by Robert Gott
I was so shocked to hear this calumny spoken out loud that all I could manage was a splutter.
‘You’ll have your chance in a minute, Private Power. Now, Private Farrell’s account is very different from your own. According to the radio messages we’ve received, you claim that Private Farrell is the guilty person, and that you actually saw him strangle Corporal Battell at the platoon’s West Alligator River camp.’
He paused again.
‘Is that more or less the situation?’
‘Yes.’ I decided the details were better left until later.
‘Roper Bar HQ decided that they were unable to settle the issue and decided to send the two of you here. Understandably, they’re a little distracted by the imminent Japanese invasion, and don’t have the resources to spare on a case like this — and frankly, Private Power, neither do we. Be that as it may, here we are.’
‘The “we” doesn’t include Private Rufus Farrell though, does it?’ said Major Hunt. ‘Private Rufus Farrell is conveniently dead.’
‘I had nothing to do with Farrell’s death,’ I said between clenched teeth. My panic was rapidly metamorphosing into anger.
‘Cut himself shaving, did he?’ he sneered.
Major Purefoy put a hand on Hunt’s arm.
‘We’ll get to the circumstances of Private Farrell’s death later. Let’s just establish Private Power’s role in the earlier deaths first. Could you briefly outline for us what that role was?’
I needed to tread carefully here. I had a responsibility to Army Intelligence to keep secret their part in placing Brian and me in the NAOU. I was keenly aware of how territorial different sections of the military were, and I didn’t want to create unnecessary tension between Intelligence and the Observer Unit. I began calmly.
‘I am an actor, and my brother Brian, who is also now a performer, and a man named Glen Pyers, who is a magician, were sent here, via the Third Division Concert Party, as a troubadour unit, charged with bringing some entertainment to soldiers in remote, isolated areas.’
‘And what do you do?
‘I recite Shake … I recite and tell stories.’
‘I believe there is a third brother.’
‘Fulton, yes. We were sent initially to where his platoon was stationed on the West Alligator River.’
I sensed that the three investigators thought this a bit odd, as if the meeting of three brothers signified something sinister. I pre-empted them.
‘There’s nothing suspicious about the posting. The army, in its wisdom, saw it as merely a pleasant coincidence, and they certainly had no objection to the three of us making contact. They saw it as an opportunity to add something more to the morale-boosting intention of the whole exercise.’
‘You think the army believed it would give everyone a warm glow to hear about the touching reunion of the three of you?’
Major Hunt just couldn’t help himself.
‘No,’ I replied evenly. ‘It was a happy coincidence, and that is all. And not that it’s any of your business, or relevant, but the fact is that I don’t get along particularly well with my youngest brother, so you can forget about warm glows.’
They each jotted something down.
‘We arrived at the West Alligator River to find Fulton, Nicholas Ashe, Rufus Farrell, Andrew Battell, and two Aboriginal men. Battell was ill and quite weak. I can’t say I detected any animosity amongst them — except Ashe’s hatred of the Aborigines, which everyone else either tolerated or endorsed. They made no effort to challenge him, at any rate. We arrived on Thursday, and the platoon was ordered to break camp and return to Roper Bar on Friday. Very early Friday morning, just on dawn, I saw someone stand up from Battell’s mosquito netting. At first I thought it was Battell, but whoever it was took the trouble to lift the mozzie veil and spit into Battell’s bed.’
‘And this was Rufus Farrell?’
‘I know now that it was. At the time, his face was obscured by his hat.’
‘And what did you do then?’
‘I stayed in my own bed and slept.’
‘You say you’d just witnessed a man being killed, and you went back to sleep.’
‘No. It was only in retrospect that I knew Battell had been strangled at that time. I thought the figure was Battell himself.’
‘And why would he spit in his own bed?’
‘He was feverish. I thought he might be expressing his loathing for the cheesecloth. It is appallingly uncomfortable under it. I don’t know. I had no reason to think that anyone other than Andrew Battell would be standing up from that bedding.’
More notes were taken.
‘How did you discover that Corporal Battell had died?’
‘It was Fulton who discovered that. We were ready to go, and Corporal Battell hadn’t left his bed. They hadn’t insisted that he help pack up because of the dengue fever. Fulton pulled back the cheesecloth and tried to wake him, but he was dead. It was immediately decided that he’d died of dengue. I thought there might be more to it than that, and said that we should check for other causes.’
‘Why would you do that? It seems a strange thing to do.’
‘Look, apart from acting, I’m also a private inquiry agent in civilian life, and I suppose I’m naturally suspicious. You don’t need a higher degree in geometry to draw a line between an unidentified man spitting on a bed and the appearance of a corpse in that bed.’
I hoped that the revelation that I was a private detective would suffice to explain my insistence on an examination of Battell’s body. I wasn’t willing at this point to explain that the suspicions had been fuelled by prior knowledge of deaths in the NAOU. None of the three officers said anything, but they continued to scribble notes.
‘It was still possible that Battell had died of a snakebite, or a scorpion sting, or something other than dengue. Fulton was unhappy about checking the body, but we did it anyway, and it took no time at all to see that he’d been strangled. There was bruising around the neck.’
