Berlin guessed the punch had been pulled a little, but there was still enough power behind it to snap the drover’s head back. He staggered across the ring a couple of paces and a look of confusion crossed his face briefly before his eyes glazed over and he slumped forward, landing heavily on his hands and knees.
The crowd erupted in cheers and Barclay lifted the right arm of his fighter while a couple of trainers helped the groggy drover up and walked him out of the ring.
‘Evening, ladies and gents.’
Berlin turned to see Whitmore standing behind them. He was dressed in civvies – trousers, a sports jacket and a tie.
‘Off duty, Pete?’
‘I’ve been over visiting the Lees.’
‘That can’t have been a lot of fun.’
‘Bout what you’d expect. And I hear Cec Champion is out on another world-class bender, what with his boy locked up on suspicion of murder. All in all it’s been a bastard of an evening, if you’ll pardon my French, Miss Green. How’s it going here, Charlie?’
‘Bit of a bloodbath. They’re a rough mob – one of the blokes I put into Pentridge for three years.’
‘I can see a couple of ex-army boys up there too, going by the tattoos – and probably not an honourable discharge between them. Which one’s your bloke?’
‘Mean-looking bugger on the right. In the black trunks.’
Barclay was back in the centre of the ring, calling on the crowd for another volunteer to face one of his fighters.
‘You know what, Charlie?’ Whitmore said, loosening his tie. ‘I was thinking of stopping by the Diggers for a medicinal gin and tonic, but I reckon this might be more fun!’
Whitmore handed Berlin his jacket, shirt and tie, and stepped onto the canvas to cheers from the spectators. Barclay ran through his spiel and when Whitmore didn’t bother walking down the line of fighters, Berlin knew exactly who he would point to.
Reardon smiled, shrugged off his robe and walked into the ring. The old bloke approached Whitmore with the gloves but the MP shook his head and leaned down to talk to Barclay. Barclay glanced across at Berlin. Whitmore leaned over and spoke again.
The crowd had gone quiet and there was a murmur as Barclay held up both hands. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have had a request that the next bout be a fight to the finish, untimed and …’ he paused, ‘bare-knuckle.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Rebecca said, ‘does Whitmore have a death wish? Isn’t bare-knuckle illegal?’
Barclay beckoned Berlin to the centre of the ring. ‘I know you’re a copper, and I’m not looking for any trouble here.’
Berlin looked at Whitmore. ‘You sure about this, with your crook guts and all?’
Whitmore grinned. ‘She’ll be right, Charlie.’
‘Okay, if that’s the way you want it.’ Berlin turned back to Barclay. ‘I’m off duty tonight. It’s nothing to do with me.’
There was cheering from the spectators but this time it was wary, less enthusiastic. Berlin saw a couple of the men in the crowd sending their wives and younger sons out of the tent.
‘One more thing,’ Barclay continued. ‘Can I request … the young lady and the camera?’
Berlin turned and walked back to where Rebecca was standing. ‘Put your camera away. And maybe you should wait out in the car.’
‘Fat chance, Charlie, this isn’t something you see every day.’ But she put her camera down.
Back in the ring the old trainer had quickly unlaced Reardon’s gloves and pulled the tape from around his fists. While Whitmore kicked off his shoes and began limbering up, Reardon left the ring and walked over to Berlin. Up close he smelled of too many days without a wash and his face had more scars and marks than when the two men had last met. ‘I seen you two talking before. This cove a friend of yours?’
‘You could say that,’ Berlin answered.
Reardon smiled a cold smile. ‘Then this is gunna be a bloody pleasure, Berlin, you prick.’
FIFTY-FOUR
Barclay rang the bell to start the bout and then put it down next to one of the tent poles. This fight would last as long as it lasted, till one of the men was too bloodied or broken to get back to his feet. The crowd was surprisingly subdued and the trainers were unlacing the gloves of the waiting boxers. This fight would be the final bout for the evening and possibly the final bout for a long time for one or both of the participants.
