Sand on the Gumshoe: a century of Australian crime writing

my eyes, as I’m shortsighted.’

‘It can’t be helped – you got an average of two ounces for all the stone in sight, didn’t you?’

‘Yes – two ounces.’

‘Then we’ve just got time to stop the swindle… Now don’t be downhearted. Nobody could doubt your straightness.’

The old man smiled sadly. ‘But I doubt my own ability now, Mr Pagan.’

‘We must go now… Good-bye. See you later… Off to the telephone office, Harry.’

***

The terminus of the telegraph line was twenty miles further west, and from Coolgardie telegrams were sent by telephone to the operator at the terminus at Pink Rocks.

Billy Pagan coded a cable that was translatable thus, ‘Refuse to complete. The mine is an absolute swindle.’

We walked to the Post Office feeling very successful and confident, but Billy Pagan stopped at the entrance as Swainger’s figure disappeared within.

‘They’re here, Harry – but they’re later than I thought. And what’s the good of them being here now and cabling?’

We entered. Hercules leaned against the wall of the inner office and glared at us, drunkenly truculent.

Billy rapped at the wooden shutter of the telephone room, and the clerk appeared and demanded our business.

‘I’ve got a cable I want sent right away.’

‘Can’t send it till I’ve got this message through.’

‘And how long will that be?’

‘About two hours.’

‘Two hours! Man, it must go through at once. I’ll pay urgent rates.’

‘It’s an urgent I’ve got on now, and it’s a long message.’

Billy thought a moment and then replied, ‘All right, I’ll come back in two hours. You must arrange to break the long message if it’s not through then.’

The clerk said ‘All right,’ and closed the shutter. The telephone bell rang again – the voice of the transmitter spoke again.

We left the office, Billy leading me into the scrub beyond the office, and then by a detour back to the Post Office, but at its side and not its front.

‘Quiet,’ he whispered. ‘Keep out of the ray of the lamp. Now… crawl behind me.’

We crawled through a little belt of scrub and past the piles of a building – built, as usual, high from the ground on zinc-covered piles to delay the ravages of white ants.

We were under the Post Office.

‘Listen – Harry – what is it?’

We listened and heard this: -

‘In the last summer number of The Clarion we reviewed the Westralian discoveries by sea – ‘Have you got that? eh. … Never mind whether it’s rot or not - this is the message and I’m being paid for it -’ By sea. Inseparably connected with the land discoveries are the travels of John Forrest, Alexander Forrest, Fyre Austin and others whose names we know and of that great and nameless legion of explorers and prospectors and adventurers who have beaten the ways for the little men of the cities in all countries and at all times. And if there is one thing that calls for the adventurous Australian’s gratitude it is - ‘Got that?”

‘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.