Mad Dog Moxley

by Peter Corris

  Moxley declared himself willing to be inoculated against smallpox and to understand that his pay would be 10 shillings per day with no extra allowances as he was single with no dependants. He took the oath to serve ‘our Sovereign Lord the King’ for the duration of the war and for a further period if so ordered. He signed in a firm, fluent hand.

  Moxley was not a model soldier. Even before his unit – the New South Wales 13 th Reinforcement – embarked for Britain from Sydney on 17 July 1918 aboard the army transport Borda, he committed the first of a series of offences that formed a pattern in his service record. He was AWL at Blackboy Hill, Western Australia, for three days. Did he have second thoughts about enlisting? Whatever the reason for his absence, he was given 168 hours of detention and docked ten days’ pay. At sea he was found guilty of ‘willful disobedience of an order’ and of ‘making an improper reply to an NCO’. He was given 96 hours detention.

  The Borda arrived in Britain on 27 September 1918, just short of seven weeks before the war ended, and Moxley did not see active service. He was stationed at various locations around Britain and appears to have given no trouble for almost a year. However he was AWL on two occasions in late 1919, ‘apprehended in London’ on the second occasion and ‘remanded for court martial’. His penalty was the ‘forfeiture of pay for the period of his absence’.

  On 27 August 1919, at the St Giles Registry Office, Moxley married Ada Murphy, 20, then a waitress at the Elephant and Castle restaurant. Moxley's address was given as Shakespeare Hut, Gower Street, Bloomsbury. Not surprisingly given his earlier record, he had remained a private. Some of his absences may have been to spend time with his wife. On 20 December 1919 he was granted ‘independent leave subject to recall’.

  Moxley may have been something of a malingerer. At one point during his time in Britain he attempted to evade duty by complaining of an old shoulder injury – a broken clavicle. An unpersuaded medical officer declared him fit for duty. He was evidently a poor correspondent. On 15 December 1919 his mother wrote to the army saying she had had no news of her son (curiously she calls him her brother, although the registration number she gives for him is accurate) ‘for months’. The army replied that it had no recent reports of him.

  Moxley was scheduled to be shipped back to Australia on the transport Runic, but he did not turn up. He returned to Australia aboard the Osterley which arrived on 3 March 1920. A medical examiner declared Moxley disease and disability free but still discharged him on 31 March 1920 as ‘permanently unfit for General Service’, presumably on the grounds of character.

  Within a few months of being demobbed, Moxley was in trouble. On 26 October 1920, giving his occupation as farmer and measuring an inch and a half shorter and 10 pounds lighter than when he enlisted, he was convicted in Glebe on two counts of theft. Given the option of a month's imprisonment on each charge or paying a fine of £6 with 6 shillings costs, he paid the fine. His next court appearance was in Brisbane on a more serious charge: ‘stealing with actual violence’. He received a three-year suspended prison sentence, with a good behaviour bond of £300. This seems lenient and perhaps reflects consideration given to his military service, undistinguished though it was.

  Three months later Moxley was convicted in Sydney of three charges of larceny and false pretences and bound over in a £50 surety. He undertook to pay £10 restitution within 12 months or serve a three-year sentence; the sentence was to be served if he offended within three years.

  With his occupation now listed as carpenter, Moxley embarked with three accomplices on a spree of house, warehouse and factory breaking which netted them thousands of pounds worth of goods. The gang had a hideout in Abercrombie Street, Redfern, which the police raided. Shots were fired and Moxley's attempt to escape over the roof was frustrated.

  The result was a three-year sentence with hard labour for a succession of stealing and receiving offences and for the possession of an unlicensed pistol. He apparently served this sentence because his last appearance in court before his trial for the murder of Dorothy Denzel and Frank Wilkinson was in Sydney in 1925 when he was convicted on one count of breaking and entering a dwelling with an intention to steal and for a similar offence in respect of a factory.

  A note attached to his police file described him as ‘an expert shop and house breaker’. His modus operandi was to force the doors of shops when they were closed and of houses when unoccupied or to break the leadlights of doors or windows. On at least one occasion he varied his method; he hid himself in a shop until after closing time, then admitted an accomplice. The pair allegedly stole goods to the value of £1500 and transported them in a horse-drawn sulky.

