Читать книгу Saul and the Spinster - Aidan de Brune - Страница 6

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THE people of the city of Sydney boast of many things. They claim their city to be the biggest in the southern hemisphere, and that it has the largest shops and most dignified office buildings. They boast of their fine parks—and their harbour. Of late years they have added a bridge to their repertory, as proof that they inhabit the finest city in the world. They forget to mention that Sydney possesses some tortuous and inconvenient streets. And they do not boast of their public buildings. It is possible their constant evidence of the "Bridge" is to offset that structure against their Parliament House, which, in appearance, suggests suffering from a permanent "night out."

The city police headquarters executive offices, as is usual in the public service of the State, are situated in a building in one street, and the working departments in another street, far distant. To interview a working officer of the Police Department is an interesting experiment in archaeology, science and adventure. Adventure dictates an expedition to one of the most tortuous and narrow sections of Pitt Street. There a very narrow lane must be located—a lane that looks no different from its many fellows surrounding it. Half-way down this lane is a dark gateway, the doors of which slant permanently open. Beyond this gateway lies a gloomy maze of pillars—mute evidence that the latest contribution to science was not unknown to builders of a bygone generation. Searching amid these pillars, a narrow doorway, the interior several shades gloomier than the pillars area, may be located. Just inside the door is a large notice-board, recording a list of "Missing Persons."

Irreverent newspapermen have been known to observe that the names on the board should include those from whom they require information.

Occasionally adventurers, penetrating far into the bowels of Police Headquarters, have chanced upon a quaint little office, of three walls and a glass door, occupied by "Sergeant" Ben Bunty.

It must be recorded that the rank of sergeant is entirely honorary, for Ben Bunty had never risen past the rank of second-class constable. His pre-emption of this office was preceded by a lengthy sojourn in hospital, owing to a difference of opinion with a "wanted" gentleman from a certain city far south of Sydney. Returning to the Department labelled by the medical, authorities "permanently unfit for active duty," Ben Bunty found that a sympathetic Commissioner of Police had created for him the post of "messenger" to the Superintendent of Detectives.

As George Dixon, the present superintendent, preferred to "run" his own messages, "Sergeant" Ben found himself possessed of considerable leisure. Had the Police Department been other than a makeshift, in strict accordance with the permanent policy of the State, "Sergeant" Ben would have found his true vocation amid the archives of headquarters. To explain not as an exhibit, but as a memory stultified by tradition.

Sergeant Ben possessed a memory—a memory that soon came to be recognised by everyone concerned, from the Commissioner to the newest recruit. Failing messages to run, Sergeant Ben found his vocation in life by taking daily journeys through the police buildings, particularly through the passages between cells, surveying the occupants with satisfaction to himself and value to the Department. He frequented the police courts, and was particularly inquisitive concerning those escorted in the buildings by Zealous officers.

He had, also, a penchant for portraits—none of which would have been considered artistic by curators of galleries. As time progressed, Sergeant Ben's little foible for "portraits" became of increasing value—and various incumbents of the office of Superintendent of Detectives willing forwent the few little services they had hitherto exacted from their reputed "messenger." Amid the rank and file of the Department, Sergeant Ben became the last Court of Appeal. His recognition of a visitor as "Sydney Tones" was stubbornly accepted in spite of all protests that the gentleman's real name was Albert Lithe.

His identifications were accompanied by such a wealth of data that investigations among the musty files of the Department invariably supported his contentions, quite good alibis had a habit of fading into questionable untruths under the stare of the light-brown eyes in the big ruddy, round face.

Within a week of his arrival in Sydney, from London, on exchange duty, Detective-Inspector Murmer was escorted to the little "office" to be formally introduced, to Sergeant Ben. Saul Murmer had heard of the man, and stared at the little cubby-hole of an office and its occupant with much interest. He was somewhat disappointed, for he had expected to see an office crammed with filing cases, the desk littered with photographs and papers. Instead, he saw a apace approximately six-by-six, containing a small desk, a chair, and quite a number of charcoal portraits, of cartoon nature, drawn on the whitewashed walls.

Wedged in the chair, between table and wall, was a stout, ruddy man, in a constable's uniform. The large head was almost entirely bald, possibly due to the sergeant's habit of exciting thought with the palm of his left hand. Beneath the shining dome were very heavy brows and light-brown, small eyes. Further south appeared a snub nose, apparently supported by a huge, brown moustache. When Sergeant Ben smiled, two rows of even, very white teeth glowed as—as pearls among seaweed.

Some days later curiosity again led Saul Murmer to the cubby-hole and its occupant. Later, he made other visits. These were discovered by the alleged wits of the Department. On his next visit to Sergeant Ben he found a thin red string leading from the door of his office to the cubbyhole, The Inspector accepted this as a reply to a complaint he had uttered, that Police Headquarters should be supplied with direction signs.

