‘Sounds like you two had quite a chat.’
‘Not really, I just sat here and listened. He wanted to tell someone and I was the one who walked in the door.’
‘What made you come here?’
‘You needed proof that he was doing abortions. I was going to get it for you.’
‘You think he was planning on doing this tonight?’
‘He said you were on to him, Charlie, that it was only a matter of time.’
‘That’s true, but I’d have had trouble proving it.’
‘There’s a confession in an envelope under the glass on the desk. He had the shotgun ready next to his chair – Jesus that gun made a lot of noise, my ears are still ringing.’ As she stood up she saw the flecks of blood and brain matter on her clothes. ‘I think I might have to vomit now, Charlie.’
She said it quite calmly and Berlin led her gently to the basin in the corner. He held her hair clear as she bent over the basin and her hands grasped the brass taps tightly. While she groaned and her shoulders heaved he wondered if the smell of blood and vomit and gunpowder and death was going to follow him all his life.
SIXTY-FOUR
Lily looked up from her sewing when Berlin helped Rebecca into the hotel kitchen. Rebecca had Berlin’s coat draped over her shoulders and she was shivering.
‘Sit her down here.’ Lily pulled a chair out from the table and put her arm around Rebecca’s shoulder. ‘You poor love, you look dreadful. Shall I put the kettle on then, or do you fancy a brandy?’
‘Tea would be nice,’ Rebecca said.
Lily gently took Berlin’s coat from Rebecca’s shoulders and tossed it over the back of a chair. She gasped as she saw the blood on Rebecca’s blouse. ‘What on earth happened?’
Berlin shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you about it later, Lil. Right now she needs to get out of those clothes.’
‘I’ll take good care of her. She’ll be right, don’t you worry. Nice cup of tea and then a long hot bath is what she needs.’
Berlin found Roberts at the bar in the dining room having a lemon squash. Corrigan was behind the bar and there was no sign of Maisie. The landlord put a glass in front of Berlin and poured a triple without asking.
‘The boy here says Doc Morris blew his brains out in front of Miss Green. That true?’
Berlin nodded.
‘Jesus Christ.’
Berlin took a solid swallow of the whisky and when he put the glass down Corrigan topped it up. ‘The Lee girl died during an abortion and Doctor Morris chopped her head off in a panic. He figured it would get the police looking elsewhere. He left a written confession on his desk and then shot himself.’
Berlin took another drink. Roberts looked pale. ‘Poor Miss Green, witnessing something like that. Can’t see how you’d ever get a thing like that out of your head.’
‘Phone the station will you, Bob, and report it as a suicide. Might as well tell them not to bother contacting the coroner because I think he already knows.’
The constable was back in less than a minute. ‘They need us back at the station right away, Mr Berlin. There’s trouble.’
‘I’ll get my coat.’
In the kitchen Rebecca looked up from a steaming mug of tea. She had a blanket around her shoulders and there was some colour back in her cheeks.
‘Tea must be helping, you look a lot better.’ Berlin slipped on his overcoat. ‘I have to pop down to the station for a while.’
‘Did I hear Bob say there was trouble?’
‘Most likely it’s nothing. I shouldn’t be long.’
‘Is it the Bandiana Boys?’
‘Maybe, I’m not sure.’
Her eyes searched the kitchen. ‘Hang on a sec, Charlie, where’s my satchel?’
‘Don’t fret, love,’ said Lily. ‘Bob put it over by the door there. Let me get it for you.’
Rebecca opened the satchel and rummaged inside. She pulled out a handkerchief with its corners tied together, handing it to Berlin.
‘You might need these.’
Berlin unwrapped the handkerchief and smiled at her. ‘Thanks.’ He dropped the eight cartridges into his left pocket.
‘Aren’t you going to load your gun?’
Berlin took the pistol from his right pocket and pulled out the magazine. Rebecca could see the shiny brass of shell casings and the dull grey of the lead bullets. ‘Oh,’ she said.
He slid the magazine back into the butt of the pistol. ‘I reloaded it with ammo from the station.’
