‘Just by reputation. Most of the other troupes have a lot of Abos in them. Good fighters in the main. Barclay’s claim to fame is having all-white boxers so you don’t have to get your hands dirty knocking out a darkie.’
‘Or having one knock you out.’
‘That’d be part of it, too. Barclay also has a reputation for not being too particular about the moral character of his fighters. I reckon a couple of them are dangerous bastards.’
Berlin would be surprised if it was just a couple. It went with the territory – if a bloke was handy with his fists and needed to clear out of the city for a bit there were worse places to hide than a travelling boxing troupe.
Berlin looked at the poster more closely and saw it listed a number of towns in northern Victoria, including Wodonga.
‘They been in Wodonga yet?’
‘They’re in town tomorrow night and Saturday. They’ll be setting up down at the racecourse.’
‘You going along for a bout?’
The man shook his head. ‘I’ve had my fill of chewing on canvas. Might be more theatre than real boxing, but a lot of these tent-show blokes are hard buggers and they can throw a proper punch when they want to.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll leave you to it.’
Berlin continued along High Street in the direction of the Diggers Rest. He was thinking about the poster and the locations printed on the bottom – Yackandandah, Euroa, Benalla, Wangaratta and Barnawartha. Many of these towns were where the robberies had taken place. The printing of the photograph was so bad that he could barely make out the boxers’ faces, but something else caught his eye – to the left, behind the outermost boxer and partly obscured by one side of the tent, Berlin was sure he could make out the shape of a couple of motorcycles.
FIFTY-ONE
Berlin did a quick pre-flight check of the heavy Remington he had lugged into his office. There was a new ribbon installed and the paper was lined up neatly in the carriage. One sheet of white foolscap bond, carbon paper, a second sheet of white, more carbon paper and then the thin onion skin paper for his third copy.
It was Friday and Melbourne wanted his weekly report. He could do that easily enough. He typed WEEKLY REPO at the top of the page. The R and the T arms stuck together. Bastard. Disentangling the arms took only a minute. He decided to check if there was paper dust clogging up the inside of the typewriter. He might need to go out and buy some oil. He wound the paper through the carriage of the typewriter, and the gears made a zipping sound.
He put in new paper and started again. Berlin was a surprisingly good typist, but there was a definite skill to writing the weekly summary and he didn’t have it. He had often watched Chater labour over his at the next desk. Chater typed with intense concentration, his tongue poking out the left side of his mouth. Chater’s most used key was X. He spent a lot of time crossing things out.
Hargraves’ summaries, on the other hand, were things of beauty, despite their lack of veracity. Time spent in the early opener became ‘interviewing witnesses’, shaking down SP bookies for the weekly sling was listed as ‘gathering evidence’ and the Wednesday afternoons spent in some dingy St Kilda boarding house with his tart of the month were ‘meetings with informants’.
Berlin knew his summary would be neatly typed and have reasonably accurate spelling and punctuation. But what would it say?
Robberies by motorcycle gang in Northern Victoria. Investigation – ongoing, as are the robberies. Suspects – none.
Murder of Chinese girl Jenny Lee. Investigation – ongoing. Suspects – none.
Rebecca walked into the office around a quarter to ten.
‘Your timing is perfect, Miss Green. Right now I need a journalist. Someone skilled with words and a master at making things up.’
‘I’m your girl. Fancy a cup of tea down at Dempster’s first? You’ll be paying since I’ve got some stuff here that might interest you.’
When they walked in, Nan smiled from behind the counter.
‘G’day, DC Berlin. Your usual? Just grab a seat and I’ll bring it out directly. How’s everything going, Rebecca?’
‘Good, Nan. Tea for me as well and I think we’ll have a couple of those finger buns today. It’s Charlie’s treat.’
The pink-iced finger buns were thickly spread with butter and the tea was piping hot. When they’d finished the buns and poured a second cup of tea, Rebecca took her notebook out of her satchel.
‘I went right through the back issues of The Border Mail over the past six months and all the regional papers they had on file.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Yeah, Charlie, these country newspapers are riveting. I don’t know how I was able to tear myself away.’