Berlin figured Reardon wouldn’t get a lot of fights in the tent because only the very brave or very stupid would be willing to go toe-to-toe with him. The man was dangerous, and a smart operator like Barclay would understand that it was in his interest to limit the damage to his reputation and to his customers’ bodies by carefully hand-picking Reardon’s opponents. Most of his matches would be against hard men who knew exactly what they were in for, or local thugs and bullies whom the townspeople would appreciate getting a good belting.
While tent boxing was primarily family entertainment, news of the occasional bloody, bone-crushing stoush would spread rapidly via the bush telegraph, adding a bit of gloss to the reputation of a troupe and meaning bigger crowds at the next town.
If Reardon had any training or talent for ring boxing it wasn’t on show now. He circled Whitmore slowly, arms by his side, smiling, occasionally wetting his lips with his tongue. Whitmore kept his eyes locked on him as he slowly opened and closed his fists. Finally, Reardon seemed to have decided he had the measure of his opponent and brought his fists up, tucking his elbows into his side. He smiled once more and then let fly.
To Rebecca the fight was a blur – a flurry of fists and a series of grunts and gasps and the sharp smack of knuckles on bone or muscle. Berlin saw Whitmore block or deflect several early punches and land one of his own on Reardon’s chin when he left himself open. Reardon stepped back, pausing momentarily to reassess Whitmore, and then charged in again, arms flailing. Whitmore wrapped his arms round the other man’s torso in a clinch and Berlin heard him say, ‘Shall we dance?’
‘Dance with this, cunt,’ Reardon grunted, and brought his fist down hard, delivering a blow to Whitmore’s left kidney. Whitmore gasped in pain and staggered back, leaving himself open to a quick left-right punch to the lower abdomen. The crowd was on its feet, booing and shouting ‘Foul!’ and ‘Below the belt!’ Barclay opened his hands to them in a ‘what can I do’ gesture.
Both men were sweating now, and breathing hard. Reardon was at the edge of the canvas, bouncing on his toes, showing off. Whitmore was bent double, breathing in gasps, but he straightened up as Reardon closed in again. Whitmore blocked a second one-two combination and then pulled his opponent into another clinch. Reardon smiled and then stopped smiling when Whitmore gave him a classic Glasgow kiss, smashing his forehead hard into the other man’s brow.
The crowd roared as Reardon staggered backwards, blood streaming from a gash above his right eye. He straightened up, shaking his head from side to side. Blood and sweat flew off his forehead and Berlin heard a low animal growl in the man’s throat before he hurled himself across the ring at Whitmore.
Any pretence that this was a boxing match was now gone. Whitmore wasn’t a dirty fighter, but he gave back what he got. A rabbit punch or blow to the groin was answered in kind and the crowds’ shouting had an increasingly nasty edge to it. Berlin saw the fighters from the boxing troupe were almost on the canvas with the two fighters, screaming abuse at Whitmore and encouragement to Reardon. He wished he’d been firmer about getting Rebecca to leave. ‘This looks like it could get ugly.’
Rebecca was staring at the two men as they traded punches, wincing with every blow that landed. ‘Uglier than this, Charlie? You have got to be kidding.’
The end came quickly, set up by Reardon, who was almost blinded by blood from the cut to his forehead. He tried to get his thumbs into Whitmore’s eyes and Whitmore brought his arms up, breaking Reardon’s grip and opening him up to a hard right to the midriff. The air was blasted out of Reardon on impact and Whitmore brought his knee up int
o the other man’s chin as he doubled over from the punch. There was a crunching sound of broken bone and Reardon went down hard.
Berlin had the small Browning pistol out of his pocket and pointed at the fighters who were closing in on Whitmore. ‘I’m back on duty now you bastards, so leave it alone. Sergeant Whitmore here is in my custody.’
The tent was eerily silent again as Berlin and Rebecca helped the soldier out to her car. They put him in the passenger seat and Berlin tilted the driver’s seat forward to get into the rear. He slid across the seat to sit behind the soldier and hold him up.
The road out of the racecourse was badly rutted and Whitmore winced at every bump. Rebecca concentrated on making the ride as smooth as possible.
‘You think he needs to go to the hospital, Charlie?’ she asked.