‘When did you notice?’
‘Sunday night after church, down by the river, when I sobered up. The gun seemed a fair bit lighter.’
‘I guess I should have realised that.’
He dropped the pistol back into his coat pocket. ‘I guess so.’ He put his hand on her head and gently stroked her hair. ‘But it’s the thought that counts.’
‘Does it count, Charlie, really?’
He smiled and bent down and kissed her on the forehead.
‘Yes, Rebecca,’ he said, ‘it really does.’
SIXTY-FIVE
Berlin was surprised to find the street in front of the police station filled with vehicles. There were Fords and Humbers, flat-bed farm trucks, and utes with kelpies and heelers in the back. There was even a horse-drawn nightsoil wagon, the double row of hinged doors along each side hiding the freshly tar-coated empty pans and the full pans with their noxious loads held firmly under clamped lids. Roberts nosed the Dodge into the kerb next to Bellamy’s blue Chevrolet.
Twenty or so men were milling about outside, smoking and not talking in the way that country people do. Berlin recognised some of them from the militia’s ill-fated manoeuvres by the bridge the previous Saturday. There was something different this time – each of the men was armed with a very new-looking Lee Enfield No. 4 service rifle.
Inside the police station Bellamy and the sergeant were looking at a map pinned to the wall. It showed Wodonga and its outskirts. The sergeant turned to Berlin. ‘Just in time, DC Berlin. We’ve had a tip-off that the bastards are planning a raid tonight. I’m issuing side arms to police personnel.’
‘You think we’ll need them with Bellamy’s night-cart commandos outside?’
‘This is my station, Berlin, so it’s my call and I reckon we need to have as much firepower as we can when we take on these blokes. And since Captain Bellamy has military experience I’m putting him in command.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. This is my case, so I’m in charge.’
Bellamy stared at the sergeant, who took a step forward. ‘Didn’t you hear what I just said, Berlin?’
The sergeant’s belly was getting uncomfortably close. ‘Tell you what, boys, why don’t we vote on it? Hands up all those in favour of me being in charge. And your vote doesn’t count if you’re currently involved in a criminal conspiracy to steal cattle and defraud the local saleyards.’
Berlin raised his right hand. Bellamy and the sergeant exchanged glances. The sergeant’s red face had turned white.
Berlin waited for a minute before he spoke. ‘No one else? Then I think that makes it unanimous. Now tell me about this informant, Bellamy.’
‘There was an anonymous phone call to my home about an hour ago. The message was that the Bandiana Boys would be on the roads tonight and to wait at the police station for the exact location where we could intercept them.’
‘And that’s what they called the gang, the Bandiana Boys?’
‘Cook took the message. That’s what she wrote down. Fortuitously we were having another drill this evening so we were able to get here double time.’
‘And you think those bolt-action Lee Enfields out the front will be a match for submachine guns firing .45-calibre ammo?’
‘They won’t be having it all their own way, DC Berlin. I was actually demonstrating this to the men when the call came through.’ Bellamy picked up a heavy brown oilcloth bundle from the desktop, unrolled it and took out a submachine gun.
‘Jesu
s Christ, Bellamy, where the hell did you get a Sten gun? And is that bloody thing even legal?’
Bellamy picked up a metal magazine from the oilcloth and clipped it into the side of the weapon. ‘These bastards aren’t the only ones with some firepower now.’
‘Listen, Bellamy, don’t cock it or bump it. And keep the muzzle pointed down. Those bloody things go off if you look at them sideways.’
The Sten submachine gun was crude and cheap to make, but the low tolerances used in manufacturing and assembly meant it could be as dangerous to the user as to the intended target.
Bellamy had just removed the magazine and put the weapon back on the desk when there was noise outside. First a murmur of voices, then shouting and dogs barking, then the throaty roar of a motorcycle revving high and braking hard.
‘What the fuck … ?’ The sergeant was drowned out by the hammering of heavy automatic gunfire. Bellamy and the sergeant made a dive for the floor. Berlin sprinted for the doorway, with Roberts close behind.
