Published: 7 Jul 2022

Bryce called a meeting of his inner circle, being Hadley, Lenny Worth and Joe Bolt. The invitation was extended to Hadley via the telephone with little information related at the time, being concerned who could be listening in on their conversation.

First it was general business leading to the new territory of inner Richmond, as the push from that area had been weakened when their leader was arrested and awaited sentencing for murder and extortion. Also others of that group were enjoying her majesty’s pleasure on lesser charges.

With the meeting at an end the small group sat about joking and enjoying some of Bryce’s exclusive whisky. During the meeting Bryce appeared unusually quiet but went unnoticed by the others. He was becoming paranoid, believing one or more was plotting against him and as usual he believed Hadley to be behind the disquiet.

How he could eradicate Hadley remained foremost in his thoughts but a plan was far from determined. Possibly he could turn one of the others against Hadley and knowing Bolt’s temper and tendency to believe rumor, he could work something along those lines with him but he would need to be subtle, as Hadley was well tuned towards any attitude change within the group.

During a lull in conversation Bryce took on a more serious disposition. As he spoke his gaze remained on Hadley, “how do you trust someone you don’t really know?” he generically enquired sounding more rhetorical than a question.

“Who do you mean Stan?” Hadley asked believing it was he who Bryce was inferring.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bryce says and calls an end to the meeting. Worth and Bolt are first to depart, making comment of the lack of police surveillance of the house. “You have to pay good money to get good service,” Bolt remarked.

Once alone Hadley continued with his suspicions against Worth then he paused, “who don’t you trust Stan?” he asked his tone obviously holding a measure of fault.

“It isn’t important but I may have a difficult job soon and will need you to choose someone who is ready to come down heavy.”

“That has never been a problem,” Hadley says.

“This time it is a woman,”

“It’s always been our policy not to target women and children.”

“What about Marcus Finn, he was a child,”

“He was seventeen; I don’t call that being a child. Are you thinking it was one of us who did him in?” Hadley’s voice lowers towards displeasing as he gauges Bryce’s indication.

“I didn’t refer so,”

“The insinuation was there,”

“It wasn’t intended to be,”

“What about this woman?” Hadley stepped away from the subject of Marcus Finn as any further comment may become overheated.

“She runs a brothel over in Queensberry Street,”

“Then give me the details and I’ll have Bob Fenton do the heavy work, he doesn’t appear to mind mistreating women, he does so his wife often enough.

The conversation continued for a time but it was obvious Bryce remained concerned on some matter but was keeping his cards close. Hadley felt uneasy and again challenged Bryce. “There is something bothering you Stan. Care to share it?”

“Nothing really but I’ll have to call it a day, I have a prior engagement and if I don’t leave soon I’ll be late.”

“Alright then I’ll get Fenton onto it,”

“Appreciated but only a little roughing and no heavy stuff understand, we need her alive and in business.”

It was past midnight when Bryce returned home to find a note of paper pushed under the door. As he entered from a damp street he stood on the note and didn’t realize its existence until lighting the lamp. He retrieved the note and read.

Mr. Brice,

I have important information on one of your Firm,

Meet me at the Milk Docks behind Banana Alley tomorrow night at the end of the Viaduct Building.

11.30pm.

Immediately Bryce noticed his name misspent, also it wasn’t signed and poorly written, possibly to disguise a hand known to him. Bryce placed the note aside but with consideration, as he was wary of such meetings away from crowds. There were many rivals wishing him harm and at that time of night the area around the Milk Docks would lack lighting and be deserted.

‘It may be from Worth and he has information on Hadley,’ he thinks.

‘If so it would prove his loyalty and possibly I could use him to do Hadley in.’

He smiled at the thought. Having Hadley disposed of would much please him but who would he promote to be his second. Not Worth that was a certainty but if it was Worth he was to meet, then the choice may have already been made.

Bryce decided he would meet with the clandestine note writer but take a pistol with him as protection. He therefore made decision and placed the invitation aside on the mantle, weighted down with the edge of a lamp base. Again he hesitated believing it unwise to go alone, possible he could take Bolt with him as a second but what if it was Bolt who penned the note, possible he could take one of the others. ‘No best to go alone and be armed,’ he finally decided.

O’Keefe had arranged for his friend at the Melbourne telephone exchange to listen in on conversations but was most disappointed as Bryce was much too cleaver to mention anything incriminating. It was mid morning and had been a quiet night with most activity occurring outside his influence. His solitude was broken by a knocking to his partly open office door. O’Keefe liked the door so, as he had excellent hearing and could therefore eavesdrop on any conversation passing his office. He knew the knocking and had the uncanny ability to distinguish one from another, even footsteps as they passed by. It was definitely that of his constable.