‘So you reported this to the others immediately?’
I could see where he was going with this.
‘No, I didn’t. I now knew that one of them had killed Battell, but which one? My investigative experience led me to hold fire, allow everyone to think that I’d found nothing unusual, and to wait and watch for the culprit to make a mistake.’
‘But your brother …’ he checked his notes, ‘… your brother Brian knew.’
‘Oh, yes. He saw the bruising.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘No. Glen didn’t look at the body, and nobody else did either.’
‘So Rufus Farrell could only have known that Corporal Battell had been strangled if he’d done it himself, or if you’d told him?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Precisely indeed. Did you tell him?’
I could have, and perhaps should have, lied at this point. I didn’t.
‘Yes, I told him. I told him that I knew that Corporal Battell had been murdered. I was laying a trap for him, knowing that if he knew that I was on to him, he’d try to silence me.’
‘I see. Do you think radioing his fears to Roper Bar was an efficient means of silencing you?’
‘He intended to kill me, but was stopped before he could do it.’
Captain Collins spoke for the first time. His voice was light, and his gaze was so direct and unwavering that it made me uncomfortable. I had the feeling he was looking for physical flaws in my face.
‘You say you had no firm idea who the culprit was at West Alligator. How did you discover that Rufus Farrell was guilty?’
It was a simple question, and I thought my answer would be strong, but it came out sounding vague and unconvincing — even to me.
‘I believed at first that Nicholas Ashe was the most li
kely culprit because he was violent.’
‘Violent?’
‘Well, rough.’
‘You thought he was a murderer because you didn’t care for his manners?’
‘If you’d known him, you would have been unsurprised if he had been guilty. As it happened, his death ruled him out of contention. This meant, of course, that either Fulton or Rufus Farrell must have been responsible. Farrell mentioned that Ashe was holding his gun in his right hand — the wrong hand for it to have been suicide. I’d noticed this, too, but I suspected that Farrell hadn’t been observant as I had, but that he’d known because he’d put it there, and realised afterwards that he’d made a mistake.’
Major Purefoy interrupted.
‘Ashe and Farrell had been in the same platoon for quite some time. Wouldn’t he have known that Ashe was left-handed? Isn’t it far more likely that a newcomer might make such a mistake?’
‘An unobservant newcomer, possibly. I’m not unobservant.’
There was a flurry of scratching pens.
‘I hadn’t ruled my brother Fulton out as a suspect. I’m not so sentimental as to suppose that the blood relationship was proof of innocence. But, by degrees, almost by instinct, I came to know that Rufus Farrell was the murderer, and I told him so, which is why he countered by accusing me.’
‘To be frank, Private Power, it strikes all of us that there is something to be said for Private Farrell’s observation that the deaths of these two men corresponds very neatly with your arrival.’
The x-ray gaze of Captain Collins caused me to break cover.
‘That would make sense only if Corporal Battell and Private Ashe were the only two Nackeroos to have died recently in A Company.’
The effect of this statement was remarkable. I’d expected them to acknowledge that there had indeed been three previous casualties, and to demand to know how I could possibly be aware of them. Instead they looked puzzled, and Captain Collins said, ‘Corporal Battell and Private Ashe are the first fatalities in any of the units of the NAOU. I can assure you that if three men had died in A Company, our company, we’d have heard about it’
I’d produced my ace too early. Their surprise seemed genuine, though. How was it possible that these deaths had filtered down to Army Intelligence in Melbourne, but been kept from NAOU Command? It wasn’t possible. Something was radically amiss. None of them was interested in pursuing the claim of three prior deaths. They were far more interested in hurrying to the facts surrounding Rufus Farrell’s macabre passing.
‘Did you kill Private Farrell?’
I wasn’t sure who asked the question, but I tried to arrange my features to convey indignation and astonishment. But before I had a chance to respond, Major Hunt asked venomously, ‘Did you hack off Private Farrell’s foot?’
‘He was attached to my leg. I had no choice.’
‘I wonder if Private Farrell appreciated your dilemma.’
‘He was dead.’
The statement fell leadenly into the space between me and the three officers.
‘He was killed by a piece of flying iron. It was a freak accident.’
It is truly extraordinary how a statement of irrefutable fact can sound more absurd and unlikely than the most elaborate and ridiculous lie.
‘I was only inches from him. The wind was terrifying. Suddenly a sheet of iron flew off the hut and sliced off his head. It could have been me, but it wasn’t. It was Farrell.’
My voice was beginning to sound desperate.
‘Afterwards I couldn’t bear the idea of being shackled to a corpse.’
There was no sympathy in their eyes. Major Purefoy drummed his fingers absently on the table.
‘Sergeant Preston will never walk again, but he’ll probably live.’
I must have looked puzzled.
‘He was your driver.’
‘Clarence?’
‘You were on first-name terms?’
‘It was written in his cigarette case.’
They conferred.
‘There was no cigarette case amongst Sergeant Preston’s effects.’
‘It’s in my pocket. I needed it to strike a match.’
‘You stole Sergeant Preston’s cigarette case?’
