Published: 29 Sep 2022

Blue sky with the river slumbering in its bed, as Melbourne once again approached something that could be considered normal, although nothing appeared to have been learned from the disruptive weather event. As man can, man does, with new structures rising from the blank canvas the river had washed clean, as it had back at settlement in thirty-six, also from time immemorial and by simply asking the natives, the danger could have been understood, as they knew the many moods of the usually gentle river that flowed upside down.

It appears that man is the only animal that doesn’t learn from its mistakes, thus in restructuring no attention was given towards further flooding events and cheap was the order of the day. Have it up in a week and by the time of the next flood – I’ll be long gone with my wealth, or in my grave, reechoed in the infamous words of Mr. Jerry of Jerry Bros. of Liverpool England when questioned on the stability of his projects and the coining of the phrase, Jerry-built.”

There was one advantage from the heavy rain and flooding, being it cleansed the city, taking much of the rubbish from the streets and river out into the bay while sweetening the air above. For some time after the flood it was possible to smell the roses without the acrid smog and sewerage from the poorer quarters.

The city’s rubbish collection was erratic and in the most only collected from where the wealthy had the loudest voice. Butcher’s offal would meet the street to be devoured by stray dogs and rats, while putrefying in the hot sun, or washed away with the next storm. Small dark and narrow laneways suffered the most, being out of sight they soon became cluttered with broken furniture and other household appliances beyond recycling from the many evictions.

The depression remained strong but people were learning to live with their lot, finding ways of etching existence almost from nothing, while the twenty-four rabbits released near Geelong in fifty-nine had become millions and the rabbit plague a god-send as people hunted them for sustenance. Rabbito; would be the call along the blue-stone cobbled streets of Fitzroy and Collingwood, bringing women from their houses with a few pennies, a shilling to purchase the emaciated carcasses, with heads removed but fur attached. Some collected the skins and cured them until they had enough to stitch for a bed covering or throw-over for a badly damaged chair to give a little cheer to a hovel.

Even during the downturn with each boat arrival came more of Europe’s poor and now it was not only from Britain and Ireland but from Italy and Germany and others from white Europe, although not yet introduced, a white Australia policy was foremost in the thought of most. When it came to the continent’s indigenous people they were simply ignored or moved aside and similar to policy in America, were placed out of sight on reservations called Christian missions, regardless of their tribal boundaries. In the missions those who were of mixed blood were taken away to be brought up away from tribal traditions or family but in the most were used as unpaid house servants, or farm and station labourers and under no pretense were they considered part of the white community.

Who are you? A visitor to the southern continent may ask during those days leading towards federation. Are you Australians?

Australians are aborigines. No that would never do, we are British.

What of the dark man?

That question would not be considered as he was but part of the flora and fauna of the southern continent, considered to be subhuman and protected by law, a law that very few gave credit, treating them more as vermin than humans, even lower than the rabbit as they were useful.

Even so there was a group of advanced thinking men such as Henry Parks of the Federation society who believe they could make a nation out of this ramshackle mixture of foreigners under the title of Commonwealth. If so who would house its capital? Sydney now again the larger put up its hand, as did Melbourne who thought of the conception. Eventually it would be agreed; the capital would have to be in New South Wales but must be at least one hundred miles from Sydney and like the mighty Murray not quite in Victoria but until a new site could be chosen, a new city built, Melbourne would be privileged as the seat of Commonwealth. For the moment all that was but conjecture as it was becoming difficult to obtain agreement to federate from a single colony and believed likely the continent would remain holding six independent countries, bickering about everything and held together by what could be considered a thin length of cotton tied to the British crown.

There were other distractions in those closing years of the nineteenth century and as usual they were the sound of a scramble for territory. This time it was Africa where the jostling for country was loud with Germany in West Africa, the Dutch in Orange Free State and Portugal in Mozambique surrounding Britain in The Cape and Natal but Britain was breaking out with diamonds in the Transvaal as the lure, also southwards through Egypt and the Sudan to join up from north to south through Kenya, Uganda and Rhodesia. Africa was split east from west with a long red British line from north to south and how proud were antipodean schools to hang the world map on their classroom walls and point out the many red bits and say ours, as they are British.

