‘The new manager.’
‘The new manager’s in bed and asleep upstairs!’
‘When did he arrive?’
‘This evening.’
‘Call himself Raffles?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m damned!’ whispered the real man. ‘I thought it was just revenge, but now I see what it was. My dear sir, the man upstairs is an impostor – if he’s upstairs still! He must be one of the gang. He’s going to rob the bank – if he hasn’t done so already!’
‘If he hasn’t done so already,’ muttered Ewbank after him, ‘if he’s upstairs still! By God, if he is I’m sorry for him!’
‘His tone was quiet enough, but about the nastiest I ever heard. I tell you, Bunny, I was glad I’d brought that revolver. It looked as though it must be mine against his, muzzle to muzzle.’
‘Better have a look down here, first,’ said the new manager.
‘While he gets through his window? No, no, he’s not down here.’
‘It’s easy to have a look.’
‘Bunny, if you ask me what was the most thrilling moment of my infamous career, I say it was that moment. There I stood at the bottom of those narrow stairs; inside the strongroom, with the door a good foot open; and I didn’t know whether it would creak or not. The light was coming nearer – and I didn’t know! I had to chance it. And it didn’t creak a bit; it was far too solid and well-hung; and I couldn’t have banged it if I’d tried, it was too heavy; and it fitted so close that I felt and heard the air squeeze out in my face. Every shred of light went out, except the streak underneath, and it brightened. How I blessed that door!
‘No, he’s not down there,’ I heard, as though through cotton wool. Then the streak went out too, and in a few seconds I ventured to open once more and was in time to hear them creeping to my room.
‘Well, now, there was not a fifth of a second to be lost but I’m proud to say I came up those stairs on my toes and fingers, and out of that bank (they’d gone and left the door open) just as gingerly as though my time had been my own. I didn’t even forget to put on the hat that the doctor’s mare was eating her oats out of, as well as she could with a bit, or it alone would have landed me. I didn’t even gallop away, but just jogged off quietly in the thick dust at the side of the road (though I own my heart was galloping), and thanked my stars the bank was at that end of the township in which I really hadn’t set foot. The very last thing I heard was the two managers raising Cain and the coachman. And now, Bunny -’
He stood up and stretched himself, with a smile that ended in a yawn. The black windows had faded through every shade of indigo. They now framed their opposite neighbours, stark and livid in the dawn, and the gas seemed turned to nothing in the globes.
‘But that’s not all?’ I cried.
‘I’m sorry to say it is,’ said Raffles apologetically.
‘The thing should have ended with an exciting chase, I know, but somehow it didn’t. I suppose they thought I had got no end of a start. Then they had made up their minds that I belonged to the gang which was not so many miles away, and one of them had got as much as he could carry from that gang as it was. But I wasn’t to know all that, and I’m bound to say that there was plenty of excitement left for me. Lord, how I made that poor brute travel when I got among the trees! Though we must have been well over fifty miles from Melbourne, we had done it at a snail’s pace, and those stolen oats had brisked the old girl up to such a pitch that she fairly bolted when she felt her nose turned south. By Jove, it was no joke, in and out among those trees, and under branches with your face in the mane! I told you about the forest of dead gums? It looked perfectly ghostly in the moonlight. And I found it as still as I had left it – so still that I pulled up there, my first halt, and lay with my ear to the ground for two or three minutes. But I heard nothing – not a thing but the mare’s bellows and my own heart. I’m sorry, Bunny, but if ever you write my memoirs, you won’t have any difficulty in working up that chase. Play those dead gum trees for all they’re worth and let the bullets fly like hail. I’ll turn round in my saddle to see Ewbank coming up hell-for-leather in his white suit, and I’ll duly paint it red. Do it in the third person, and they won’t know how it’s going to end.’
‘But I don’t know myself,’ I complained. ‘Did the mare carry you all the way back to Melbourne?’
‘Every rod, pole, or perch! I had her well seen to at our hotel, and returned her to the doctor in the evening. He was tremendously tickled to hear I had been bushed. Next morning he brought me the paper to show me what I had escaped at Yea!’
‘Without suspecting anything?’
‘Ah!’ said Raffles, as he put out the gas. ‘That’s a point on which I’ve never made up my mind. The mare and her colour was a coincidence – luckily she was only a bay – and I fancy the condition of the beast must have told a tale. The doctor’s manner was certainly different. I’m inclined to think he suspected something, though not the right thing. I wasn’t expecting him, and I fear my appearance may have increased his suspicions.’
I asked him why.
‘I used to have rather a heavy moustache,’ said Raffles, ‘but I lost it the day after I lost my innocence.’
RANDOLPH BEDFORD
Bedford was born at Camperdown, Sydney, in 1868, and a taste for adventure that was never quite fulfilled propelled him across the continent from a very early age. By the late 1880s he had settled into journalism, writing for a number of newspapers and magazines, including The Bulletin.
A continuing interest in mining, both as a promoter and amateur engineer financed his travels. He combined mining and journalism with the creation of the Clarion, a much respected journal that ran from 1897 until 1909. He spent the early years of the twentieth century in Europe, where his first novels, including True Eyes and The Whirlwind (London, Duckworth, 1903), were published.
Bedford produced novels, short stories, plays and articles although his mining endeavours often took precedence. At one time or another, so it was said, Bedford inhabited every mining field in Australia and New Zealand and doubtless turned a profit in each one. In 1923, for example, he was the promoter of a fledgling field at a distant north-west Queensland location known as Mount Isa.
Bedford ’s third career was as a politician. He unsuccessfully campaigned in a number of elections until 1917 when he won a seat in Queensland ’s Legislative Council. In 1934, after assisting in the dismantling of the Upper House, he transferred to the Legislative Assembly, representing the outback seat of Warrego until his death in 1941.
During his lifetime, Bedford was much read and admired although his reputation is now negligible. In 1965 Norman Lindsay, with whom Bedford worked at The Bulletin, commented perhaps rather too cruelly: ‘His novels have long since sunk into that mysterious abyss where all the transient art of a generation goes.’
The Billy Pagan stories, published in 1911, display Bedford ’s descriptive skills and keen eye for detail. The locations vary from Western Australia to Tasmania and northern Queensland as Pagan, a largely autobiographical character who first appeared in True Eyes and the Whirlwind, displays a cerebral approach to crime detection that would do Sherlock Holmes proud.
The Man who Held the Wires
A willy-willy blowing over Coolgardie filled with dust our camp on the twenty-five mile road. We ate dust, breathed dust, and wore it as our most intimate garment; we wrote in a mixture of organic matter and mud.
‘Twenty-five per cent moisture, twenty-five per cent dust, and fifty per cent dead blowfly,’ said Billy Pagan as he decoded the cable from London.
‘What does it say?’ said I, when he had closed the codebook.
‘It’s from Harmer. There’s a show at English Flag under offer to him, and his option expires in four days. Did you ever hear of a big mine there, Harry?’