‘I borrowed it.’
More notes were taken.
‘I mention Sergeant Preston because we heard his version of events just a few minutes ago. He was dopey with morphine, and I grant you that his memory may be muddled. He told us that the jeep overturned, and that you and Private Farrell freed him and carried him to the hut. At least, he assumes that that is what happened. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was unconscious for a good deal of the time and, as I said, he may be confused, but he was anxious to tell us that he saw you chopping away at Farrell’s body. He’s convinced you were severing his head. Would that be right?’
‘No, it wouldn’t. I was severing his foot, and I’m perfectly aware how grotesque that sounds. Farrell was already dead. The only person to suffer any ill effects from the amputation was me. Do you think I enjoyed doing it? It’s the most repulsive and abhorrent thing I’ve ever had to do, and I’ll have nightmares about it for the rest of my life. Short of cutting my own foot off, how was I going to separate myself from Farrell’s body? I wasn’t keen on being shackled to him when he was alive, so you can imagine how I felt about being shackled to him when he was dead.’
I’d worked up quite a head of steam by the end of this speech, but it produced little in the way of a reaction.
‘There’s just one more question, Private Power,’ said Major Purefoy, but it was Major Hunt who actually asked the question.
‘Why was Private Farrell’s penis outside his trousers?’
There was sufficient innuendo in his tone to satisfy the most demanding Tivoli audience.
‘You think I interfered with him post-mortem?’
This was too much, and I leapt to my feet. All three officers did the same, and they were upon me before I could take a single step towards them. I was shoved back into the chair, but not before being thumped in the stomach. It was a perfectly judged and placed blow. It took the wind out of me. One of them grabbed at my shirt and removed the cigarette case. The three of them now stood before me in an arc. I was bent double and could only see their shoes, all of which could have done with a clean.
‘We’re fighting a war, Private Power. We don’t have the facilities to deal with someone like you, or a case like this. It may well be that you’re an innocent man, although nothing you’ve said convinces us of that. However, the law has to take its course and we’re not authorised to pass any judgement, so we’re sending you to Brocks Creek. You’ll be held there until a decision is made about what to do with you and how to prosecute the case. I can tell you this, though. No one in the NAOU is going to be happy about diverting time and resources into investigating your killing spree.’
The three pairs of feet turned and left the tent. I remained hunched over, still catching my breath. The guard who’d been outside approached me, placed his hand roughly on my upper arm, and dragged me upright. This was an unnecessarily crude action. I would have been perfectly willing to stand up without his assistance. It was just one more gratuitous attack on my dignity.
The interrogation had left me feeling dazed and disconsolate, and with a crushing sense that I’d been tried and convicted for a series of crimes that I’d been sent to investigate, not perpetrate. What kept me safe from surrendering to complete despair was the knowledge that, at some point, Army Intelligence would be obliged to intervene. Ultimately, I’d be rescued. Brian would, I knew, be working towards my release. He’d be in a quandary, though. At what point would he need to go against our unambiguous instructions that we weren’t to reveal the purpose of our visit? As I sat
in the tent in Katherine, I turned this question over in my mind.
Now that the murderer was dead, did it matter that Intelligence had chosen to infiltrate the NAOU? Who would take offence at this? Surely, the over-riding response of the Nackeroos should have been gratitude and relief that the killer amongst them had been dealt with discreetly and efficiently. Or were they so touchy about their independence that any outside interference would generate resentment, whatever the outcome? I didn’t know enough about military thinking to know how the various Commands viewed Intelligence. Did they despise that organisation, or mistrust it?
With nothing to do but sit and wait, I brooded over the interrogation. It had been most unsatisfactory, and I couldn’t help but suspect that it breached every rule of law, even military law, which was no doubt less precious about the rights of an accused. Still, there must be processes that have to be followed, I thought, and that informal, nasty, and prejudiced little chat couldn’t possibly conform to them.
When I reviewed the way in which I’d answered their questions, I was painfully aware that I’d done myself no favours. I was particularly aggrieved by the final insinuation of some kind of bizarre sexual impropriety, and all because I hadn’t thought to re-house Rufus Farrell’s private parts. My mind kept snagging on this mean query. It unsnagged itself when I began to consider the implications of the extraordinary fact that three Nackeroos in A Company had died prior to the deaths of Battell and Ashe. It wasn’t feasible that anyone in A Company, let alone the officers in charge, could be ignorant of the fact. What was the reasoning behind their flat refusal to acknowledge my statement, and the absence of any curiosity about how I might have come by information that was closely guarded? I couldn’t fathom it.
I have a tendency — and it gives me no pleasure to admit this — to allow imagination to triumph over ratiocination. In the past this has led me into errors of judgement that have had unfortunate consequences, and which I have sincerely regretted. With a tremendous act of self-discipline, I decided to suppress any further consideration of the three unacknowledged deaths. I firmly believed that as soon as Intelligence in Melbourne got wind of the successful identification of the murderer, their intervention would be swift, and of necessity there would be no fanfare. I’d be released and returned to Melbourne, and it would be as if nothing of any note had taken place up there.
