Sand on the Gumshoe: a century of Australian crime writing

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In the middle of the next day Ooloo and Wendourie stood together on a high hill, their faces wet with the sweat of exertion, and gazed down upon an endless vista of trees which smothered the surface and hid the contour of the land, concealing plain and precipice alike. No thing stirred.

Ooloo pointed with his throwing-stick. ‘There lies my territory,’ he said. ‘Beyond the Narranyeri is the land of the Wirriwirri; beyond the Wirriwirri, the Bulpanarra and beyond them, ‘tis said, a tribe so ignorant it has not yet learned how to procure water from gum scrub roots. But beyond and far beyond… what?’

‘Nothing,’ Wendourie replied promptly. ‘The world ends.’

Ooloo blinked at him. ‘Perhaps,’ he said slowly. They stood, busy with disturbing thoughts, till their ears caught the sound of rustling leaves and then a little breeze fanned their heated bodies and simultaneously they lifted their heads, sniffing.

‘The great water…the great mysterious water,’ Ooloo said. ‘Even here the salt fills our nostrils.’ Half to himself, he murmured, ‘How strange if there were another side to it from which men might cross…’

‘I have stood and watched in awe,’ Wendourie said. ‘It can be peaceful as the billabong and then suddenly turbulent and angry, its voice more frightening than the bull-roarer. It would devour even the biggest canoes.’

Ooloo nodded. ‘True,’ he agreed. ‘None would dare risk their lives.’ He lifted his shoulders in a characteristic shrug. ‘Still, it is a pity Kuduna died before he told what he had seen.’

As he stood watching Wendourie’s black body merge and lose itself in the tangle of scrub, in the distant north-east Captain Madge of the ketch Ulysses, making its way from Sydney with a small party of colonists for the new settlement at Brisbane, was sitting in his cabin, a glass of grog in his hand, a Bible on his knee, and on the table before him the log in which he had lately written:

August 17, 1847: This day, the sea being calm with a light breeze, moored in a little cove very lovely to behold alongside a rock ledge providing a natural dock and giving us six fathoms no less. Being greatly enamoured of the place and the morrow being her wedding anniversary, nothing would satisfy Mistress Turner but her husband should make an excursion ashore to gather branches of the golden blossoms growing abundantly in scrubland bordering a flat pasture. Facilities for disembarking being good and weather mild, Mr Turner decided to land the light dray and our horse and go a little inland for to spy out the country and perhaps obtain game. Party returned safely aboard with no game and nothing to show for their pains but a load of blossoms which they pulled from the trees as the dray passed beneath. No sign of savages but serpents being observed they remained in dray for fear of being bit. Mr Scott, descending once, almost stepped upon a giant snake and was right glad to clamber back to safety.

August 18, 1847: The rain which fell during the night with some violence ceased early this morning and dawn brought a beautiful day, to be marred, unhappily, by a distressing incident. Mr Turner, watching from the deck, observed movement in the near bushes ashore and, suspecting savages, and first shouting as a warning, fired a shot to frighten them away. Sent two men ashore to investigate who returned with a poor naked heathen whom Mr Turner had accidentally shot dead, but he and the other gentlemen being by this time deeply engaged with the ladies in preparation for the festivities, thought it befitting to say naught to mar their lightheartedness and had my men dispose of the body.

Feeling a little sad at heart and asking God’s forgiveness for our part in this calamity, tide and breeze being favourable, sailed from this most lovely spot amid the laughter of the ladies and gentlemen and with Mr Scott’s little daughter sitting prettily in the stern, a garland of golden blossoms about her neck, singing to herself as she tore up an old newspaper and watched the scraps float away through the air like birds making for the bush.

CARTER BROWN

Carter Brown, the pseudonym of British-born Alan Geoffrey Yates, must easily be Australia ’s most prolific author. At the time of his death in May 1985, a Sydney newspaper estimated he had written 270 books, selling more than 70 million copies in 14 different languages. A more recent estimate by his widow, Mrs Denise Yates, is 325 novels.

Yates was a genuine pulp writer and he established himself on the market when pulp was king. Before the crime thrillers that established the Carter Brown name, Yates churned out numerous westerns, science fiction and horror stories under various pen-names including Paul Valdez, Tom Conway and Tex Conrad. However he will always be better known as Carter Brown.

Literary recognition remained elusive. Not that it seemed to matter too much. The Carter Brown thrillers, all paperback originals published by Horwitz, sold extremely well in Australia, the United States and numerous foreign markets. Yet the critics ignored him. An exception was Anthony Boucher, who reviewed crime fiction for the New York Times Book Review and was himself a pulp writer of considerable talent. In the 850-odd columns he wrote for the Times, he found time to champion Carter Brown. Paradoxically, Boucher disliked the Raymond Chandler stories.

Yate’s adventures were largely set in the United States yet he didn’t visit the country until many years into his career. That didn’t particularly matter as the background he used was a purely idealised view of how big cities should be, especially the mean streets where heroes created order out of chaos.

Alan Yates was born in England in 1923 and settled in Sydney following World War II. He began writing soon afterwards and, following a period with the public relations department of Qantas, became a full-time author. The release of his work in the United States through New American Library unleashed his skills on a new market.

Several of his novels were banned in Queensland, two were made into films in France, one became a play, while others served as fodder for a Japanese television series and the Carter Brown Mystery Theatre that ran on Australian radio in the late 1950s. Richard O’Brien, creator of The Rocky Horror Show, transformed The Stripper (published in 1961) into a musical in 1982.

‘Poison Ivy’ is one of the master’s shorter works and it is a fine indication of what Carter Brown could do with a well-worn premise.

Poison Ivy

CHAPTER ONE

The face under the fez was sad and drooping – a thinker’s face. He had plenty of time to think while he sat there cross-legged, thumping out a steady beat on the drum with the flat of his right hand. On the small wooden platform, four dames stepped backwards and forwards rhythmically. They wore veils, silk jackets and pants, and slippers.

The barker stepped forward and cleared his throat. ‘Walk up!’ he shouted in a metallic voice. ‘Walk up! Walk up! See the sirens of the East! See the four genuine harem girls. See the dance of the seven veils! See…’ His voice faded as I walked away.

Further down the lane was death-defying Deane, preparing to ride the wall of death for the fourth time that day. Then there was the woman with two heads, the fat lady, the human skeleton – they were all there.

I went almost to the end of the row and there was the sign – Mollo, the magician. The barker was in full gallop. ‘Mollo’s magic will delight you, thrill you, terrify you! You will be mystified, horrified, terrified! You won’t believe your eyes! See the beautiful girl turned to stone! See the paper dolls come to life! See…’

I walked past him, paid my quarter and ducked under the curtain. There weren’t any more than ten people inside, patiently waiting for the show to start. I took a seat in the front row and lit a cigarette. The dark blue