Outside the police station Bellamy’s militia, like their commanding officer, were flat on the ground. Berlin saw an olive drab motorcycle with a single rider and an empty sidecar race away from the police station. Two more motorcycle–sidecar combinations were waiting up the road, under a streetlight. Only four men, Berlin noted. It looked like the boys were down one player tonight. The two waiting motorcycles turned and sped off while the third stopped. The balaclava-clad rider turned back towards the station, gunning the engine as if taunting them.
Berlin looked around. Men were scrambling to their feet, some pulling at the bolts of .303s, others fumbling, trying to remember where their safety catches were.
‘Anyone hurt?’
The men were patting themselves down, looking for signs of injuries.
‘Smells like some bugger shit themselves,’ someone said. Several of the men laughed nervously.
‘It’s the bloody honey wagon,’ another voice yelled.
The nightsoil truck looked like it had taken the full magazine from the Tommy gun. A number of the hinged wooden doors hiding the pans were splintered and broken and thick brown stinking sludge was oozing down the side of the vehicle.
‘Roberts, let’s go!’
The constable joined Berlin, who was sprinting towards the Dodge. As Roberts put the staff car through a three-point turn, Berlin took the Browning from his pocket. The constable was crashing gears and grunting as he pulled on the heavy steering wheel. He finally straightened the car and as he did, the waiting motorcyclist gunned his engine and headed off into the darkness.
SIXTY-SIX
The vehicles carrying the police sergeant and Bellamy’s men caught up with the Dodge just out of town. They were tailgating and honking and the glare of their headlights lit up the interior of Robert’s car, making it difficult to see. When they rounded the bend and saw what was ahead there was only one option.
‘Jesus Christ, Roberts. Brake!’
Roberts jammed his foot to the floor and the car slowed, skidded and then the rear wheels spun as he accelerated into the skid, showering the following cars with gravel from the verge. Berlin had his hands out against the dash as the vehicle shuddered and finally stopped. Behind them was the noise of skidding, a car horn and shouting and then the crunch of metal on metal and the sound of breaking glass.
The motorcycle was parked across the white line, side-on to the pursuing convoy. In the distance Berlin could see the tail-lights of the rest of the gang as they made their escape. The man on the parked motorcycle changed the magazine on his Tommy gun. He pulled the cocking slide back on the weapon and fired a long burst into the air. Roberts and Berlin ducked just below the level of the dash and peered out through the windscreen.
‘Where’s my rifle?’ someone yelled from the cars behind them. There was the sound of car doors opening and movement and then the man on the motorcycle pushed the Tommy gun muzzle-first into the sidecar and leaned in after it. When he straightened up he was holding something in his hand. He tossed the object towards the police convoy and it left a thin trail of smoke in its wake.
‘Grenade!’ Berlin grabbed Roberts by the neck and pushed him under the dash as he yelled out the warning. A bright flash lit up the interior of the car and there was a deafening bang. As the ringing in Berlin’s ears faded, he heard the high-pitched revs of the motorcycle tearing away.
Then Bellamy was at Berlin’s passenger window.
‘Anyone hurt out there, Bellamy?’
‘It was only a thunder-flash, a training simulator. Just a very big bang and a lot of bright light.’
‘Bought him some time, though. C’mon, get after him, Roberts, for God’s sake.’
The Dodge’s engine caught on the third try and then they were back in pursuit. Berlin looked through the rear window and he could see a police car with a crumpled mudguard just behind them.
As they came up on the football ground a few moments later, Berlin saw that the lights were on in the equipment shed and muddy motorcycle tracks ran up the ramp and in through the wide-open double doors.
‘That way! Go right, through the gate.’
Roberts turned the steering wheel hard and they bounced through the low drainage ditch and past the gateposts with the other vehicles following.
‘What’s going on, Mr Berlin? Why did they lead us here?’
‘Buggered if I know but this place is their hideout. There’s a tunnel into the cliff at the back of the hut. Pull up about fifty feet out, and keep your headlights on the doorway.’