  The same note described him as ‘a very cunning and agile thief’ who consorted with vagrants and frequented hotels and billiard halls. The system had exhausted its patience. Moxley was sentenced to two years and declared a habitual criminal. This meant that any future offence would draw an indeterminate sentence and impose severe restrictions on his conduct and movements.

  William Cyril Moxley, alias Moore, Murphy and Fletcher (the name of the woman he boarded with) and Hudson (his mother's maiden name), also Harris and Swan, disappears from the public record for the next five years. But there is no reason to believe that he became a law-abiding citizen. Moxley failed to appear in the Campsie Court House in April 1932 on a charge of breaching trade regulations. This probably referred to Moxley's habit of demanding a bond from those he employed in his timber carting business when they used his lorry to make deliveries and then not returning the money at the end of the contracted period. Moxley continued to play a role in the criminal underworld and, dangerously, at least part of the time, as a police informer.

  It is clear from the transcript of Moxley's trial and other evidence that he was one of the informants of William John MacKay (1885-1948), then chief superintendent of the New South Wales Police in charge of criminal investigation. MacKay, a Scot, was an energetic and enthusiastic servant of the state, at first in Britain where he was active against the Industrial Workers of the World and subsequently in Sydney where one of his early successes was against the notorious Darlinghurst razor gangs.

  MacKay was a high-profile policeman and a controversial one. Equally enthusiastic in surveillance and infiltration of left-wing union movements and the right-wing New Guard, he had a wide network of criminal informants whom he protected in return for the intelligence they provided. It is likely that Moxley continued to commit crimes and was sheltered by MacKay. The label of habitual criminal gave MacKay an iron grip on him.

  Things came to a head in October 1930 when Moxley staggered out onto Parramatta Road near the suburb of Auburn, flagged down a motorist and claimed to have been shot. One report says that the motorist was a woman; fearing a robbery, she was at first reluctant to stop but did so on seeing blood on the man's face. Another report has the motorist as a man and Moxley saying, ‘Take me to a hospital, mate, I've been shot.’

  The driver, clearly identified by the hospital admission register as a man, took him to Parramatta Hospital. The register described him as suffering from a gunshot wound to the head. Subsequent newspaper reports of the incident are also confused and contradictory. In some Moxley is reported to have maintained absolute silence about his assailants. In others it is said he spoke to the police several times, on one occasion telling an officer to ‘Go to hell’ and on another saying he would get even with the men who shot him.

  In December that same year, Ernest Edward Devine and James Robert Duncan were charged with having maliciously wounded Moxley with intent to kill him. Reports of evidence given in court by Moxley and by the police who interviewed him do not make it clear precisely when Moxley named Devine and Duncan, but it seems his initial reluctance had been overcome. In one of his several and not entirely consistent statements, Moxley said he'd been hired to drive Devine and Duncan around to drink at several hotels and that, when Devine had proposed that they rob a hotel in Auburn, Moxley had balked, causing Devine to sho
ot him as a spur-of-the-moment action. At another point Moxley said he had told the police of Devine's earlier intention to rob a bank and that the plan was aborted when the would-be robbers found themselves being followed by the police. There was also mention of a plan to rob a Dutchman.

  Even to a violent criminal like Devine, who was probably a relation of James Edward Joseph Devine, ex-husband of the notorious madam Tilly Devine and who suicided after killing his partner 20 years later, a shot to the head seems extreme for a disagreement, however heated. Moxley's role as an informant almost certainly played a part. Moxley admitted to having been declared a habitual criminal but claimed to be a reformed character. The confused state of the evidence (in an earlier statement Moxley said Devine had threatened to ram the pistol down his throat and had forced it into his mouth) and Moxley's reputation gave the prosecution little chance of success. The judge acquitted Duncan by direction and the jury acquitted Devine.

