In 1958 Angus and Robertson published The Greedy Ones, another thriller with police as the central characters. Here Kelly utilises a crooked cop, Detective Porkreth, and a noble hero, Inspector Rogerson, as the protagonist. The Greedy Ones reads well after 30 years and it seems a shame that Kelly didn’t continue to write fiction.
Kelly worked with the New South Wales Department of Communications following his retirement from The Sun, although he was chief book reviewer with the newspaper until his death.
‘The Passing of Pansy’ best illustrates the diverse character of Kelly’s fictional output. The leading characters are sympathetic and well drawn and to some degree predate the English police detective exemplified by John Creasey’s Commander Gideon.
The Passing of Pansy
Old Pansy was a pathetic challenge to the disillusioned and patient social workers of other districts before she gravitated to Hutchinson Alley, after which they gave her up in despair.
Her blouse and skirt were ragged, and it would have seemed tidier had she worn no stockings at all rather than the remnants which revealed extensive areas of flesh where her legs vanished into the overrun and dirty shoes.
The aged derelict had lost all association with any other name than that by which she was known in Hutchinson Alley, that most unsavory street in the sinister and frowsy suburb where she did her drinking and managed to live, somehow or other.
On this late afternoon she was more drunk than usual, which as Hutchinson Alley would have admitted, was saying plenty.
When she tottered out of the hotel and swayed, blinking foolishly while she gathered her sense of direction, even her over tolerant acquaintances murmured that ‘old Pansy had a load on.’
They encouraged her with: ‘Goodnight, Pansy.’ ‘Whoops, Pansy, hold your chin up and don’t spill any.’
But the old woman was too sodden in drink to return their greetings. With eyes glazed, and retaining her equilibrium by some amazing instinct of the sozzled brain, she lurched tipsily away into the gathering shadows of the brownout.
She swayed perilously close to falling before she at last commenced her journey down the narrow alley which led to the room she called home.
In the minute or two before the group on the street corner forgot her, they speculated idly whether old Pansy would reach the squalid dwelling in which she had a room.
Most of them thought not.
But they were wrong! This was proved later when her dead body was found next morning.
It was Pokey Joe Malone who made the discovery. Pokey Joe had a marine dealer’s licence, but was more commonly known as a bottle-o.
It was only by chance that Detective-Inspector Price and Detective Richardson happened along just then and saw a uniformed policeman hurry to the hovel on the heels of an excited and grubby little boy whom Pokey Joe had despatched for help.
Detective-Inspector Price was sardonically amused to observe the rather strained look on the face of the uniformed man. The constable did not look happy. The uniformed police officers had taken a lot of beatings in Hutchinson Alley, and it was only natural that none of them liked entering it singly.
The C.I.B. chief and Richardson crossed the road just as Pokey Joe was explaining, ‘I only just poked me nose in to see if old Pansy might ‘ave an empty or two.’
There was a whine in the voice of Pokey Joe, a voice which was singularly harsh and unattractive from over much raucous yelling of his trade slogan connected with the purchase of ‘Empt EEEE bo’l’s!’.
Like all other residents of Hutchinson Alley, Pokey Joe disliked being associated with police inquiries. But he had sufficient cunning not to involve himself more deeply by concealing his discovery of the corpse. His eyes glanced from one to the other like those of a stray dog expecting a kick.
‘And that’s all I know about it, s’welp me Gawd, Mr Price,’ he whined.
The officers looked at the body of the old woman as it lay on the sorry palliase of rags in the corner. There was a dignity about her face in death which it had not worn in life within their memory.
‘Lived here like an animal, sir,’ said the young uniformed man gazing about him in disgust.
He was relieved to find that he had official company so quickly, and relieved also to think that if there should be anything criminal associated with the death of the old derelict. The chief of the C.I.B. was here in person to assume responsibility for investigations.
Detective Richardson also wrinkled his nose. ‘Her heart gave out, or she took an overdose of metho’, he said tersely.
‘Maybe, but it looks to me as though she had some sort of seizure,’ said Inspector Price. ‘She’s doubled up as though she was in some pain when she passed out, and her knuckles on her right hand are barked.’
‘Probably where she fell over when reeling home three sheets in the wind last night,’ suggested Richardson.
‘Maybe,’ said Price again.
He was looking reflectively at the dusty surface of the oilcloth covering the packing case which served the old woman as a combination dining table and cupboard. Near the centre was a stained ring, where a glass or a bottle had stood.
Price bent down and examined the makeshift table closely. Then he peered into the interior at the pitiful collection of such pantry commodities as the old woman had possessed.
He straightened up with a grunt and wandered round the untidy room, peering about him with a thoroughness which inwardly amused Richardson and openly impressed the uniformed man. Richardson was beginning to feel bored and unhappy.
‘Seems to be a simple enough case for the coroner here, sir,’ he suggested. ‘Just a case of her heart conking out after too much cheap plonk.’
‘Yes, that’ll be it sure enough,’ agreed the constable. ‘Old Pansy was a whale for the grog and there’s no reason why anyone should do her in.’
‘Yet I think it was murder.’
The two young men were startled by Price’s quiet statement.
‘MURDER!’ gasped the uniformed constable.
‘Who would want to murder this poor old derelict?’ demanded Richardson.
‘In our records you’ll find quite a number of cases where old women, just as unlovely and bedraggled as Pansy, were murdered,’ said Price slowly. ‘The first question young detectives always asked was who could be bothered murdering such frowsy old waifs, and why.’
Richardson looked a bit shamefaced. Off hand, he could recall several similar cases which had caused the C.I.B. infinite trouble before it was able to put the murderers in the dock.
‘Better telephone to the C.I.B. and get the Science Section men here at once,’ Price told him. ‘I want every bit of this room investigated before the body is examined and taken away.’
Richardson hastened down the street to the nearest telephone. In his own mind he was quite satisfied that Inspector Price was over-dramatising a case of what, at the worst, could only be alcoholic poisoning.
He returned from telephoning, and a few minutes later, was watching the fingerprint men and the police photographer at work.
He looked in vain for indications of a struggle. There was no sign, as far as he could see, that a murderer had either violently or subtly brought death to this old woman whose dignity of features was now in curious contrast to her rags.
In spite of this, he noted that the Science Section men were going over every inch of the room with a thoroughness that pleased Inspector Price as much as it irked the young detective to witness such waste of time.
Price left them at it while he interviewed the other dwellers in the ramshackle dwelling. Most of them he knew, and with his old-fashioned hat stuck carelessly on the back of his head, he questioned them with a camaraderie which surprised Richardson. The interrogation of a bleary old hag in a front room was typical.