The Dutch had long since lost Cape Colony and the Transvaal to the British, now in the guise of Boars they wished to reclaim territory, so with the Zulu defeated in the Transvaal they had a free hand in rebellion and were masters in the art of ambush, lending to realization that a second Boar War was eminent. What of the world depression? Why that could be easily fixed with a war, as hostilities cleared away the surplus unemployed and breathed life back into industry.

Although the adage Australia will be behind Britain to the last man and the last shilling had not as yet been coined, it was strong in the minds of men, even stronger than the need to become Australia and not six squabbling colonies, with varied independency but British to a man.

There were other conflicts other then Britain’s grab for territory. In North Africa the French were at it in Benin, the Japanese against China and now, Johnny-come-very-lately in the territorial game, the United States was having a go and was muscling up against Spain with eyes on the Philippines and parts of the Caribbean and other small islands across the Northern Pacific. All this against the backdrop of smoldering Europe, bringing realization one day and not too far in the future, it would become catastrophe but first the six sleeping, depressed colonies of the antipathies would need to federate to have a universal voice.

Warm days and cool nights were the main in Autumnal Melbourne and believed to be the most enjoyable time of the year. Summer had its heat and hot northern winds that fried European style gardens and held the midday temperature often past midnight. Winter was bleak and wet and lingering while spring couldn’t make up its mind. Four European styled seasons were difficult to spread over the antipodean year. The natives had six seasons, sometimes more but those like the natives themselves were ignored.

“How would you like to take a look at the stars?” Toby asked over breakfast. It was Saturday and except for an afternoon class of Dev’s horticulture course he was free for the day.

“What go up country,” Dev suggests, as even with the little illumination from the city it was enough to blot out all but the strongest pinholes of light in Melbourne’s night sky.

“I am acquainted with Pietro Baracchi who is the observer at the GMT,” Toby admits.

“Who is Pietro Baracchi and what is a GMT?” Dev questions.

“The great Melbourne telescope at the observatory near the botanic gardens,”

“And Pietro Baracchi?”

“He is an Italian astronomer, who is acquainted with the family and was hired by the Victorian Government to work on a programme of mapping the heavens from a southern aspect.

“Toby, the more I hang around with you, the more I realize I lack knowledge.”

“And the more I hang around with you Dev, the more I like sharing knowledge with you.”

“I’ll accept that as a compliment,”

“It was meant so, now what about the observatory tonight?”

“Yes that could be fun.”

Pietro Baracchi was by trade an engineer who spoke fluent English with a northern Italian accent. Baracchi had a serious disposition, was well dressed at all times with sad eyes and bushy mustache, his hair was dark and receding at the parting line. As for his instrument to scan the night’s sky, it had been ordered by London and made in Ireland, with the notoriety of being the largest built at that time. The main problem with the fifty inch telescope was its mirror which tarnished under the ever changing Melbourne weather conditions. Even so much valued work was done over the many years since its arrival back in sixty-eight.

Baracchi’s greatest problem was those from Government and the Victorian Public Service who continuously brought friends and visiting dignitaries to view the night’s sky, taking much valued time from performing what it was designed to do. It was said of the so called GMT, it put astronomy back by at least fifty years by frivolous application.

“There you go lad,” Baracchi says as he points his apparatus at a corner of the shy.

Dev peers through the viewer.

“What is that?” Dev asks.

“It is the Trifid Nebula,”

“It is quite pretty, how far away is it?”

“I will simply say further than you could ever conceive,” Baracchi then reconfigured the apparatus to view the moon.

“Wow – it is as if you could reach out and touch it,” Dev gasps.

