Armfield was tall for a woman (or a man) in those days (at 172 centimetres), had prematurely grey hair and wore a grim expression. She was tersely spoken, never using two words when one would do. In the single room in a Darlinghurst guesthouse that was home for most of her life, she was a compulsive reader of detective fiction. She was a keen swimmer and golfer until arthritis crippled her, and she trained hard to be a crack shot, being the only policewoman permitted to carry a gun. The weapon came in handy in the 1920s and ′30s, when it was her responsibility to deal with the female offenders of Razorhurst.
As well as Tilly and Kate, Nellie and Dulcie, there were other notorious women criminals to deal with, such as ‘Botany May’ Lee. Armfield worked closely with Tom Wickham and Wharton Thompson of the Drug Bureau, and one of their targets was Lee, a cocaine dealer. Once, in 1929, it fell to Armfield to take a surveillance position in a small room overlooking Botany May's backyard, hoping to catch her in possession of cocaine. When she saw Lee take a package from beneath a loose brick in the backyard, she stormed into the woman's house. Lee was not intimidated, and attacked Armfield with a hot iron. Armfield retreated, but returned with reinforcements to make the arrest.
Armfield was also the nemesis of the lesbian thief and shoplifter Iris Webber, who vied with Tilly and Kate for the title of Sydney's most violent woman. ‘Her strength was enormous,’ the policewoman recalled in Rugged Angel, ‘and she would use anything that came to hand to maim anyone she attacked.’ Webber liked to steal the girlfriends of male criminals, and relished the confrontation when the men demanded the return of their lovers. ‘Twice she figured in shooting affrays,’ said Armfield. ‘Webber was afraid of no one. The toughest gangsters in the city's underworld could arouse neither fear nor respect in her.’
The prostitute Stella Croke was another who sometimes made Armfield wonder whether she was in her right mind when she answered that recruitment ad back in 1915. Croke, a friend and employee of Tilly Devine, was a notorious gingerer. ‘We had frequent complaints from men she had lured to an address for the purpose of robbing them, and she had associates handy to deal violently with those victims who resisted,’ Armfield recalled.
In 1942, Croke solicited Ernest Hoffman, a cook at Royal Sydney Golf Club in Rose Bay. While he was being entertained by Croke in the bedroom of her Surry Hills home, Hoffman noticed in the gloom a woman rifling his trouser pockets. He leapt up from the bed and wrestled with the woman. Croke called for her minders — her husband Bill Surridge and a man named James Harris. The four knocked Hoffman unconscious and dumped him in a vacant lot. He was found lying there and taken to St Vincent's Hospital, but he fell into a coma and died twelve days later.
Croke, Surridge and Harris, who all had lengthy police records, were arrested after scientific squad detectives took fingerprints from Hoffman's possessions. They were convicted of Hoffman's murder and sentenced to hang, but the sentence was commuted to life behind bars. Croke was released in 1956, and Tilly Devine staged a riotous welcome-home party for her. Croke returned to prostitution, but not for long. The following year she died of a poisoned finger.
In the 1940s, Tilly was not the force of old, but Armfield still always found her a handful. When policewomen were sent out onto the streets of Darlinghurst to arrest Tilly's sex workers, they knew they were being despatched to do dangerous work. The prostitutes and their pimps were armed with razors and guns, and any interlopers who strayed onto Tilly's patch, whether law officers, freelance prostitutes or prostitutes allied to other syndicates, risked serious injury.
Tilly and her employees considered it unfair that policewomen were assigned to hound them. They prided themselves on being able to pick a plain-clothes policeman on sight, day or night, but were thrown by the undercover female police. Often policewomen were used as decoys, and would patrol the streets and lanes on the arms of men, looking like lovers out for a stroll, then pounce on the prostitutes.
But Armfield knew she was fighting a losing battle. She realised that no matter how severe the laws, nor how ingenious the methods and unremitting the efforts of the authorities, prostitution would never be stamped out. ‘Centuries of experience prove that even in the most rigorously controlled social systems,’ she said, ‘it has always had its part, often being condoned in the highest places.’
The highest rank Lillian May Armfield attained was special sergeant first-class, but she was awarded the King's Police and Fire Services Medal for distinguished service in 1946, three years before she retired, wracked by arthritis, at age sixty-one. By then, there were thirty-six policewomen in the New South Wales Police Force, all trained in the same disciplines as the men, with the exception of firing a gun.