  Eighteen months away from when he committed the crime that shocked Sydney, Moxley was living in Arundel Street, Glebe, a bijou address now but a run-down area at the time. His occupation was not specified. He owned or had the use of a car but he was at a low ebb, wounded and with his credibility as a court witness in tatters. As a result of his head wound he was heavily dependent on aspirin tablets and APC (aspirin, phenacetin and caffeine) powders. He boasted of his intention to get even with his attackers, but did not carry the threat through. His status as a habitual criminal was a burden to him and his claim to have turned over a new leaf was unconvincing. For if that were the case, what was he doing associating with Devine and Duncan, both of whom had criminal records?

  At his trial Moxley claimed that he had been working ‘with pick and shovel on the roads’ at that time. If that were true, then he followed it with even harder work – cutting timber in the bush, hauling it out, and chopping and sawing it into usable lengths before bagging the wood and selling it. But old patterns are hard to break. Moxley's lorry was unregistered and he was known to sell green wood – minor matters, but it also emerged at the trial that he was light – fingered when it came to tools and equipment. Perhaps he thought he had changed, perhaps he even tried, for he was later to say to MacKay, his protector, ‘I'm sorry I let you down.’

  SCENES FROM A CRIMINAL LIFE

  When such person is so convicted of

  an offence included in classes…of the

  offences mentioned…the judege may,

  in his discretion, declare as part of the

  sentence of such person theat he

  is an habitual criminal.

  HABITULA CRIMINALS ACT 1905

  Handcuffs rattle as William Moxley rolls a smoke. He lights up and carefully blows the smoke away from the man sitting across the desk from him. Police Superintendent William MacKay is a big man. At 6 feet he is a couple of inches taller than Moxley and at 14 stone almost 3 stone heavier. His manner is neither threatening nor friendly, and Moxley finds it hard to weigh him up. He's had his share of coppers - military police during his time in the army, then arresting police in both Queensland and New South Wales. And MacKay's question puzzles him. Previously he'd always been asked where he'd hidden the stolen goods or who had helped him break into the house or shop.

  ‘Now why did you join the army, Bill?’ MacKay speaks quietly in a strong Scots accent.

  Moxley frowns. He knows he's not the cleverest bloke in the world but he thinks of himself as shrewd and able to spot a trap. He can't see one here.

  ‘Why d'you want to know, Mr MacKay?’

  ‘I like to get to know my people.’

  Now Moxley is confused. He thinks, what the hell does he mean by that?

  The two men are in the detective's room at the Central Police Station in Darlinghurst. Moxley has been arrested and accused of house breaking and possession of burglary tools by two uniformed officers from the Glebe station, not far from where Moxley lives in Arundel Street. He was awakened from sleep by a knock on the door and given just enough time to dress before being hustled to Darlinghurst in a police car. He has never met MacKay but he has seen him once before - when he pulled the nutcase Francis de Groot from his horse after de Groot had slashed the ribbon to open the bridge. Moxley remembers laughing then. He doesn't feel like laughing now. His impulse is to tell the policeman what he thinks he'd want to hear, but something about MacKay's tailored uniform, gleaming buttons and steady grey eyes makes him think he'd spot a lie in an instant.

  SUPERINTENDENT WILLIAM JOHN MACKAY, LATER COMMISSIONER OF POLICE

  ‘Tell you the truth, Mr MacKay, I done it to get out of a jam.’

  MacKay nods. ‘Let's have some tea and you can tell me all about it.’

  Moxley tells MacKay that he joined the army because he had a girl in trouble; he wanted to put as much distance between himself and her as possible and it seemed the best way.

  ‘I'm no bloody hero. I read the papers and I reckoned the war'd be over before I got there.’

  ‘You were right.’

  ‘Yeah, but I reckon it would've been less of a troubled life if I'd stayed at home.’

  MacKay topped up their cups from an earthenware teapot. ‘How's that?’

  ‘I was in bloody trouble from the word go. Got hooked up with a sheila in the west before we even left Australia and got clobbered by the MPs for being AWL. That was a bit of time in the brig on board the ship. That was the borda, terrible it was. Noisy and it stank and it was hard to sleep. They docked my pay and when I complained about it I gave the NCO some lip and copped another spell in the brig and I lost more pay. Wasn't fair, but there's nothing fair about the bloody army. Were you in it, Mr MacKay?’