“Come in Turner,” O’Keefe called.

Turner entered, “how did you know it was me?”

“By your timid knocking,”

“I didn’t wish to disturb you,”

“No matter, I have heard from Henry More at the telephone exchange and unfortunately our Mr. Bryce is too cleaver to reveal his activities over the telephone,” O’Keefe admits.

“You no longer need to worry about Stanley Bryce,” the constable says, his tone somewhat concerning.

“Why is that so Turner?”

“He’s been done-in, his body was found near the Milk Docks but two hours ago. Well the body hasn’t been officially identified as yet but by the wallet found on his person it was Stanley Bryce.”

O’Keefe lifted his hand to his chin, it bristled as his shaving that morning had been a quick affair because of the lateness of the hour. On his way to work he had formulated his next move on Bryce and his so called Firm, now he would have to start afresh, he had not only the murder of Finn and the torching of the cobbler to investigate but now a second murder in the person of his main suspect.

O’Keefe took a deep breath, “Mr. Turner you could recognize our Mr. Bryce?”

“That I could,”

“Then go down to the city morgue and view the body and bring any of his personal effects to me.”

With Turner gone, O’Keefe had time to reflect on his next move but was lacking in direction. Firstly he would need to secure the Bryce residence and instigate a thorough search for clues on the man’s activities and connections to his gang but if Bryce was as cautious at home as he was with his telephone conversations then O’Keefe believed there would be little to discover.

Into the afternoon Turner returned confirming the identity of Stanley Bryce, while bringing with him the contents of the man’s pockets that being no more than a set of keys and a wallet.

“House keys, I suggest,” Turner says as he places them on O’Keefe’s desk. “Wallet,” Turner says, “and well cashed but unlike most business men’s wallets it is lacking in letters of introduction or lists of contacts, only a short letter addressed to his name, that appears to be from a sister in Geelong, requesting money.”

Turner counts the notes.

“Eleven pound and a few coins,”

“What kind of man takes eleven pounds on his person while visiting such a remote area late at night?” O’Keefe questions.

“One who is about to pay for services rendered and not wish anyone to witness the transaction,” Turner suggests.

“True,” O’Keefe takes the wallet and searches through its compartments.

“There isn’t anything else except the money, no calling cards only the letter,” Turner repeats while feeling a little peeved his word wasn’t enough to satisfy.

“As you said, that in my mind is the working of a man who wishes to remain anonymous but why does a man with such a public profile wish to be so?”

“I couldn’t say Mr. O’Keefe,”

“No matter Turner that was meant to be rhetorical, I would say it was more if he was brought in for questioning, as you can hid your thoughts from scrutiny but not the contents of your pockets or wallet.

The following morning O’Keefe arrived early to work and after collecting Bryce’s house keys, he with Turner caught a Hansom cab to Fitzroy and the property of Stanley Bryce. Once inside they commenced their investigation.

It was a terrace house and recently erected in a row of six but well appointed and spotless, even the kitchen appeared to have never been used, as Bryce had his favorite eatery in Russell Street where he had most of his meals. It was knowledge from past observation Bryce had a cleaning woman come weekly, otherwise except for three members of his group and a young larrikin known to be from Collingwood, there had never been another visitor during their visual and that was obvious by the lack of belongings other than what the man would deem necessity.

“You do the upstairs,” O’Keefe directed as they entered the hall.

The first that came to site was the candlestick telephone, resting on a small hall table with a single drawer. O’Keefe opened the table’s drawer. He hoped there would a note book with numbers and contacts, possibly some business papers, or banking information that could lead to an understanding of what business Bryce had in the city.

The drawer was empty, no pencil to write down a message, no paper to write upon.

At the base of the stairs O’Keefe pauses and calls up to Turner, “have you found anything?”

“There are two rooms, one is empty the other has a bed, a table and a wardrobe.”

“To point Turner anything that would interest our investigation.”

“Not really,” Turner calls back as O’Keefe joins him in the bedroom. He notices a book on the table and reads the title, Mystery in a Hansom Cab, he flips through the pages, “some fold letters between,” he says and closes the book, “nothing,” he huffs loudly his disappointment. “Did you check the cupboard?”

“I did and found nothing but clothing and shoes and I must say the man has expensive tastes.

“Did you check through pockets?”

“I did,”

“Inside the shoes?”

“No,”

“Then do so, sometimes people hid things in shoes.”