“It is approximately a quarter of a million miles, equal to travelling around the earth ten times.” Baracchi says.

“All those miles, I wouldn’t like to walk, could I live up there?”

“I would think not lad,” Baracchi softly scoffs at such a silly question.

After viewing other points of interest Baracchi declared he had work to do and called the night’s viewing to end. On their way home Dev became unusually quiet to which Toby made comment.

“All those stars has made me feel somewhat insignificant,”

“Yes I must admit it is impressive,”

“What does Mr. Baracchi do?”

“In the main he makes drawings of what he views, he has tried photography but the exposure time is so great that by completion of the exposure everything has moved and the glass plate is blurred.”

“Photography, telescopes, stars, it is much to comprehend. The world is changing so fast it is putting my head in a spin.” Dev admits.

Toby simply laughs and leaves Dev with his thoughts.

After the flooding came looting; often by one’s neighbour who had been as close as family over many years but any premises left unguarded for a length of time was fair game and not considered theft. Then there were the gangs of larrikins that roamed the night’s streets looking for strife and someone to rumble, they appeared to have a sixth sense when it came to vacancy and could strip a house of valuables within minutes.

For some days after the flood Russell Street was kept busy and O’Keefe had put aside his compulsion towards solving his murders being that of Bryce and the kid Finn but now he had time to reopen his developing file on the matters.

“Yes I will speak with him,” O’Keefe softly says as he again reviewed the handwriting samples from his file. His words were rhetorical but did bring question from his constable.

“Speak with whom Mr. O’Keefe?” Turner questioned.

“Thomas Hadley, I think there is much I can divulge from Mr. Hadley.”

“In what way would that be?”

“If not to do with Bryce’s demise than what he is running in North Melbourne, in my opinion he is behind much of the illegal gambling and extortion.”

“I believe he has a house in North Fitzroy,” Turner suggests.

“I have already sent an officer there to enquire but it appears he is never home, it is said he also has an apartment in the city,”

“Would you need me to come with you?”

“No I would rather have him come here for -” O’Keefe releases a rare smile, “let us say, for a friendly chat.”

“Would that be wise Mr. O’Keefe?”

“Why so Turner?”

“Only it is suggested some in this station are corrupted and it may warn them off.”

“If so having him visiting would have a double purpose, it would worry the corrupt and panic our Mr. Hadley. Also make him sweat for a time wondering what we may know about his little enterprise.”

The message requesting Tom Hadley to attend an interview at Russell Street was placed under his Collins Street apartment door and was discovered as Hadley arrived there with Bolt late in the evening. It was Bolt who first spied the invitation. “Hello what’s this?” he says and collected the envelope as it came up in a gush of breeze with the opening of the door. He passes it to Hadley, “A love letter Tom?” Bolt suggests somewhat crudely.

Hadley remains quiet as he opens the envelope.

“Oh,” Hadley softly exclaims.

“What is it?”

“It’s the cops,”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s from O’Keefe and he wants me to come in as he has a number of questions that need answering.”

“What would he want?”

“Well it wouldn’t be for coffee and cake, of that I’m fucken’ sure,” Hadley growls while blood drains from his face, leaving behind a prickling sensation, as his hand began to tremble even more obvious than usual.

Bolt notices the tremble and grins; “what else does he have to say?” he asks.

Hadley passes Bolt the letter.

“I wouldn’t concern as by this it is only informal, if it was all that serious it would have been two wallopers at your door and not an invitation.”

“Should I go?”

“If you don’t it may become formal.”

“I’ll take Percy with me.”

“No Tom, I wouldn’t take a solicitor, it would only make you appear guilty and as you say, what have you to be guilty about?”

“Nothing, we cover our tracks and our activity is down through a chain of command, never leading back to you or me or you.” It was obvious Hadley was attempting to convince himself.

“You haven’t done anything silly Tom?” there was suggestion in Bolt’s tone, “have you?” Bolt continues.

“Like what!”