The morning following his evening at the Green Lagoon, Inspector Murmer found himself, still lamenting the loss of a favourite pair of evening trousers, slated for an interview with his superintendent. Affairs of importance adjusted to the Superintendent's satisfaction, Saul Murmer sought Ben in his alleged office.

Inspector Murmer, like other visitors to Sergeant Ben, made his interview from where the door-mat should have been. He found Sergeant Ben intently surveying a remarkable series of charcoal sketches by famous Sydney cartoonists; all the cartoons being of the noted "sergeant," although some not too flattering.

On seeing the Inspector, Sergeant Ben sat upright and saluted smartly. He did not rise to his feet—that would have meant vacating his office.

"Morning, sir! Fine day!"

This was pure conjecture on the sergeant's part, as there was no window to the office—and he was optimistic regarding Sydney climate.

Saul Murmer shook his head sadly, surveying the portly figure in the chair.

"Sergeant Ben," he said mournfully. "When, you develop as far as I have developed, you will have to requisition for a new office."

Sergeant Ben dissented. "I'd be sorry to leave the old spot," he answered, surveying what he could see of his office with pride and affection. "Though, as you say, it is somewhat of a tight fit. Tain't as large as the one I 'ad at old p'lice headquarters, an' the dust be truly awful; but it's 'ome from 'ome, as you might say; for I'm like you, Inspector: I ain't found a woman as is good enough to marry a police officer." He shook his head sorrowfully. "There ain't many as is made that way."

"Perhaps women don't think police officers, are good enough for the homes they make," suggested the stout detective. "That's a thought you might ponder, Sergeant Ben. Police officers are a bit—er—irregular in their habits—not that I'm suggesting they're at all irregular in their conduct."

"I'm as regular as the Central Station clock." Sergeant Ben bridled. "I come 'ere at eight-thirty each morning, and I leaves at five-thirty, except on Saturday, when I leaves at twelve or thereabouts. No man can be more regular than that."

"No." Inspector Murmer spoke with a slight drawl. He changed the subject. "I've been having a little conversation with the Superintendent, Sergeant Ben."

The old man shook his head lugubriously.

"About night-clubs, sir, if I may be so bold as to mention the subject?"

Again Sergeant Ben shook his head. "He knows your partiality for sich places, as I've heard 'im say on more than one occasion. Not as I agrees with the superintendent—not by no manner of means, 'e does things as I can't agree with—not as 'e ain't got th' authority, but authority ain't allus right, if you understands what I mean?"

Shortness of breath, or perhaps the sharp edge of the office-table against the lower portion of his anatomy, caused Sergeant Ben to pause. Sergeant Murmer waited.

"It ain't right, by no means whatsoever," continued the Sergeant, trying to push the table through the office wall. "It ain't right, an' me sitting here from eight-thirty to five-thirty, except on Saturdays, when I leaves at twelve, as I've said. And, what if I do take a little stroll round the precincts of the courts, as I acknowledges I do sometimes. It's only to give the boys a hand, as you might say. But it's the Sooperintendent's duty to sit at his desk and press the little knob as is marked 'Messenger.' For how can he see you gents as wants to see 'im, if he's running his own messages?"

Again Sergeant Ben paused, gathering new breath, "As I ses, an' as you'll say, he ain't no more right to do it than for them h'English perdoocers to come here to Orstralyer and make pictures as makes us out ter be convicts and blackfellers, and kangaroos and bushrangers. Not as we ain't got some of the best convicts in the world. I stands up for Orstralyer in that, as I does in everything else. There's convicts as we've got as we're proud of—real proud to 'ave in our prisons."

Again Sergeant's Ben's voice faded into nothingness. Inspector Murmer nodded agreement in general, gravely.

"Perhaps Superintendent Dixon occasionally rings his bell, and you're not here."

"P'haps I wasn't here," agreed, Sergeant Ben, in no way abashed by the suggestion that he had been absent from duty. "But if I wasn't here I was still on public duty. There ain't messages allus to run, Inspector, as you may say. If there ain't no messages, then I turns my attention to other but them's always police duty, as I'm paid to perform and does. There's clues, sir, as you well know, and them has to be handled by experts—and where in this Police Department will you find them with the experience as I've got. As you know, sir, I ain't one to sit down with folded arms and feet."

Sergeant Ben broke off suddenly, noting that Inspector Murmer's eyes were gravely surveying the little office, bare of any sign, of paper record.