Whitmore shook his head. ‘I’ll be right, don’t you worry about me. There’s a decent sick bay at the camp. Nothing’s broken.’
‘I think you might need an X-ray, mate, just to be on the safe side.’
They hit another bump and Rebecca gasped in unison with Whitmore.
‘Sorry about that, Pete. And Charlie’s right, you need to get properly checked out.’
‘Okay, but only because it’s you asking.’
They were on the main road now, and the ride was smoother.
‘Can you take him to the hospital, Rebecca, and drop me at the police station on the way?’
‘Of course, Charlie.’
‘Thanks. I want to check up on Kenny and make some phone calls. I can walk back to the hotel.’
When Berlin arrived at the police station, it was empty and unlocked. After he watched the Austin drive off, he rummaged around and found the keys to the cells. Kenny was half-asleep, sitting on the bed, hunched up and wrapped in a blanket.
‘You okay there, Kenny? They get you something for tea?’
The boy ignored him.
Back in his office Berlin picked up the phone. When he was finally connected to the Melbourne number, he recognised the voice of the nurse who answered. She couldn’t place him until he gave his old ward and bed numbers, and then she remembered and asked how he was doing. She seemed surprised that he was back with the police so soon.
It took her ten minutes to find the doctor and while Berlin waited he could hear screaming in the background. The doctor offered to hunt down the file while Berlin held on but he said he’d call back in the morning. Ten minutes of the screaming was already more than he could take.
FIFTY-FIVE
The night air was crisp when Berlin set off on foot for the Diggers Rest. As he reached the edge of town the street lighting faded quickly behind him and the road ahead was dark with only a faint glimmer of the hotel in the distance.
Berlin counted the paces as he had on his monotonous circuits inside the warning wire of the POW camp, and through mile after mile of the slush and mud of Polish country roads. His head was down, his hands were deep in the pockets of his overcoat and he was wishing he had a scarf when he heard the sound of the motorcycle.
It was somewhere behind him, not far, but when he glanced back there was nothing. He rounded a bend in the road and the town’s streetlights disappeared behind a low hill. There was just blackness and the sound of an engine almost idling, just a little blip of power now and again to keep it moving slowly, at walking pace, his pace.
Berlin considered making a break for the paddocks on his left but decided against it. A motorcycle would have no trouble keeping up and had the advantage of a headlight – an advantage that was suddenly apparent as two lights flared in front of him, almost blinding him. He put up a hand and squinted into the glare through his fingers, but it didn’t help. What did help was the motorcycle behind him flicking on its headlight.
Behind each of the lights in front of him he could just make out the shape of a bike with a sidecar, a single rider on each machine. The little Browning automatic was in his overcoat pocket, but if these were the men he was after he knew they would have Tommy guns. Berlin waited silently, trapped in the triple beams like a lone bomber coned by searchlights. What else could he do? The bike that had been following him switched off its engine. The headlight, now powered by the bike’s battery alone, dimmed slightly.
Berlin heard springs creak as someone dismounted and then the crunch of gravel under boots. A figure stood silhouetted between him and the light, and he could see overalls, a balaclava and brown leather motorcycle gauntlets. He moved his right hand towards his pocket and heard a rasping metallic sound from behind – the bolt of a submachine gun being cocked. He raised his hands, fingers outstretched.
‘Okay. I’m not going to do anything stupid.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ It was the man standing in front of him speaking, but Berlin didn’t recognise the voice.
He lowered his hands slowly to his sides. ‘This meeting just a lucky accident, or is there something you boys want?’
‘Lot of nasty rumours going round town.’
‘That’s right,’ Berlin said. ‘Lot of nasty business happening in town, which is probably why. I don’t suppose you blokes are here to give yourselves up?’
‘We’ll admit to the robberies, but the Chinese girl, that was nothing to do with us.’
‘In that case you’re all under arrest for armed robbery.’
The silhouetted figure chuckled. ‘You’re a pretty funny bugger, aren’t you? You should be in the movies.’
Berlin had slowly moved to the left, sizing up the other man and looking for an opening, a way to bring the man down. These blokes had used blanks before, but what were the odds that their weapons were loaded with blanks right now? There was only one way to find out.