‘Hey, you offered to do it.’
‘Must have been a moment of weakness, post-coital delirium perhaps.’
Berlin shook his head slightly, narrowed his eyes and indicated the waitress behind the counter with a tilt of his head.
‘Oh, come on, Charlie, she can’t hear us.’
Berlin wondered if anyone at the pub had been able to hear them last night. Rebecca hadn’t been in for dinner and he stayed away from the grog to see if he could do it. Looking at Doctor Morris that morning had got him to thinking that perhaps he was looking at himself in a few years’ time. The thought of going to sleep sober was on his mind around ten, when Rebecca had knocked gently on his door.
The sex was different, gentler, and Rebecca noticed his eyes hadn’t once wandered to that empty corner. It was the first time she felt she had him all to herself.
They’d talked about the boxing troupe afterwards and then he went to sleep and she smiled when he began to snore because it was better than the gasps and moans of the other nights.
She opened her notebook and put it down next to her cup of tea. ‘Okay, this Barclay character and his band of merry pugilists have been crisscrossing the state, hitting all the hot spots north of Wangaratta.’
‘Do the show dates and towns match up to the robberies?’
‘Some do, some don’t, but even the ones that don’t are only an hour or so away.’
‘I might have to have a look at this Barclay’s troupe tonight.’
‘Mind if I come along? Sounds like an opportunity for a story and some good photographs.’
‘I’m not sure it’s a suitable place for a young lady.’
‘As opposed to a back lane with the body of a murdered sixteen-year-old girl?’
‘Good point. We’ll go out after dinner.’
Berlin paid at the counter and bought some cigarettes. Nan smiled as she handed him the change. ‘See you at lunchtime, DC Berlin.’
They were almost out the door when she called after them. ‘That post-coital delirium is pretty good stuff, isn’t it, Miss Green?’
FIFTY-TWO
Rebecca parked the Austin next to a couple of dozen other cars on the racecourse boundary. Berlin could see the outlines of some trucks and caravans in the darkness off to one side, away from the big tent.
‘I’m going to go take a look and see if I can spot any motorcycles.’
‘Okay, I’ll see you inside.’ Rebecca pulled a camera from a bag in the Austin’s boot and began putting flashbulbs into her jacket pocket.
‘I’m not sure a camera is going to be welcome in there.’
‘C’mon, Charlie. I’ll have them eating out of my hand, just you watch.’
Berlin walked through the thick grass, towards the parked trucks and vans. As he got closer he could make out the run-down condition of the vehicles and smell petrol and burnt oil. There were no motorcycles visible, but when he lifted the corner of the canvas covering one of the trucks he found them. They looked like Harleys and there were half a dozen of them.
Berlin turned at the sound of shouting and whistling from inside the tent – the night’s entertainment had obviously started. He headed towards the tent. Just outside, someone had lit a fire in an empty 44-gallon drum and half a dozen men
were standing around it drinking beer from brown bottles. The empties were tossed to the side, waiting to be collected by the local bottle-o or by school kids, raising pennies for lollies or firecrackers.
Flickering firelight lit up the sagging structure, with its frayed guy ropes and patched and faded canvas skin. Paint was flaking off a banner announcing the tent was the home of MUNGO BARCLAY’S TRAVELLING BOXING ACADEMY, featuring THE COMMONWEALTH’S ONLY ALL-WHITE BOXING TROUPE. There was also a crudely painted illustration of a bare-knuckled boxer in a crouching stance who bore a faint resemblance to the 1914 Australian heavyweight champion Harold Hardwick.
A woman was standing near the entrance, counting banknotes from a leather tramways change belt around her waist. She was wearing a too-tight blazer, a pleated skirt and gumboots. An inch or so of ash was hanging off a tailor-made cigarette clamped in one corner of her mouth and, as Berlin watched, it fell away, joining a sooty grey trail running down the front of her frayed blue cardigan.
