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CHAPTER I

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ROBERT HARDY dropped off the tram at the end of Elizabeth Street and walked sharply up to the Detective Offices at the corner of Hunter and Phillip Streets, Sydney. Passing the Inquiry Office, he turned down a dark passage and halted outside a door marked "Superintendent of Detectives." Listening a moment he knocked and entered.

A heavily-built man with a strong, square face looked up and nodded. Then he turned again to his task of signing a batch of documents. This completed, he bunched the papers, and, placing them in a wire basket, sat back and looked inquiringly at his visitor. Without a word, Hardy passed a copy of the Morning Mirror across the desk, and indicated a paragraph with a heavy blue pencil mark.

"What's the joke, Dixon?" he asked abruptly.

"That came into the office last night by the night roundsman. If the chief sub. hadn't known that he was an unimaginative, stolid reporter who couldn't fix a story on anything but a real happening, it'd have been turned down.'

"And you saw the story in the paragraph, Hardy?" asked Superintendent Dixon of the Mirror's star reporter, smiling. "All I can see in it is one of the peculiar little happenings that frequently amuse our Darlinghurst men."

"You wouldn't be sitting in that chair if that is all you see in that paragraph," answered Hardy. "But I suspect a lot. In my office I have a map of Sydney, and I have marked a blue pencil line around the Darlinghurst and Potts Point districts. Somewhere within that area is a story I want."

"You want that story from me?" inquired the Superintendent with a yawn.

"Wanting and getting are two different things," observed Hardy. "I get from you just what I can pry out by having a better knowledge of the story under discussion than the D.O."

"You are at the beginning of wisdom," said Dixon gravely. "I am going to have great hopes of you, Hardy."

"Good of you, but we'll can that stuff," retorted the reporter. "Here's this yarn, with a story behind it. On the face of it, it's more than queer—improbable, if you like."

He spread the newspaper on the desk and jabbed the paragraph with a stubby forefinger.

"A woman walks into Darlinghurst Police Station last night, about eight o'clock and tells the Sergeant in charge that there have been mysterious happenings around her house during the past week. When the Sergeant asks questions, she shuts up. Professes she has nothing to say. All she wants is that the men on the beat he required to move on anyone found loitering about the vicinity of her house."

"Not much to worry the brains of the Mirror special Investigator," the superintendent observed, smiling. At the same time he keenly watched the younger man from beneath his heavy brows.

"I got some more dope this morning," retorted Hardy quickly. "Went to Darlinghurst and saw the register. The woman's name is 'Matthews.' She lives in a flat at Western Street, Darlinghurst. Has three children, a girl about twenty years of age, named Clarice. Nothing of a beauty, but said to be a clever stenographer, employed at one of the big insurance offices."

"Exhibit B?" queried Dixon, quietly. "You're right as to Exhibit A."

"Exhibit B is the limit," replied the newspaper man. "It is a long, lean, scraggy youth, a year younger than the girl. Runs with one of the gun gangs at Darlinghurst. Never been in the hands of the police, but owes that to the fact that his mother has a small private income, sufficient to keep the wolf from the door. Name 'Bill' or 'William,' if you want to be virtuous with your English. Disappeared lately, after some dispute with the members of the push he favours."

"Again I must express my admiration for your industry," murmured Dixon. "Let me see, it is not quite half-past ten in the morning and you appear to have the history of three quarters of this interesting family."

"I'm going to the other quarter," Hardy smiled. "Exhibit C is somewhat on a pattern with Exhibit B. Knocks about the city a bit here and there. Something of a pimp for politicians; bit of a small town politician himself; gets in where he can and somehow appears to turn in a bit of dough, at times."

"When I have a spare half-hour, I must certainly call at the Mirror Office and congratulate Mr. Thomas—"

"I wouldn't," interrupted Hardy, with a grin. "Might put the Chief in mind that there is a Police Department in Sydney. He is fond of leaders on The Grossly Inept Methods of—"

Dixon threw up his hands with a gesture of surrender.

"I give in," he exclaimed. "I have a great admiration for your respected Chief, but when he gets the grouch on the best police force in the world, I absolutely come to loathe him."

"Now that you have had your breakfast of good red herrings," observed Hardy. "We'll get back to the story."