The fight was short and brutal. Berlin’s fist connected with the other man’s jaw and he blocked the first return punch. He quickly realised the other bloke was more of a street fighter, and a lefty to boot, but Berlin was fast and powerful. He landed a couple more punches before a sharp jab to the solar plexus got through and he went down, winded, his hat coming off and rolling away into the darkness. He gasped for breath, wondering if the bastard had made him tear his new coat.
A hand in a gauntlet was offered. ‘Nice try, pal. You almost had me worried for a moment there.’
Berlin took the hand with his left, and as he hauled himself to his feet he followed the momentum through with a right fist to the other man’s groin. There was a sudden exhalation, a yelp of pain and a gasped, ‘Fuck me sideways!’ The man fell to his knees, shoulders bent, both hands jammed between his legs.
Berlin carefully checked his coat then glanced down at his opponent, now doubled over and breathing rapidly. ‘You’ll understand if I don’t offer to help you up.’
Berlin was sweating from the brief exertion. His opponent staggered back to his feet and slowly limped over to his motorcycle. The man sat on the sidecar for a moment, bent over.
‘Bit of a low blow, mate.’ The words came out in a wheeze of pain.
Berlin was looking around for his hat. ‘No bugger said anything about Marquis of Queensbury rules.’
He waited to see what would happen next, not expecting to hear laughter from the figure on the motorbike behind him.’
‘I like your style, Berlin. Let’s hit the friggin’ road, gents.’
Berlin found his hat and picked it up. ‘You blokes are still under arrest, you know.’
There was more laughter and the sound of engines kick-starting, and then they were gone in a swirling storm of dust and gravel.
Berlin put on his hat and checked his pockets. He still had the Browning, but a fat lot of good that would have done him against Tommy guns. When he had his breath back and his knees had stopped shaking, he started off for the Diggers Rest again.
FIFTY-SIX
The dining room was almost empty. Berlin ordered a whisky at the bar. He would have stayed there but Maisie wasn’t her usual bubbly self so he took his drink and sat down at a table. A moment later Cec Champion slammed his empty beer
glass on the table in front of Berlin. From the way Champion was swaying it was obvious it wasn’t the first glass he’d emptied during the evening.
‘You are a prize prick, Berlin.’
‘So people tell me. You want another beer?’
Champion thought for a moment before answering. ‘Okay, why not?’
Berlin caught Maisie’s eye and pointed to Champion’s empty glass. She nodded.
Champion slumped down in the chair opposite Berlin. ‘You put my boy in jail. He didn’t kill the girl.’
‘Probably not,’ Berlin said, but Champion didn’t seem to hear him.
Maisie put a full glass of beer on the table and took away the empty. Champion stared at the glass. ‘You want me to confess to it, don’t you?’
Berlin shrugged. ‘You can if you want to, why not? You’ve got an alibi, but it’s one more thing off my plate if you do.’
The two men drank.
‘What’s it like being a fireman?’
Champion stared at him, confused. ‘It’s good, I suppose.’
‘Hard work, shovelling all that coal?’
‘Shovelling coal is the easy part, all that takes is muscle. The job’s more than that.’
‘Really?’
‘Jesus, man, you’re a copper. What would you know about it.’
‘So tell me.’
‘A bloody loco is just a hundred or so tons of black iron and pistons and driving wheels, and a firebox and a boiler full of cold water, until we come along. You light yourself a nice little fire and then feed it, make it bigger, tend to it, spread it until the coals are burning hot and even, because it’s a problem if you get a spot in the firebox that’s too hot or too cool. You need to keep the water level up proper or you can bust the boiler and a steam burn from a busted boiler will take the flesh off a bloke right down to the bone. I’ve seen it.’
He took another drink. ‘And then a bugger needs to know the tracks, the bends and the inclines, to know what’s coming so you can build extra steam for when it’s needed by the engine driver. Then at night you bank her down and leave the coals just right so next morning you can bring her back to steam in double quick time. Being a fireman is not just shovelling bloody coal, believe me, not by a long chalk.’
The Diggers Rest Hotel Page 21