One of Armfield's closest, most trusted, lieutenants was Maggie Baker, who remains devoted to her boss's memory decades after Armfield's death. Like Armfield, Baker is a formidable woman and, again like Armfield, she never wed. ‘We were both,’ she says, ‘married to our jobs.’
Now in her late seventies, Baker's stories about the almost-two decades she spent on the beat at Darlinghurst post–World War II make that long-gone era seem as immediate as yesterday.
‘During World War II, I was working for Army Investigations and when the war ended, my boss, a retired police inspector, said to me, “You'll be needing a new job. Ever thought of being a policewoman?” I said, “I'm there.” So we went down to see Police Commissioner Billy Mackay and I'm in this room with three fellows, commanders and superintendents, and I'm standing in the middle of the room and they're giving me the onceover and they say, “Hmmm,” looking me over from every angle. I felt like a prize cow at the Easter Show. Then they huddled in a corner to talk about me, and I said, “Excuse me gentlemen, but do I get the blue ribbon?” They said, “You're in the police force.” ‘
Within an hour, Baker was standing in the office of her new boss — the head of all women police, Special Sergeant Lillian Armfield. ‘I was so nervous, I felt like a wet sponge. She was a very tall woman with arthritis. The officer with me said to her, “Here's your new recruit.” Miss Armfield said to me, “Stand over there!” She was brusque to the point of rudeness, but there was something about her that I liked and admired. She said to me, “If you're no good, I'll give you hell.” I thought, “This is going to be a trial.” She really put me through the hoops, but I didn't worry. I was either going to be suitable for the job or not. She must have seen something promising in me. She swore like a trooper and she said, “The first time you bloody-well do something to upset me, the first time you let me down, I'll kill you.” I said, “I'm not frightened of death.” She snapped, “Don't be smart.” But she trusted me, and once I got to know Miss Armfield, she was terrific.’
Baker worked in Darlinghurst for seventeen years, and says she went to places with Armfield ‘where no other policewoman had ever been’. The women became close friends. Armfield lived in a tiny room in Darlinghurst, ‘and if she needed the least little thing she'd send for me. I didn't mind. If she had a big job on, it was always her and me together. She favoured me and would assign me before the others. She was the only policewoman with a gun. She used to take me to brothels and I met every crim she ever knew. She'd threaten them, “If you ever do anything to this policewoman, I'll shoot you.” She often threatened to shoot me, too, when I displeased her, but I like to think she wasn't serious.’
Baker was often assigned to deal with Kate Leigh, and came to know her as friend and foe. After her first encounter (when Tilly had tried to stop Baker entering a Darlinghurst street and Kate came to the policewoman's assistance by sitting on the brothel queen), ‘We always got on well. Kate lived her life and I lived mine and we respected each other. She was talking to Miss Armfield about me one day and she said, “I really like her.” Miss Armfield always took me to see Kate whenever she paid her a visit.
‘Kate Leigh respected me because she respected Miss Armfield. Kate thought the world of her, but they were on opposite sides of the law so their relationship could never b
e friendly, never close, and if Kate did anything wrong, Miss Armfield didn't think, “I'll go easy on her.” She did what had to be done and locked her up.’
When Baker knew Kate in the 1940s, she was ‘a little, fattish person. She always wore very big hats, and seemed to me to be nice and clean. She had the most gorgeous rings I have ever seen. I have never seen a woman with more rings and she wore them on every finger except her thumbs.’ Baker noted that Kate's hands were gnarled with arthritis.
‘I had no moral problem with sly grog, but it was my job to stamp it out. If I saw Kate doing something she shouldn't be doing, I'd go up to her and tell her to stop. She'd give me the works — would she ever! — She'd give me a mouthful of swear words and say, “Don't you ever talk to me again!” Then she'd dob me in to Miss Armfield, say, “That bloody Baker!” And Miss Armfield would say, “Oh, Kate, she's only doing her job.” Then Kate would say, “Oh, I know that, Lil, but I can't be seen being nice to her.” ‘
Armfield impressed upon Baker Kate's value as a police informer. ‘ “Keep in Kate's good books because she's a wonderful informant, and, besides, if you know what she's doing, well, better the devil you know.” Kate would tell us things no other police officers could find out. She'd say, “Come up and see Aunty Kate if you want to know something.” She felt that so long as she was being helpful to us she wasn't going to get into too much trouble. I'd often drop in on Kate for a chat and some information. I've had cups of tea in Kate's place even though other officers said, “Ohhh, she'll poison you.” Fact was, I didn't trust her, but we needed Kate Leigh. Police are not so brainy that leads fall out of the air.’
