Sand on the Gumshoe: a century of Australian crime writing

‘But I don’t know myself,’ I complained. ‘Did the mare carry you all the way back to Melbourne?’

‘Every rod, pole, or perch! I had her well seen to at our hotel, and returned her to the doctor in the evening. He was tremendously tickled to hear I had been bushed. Next morning he brought me the paper to show me what I had escaped at Yea!’

‘Without suspecting anything?’

‘Ah!’ said Raffles, as he put out the gas. ‘That’s a point on which I’ve never made up my mind. The mare and her colour was a coincidence – luckily she was only a bay – and I fancy the condition of the beast must have told a tale. The doctor’s ma

I asked him why.

‘I used to have rather a heavy moustache,’ said Raffles, ‘but I lost it the day after I lost my i

RANDOLPH BEDFORD

Bedford was born at Camperdown, Sydney, in 1868, and a taste for adventure that was never quite fulfilled propelled him across the continent from a very early age. By the late 1880s he had settled into journalism, writing for a number of newspapers and magazines, including The Bulletin.

A continuing interest in mining, both as a promoter and amateur engineer financed his travels. He combined mining and journalism with the creation of the Clarion, a much respected journal that ran from 1897 until 1909. He spent the early years of the twentieth century in Europe, where his first novels, including True Eyes and The Whirlwind (London, Duckworth, 1903), were published.

Bedford produced novels, short stories, plays and articles although his mining endeavours often took precedence. At one time or another, so it was said, Bedford inhabited every mining field in Australia and New Zealand and doubtless turned a profit in each one. In 1923, for example, he was the promoter of a fledgling field at a distant north-west Queensland location known as Mount Isa.

Bedford ’s third career was as a politician. He unsuccessfully campaigned in a number of elections until 1917 when he won a seat in Queensland ’s Legislative Council. In 1934, after assisting in the dismantling of the Upper House, he transferred to the Legislative Assembly, representing the outback seat of Warrego until his death in 1941.

During his lifetime, Bedford was much read and admired although his reputation is now negligible. In 1965 Norman Lindsay, with whom Bedford worked at The Bulletin, commented perhaps rather too cruelly: ‘His novels have long since sunk into that mysterious abyss where all the transient art of a generation goes.’

The Billy Pagan stories, published in 1911, display Bedford ’s descriptive skills and keen eye for detail. The locations vary from Western Australia to Tasmania and northern Queensland as Pagan, a largely autobiographical character who first appeared in True Eyes and the Whirlwind, displays a cerebral approach to crime detection that would do Sherlock Holmes proud.

The Man who Held the Wires

A willy-willy blowing over Coolgardie filled with dust our camp on the twenty-five mile road. We ate dust, breathed dust, and wore it as our most intimate garment; we wrote in a mixture of organic matter and mud.

‘Twenty-five per cent moisture, twenty-five per cent dust, and fifty per cent dead blowfly,’ said Billy Pagan as he decoded the cable from London.

‘What does it say?’ said I, when he had closed the codebook.

‘It’s from Harmer. There’s a show at English Flag under offer to him, and his option expires in four days. Did you ever hear of a big mine there, Harry?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Is it supposed to be big?’

‘Judging by the price, yes. Harmer says it’s under offer to them for fifty thousand pounds, and that other people are ready to take it up when his option expires. He’s had a report on it, and it’s so good he wants me to confirm it.’

‘Whose report was it?’

‘Ma

‘Do you know Ma

‘Only by reputation, and that says he’s very straight but not very smart.’

‘And you’ve got to confirm in four days?’

‘Yes. Do you feel inclined for a trip? It’s not a nice day but there’s only fifty miles of it.’

‘I’ll come, certainly.’

‘Right, old man. I’ll get the buggy round.’

Late that night we drove up to the mine – a mile or so beyond the grogshop of galvanized iron roof, salmon gum wallplates and rafters, and hessian sides – having been directed to the track to the mine by the owner of the shanty. A great blow of quartz, a mountain in size and of precipitous steepness, loomed grey and mysterious at our right, but the light of a camp to the left bore us away from the mammoth outcrop. At the sound of buggy wheels the door of the camp opened, and the white rays of a kerosene lamp invaded the darkness, except where it was broken by the figure of a man who appeared in the doorway.

‘All right, Mr Pagan,’ said the man. ‘Jim’ll take care o’ your horses.’

‘H’m,’ said Billy Pagan to me, and I saw that he was not pleased at the meeting, although he replied, ‘Hullo, Swainger. What are you doing here?’

‘Just come along to measure up for the contractor tomorrow, Mr Pagan.’

‘H’m.’ We had alighted and entered the hut when Billy Pagan spoke again. ‘Sinking the shaft on contract, are you?’ he said.

‘Yes, Mr Pagan. Sit down here. I’ve got a bunk ready for you. Didn’t expect your mate.’

‘Never mind troubling about the bunk,’ said Billy Pagan. ‘We’ve got our blankets and I’d rather camp outside.’

There were three men at the rough table – two of the usual type of young Australians, very tall and spare, very silent – their faces wrinkled by blinding suns to the semblance of middle-aged men, whereas they were little more than youths. The third man was short, broad and black-bearded – every hair of him gave the impression of the immense strength of their owner. He received us sullenly, as if we were men he was forced to meet and would be glad to part with. Peculiar glances as of enquiry on one side and of warning in reply passed between this pocket Hercules and Swainger.

‘Have a drink, mates,’ said the Hercules almost commandingly, and although neither of us desired it, we could not be guilty of a refusal – which is a serious infraction of bush law. But after we had drunk the whisky and the hot water, which proved that it had known the condenser only a few minutes before, Billy Pagan said that we were tired and would talk in the morning. Without waiting for a reply, he said ‘Goodnight,’ and led the way out to our buggy, and I followed him.

In silence we spread our blankets near the buggy, filled the last pipe for the night, removed our boots, and turned in. We smoked for a few minutes in silence – a silence broken by the first of the questions that tormented me.

‘Why don’t you like Swainger, Billy?’

‘S-s-sh – not so loud… I don’t know anything against him except indefinite hearsay, but I don’t like him on sight, and I trust to my instinct.’

‘But how can your likings affect this business?’

‘He was in Coolgardie when we left. He was loafing about the post office when I drove down Bailey street… looking as if he were at rest and likely to stay so. Yet he turns up here to receive us.’

‘How could he know where we were going?’

‘A cable from whoever is trying to sell this mine in London, or leakage in the telephone office here.’

‘I see, but -’

‘S-s-sh -’

A quartz splinter cracked under a heavy boot. I looked in the direction of the sound and saw two figures so indefinite as to appear mere shadows. They had approached from the back of the camp.… now they stood motionless.