Pigeye was standing three feet away. He saluted Gus with a nod.
Gus nodded back slowly and dropped his gaze to the floor. Ducky O’Connor, crumpled like a broken puppet, was lying a half-yard beyond the tip of his shoe. His right arm was extended, chin flung back, eyes round and blue, and fixed with a look of surprise. The entry wound was behind the right ear, surrounded by a mass of black stippling. The underside of the skull was totally blown away.
‘Bugger,’ said Gus, and fell to his knees. ‘What happened?’
Tanner grinned. ‘Well, we were sitting right here, having a few, when in hops O’Connor and gets himself shot.’
‘You saw the whole thing?’
‘Not a bit, but sure as hell we’ll be asking some questions.’
Tanner took a step sideways as he spoke, so that Gus caught sight of Lennie McPherson, who was sitting at a table behind them, flamboyant in an open-necked shirt and wine-coloured blazer. Next to McPherson sat Ernie Chubb, looking downcast and discouraged, and on the table between them, two guns – a Colt and a Dreyse – were carefully laid out on a white damask napkin.
‘Come on, Ernie,’ said Tanner, and gave Chubb a wink. ‘Why don’t you tell the bloke here what happened?’
‘Who, me?’ Chubb started up in a panic.
‘Yeah, you.’ Tanner grabbed Chubb by his shirtfront and hauled him across the floor, with Gus at his heels. He sat Chubb down on a piano stool and spun it around, so they were facing the opposite direction to the rest of the crowd, which included a few uniformed coppers, kitchen and bar staff, and a bunch of frightened patrons. ‘Okay, Ernie. Just tell us what happened.’
‘Jeez, I dunno, Mr Tanner. It happened that quick.’
‘Who shot him?’
‘Come on, Mr Tanner. I’m not a bloody top-off.’
Tanner thrust his face right up to Chubb’s. ‘I said, tell the bloke here what happened, you bandy-legged bastard, before I tear you apart.’
Chubb faltered, ‘Well, he sort of shot himself, I reckon.’
‘What do you mean “Sort of shot himself”?’
‘He was holding this gun, see. Then there was this huge bloody bang and he kind of … fell over.’
‘Turn it up, Ernie. There’re two guns here. Who had the other one?’
‘Not me.’ Chubb gave a long slow squint.
A voice came from behind. ‘Oi, Tanner! How’s graft?’
Tanner turned around, real slow. He stared at McPherson. ‘Stuff you.’
‘Just making polite conversation.’
‘Well, stick to me and you might learn some. Manners, I mean.’
‘Well, I reckon I might.’
Tanner laughed. He yelled at Pigeye. ‘I reckon that bloke needs to go take a leak.’
‘That’s right,’ said McPherson. ‘I’ve been sitting here drinking for the best part of four hours and the bladder’s not like it used to be.’
‘I can take him,’ Gus offered.
‘Nah, Pigeye can handle it.’ Tanner steered Gus back towards the table. ‘I want you to take charge of the scene, get statements, witness details and so on, until Driscoll and his mob from Scientific Investigations get themselves here. I’m taking this lot back to CIB and getting them dusted.’ He picked up the guns, bundling them into a napkin, and made his way towards the bar. He pulled out a bottle of whisky, slopped a bit into a glass, and tossed it straight back, before offering some to Gus.
Gus shook his head.
Tanner didn’t seem to care. He poured out another. Three white-suited ambos clattered through the door, stretcher in tow. Tanner stared at them over the rim of his glass. ‘Christ. You blokes really know how to arrive in a hurry. Cheers.’
Wally Driscoll, from the Scientific Investigation Bureau, arrived at the Latin Quarter before Gus departed. He scoured the joint with tape measures, peered under tables, dusted for prints, and took lots of photographs. The ambos carted Ducky up to Sydney Hospital, where he didn’t linger long. They wrapped him in hospital bandages, plied him with needles, and pronounced him dead within the hour. There was plenty of time to get up to the hospital and ID the corpse before they shifted it out to the morgue in the morning, except that it was already morning. Gus stared at the glittering patch of purple on the dance floor where O’Connor once was.
Ten minutes later, Gus burst through the mint-green swing doors of CIB and collided with Mario Agostini in the squad room.