Baker did not enjoy such cordial relations with Tilly Devine, who took an instant dislike to the tall young policewoman. ‘Tilly sparkled with diamonds and thought she was the Queen of Sydney, but she was a vicious woman. She would see me in the street and hiss, “I hate you.” I went twice to Tilly's joints alone and after that I said to the male police, “I'm not going down there again for you, never.” She was unpleasant, and if she didn't want to talk to me she'd slam the door in my face. Miss Armfield and Kate Leigh could swear, but they had nothing on Tilly. I'd be walking down Oxford Street on my beat and she'd be walking up. She always gave me a couple of swearwords and I'd say, “How do you do?” One day I was in Oxford Street with a new recruit and Tilly glared at me and snarled, “You bastard.” I said, “Thank you, Tilly,” but my partner went red in the face. I said, “What's the matter?” She said, “I didn't like that lady.” I said, “That was no lady. That was Tilly Devine.” ‘
With cocaine trafficking largely eradicated by the time she joined the force, the most frequent problems Baker had to deal with were street prostitution, drunken brawling, pickpocketing and assault. ‘I ran in drunks, but I was careful only ever to get rough with the ones I knew I could handle. I had no radio or gun, just my handbag, and I could swing that at a troublemaker's solar plexus and bring him down. I wasn't a punching bag for anyone. I wasn't especially fit, but I could swing that bag and I learned a bit of jujitsu. A bloke once was swearing at me, and I'd never heard such filthy language in all my life, so I couldn't keep my hands off him a minute longer and I whacked into him. I was never frightened to go round the streets of Darlinghurst at night. If ever I got into a scrape, I knew I had plenty of friends about to back me up. Even the prostitutes and no-hopers in Darlo would take my side if they saw me in trouble.’
And despite some notorious Armfield gruffness at times, Baker could always count on support from her senior officer. ‘Miss Armfield said to me one day, “You never defy me, do you?” I said, “Why would I, you're the boss.” We had a few squabbles, but if I thought she was being unfair to me, I could go to her and say, “I'm hurt,” and we'd talk it out. She'd say, “Don't take any notice of me, I'm in pain.” ‘
The arthritis in Armfield's legs worsened over the years until it crippled her and forced her resignation from the force. Maggie Baker retired in the early 1970s when she was in her fifties after she developed a debilitating thyroid problem. ‘The doctor said it was a desk job or nothing. I refused to be a pen-pusher because I loved working on the street so much. I only rose to the rank of sergeant. Miss Armfield, who'd retired herself by then, called me and said, “You've done your job, health comes first. It's time to get out.” Soon after, when I was in hospital having my thyroid treated, I heard that Miss Armfield had died.’
Armfield's last years had not been happy. On her retirement, she was treated shamefully by the force she had served with such dedication. She received no pension when she retired because when she joined in 1915 she was a few weeks over thirty years, the maximum eligible age to contribute to the departmental pension and insurance fund. Armfield lived in virtual poverty on about £6 a week in her Darlinghurst room. Her board cost around £4 a week, leaving her just £2 for all other expenses. Her sole pleasures were reading detective paperbacks and the Harbour cruise her old police workmates would treat her to each year on her birthday. In 1964, her arthritis painful and debilitating, she was unable to care for herself any longer and she moved from her room to a hostel for the aged in Leichhardt. The following year, the State Government came to her rescue, after a fashion, when it granted the eighty year old an extra £3/10 a week.
Just before Lillian Armfield died in Lewisham District Hospital, on 26 August 1971, aged eighty-six, Police Commissioner Norman Allan visited her. ‘Now, I don't want the publicity of a police funeral,’ Armfield scolded, like the crosspatch of old, ‘just a quiet cremation at the Northern Suburbs Crematorium.’ Allan acceded to her request, but made sure a police guard of honour was on hand to bid her goodbye.
31
Hearts of Darkness
Armed with the recollections of those who lived in Surry Hills in the 1940s, it is not impossible to imagine Kate Leigh in her domain in those years. In her sixties then, she had notched up almost all of the 107 convictions she would record in her life, and had served eleven of her thirteen gaol terms. She had shot a man dead, wounded and battered others, and ordered killings and maimings.