“I don’t know. Don’t get your nuts twisted I’m only trying to be helpful,”

“No nothing but as you well know with the cops, where there’s smoke there must be fire and if not they will soon start one.” Hadley went to his drinks cabinet and collected two glasses, “Do you want one?”

“No thank you and I don’t think you should overdo the booze if you are visiting O’Keefe, best to keep a clear head.”

“I’ll go tomorrow, who have we as retainers at Russell Street?”

“Only Hugh Robertson and one other, as there has been a number of transfers and of late they both are as jittery as a nun in a brothel.”

Hadley disregarded Bolts decline for drink and poured two glasses. He passed the second to Bolt, who without speaking places it aside.

“Yes I’ll go in tomorrow,” Hadley repeats and downs his drink.

“Yes Tom best you do so and remember say nothing,”

“I’m not an idiot Joe!” Hadley snapped.

“I’ll be off now, so give me a call once you come from O’Keefe.”

Once Bolt had departed Hadley’s mind commenced to race,

‘What could O’Keefe know?’ he thinks.

‘I’ve covered my tracks well,’

‘Fuck Bolt; I know what he is up to. He is trying to throw me to the wolves.’

‘He wants to take over.’

Another drink and any chance towards rationality went, Hadley was now sweating profusely. Another drink and he passed out across the bed.

Hugh Robertson happened to be managing the front desk when Hadley arrived for his interview with O’Keefe. On noticing Hadley, Robertson showed obvious concern.

Hadley approached the desk as Robertson glanced about to be certain no one was watching. One of the foot patrol officers returned and gave Robertson a nod and Hadley a frown but continues on without speaking.

“May I help you sir?” Robertson nervously enquired of Hadley while keeping his gaze away. A second officer returns but makes no comment as he goes through.

“Don’t panic,” Hadley whispered.

Robertson again glances about and releases a weak smile.

“I’ve come to see Mr. O’Keefe,” Hadley says with a wink.

“I will advise Mr. O’Keefe of your arrival,” Robertson responds, “what’s going on?” he whispers.

“Don’t worry it isn’t anything,” Hadley quietly assures as Robertson leaves his desk. Moments later he returns with Constable Turner.

“Mr. Hadley,” Turner says.

“Yes,”

“Mr. O’Keefe believed you would make an appointment,”

“I’m here and I am a busy man,” Hadley says.

“Mr. O’Keefe has a few minutes, so he will see you now. Follow me if you please.”

Hadley follows the constable through the rabbit warren of Russell Street precinct, while feeling as if the very walls were closing in, until finally coming to partly opened door.

Turner gently knocks.

“Come in,”

Turner shows Hadley into the office, he closes the door and remains.

“The constable will sit in on the interview,” O’Keefe says.

“Interview?” Hadley questions.

“Don’t distress Mr. Hadley it will be only to clarify a number of issues that are concerning me.” O’Keefe reached for his file on Bryce’s murder while deliberately placing it to his front without opening.

“I can’t see how I can help you Mr. O’Keefe as I’m but a simple businessman trying to make a living,” Hadley was sweating as he attempted to halt the tremble in his right hand.

“That may be so. What is your line of business Thomas – May I call you Thomas?”

“I would prefer you did not,”

“Then Mr. Hadley what is your line of business?” O’Keefe opens the file and gently flicks at the corner of the first page, releasing a dull thump that goes through Hadley to his very essence.

“Investments in the main,”

“What line of investments would that be?”

“As I said: Investments and in whatever is legal and profitable.” Hadley gives a deep frown towards O’Keefe’s style of questioning as he is accustomed to asking questions, not answering others.

“Do you know a Mr. Stanley Bryce?”

Hadley laughs, “did:”

“Why do you say did Mr. Hadley?”

“You already know that, as someone topped him.”

“What was your association with Mr. Stanley Bryce?” O’Keefe asks.

“Long time acquaintance but little more.”

“Were you in the same line of business?”