‘Oi, Gus.’ Agostini poked him in the ribs. ‘Jeez, you’re a mess. What’s up?’
Gus stopped, tired and breathless. ‘Ducky O’Connor,’ he said, and grabbed up some air.
‘Yeah, I heard.’
‘Tanner was there.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Agostini. ‘I wouldn’t get too excited.’
Agostini looked worn down and out of sorts. Gus had no idea what had put the grey rings under his eyes. He reached out and gave Agostini an easy shake. Then he headed down the long corridor, opened a door on the left, and peered through the one-way. Static crackled through the intercom. There were smears on the glass.
Tanner was standing with his back to the wall, staring at the bolted-down metal table where Pigeye was sitting, shoving carbon and paper into a Remington typewriter.
Chubb walked in.
‘Address?’ said Pigeye.
Chubb lowered himself onto a vacant metal stool. ‘Fitzroy Street, Surry Hills.’
‘Occupation?’
‘I dunno … Labourer, I guess.’
Tanner laughed. ‘Very good, Ernie. Very good!’
Chubb was flustered. ‘I already told you what happened an hour ago.’
‘Sure you did. But now I want you to make me a statement so Pigeye can type it up for our records.’
Chubb digested this, then tried to get cocky. ‘So are you going to ask us some questions or what?’
‘Maybe,’ said Tanner.
‘Come on, Mr Tanner, ask us a question. Isn’t that how it works?’
Tanner let a few seconds go by. He sat down at the table, straightened the ashtray, the spare notebook and pencil. ‘Okay, Ernie. Just tell us what happened.’
Chubb rallied, puffing his chest. ‘Well, I don’t rightly know what time it was, Mr Tanner. But we’d been there a goodish while, drinking and so on, and we were all pretty full. I hear somebody yell, “Look out, he’s got a gun,” and Ducky is standing there. I hear a shot, and that’s it.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘McPherson and me.’
‘Come on, Ernie. You can give me better than that.’
‘I dunno if I can. I don’t rightly remember.’
‘Maybe it was you who shot O’Connor?’
Chubb started up angrily from his stool. ‘Stop messing with my words. You’re confusing me.’
‘Well, then,’ said Tanner. ‘Was it somebody else?’
‘I already told you, all I heard was the yell. Then I look up, and I seen Ducky.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘I dunno.’ Chubb let out an unexpected chuckle. ‘I was pretty full.’
‘Yeah, so you said. Was it the Colt or the Dreyse that O’Connor was packing?’
‘I seen him hold something …’ Chubb’s face was blurry with concentration. ‘But as soon as it goes off, I know it was a gun.’
Tanner gazed prayerfully up at the ceiling. ‘How well did you know O’Connor?’
‘Not that well. I seen him around with some friends of mine.’
‘Do you know why Ducky would want to shoot either of you?’
‘Nope.’
‘Did he want to shoot you?’
‘Hell no, why would he want to do something like that?’
‘He wanted to shoot McPherson then?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘Goddamn it, Ernie. Was he gunning for it or not?’
Chubb pursed his lips. ‘Well, I did hear he was hostile with Len on account of the Melbourne matter. For not bailing him out, and so forth.’
&nb
sp; But ingrained suspicion got the better of him, ‘Of course, I wouldn’t know much about that. I never had any blues with Ducky myself.’
On the far side of the one-way, Gus was frowning. He wasn’t sure he was following Tanner’s angle correctly, but the interview was proving to be a disappointment. He nicked across the corridor and borrowed a packet of fags. Puffed one, blew smoke, then stubbed out the butt in an aluminium ashtray. When he looked up again, Lennie McPherson was standing in front of the table.
Pigeye bashed away at the Remington. ‘Address?’
‘You bloody well know where I live,’ said McPherson. ‘You’ve been round there often enough.’
Tanner laughed. But Pigeye persisted, ‘Occupation?’
‘Come on, Pigeye,’ said Tanner. He spread out his hands. ‘Everybody knows Lennie has been the manager of a certain suburban motel since, well, about 1956.’
‘Yeah, ten years I put into that place,’ said McPherson. ‘Almost as long as we’ve been acquainted.’
Tanner pointed at the empty stool. McPherson sat down. ‘So?’ said Tanner.