She glanced up at Berlin, flicked the butt away and smiled, revealing an incomplete set of stained, uneven teeth set off by a grey front tooth. Her reddish hair, pinned up in a bun, hadn’t seen shampoo or a comb for some time.
‘Hullo, handsome. Haven’t seen you around before.’ The look told Berlin she was available, for a price. ‘First bout’s already started. That’ll be five —’
‘I’m police.’
The woman stopped mid-sentence and sized him up again, probably trying to work out if he wanted a cut of the door take. She swung her left hand wide, indicating the entrance, and smiled again. Berlin couldn’t take his eyes off that grey front tooth.
‘Always happy to welcome gentlemen of the law. We run a nice clean business here so enjoy yourself, compliments of Mr Barclay.’
The tent was square, about sixty feet along each side and thirty feet high. Four central poles arranged in a ten foot square formed the ring and held up the roof. Padding had been placed over the lower six feet of the poles and a battered piece of canvas covered the dirt between them. The tent was lit by rows of bare light bulbs strung between the poles, about halfway to the roof. Noisy spectators crowded the edge of the ring and Berlin put the crowd at around a hundred, mostly men and boys, though he could see a sprinkling of wives and girlfriends.
There was the smell of stale beer, sweat and liniment. Five muscular men wearing dressing gowns over shorts, gloves and boxing boots stood in line off to one side of the tent. A sixth fighter worked the centre of the ring, toying with a barefoot local stripped down to his trousers. The boy was about twenty, with a farmer’s tan, and the tent boxer was letting him land a punch or two to keep the crowd happy.
The men went into a clinch and the tent boxer slipped in a quick kidney punch, not hard but obvious. Someone in the crowed booed and yelled, ‘Foul, ref! You loose your bloody glasses or something?’ This would be one of the troupe geeing up the crowd in support of the local fighter to help build the excitement.
Berlin worked his way to the front and leaned on one of the poles. The woman from the entrance approached a balding, middle-aged man wearing a lairy seersucker suit with a paisley waistcoat. She whispered something in his ear and indicated Berlin. The man looked over at Berlin and smiled. He was holding a hand bell and a stopwatch and Berlin picked him as Mungo Barclay.
The boxer in the centre was looking towards Barclay, who glanced down at his watch and nodded. A soft jab to the stomach followed by a slightly firmer one-two punch to the jaw set the local contender neatly down on his backside on the canvas just as Barclay rang his bell.
There was whistling and cheering from the crowd as one of the trainers helped the boy up and quickly stripped off his gloves. The boy walked back to his friends, grinning, and was welcomed with friendly jabs, laughter, handshakes and promises of celebratory beers. The tent boxer left the ring and joined the line of waiting fighters, someone tossing a threadbare robe across his shoulders.
Mungo Barclay was in the centre of the tent now, ringing his bell to quieten the crowd before speaking.
‘Gentlemen, who will be next to represent the honour of Wodonga and take on these fine specimens of Australian manhood and exponents of the pugilistic art. Champions all, and white men. A clean fight, a bit of fun, perhaps some beer money if the gods are with you – and a great way to impress the ladies. Step up and don the gloves and show your mates what you’re made of.’
There was jostling and laughter in the crowd. Men were pushed forward by friends and cheerfully fought their way back into the anonymity of the mob. Berlin studied the line of boxers. They seemed fit, though all bore scars and marks, either from the ring, the war or the wharves, or perhaps from the casual violence of street gangs.
The oldest and meanest-looking fighter was about thirty. His name was Mick Reardon and Berlin knew for a fact that three of Reardon’s thirty years had been spent at Melbourne’s Bluestone College, Pentridge Prison. Berlin had sent him there, and when their eyes met across the tent he could see Reardon remembered him as well.
Barclay rang the bell again. ‘Let’s have you, gentlemen, and just for tonight you’ve got the chance to make the sporting pages of the papers as there is a photographer present to record your triumphs, and a beautiful photographer she is indeed.’
He pointed at Rebecca, who raised her camera over her head to cheers from the crowd, as well as several ribald comments and wolf-whistles. She does have them eating out of her hand, Berlin said to himself.