"Can you continue it in your next?" asked the superintendent, gravely.

"No necessity." Hardy drew a notebook from his pocket and placed it on the table. "The lady is fond of talking—except, apparently, to the police. She told a neighbour all about it, just before she went down to the police station."

"The next Superintendent of Detectives should certainly be journalistically trained," observed Dixon, to space.

"Won't hurt him," grunted Hardy. "Here it is. Just after dark on the night in question, someone rang the Matthews' electric bell. When Mrs. Matthews answered the door a man inquired for 'Bill'. Mrs. Matthews answered she believed her son and heir had taken a trip to Melbourne. The visitor was hard to convince, but ultimately accepted the statement. An hour afterwards Clarice Matthews was called to the door by a ring, and another man inquired for brother Bill. The same answer was returned and he left."

"There should be at least a column spread in that," said the superintendent, mildly. "You certainly have worked to some purpose, Bob."

"Let me finish. An hour later, Albert—that's Exhibit C—came home. He said that he had been stopped by two men who wanted to know where Bill was. He had replied that, so far as he knew, Bill was in Melbourne. The men then wanted to come in with him and search Bill's room, claiming that he had some stuff belonging to them. Albert disagreed with the plan, and manage to get home, very shaken in nerves. A few minutes later a shot was fired at the house, breaking one of the windows, and embedding itself in the ceiling."

The superintendent sat upright, quickly.

"Are you going to use that, Bob?"

"Why not?"

"I think I shall have to have that conversation with Mr. Thomas."

"He will tell you to go to—"

"He will be rude, certainly. But then, he has some common sense, a form of grey matter that appears to be lacking—"

"—in his subordinates," finished Hardy, with a broad grin. "Still, a promise to let a subordinate named Hardy in on the ground floor of the game, might take the place of the lacking grey matter."

"I understand." Superintendent Dixon sat back in his chair and nibbled at the end of his pencil. "The trouble in making such a deal is that I have nothing to offer in return."

"In that case—"

"Look here, Bob." The superintendent leaned forward and pointed his pencil at the journalist. "The truth is, that you have given me information that has not yet come into this office. When I had the report from Darlinghurst this morning, I sent a couple of men out to make inquiries. They have not yet reported. Another time, boy, make your bargain before you give your information away."

"All right, superintendent." Hardy rose from his chair, abruptly, and walked to the door. "It'll make a nice front-page story, as it stands."


"If your editor will publish it. I fear I shall have to call him on the phone, as I am too busy to go round to-day."

Hardy came to a sudden halt. He was well aware that his newspaper was, at the time, at peace with the Detective Offices. In these circumstances, his editor would think twice before publishing any story the superintendent placed a veto on. Superintendent Dixon watched Hardy's face with interest. For a moment the journalist remained with the handle of the door in his hand. Then, he turned and walked back to his chair.

"I should bring the goods to you and that you would deal straight."

"I'm not going to play otherwise, boy," replied Dixon with a smile. "What you published last night didn't matter. More than probable your man got it from the sergeant at the desk. What you tell me this morning places a different complexion on the matter."

"You think there is a big story behind this?" asked Hardy, eagerly.

"There is something worth inquiring into," said the superintendent cautiously. "You shall have the story, boy. But, you will have to wait for it."

"Very well, then," said Hardy, after a moment's thought. "I'll see the chief and get him to let me go after it."

"That will suit me, Bob," answered the superintendent; "Of course the old agreement stands. Bring what you get to me and I'll see you get first talk for publication."

Outside the Detective Offices Hardy stood for some minutes undecided as to his next course of action. He had six hours before he could hope to see Alphonzo Thomas, the Editor of the Mirror. True, he could have found the day editor in his room, but he was convinced the story he had to tell was of such importance that only the chief could deal with it.

As he was turning away from the building, a man touched him on the shoulder. "Looking for a story, Bob?"

"Have you anything, Frost?" asked Hardy, eagerly, recognising in the speaker one of the headquarters' detective-inspectors.

"Doing anything?" asked Frost.

"Nothing that will not keep," replied the journalist, truthfully.

"Wait for me, then," said the Inspector, turning to ascend the steps. "There's something happened out at the Point you may get a story out of."

Dr Night

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