"It ain't papers and them things as I makes knowledge, sir," reproached Sergeant Ben. "Papers, and files, and card indexes be good for them people as ain't got memories, and there's plenty of 'em in this department, if I may be so bold as to say it. No, sir! Sooperintendant 'as a 'abit of running his own messages—and draws a salary from th' Department. With the Sooperintendant doing what he does, I had to find work becoming a man of my experience. And I found it, sir. There's those in the Department as ain't ate up in their own pride and consequence as 'as found Sergeant Ben useful, if he ain't ornamental. They knows as they've only to give me one look at a questionable party, and if I ain't seen him for twenty years—"

"Yes, Inspector," continued Sergeant Ben, when an interval had replenished the internal atmosphere. "You mayn't know, Mr. Murmer, if I may make so bold as to drop your title for the moment, not being one of our regular officers, as I've got a memory as is known in this Department. I ain't one to boast, sir, but it was me as ses to Inspector Williams; 'That's Ooke Kettigan in th' dock, when he fooled 'em he wasn't.'" Sergeant Ben coughed. "You didn't know Ooke, Mr. Murmer; no, he was afore your time, but he was a great kidder. They hadn't his finger prints, for it was in them days when we couldn't take their finger prints afore they were convicted. He called himself Algernon Courteney, and he was brought in for the Western States affair—and I laughed. I knew no mother 'ud let her son wander into a cold, hard world with a moniker like that hanging on to him; and I thought, and I presently I wanders close to the dock, and I ses, in a quiet and conversational voice: 'Hullo, Ooke, and how's the little second-hand book-shop down Redfern these days?'—and you should have seen him collapse—"

Sergeant Ben suddenly deflated himself. He struggled for fresh air, and words. Inspector Murmer interposed:

"Ever come across an Englishman with a partiality for a morning coat and striped trousers?" Saul Murmer winced at thoughts of trousers and his recent bereavement. "A tall man with a long, thin face, and a monocle in his left eye. Speaks with a drawl. Walks with a limp in his left leg—" The detective paused. "Thought you might remember him, especially as his left eyelashes come down to a peak on his cheek when he closes his eyes. Quite a strange malformation."

Sergeant Ben muttered the word "malformation" thrice. He was fond of words—especially unusual words. Inspector Murmur waited. If this man had ever come into the hands of the New South Wales Police Department, Sergeant Ben would remember him.

Clasping his hand behind his hack, and teetering on his toes, be waited: not for long, as it happened. "Left eyelashes come down to a peak," muttered the old constable. "A malfermentation! 'Course it would be! You're right, Mr. Murmer, sir, though he ain't been in the 'ands of the police, as you may say, quite official."

"How's that, Sergeant Ben?"

"Well, sir, it happened like this, and it's some time ago. The boys put up a raid on one of them clubs as they have in Darlinghurst, and they brought in the catch here—and a fine squeeze we had in the cells, for a time. Some of them had friends, as they telephoned to come, and bail them out. A few weren't quite so lucky, and had to make themselves comfortable for the night as best they could. We let 'em send out for breakfast in the morning, and anything else they fancied, except spiritualous liquors, of course. One of 'em as hadn't luck was this man with the malfermentation. I remember the malfermentation when I saw it in the line-up, when I went down to see as it I could pick out them as we wanted for other things. That was the time when I spotted 'Bingo' Samuels, the bloke as we wanted for the Landley jewellery robbery, not as he took much; there wasn't much in the shop to take. And didn't he just say things when I spotted him 'and called him by name—though why he should try to be rude, I can't say as you may say—"

"What about the man with the peaked eyelashes?" asked the Inspector.

"Oh, him?" Sergeant Ben went searching back in the wilderness of words he had released on the Inspector. "Oh, him! He got the usual; a quid for being on unlicensed premises, and drinking. That was, all, though he looked as if a h'angel 'ad come from 'eaven when, he saw Gaoler Franklin open the dock door and let him out."

Inspector Murmer laughed quietly. "You missed that time, Sergeant Ben. You had 'Winny' Demmage in your hands and let him go. And, now Scotland Yard wants 'Winny' badly. They hadn't an idea he had come to Australia or this department would have been notified. If you see him again, let me know before handing him the key of the street."

"Glad to, Mr. Murmer." Sergeant Ben beamed with pride. "I'll keep an eye open, sure!"

Inspector Murmer was turning from the small office when he was halted by the old man, with a question: "If I may make so bold, Inspector, just what has 'Winny' done?"

As the Inspector hesitated he added: "You see, sir, it's all meat for the cat, as you may say. If I know his usual lay can look for him among the usual gents as come in on that game. They ain't, original, as you well knows, sir thing, so as to say—"

"Blackmail; snow-drifting; anything with easy money and no hard work," said Paul Murmer briefly.

"Ah, is that 'so?" Sergeant Ben nodded his heavy head thoughtfully. "No hard work! Yes, sir; cracking a can is hard work, as they tells me, an' no mistake about it."