Roberts did as he was told. The lights from the Dodge threw a giant shadow of the hut up onto the cliff face.
Berlin was already outside, crouching behind the heavy door of the Dodge with the Browning in his hand. ‘Out through my door, and keep your head down.’
Roberts wriggled out and flopped on the wet ground beside him. ‘You think this might be an ambush?’
‘I’m not sure what it is but I reckon we’ll find out before too long.’
Berlin was waving to the other vehicles in the convoy as they arrived, trying to direct them to form a cordon, but it was impossible. Bellamy and his men were excited by the thought of revenge and the cars and utes stopped in a jumble, with several of the occupants climbing out and standing in full view of the hut.
‘Get the fuck under cover!’ Berlin shouted. ‘They’ve got Tommy guns, you idiots.’
The fat police sergeant, wheezing and holding a double-barrelled shotgun, stared at Berlin, who was frantically waving him in the direction of one of the cars. He glanced at the hut, at Berlin, at the car, at Berlin again and finally got the message. He stumbled towards a militia utility, tripped on a tree root and fell between two cars, the shotgun flying out of his hands and landing in the dirt.
It took almost five minutes before everyone was in position. Bellamy moved confidently among his men, pulling some behind proper shelter, pushing others into positions where they could cover the sides of the building and reminding a couple where their rifle safety catches were. Berlin didn’t care much for the man’s politics, but right now he was acting like a soldier and that was exactly what they needed.
When he was satisfied, Bellamy, keeping low, hobbled between the cars until he was beside Berlin. Sitting on the rear bumper of the Dodge with his wooden leg stretched out, he unwrapped the oilskin parcel.
‘Do you have a plan, DC Berlin?’
‘You’re the soldier, Captain Bellamy. Do you have any suggestions?’
Bellamy pushed a magazine into the Sten. ‘As far as weapons go they have the upper hand. In an enclosed space like that hut submachine guns have the advantage over bolt-action rifles. We could wait them out, I suppose.’
‘I don’t think so. There’s a tunnel into the cliff face behind the building. They’ve been using it as a hideout and it’s stocked with ammo and food and water.’
‘We could send some men across to the camp and try to borrow a tank or an armoured car. Or a bazooka.’
‘I’m guessing the paperwork on that would take about six months.’
‘Hey, Charlie, you feel like coming in for a bit of a chat?’ The voice came through the open doors of the hut.
Roberts glanced over at Berlin. ‘That sounds like …’
Berlin nodded.
‘That might be possible,’ he yelled, ‘but how do I know you won’t shoot me?’
There was laughter from inside the building. ‘I don’t think it’s me you have to worry about, sport. I’d make sure your mug posse there all have their fingers well away from their triggers before you get between them and this hut. Just a suggestion.’
Berlin stood up. ‘I’m going inside. No one does any shooting until I give the order. Is that understood?’
There was some grumbling from the group and then Bellamy spoke.
‘Safety catches on and muzzles in the air until DC Berlin is safely inside, that’s an order!’
‘You sure this is sensible, Mr Berlin?’ Roberts asked quietly.
‘Wouldn’t be the first silly thing I’ve done in my life, Bob.’
‘Maybe not. But you wouldn’t want it to be the last.’
SIXTY-SEVEN
‘Not thinking of doing anything heroic with that peashooter you’ve got in your pocket, are you, sport?’
Berlin raised his hands and shook his head.
Whitmore was sitting on the wooden table, legs dangling, the Tommy gun cradled loosely in his arms. Behind him the hidden doors to the tunnel were wide open and Berlin could see a single parked motorcycle.
‘Handy little hideout you have here. How’d you find it?’
‘Army engineer bloke up in the islands, bit of a demolitions expert. Came along on a patrol to help us blow up this concealed Japanese bunker complex we’d captured. Said the Jap place was a total joke and went on about how he and his company had built a series of secret command posts up and down the east coast back home. They did it in case there was an invasion and we were forced to make a fighting withdrawal south. He said there was one outside Wodonga and when I got posted here I went looking.’
The Diggers Rest Hotel Page 25