McPherson sat forward, elbows on his knees, forearms dangling. ‘Well, I reckon it went something like this. I’d just lifted up the beer jug and was pouring myself a glass, when I hear a voice, “How are you, cunt?” So I look up and I seen O’Connor, and I say, “I’m fine, cunt. How are you?” Then O’Connor pulls his hand out of his pocket and he says, “Here’s yours.”’
‘And?’
‘I hear somebody say, “Look out, he’s got a gun.” Then I hear a shot and O’Connor flops to the floor.’
‘You’re telling me you didn’t shoot him?’
‘It couldn’t have been me, could it? See, I still had the beer jug in one hand and the glass in the other.’
Tanner gave a too-wide boyish grin. ‘Course you did,’ he said. ‘So help me out a bit here. Give me probable cause. Why would O’Connor want to knock you?’
‘I heard he was going to try.’
‘Why?’
‘He reckoned I should’ve put up the bail over the Melbourne matter, but I told him I wouldn’t because I considered him a maniac.’
‘Maniac?’
‘Yeah, he was always threatening to murder people. Witnesses in cases he was in. Then he goes down to Melbourne and shoots somebody else.’
‘You were taking precautions?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like carrying a gun.’
‘I only heard he was in Sydney last night. Anyway, I thought it was all talk. I reckon he was mad, but not mad enough to try.’
‘What did you do after you heard the shot?’
‘I stood up, and then you lot came over and said, “Sit down.” So I sat down. And I still had the glass in one hand and the jug in the other.’
Tanner laughed.
But behind the one-way, Gus didn’t think it was funny. Glass in the one hand and beer jug in the other? He asked Tanner as much as he stepped into the hall. ‘Jesus. What happened?’
Tanner started comically. He stared at Gus as if recognition failed him. ‘This case is open and shut is what happened.’
‘But glass in one hand and jug in the other? Hell …’ Gus stammered.
Tanner was already half the length of the long corridor away. He swung round. ‘Hell what?’
‘Hell, sir,’ said Gus, grinning weakly.
Tanner hesitated then cracked open a smile. ‘I tell you whatever bloke shot that smart bastard O’Connor, they ought to pin a medal on him. He’s done us a favour. Jeez, you really had me going there,’ he added, and shambled off through a rectangle of grey gloom at the end of the hall.
Gus stood there, uncertain what to think, or how to react. Tanner’s words by no means sat comfortably with him, and there came on him a gradual feeling that something wasn’t right. He rubbed his eyes under their glasses. Then again, he’d been up all night and was feeling very tired.
He turned on his heel and walked down the hall, reaching the door to the squad room as Wally Driscoll, from the Scientific Investigation Bureau, came hurrying through. Driscoll was dressed in a grubby white lab-coat, with horn-rimmed bifocals of a supernatural size, bloating the green eyes underneath.
Gus stopped him with both hands. ‘Wally? You lifted the prints off those guns from the Latin Quarter?’
‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘Heard what?’
Wally took Gus by the arm and dragged him a few paces. ‘There aren’t any.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There aren’t any prints.’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘Nope,’ said Wally. ‘I’m right on the level.’
‘Does Tanner know this?’
Wally moved a little further into the corner. Fearing they could be overheard, even there, he said in a voice barely audible, ‘I’m saying those guns have been wiped.’
One month after Johnny shut down his Kings Cross establishment, Glory was sitting in his new betting club on the main street of Liverpool, together with Johnny and their new friend Mick Moylan, who was thumbing through the ledgers as they counted the night’s takings. Above her, the starting prices were chalked up on a blackboard under a sign with a painted kangaroo, saying, ‘Hop in – You’re Welcome’ and in smaller letters underneath, ‘Gentlemen Please Oblige by Not Carrying Form Guides and Papers when Leaving the Premises’.
The operation was small but thriving, with four telephone lines and an eager stream of punters trickling in from the pub. They took bets on the dogs, the trots and the ponies, then spread a bit of green baize after the last race on Fridays, and played three shoes of baccarat until when in the morning.
‘The thing is,’ said Moylan. ‘Once we get this joint off the ground we’ll move onto another one, big but not flashy, with glass chandeliers and dancing girls in black egret feathers and a giant roulette wheel –’ he held out his arms – ‘maybe thirteen foot across.’