A tall, heavy-set man stepped forward. Berlin took him for a stockman.
‘I’m game, but only if she’ll give us a kiss after.’
‘You’re on.’ Rebecca’s answer brought more cheers and Berlin was surprised to find he felt a flash of anger and jealousy. ‘If you’re still awake to enjoy it,’ she added. There was more applause and whistling.
The man kicked off worn elastic-sided riding boots and stripped out of a faded shirt. An older man with cauliflower ears and scarring over both eyes quickly laced him into a pair of boxing gloves. Barclay leaned towards the contender. ‘Tell us your name, mate, and what you do for a crust.’
‘Name’s Cameron McClain. I’m a drover. Best bloody drover in this neck of the woods.’
The bloke had tickets on himself, Berlin decided, and he could guess where this bout was going.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, with the blood of the proud people of Scotland running in his veins, Cameron McClain, Wodonga’s own, will choose his opponent.’
McClain walked slowly down the line of fighters. Berlin knew he was looking for someone smaller than he was, but not so small as to make the bout appear one-sided. Berlin had him picked as a loudmouth and a bully and he knew which of the fighters McClain would choose. The drover finally stopped opposite a nuggetty little boxer with the bandy legs of someone who had suffered rickets in childhood. The boxer’s head only came up to the drover’s nose. McClain tapped him on the shoulder and Berlin wondered if the smug bastard realised exactly how muscular that shoulder was.
As the men walked into the ring, Rebecca appeared beside Berlin.
‘Looks like you have a fan or two here.’
‘Not getting jealous, are we, Charlie?’
Berlin grunted.
‘How’d you go with the motorcycles?’
‘There’s half a dozen Harleys out there in the back of a truck. I’ll have to come back in the daylight to get a better look at them. How’s the photography going?’
‘I’m not sure I’m getting any good pictures, it all happens so fast. Is this a good place to stand, you reckon?’
‘It’ll be happening faster in a moment or two and you might want to keep back a safe distance.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that in about five minutes the blood of the proud people of Scotland that’s running in Cameron McClain’s veins is going to be splattered all over that canvas.’
FIFTY-THREE
The fight was short and bloody, as Berlin had predicted. McClain
may have been able to sit on a stock horse like he was born there, control a mob of sheep or cattle, and hold his own in a pub brawl, but out on the canvas he was awkward and uncoordinated. His longer reach meant nothing against his nimble opponent and he stumbled and flailed about ineffectually as the smaller boxer kept his distance, closing in occasionally to release a flurry of punches and then pulling back.
Rebecca took three or four photographs and Berlin noted that her flashbulbs always went off too early or too late to capture the action.
The third and final round started with McClain sweating and wheezing. Berlin could see Rebecca was getting frustrated. ‘This is useless. I want to get someone landing a punch, but I always seem to miss.’
‘Only one bloke out there is landing any real punches, so that should improve your odds. But you don’t want to be watching their hands. Just get yourself ready and shoot when I say.’
Rebecca pushed a fresh flashbulb into its socket. ‘Well, what am I looking for, then?’
‘Okay, take this little bloke for instance. He telegraphs his right by dropping his left shoulder a second before he lets go.’
The crowd was getting more raucous, with a lot of the cheering for the tent boxer. McClain had made a mistake in choosing the smaller man for his opponent and the crowd was turning on him for it.
The little fighter glanced across at the ref, who nodded. Barclay was clearly orchestrating the pacing and outcome of all the bouts, and carefully building the level of excitement in the crowd with the help of his stooges. Tent boxing was a great night out and always a lot of fun for everyone, except the hapless local currently in the centre of the ring.
‘Get ready, Rebecca. Our Mr McClain is about to go bye-bye.’
She lifted her camera and framed the action as the smaller boxer closed in. Berlin saw the shoulder go down, waited half a beat and shouted, ‘Now!’
The fist encased in the battered glove rocketed out like a striking brown snake, and just as it connected with McClain’s chin the light from Rebecca’s flash flooded the scene.
The Diggers Rest Hotel Page 20