
“Come, listen. We’re nearly done.”
Harry glanced at the blackboard, which was covered with notes and underlined words. “You stealing my system again?” he asked. “Crickey, there’s a lot to follow up by the look of it.”
“It’s background work. We always lay out a big case this thoroughly. Anything that may give us an idea of the whereabouts of Donald Weaving and Willoughby Purchase between when Milly was killed and January 1933 when Willoughby was executed—it may lead us to the killings he put his hand up for. There’s very little on the crime scene in the police files that I’ve been able to find. And from reading the court reports, it seems he just said ‘guilty, My Lord’. No court discussion, no examination of witnesses, a read-out confession—one that was bare as a stick in the desert—and a quick sentencing, hanged less than six weeks after appearing in court. That in itself is so unusual it’s suspicious—especially when there’s absolutely no mention of what they were attempting to steal when it all fell to pieces. Botched robbery my arse; sounds too convenient by half.”
Harry couldn’t help himself. He picked up a piece of red chalk and underlined the name of every person, then dusted his hands and moved away, inspecting the board.