Hadley was commencing to see where the interview was leading. If he said yes he may become responsible for whatever the policeman had on Bryce, if he said no than O’Keefe may decided to dig further in the workings of the Firm.

“Not as such, my line of business is mostly investments and Mr. Bryce was more interested in import and export.” Hadley enforced believing his answer would be as varied as possible, not to link any extending partnership between himself and Bryce.

“Your name appears to come up regularly within the precinct of North Melbourne.”

“In what way would that be?” Hadley asks.

“In relationship to an organization called the Firm.”

“I’ve never heard of it and besides it sounds like a company of solicitors,” Hadley attempts humor to settle his nerves while glancing towards Turner for support but finds none.

O’Keefe remains stony; he continues. “For now we will leave that aside,” O’Keefe refers to his file and quietly watches as Hadley craned his neck for a closer view. The policeman removes the letter Hadley had penned while purchasing his property. He places it before Hadley.

“Mr. Hadley is that your handwriting?”

“That is private correspondence where did you get it?”

“In reference to my investigation there’s no such thing as private. Mr. Hadley.”

Hadley was becoming annoyed with the policeman’s continuous usage of his name but kept his panic controlled. “Yes I did pen that letter but what has that got to do with your questioning?”

O’Keefe then places the note he had found on Bryce’s mantle in front of Hadley.

“Have you seen this letter before?”

Hadley gives it a fleeting glance, “No should I have?”

“Mr. Hadley is that your handwriting?”

“No it is nothing like my writing,” Hadley denies with a breathy laugh.

“I think it is by the same hand Mr. Hadley.”

“What makes you say that?”

O’Keefe places both documents aside. “How do you spell Stan Bryce’s family name,” he quietly asks.

Hadley spelled out the name, “Stan Brice – why do you ask.”

“Do you realize that Bryce is spelt with a Y and not an I?”

“What has that to do with anything?”

“The note left for Mr. Bryce is incorrectly spelt, as what was scrawled on the wall in Franklyn Lane.”

“So? I’m sure many people wouldn’t know the correct spelling.” It was then Hadley remembered Bryce’s question on the spelling of his name during a meeting prior to his demise. Had Bryce also suspected he was responsible for the scribbling on the lane wall?

“Possibly so Mr. Hadley but I put it to you that you wrote the note delivering Bryce to his demise.”

“How can you prove any of that!” Hadley was beginning to panic.

“I put it to you that you lured Mr. Bryce to a place where either yourself or someone known to you murdered him.”

Hadley stands and pushes his chair aside as his voice climbs. “If you haven’t any more preposterous ideas, I would like to call this interrogation to a close and if you have any more on the matter I will need to bring my solicitor.”

“No Mr. Hadley that will be all for now but I may need to speak further with you at a later time.”

Hadley doesn’t respond instead he quickly departed, thumping the door closed on his way out.

“What do you think of that?” O’Keefe asks Turner once Hadley was beyond hearing.

“He does appear to be hiding something,”

“Hiding many things I should think and in my opinion he is a man at the end of his tether.”

“Do you believe he knows anything about the murder of Mr. Bryce?” Turner asks.

“It is my opinion he actually wrote the note, met up with Bryce and did him in, or he arranged for another to do so.”

“Will you arrest him?”

“No I don’t have evidence, best to let his sweat a while longer and I would think he will break, possibly at a later date I would like to have his premises searched.”

“What would you be looking for Mr. O’Keefe?”

“Possibly something that will connect our Mr. Hadley into the dealings of the so called Firm. I think we may also have to again visit his solicitor Mr. Percy’s office as well. In my opinion he is up to his neck in the Firm’s dealings.”

“If Mr. Hadley did murder Bryce then for what reason would it have been?”

“It is my opinion the so called Firm is nothing but a push and is responsible for much of the protection racketeering in North Melbourne and if I can’t get Hadley for murder, I am sure I will for the other, if not it may slow them down for a while.”

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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