It hadn't, however, been one-way traffic. In her years as a sly-grogger, cocaine dealer, thief and receiver of stolen property, she had been assaulted more times than she could remember, being knocked unconscious on a number of occasions, and sustaining cuts, bruises, a smashed nose and jaw. Late nights, being around smokers, and tension had turned her skin to leather, a fact which the rouge she trowelled onto her cheeks could not disguise. Her voice was a rasp. In her youth, she had been handsome enough to take her pick of any underworld blade. As she liked to say when comparing herself to Tilly Devine, ‘I never had to sell my body.’ But now, although she would marry a third time, her siren days were long gone. Tilly was calling her ‘the Old Bag’.
Often, in the late afternoon, Kate was seen lumbering along gritty Riley Street, a short, stout woman often in an ankle-length lavender dress and a fur stole, even in summer when the sun was hot enough to turn the dusty bitumen footpath to glue. One ring-laden mitt gripped her black handbag, in which she kept a revolver and £2000 for ‘business emergencies’. On top of her tangled, greasy, patchy-black-dyed hair would be a dark wide-brimmed hat that more often than not sprouted feathers. Passers-by needed to get no closer than a metre or two to Kate to be assailed by cloying clouds of her favourite fragrance, a potion called Jicky.
At Devonshire Street she would turn left and plod into Crown, and as she passed the shopfronts and pubs, people would typically call to her, ‘Hey, Kate’ or ‘Katie, what do you know?’ If the caller was a friend, she'd laugh and respond, ‘‘Ow yer goin’, love? Awright?’ But if it was an enemy, or one of the neighbourhood urchins who delighted in teasing her at that stage of her life, she may have glowered and drawled, ‘Sling yer hook’, ‘Shut yer pan’ or ‘Cut out the cheek, Sonny Jim, or I'll bloody-well pull yer tripe out and feed it to the cat’, or perhaps, when feeling uninspired, a simple, somewhat plaintive, ‘Awww, fuck off, why doncha?’
Exc
ept for a couple of trips interstate and her sojourns in Long Bay Gaol, Leigh had lived in Surry Hills since the early years of the century. So, in her old age, she may no longer have noticed the smells, sounds and sights that jolted the senses of any visitor to the suburb. The mouthwatering aroma of the bakeries and the hoppy tang of Toohey's Brewery on Broadway; or the creosote stench of outside lavatories, gut-churning wafts of blowie-covered dog faeces, and the sickly smell of days-old household garbage that littered the streets, lanes and backyards in those days. The cacophony of cawing crows; clattering billy carts careening down hills and the shrill cries of the urchins who rode them; the distant ‘choof-choof-choof’ of steam trains at Central; drinkers bawling ‘The Rose of Tralee’ and ‘If You Knew Susie’ in pubs and the tinkle of ‘Chopsticks’ on a home piano; a paperboy spruiking Truth's latest scandal; the snap of breeze-blown nappies hung on string clotheslines; or the profane din of dunny-cart men hefting the evil black buckets on their heads — ‘as flat as a shit-carter's hat’ went the old saying. The garbos emptying bins into large squares of hessian they'd have spread on the footpath, and the squeals of kids who leapt in and snaffled trinkets and discarded magazines before the men could tie up the hessian and heave it onto the flatbed of their truck.
On the way to her terrace home, the old criminal would shop, pushing through the fly-screen door of a butcher's, whose front window would likely be decorated, as was the custom then, with a row of severed pigs’ heads, and buy a purple-skinned rabbit to stew for dinner. She may have then called into a ham and beef shop where, for a shilling or two, she could buy a bottle of milk for her tea and a pat of butter for the crisp, still-warm white loaf that the bread carter delivered to her door. She would eat dinner before her driver picked her up at nine or ten to do the rounds of her sly-groggeries. Shopping done, Kate would have continued down Crown Street, past drunks sprawled in doorways and prostitutes plying their trade. Past damp, peeling, roach-ridden terraces from whose open front windows came the chirpy wireless crackle of Roy ‘Mo’ Rene, George Wallace (the comedian, not the old razor gangster) and Jack Davey (“Hi-ho, everybody!”). From other windows and doors would have come the wails of babies and, if it was past 6 p.m., pub closing time, slurring voices engaged in angry domestic disputes.
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