‘Come away quietly,’ whispered Billy, and knowing the uselessness of questioning him I backed out silently after him.
He did not speak until we were well clear of the scrub and near his camp again.
‘What’s the game, Billy? What does it all mean? What is it they are telephoning?
‘You’ll laugh at the idea. That was an article out of the ‘Clarion’. They are probably telephoning the whole paper.’
‘But what for?’
'To hold the line, man. While they pay they hold the wires, and I can't get my cable through.'
'But the cost?'
‘They cut that down by waiting until they saw me leave Manning's house. They're probably only telegraphing it as far as Fremantle, and what's a penny a word to fifty thousand for a shicer?'
'So you're beaten?'
'Not yet – the horses have had a day off. We'll yoke 'em up.'
'Where away now?'
'To the telegraph station at Pink Rocks.'
Can I ever forget the romance of the track that night – the beauty of the bush lying under the starlight without a breath to ruffle it; the smoke of our pipes curling up as incense; the ghostly track lying coiled and mysterious through scrub and forest; the horses enjoying their own rapid motion through the cool air; the only sounds the occasional clicking of shoe on shoe, the straining of the harness and the silky rustling of tyres in the sand.
As we sped through the divinely soft air, he told me my part of the programme.
‘I’ll drop you at twenty miles out, drive the other ten alone, get my cable away and drive back to you.’
‘But if the operator has started on the long message he won’t stop it for the cable.’
‘I won’t ask him to, but as there’ll be a sudden interruption of communication with the place we’ve come from, he’ll take my cable all right.’
I looked at him, and in the half darkness could just see that he was smiling.
‘You mean to cut the telephone wire?’
‘I mean that you shall. It’s half past twelve now – you mustn’t cut it till a quarter past two. I’ll be in the office at Pink Rock then.’
‘I see – that gives you an alibi.’
‘Of course – they’d suspect me at once if I first cut a wire and then drive to the next office to get a cable through.’
‘I see – all right, old man. How do I get up the poles?’
‘There are no poles. Civilisation hasn’t come along yet. The insulators are spiked to trees.’
‘Good. And what do I cut the wire with?’
‘This.’
He pressed a fencing wire cutter into my hand, and we drove on in silence and I dozed.
A touch brought me to consciousness, and I found he had stopped the buggy.
‘There you are, old man. There’s the wire. What’s your time? – five minutes to one! Right. I can do the ten miles by twenty past two, easy. Cut at twenty past. Good luck, old man – I’ll be here again at four thirty, but it will be best for you to walk west, and I’ll meet you sooner.’
‘Good-bye, Billy, and good luck.’
We clasped hands. I lit my pipe and settled down to waiting – the buggy disappeared in the long perspectives of the aisles of salmon gum.
‘Can’t do it – I’ve got a long message,’ said the operator.
‘All right, I’ll wait,’ replied Billy Pagan, with one eye on his sweating but still strong team at the door, and the other on the telephone.
‘It won’t be much good waiting unless you’ve brought your blankets,’ said the operator, laughing. ‘Some crank up on the field has taken a ninety-nine years lease of this ‘phone. He’s sent half The Clarion up to now – all except the illustrations – and I suppose when he’s through with that he’ll start on Johnston ’s Dictionary and poor Doctor. Watt’s hymns. Sorry to keep you, but I can’t help it.’
‘I know,’ replied Billy. ‘It’s not your fault. Fire away. Give that lunatic asylum at the other end another chance.’
‘All right – you take it easily, anyhow – Hello! Are you there? Yes. Go on. What’s my last? ‘Repeat’ did you say? All right? Here you are – ‘Governor Denison writing to H. Labouchere of the Colonial Office, respecting the formation of the first New South Wales Ministry, said’ -
‘Can you hear that?… Can you hear that? Hello! – Shake your battery… Oh, damn!’
Billy Pagan looked at his watch. It was fifteen minutes past two.
At that moment I had climbed the tree and cut the wire.
In the early dawn I met him driving gaily through the dewy bush, and he stopped the buggy to pick me up, and laughed. And when he had me in the buggy he laughed again, as at an excellent joke, and called me his good mate and his blood brother and many other pleasant things.
‘Swainger will be on our track when they know of the broken wire. I’m game to bet that he’s been admiring through my window a dummy in the bed, supposing it to be me.’
The wire must have been repaired the next day, for twenty-four hours after we reached Coolgardie came a cable for Billy Pagan and its decodation said this:
‘Many thanks. We were on the point of paying. Please make complete examination Jindabine mines and cable report.
VINCE KELLY
Vincent Gatton Kelly was born on 26 December 1898. Formerly an editor with Smith’s Weekly in Melbourne, he came to Sydney where he worked for The Sun newspaper and became something of a legend among the city’s journalists.
In a professional sense, he was far better known as a political commentator than as a writer of fiction. On his death in April 1976, many of the state’s top politicians and civil servants, including the Premier, Sir Robert Askin, and a former Commissioner of Police, Norman Allan, publicly voiced their regrets while a special contingent of police escorted the funeral cortege.
Kelly is well known as the author of 15 books, many dealing with crime cases or famous police. These include The Shadow: The Amazing Exploits of Frank Fahy (Sydney, Angus & Robertson, 1954), The Bogeyman: The Exploits of Sergeant C.J. Chuck, Australia’s Most Unpopular Cop (Sydney, Angus & Robertson, 1956), Rugged Angeclass="underline" the Amazing Career of Policewoman Lillian Armfield (Sydney, Angus & Robertson, 1961) and The Shark Arm Case (Sydney, Horwitz, 1963). He also edited a history of Woollahra Municipality and wrote a biography of the Governor-General, Sir William McKell.
Kelly’s fictional works are less well known. The Mail newspaper group in Adelaide published a number of cheap paperback titles, including All Sorts (1944). In 1943 the company released The Last Minute Clue, the hero of which, Inspector Price, returned the following year in The Sinister Street. The latter work, from which ‘The Passing of Pansy’ is taken, was a collection of stories with a common theme – the life and crimes of Hutchinson Alley, a run-down, crime ridden part of the big city.
Kelly displays considerable talent as a writer of fiction and many of his characters could well be drawn from life. Detective-Inspector William Price has the feel of the Australian career cop of the period, and his young partner is suitably wet behind the ears.