  ‘No.’

  Moxley senses that this wasn't a diplomatic question. He's boasted for years about his service, which amounted to nothing more than being moved around Britain for a year or so, but he's seen the envy in the faces of men who never served. That was one of the few really good feelings he remembered having and he'd laid the lies on thick. Not the time for that now though.

  ‘I wasn't much of a soldier and I got in a fair bit of trouble pissing off and that.’ He laughs. ‘Never got promoted that's for sure, and I ended up in the same trouble.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yeah, but this time I married her. Ada, her name was. She was a waitress at the Elephant and Castle, that's a hotel in London.’

  ‘I know,’ MacKay says.

  ‘Course you do, sorry. Well, I got her in trouble and she had a father and a brother and they worked me over good and proper and gave me no choice. Rough blokes and London was a rough place after the war. People dyin’ like flies of the flu and every crook with a gun in his pocket.’

  ‘Including you?’

  ‘Well, a bit of black market work, just petrol and fags. Look, Mr MacKay, can you tell me what's going on here? I mean am I being charged or…’

  ‘Not yet. Go on.’

  ‘Had to have a honeymoon, didn't I? So I took off with Ada for the beach, what they call a beach, all bloody stones, and the water was as cold at a witch's…excuse me. Anyway, I missed the boat I was supposed to get home and they docked me for all the time I was off skylarking. Then they put me on another boat.’

  ‘Glad to be rid of you, I suppose. What about your wife?’

  ‘Well, she came out a bit later with the nipper but she didn't stay long. She went back home, as she called it. I've sort of looked after the boy since, me and my mum and my sister. My dad's dead a long time.’

  ‘Did you get a clean discharge?’

  ‘That's a funny thing, that is. They reckoned I was fit to serve, which I wasn't really. I was sick with one thing and another, and down to skin and bone. They ruled me unsuitable. Whatever that means.’

  ‘I think I know,’ MacKay says. ‘You're a bad lot, Bert, but I think I can make use of you.’

  ‘What's this Bert business?’

  ‘Oh, I don't call my people by their true names. I give them another name. Like a christening.
So when I send them a message they know who it's coming from, without a doubt.’

  ‘You want me to be a dog.’

  ‘It's that or be declared a habitual criminal, Bert. D'you know what that means?’

  Moxley fumbles for the tobacco and papers, which MacKay pushes out of his reach. ‘Let me read you something.’

  He takes a sheet of printed paper from his jacket pocket and reads: ‘Every habitual criminal shall, at the expiration of his sentence, be detained during His Majesty's pleasure, and subject to the regulations in some place of confinement set apart by the governor by proclamation in the Gazette, for that purpose.’

  The meaning is not clear to Moxley. His Majesty…Governor…Gazette. He shakes his head.

  MacKay pushes the makings towards Moxley. ‘It means they can lock you up for as long as they please.’

  Moxley's hands shake as he rolls the cigarette. ‘You've got me, Mr MacKay.’

  MacKay smiles. ‘I know I have, laddie.’

  ‘He's a dog, Art,’ Ernie Devine says. ‘And he put us in on that bank job as sure as eggs are eggs. He's the reason we're on bail. I'm gonna do him.’

  I don't know,’ Arthur Kellow says, ‘he's a tough nut, Ernie. He was in the war. He's probably got a gun.’

  ‘In the war, bullshit. I met a bloke named Mumby who knew him. He reckoned Snowy Moxley fought his war in the guardhouse and the fuckin’ pubs of London. I'm the one with the gun.’

  Kellow pushes off from the wall of the Lord George Gordon Hotel in Sydenham and moves through the crowd of drinkers to the bar. He returns with two beers. Keeping his voice low, he says, ‘If he's in with the coppers like you say, killing him's too risky.’

  Devine downs half his beer. ‘All right, all right. We'll just put the fear of God into the bugger. How about that? We'll bring Jimmy Duncan along, too. He's got a score to settle with Moxley.’