O’Keefe returns to the sitting room. He finds expensive furniture but no clutter, except for a well stocked drinks cabinet. He views the label of an opened whiskey bottle and spies a crate of the same beside the cabinet. By the label it was identical to what was reported missing from Station wharf some week previous. ‘That is one crime solved,’ O’Keefe thinks.

Beside the open whisky bottle are three glasses still retaining the dregs from their last drink, “if only glass could talk,” O’Keefe thinks as he collects one of the glasses and notices a smear. “Fingerprints,” he quietly says as he recollects an article he had read only that week. It was by Francis Galton on the uniqueness of fingerprints and minutiae points, ‘if only,’ he again thinks but realizes even if he could collect the print from the glass, how could he match it and would it be of value.

Against the far wall and close to the window with clear vision of the street was a roll-top writing desk, ‘mahogany,’ O’Keefe thought of its timber, “expensive,” he said loudly as he rolled back the lid.

“Nothing,” he again spoke his disappointment.

“Not even a blank sheet of writing paper,” he mumbles as Turner returned from the upper rooms.

“Did you find anything in the shoes?”

“Not a thing.”

“There isn’t much down here either, I suppose we should lock-up and be on our way.” O’Keefe removed the keys from his pocket.

“I will say our Mr. Bryce has an obsession for shoes, there would be at least fifteen pairs up there.”I did find a small safe at the back of the wardrobe but the door was wide and it was empty.”

“It appears someone has been here before us,” O’Keefe says.

“It appears to be so,”

“Come on best we lock up, is Bryce’s next of kin known?”

“As far as I can ascertain he had none, well not in Melbourne anyway,” Turner admits.

“There was that letter with his personal effects,” O’Keefe recollects.

“Yes assumedly from a sister but no return address only a suggestion she lives in Geelong.”

“Have the desk sergeant look into that when we return.”

As O’Keefe is about to leave something catches his eye. It was a slip of paper resting under the base of a lamp on the overmantle. He crosses the room and collects it.

“Hello what have we here,” he says and reads the note.

“Well-well this is most interesting.”

“What does it say?” Turner asks.

“It is an invite for Bryce to meet someone at the Milk Docks.”

“Is it dated?”

“No but as Bryce was found close by the Milk Docks I would think it was what brought him to his demise.” O’Keefe pocketed the note and was about to depart remembering another reason for visiting Bryce’s property.

“I need to check something in his wardrobe,” O’Keefe says as he remounts the stairs.

“I did do a thorough search,” Turner says.

“Maybe so but do you remember the torn shirt material with the street kid’s belongings, I wish to see if there is a match with Bryce’s shirts.”

“I have already done so,” Turner admits.

“Then a second scrutiny won’t do any harm.” O’Keefe says as both return to the bedroom.

O’Keefe methodically extracted each shirt but discovered no rents or shirts of the same colour or material. A number of shirts are matched in design but not in colour, O’Keefe releases a disappointing huff.

“Nothing,” Turner says again peeved to think his boss had little faith in his ability to perform his duties.

“As you said Turner but a second pair of eyes can often see a clearer picture.”

Once back in his office O’Keefe reopens the invite from Bryce’s mantle shelf and spreads it flat on his desk top. Who could be the sender is foremost in his thoughts. One thing he did notice was the spelling of the man’s name, it being incorrectly spelt as it had been on the wall in Franklyn Lane.

‘Was the note’s sender the same person?’

‘What of that lad from Collingwood, would he know more?’

‘Could he be connected?’ he thinks.

O’Keefe drew in a deep breath and as quickly released it. For now he would put the note aside as another day may give a fresh approach. With little to go on he still wished to interview the so called kid from Collingwood but doing so could wait.

As O’Keefe puts aside the building file on Bryce, Turner arrives with a report on an accident in Bourke Street between a brewery wagon and Hansom cab.

“What’s that you have?” O’Keefe enquires.

Turner explains the report.

“Was there anyone injured?”

Turner quickly scans the report, “No, only one of the horses, it had to be put down.”

“Then why is it coming across my desk?”

“Sorry, I’ll take it down to Sergeant Watson,”

“Before you do so I have request,”

“What would that be?”

“Do you remember telling me there was a young fellow who visited with Bryce?”

“I do,”

“Do you know his name?”

“No, possibly I could find out, I’ve seen him hanging around the cafés in Spring Street. Do you suspect he had something to do with Bryce’s murder?”

“No but he may know something on those connected with Bryce, other than the names I have already.”

“I’ll have one the constables on street patrol look into it,” Turner suggests.

“No turner, you do so yourself, there is an element down stairs who I don’t wish to be privy to this case.”

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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