Johnny interrupted. ‘Just where are you going to lay hold of a thirteen-foot roulette wheel?’
‘Monte Carlo,’ said Moylan, though last week he’d told Glory he had a timber trader lined up in the back streets of Bangkok.
Moylan was a large, almost elephantine man in his mid-fifties, with a blanket of dyed hair rising in unequal mounds on either side of a straight part. He had an enormous cyst on the side of his mouth, and eyes that were glassy and perennially bloodshot. Johnny had run into him at South Sydney Juniors some weeks before. Moylan had just arrived in Sydney from London, and somebody had told him that Johnny was an experienced club manager looking for a break.
‘I dunno,’ said Johnny. ‘I reckon you’d be better off with craps.’
‘Craps?’
‘Yeah. Once was, I ran a craps game with the prettiest pair of dices you ever seen, fetched in a packet,’ Johnny laughed.
There was a creak on the stairwell. Johnny’s old mate, Chooks Brouggy, stuck his head through the door.
Chooks was a short bloke of unfortunate physique, with a miserably skinny neck, and hair the colour and straightness of straw sticking out around the edges of an old pork pie hat. His shirt was half-tucked into a pair of blue dungarees with the buttons undone, so his chicken-ribs were showing.
Johnny looked up from the notes he was bundling. ‘Jeez, Chooks. Didn’t I tell you not to take your eyes off the door?’
Chooks shuffled his toes. ‘Yeah, but it’s Tommy Bogle.’
Johnny started up from the table. ‘I hope you got rid of him. Quick smart.’
‘I thought you ought to see him.’
‘Well, do me a favour and quit thinking. I need one of Reilly’s boys poking around here like a hole in the head.’
‘He’s one of Dick Reilly’s boys?’ said Moylan, looking up from his ledger.
‘Shit, yeah,’ said Johnny, growing angry at the memory. ‘That bloke Reilly reckons he owns this town, like it was Pittsburgh or something. But I’ve got news for him. Out here in Liverpool he don’t
own a thing.’ He turned back to Chooks. ‘Go down there and tell Tommy from me to get stuffed.’
‘Hang on a tick.’ Moylan turned towards Chooks. ‘Maybe the bloke’s got a reason. What did he say?’
Chooks glanced at Johnny, as if waiting for Johnny’s permission to answer. Glory watched on, acutely aware that they owed Moylan a whole lot, but knowing Moylan had a habit of spiking Johnny into a prickly belligerence.
‘Well, first up,’ said Chooks, once Johnny had given him the go ahead. ‘I reckon he isn’t working for Reilly anymore.’
‘Why?’
‘I dunno. Just do. I reckon you seen him and you’ll catch what I’m saying.’
‘I guess you better send the bugger up then,’ said Johnny.
Chooks went out, and Johnny not so casually pulled a gun out of his trousers and put it down on the table. He waited a minute, then picked up the gun and moved to the top of the staircase, gun-arm dangling loose, pointing down into the dark. ‘Hurry up, Tommy. I’m a busy man.’
There was a subdued commotion on the staircase, and then Tommy blundered out of the gloom. His face was battered and bruised as if from a recent beating, and the light from the naked bulb brought out his injuries in a startling way. His cheeks quivered. He gnawed on his thumb.
‘Aw, hell …’ Johnny was disconcerted. ‘Reilly do that?’
Tommy hesitated, but after a while his mouth began to work and the words tumbled out.
‘Mate, Reilly’s gone and knocked him.’
‘Who?’
‘O’Connor.’
‘He hasn’t,’ said Johnny.
‘I tell you he’s done it, and I reckon I’m next. He thinks I’m the one who topped off to the coppers the night that the Kellett Club got raided. Mate –’ Tommy pleaded, and held out a crumpled paper. ‘I tell you the bloke’s got no loyalty. He hasn’t got the right.’
Johnny took hold of the newspaper, and Glory peered at it over his shoulder.
THE BIG WIPEOUT
CITY’S FASTEST HANKIE COVERS UP KILLING
The best brains of the Sydney CIB have been baffled by ‘The Fastest Handkerchief’ in the West.
Crooked Page 4
