Beyond the Horizon (20 page)

‘Yes, Sarge,' Harrigan answered, and slithered down the slight rise to carry the message back to the battalion HQ, where it would be relayed to the field artillery regiment supporting their assault on the German lines.

There was nothing else Tom could do for the moment – except to growl at a few of the men who had lost equipment, and joke with others who were visibly traumatised by the effect of close combat. Moving among the members of his platoon lifted morale, although it did not dissipate anyone's fear.

While Tom waited for the artillery barrage he lay against the slope of the road and stared up at the sky. It was a fine crisp day and he could see a lark flying high. He was reminded of looking up into a clear blue sky where a great eagle soared on outstretched wings, and the name Wallarie came to him.

‘It's comin'!' someone yelled and Tom could hear the distinctive sound of artillery rounds passing overhead to fall on the farmhouse with deadly accuracy. A cheer went up from the troops peeking very cautiously above the lip of the road. ‘They got the bastard!' a soldier yelled as the house was ripped apart by a direct hit. It did not seem possible anyone could survive such an explosion and the threat of the concealed machine-gun was neutralised.

Even as the Germans were under the artillery barrage, a soldier scrambled down the road to Tom, who recognised him as being from company HQ.

‘Mr Hopkins here?' he asked, moving from man to man until he reached Tom.

‘Have you seen Mr Hopkins, Sergeant Duffy?'

‘Sorry, can't say that I have since we jumped off this morning,' Tom replied.

‘Well, that must mean you're in charge of the platoon,' said the private soldier acting as company runner. ‘Got orders from the boss that when the arty lifts we're going in to mop up what's left. You clear on that?'

‘Yeah, no worries,' Tom answered. The soldier nodded and hurried away in a crouching run to inform the other platoon commanders of the order. Tom immediately passed along the order and ensured that all his able men had their bayonets fixed. This could require very close combat.

The deafening roar of explosions finally lifted at around 1030 hours and Tom glanced down his line of men and experienced a strange calmness. He noticed that his hands did not shake as much. Maybe having the lives of the men under his command to consider took his mind off his own mortality.

‘Okay, boys, time to hop the bags,' he yelled down the line – and as one the men responded to his command, clambering to their feet and advancing on the system of trenches occupied by the enemy. Smoke curled in wisps from newly created shell craters, and the smell of death was heavy in the air.

Striding forward, his rifle outstretched, Tom could sense that the enemy had been broken by the artillery barrage. They were met only by scattered shots from sections of the trench system, and many surviving Germans surrendered rather than face the grim-faced soldiers with bayonets fixed. By midafternoon Tom's company had reached the slopes of a nearby range of low hills overlooking a valley, and immediately they began to dig in.

While his platoon were preparing their defences, Tom asked around for his platoon commander but no one had seen him. Tom was helping his men, belting in an iron picket to string barbed wire along, when the company commander and second in command approached him.

‘Sergeant Duffy,' Major Cooper said. ‘How are you coping with the platoon?'

Tom straightened and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘I'm doing okay, sir,' he replied, before noticing the dark expression on the company commander's face.

‘I am putting you in charge of the platoon – until the brigade sends us another officer,' Cooper said.

‘Did Mr Hopkins stop one, sir?' Tom asked and the dark expression on Major Cooper's face turned to a frown.

‘Let us just say, Sergeant Duffy, that Mr Hopkins is no longer with us,' he answered and Tom noticed the exchange of glances between Cooper and his second in command. ‘That was good work today identifying the Hun position for our artillery,' the company commander continued. ‘You'll get an MID out of that if I have my way.'

‘Thank you, sir,' Tom dutifully answered, not caring much for military recognition. ‘But maybe it should go to Corporal Harrigan for dodging the Hun fire.'

‘I will mention Corporal Harrigan as well,' Major Cooper said, the frown disappearing from his face. ‘I am confident that the boys are in good hands under your command. You know, if it was up to me you would be off to England for officer training and a commission.' Tom nodded, knowing full well that his Aboriginal blood prevented him from becoming an officer and entering the class known as gentlemen. ‘If it is any consolation, Tom,' the major continued, ‘I consider you one of the finest men I have had the honour of serving alongside, and I think the CO will consider you for a warrant and company sergeant major's job.'

Consideration for the company sergeant's position was an honour that touched Tom. He might not remember what his life had been like before he'd woken up in the English hospital, but at least he knew he had earned a lot of respect from those who served with him. ‘Thank you, sir,' Tom replied, ‘but I'm happy having temporary command of the boys.'

‘Maybe after your replacement arrives you will take my offer seriously,' Major Cooper said and the company second in command nodded his agreement. ‘I will expect you to attend my briefing for platoon commanders in an hour, Sergeant Duffy.'

Tom acknowledged the command and returned to finishing his job of hammering in the iron picket. Sergeant Paddy Bourke had only been a few feet away and had obviously overheard the exchange. He sidled over.

‘I heard a rumour that Mr Hopkins lost it the moment we stepped over the start line this morning,' he said quietly. ‘A couple of the boys said he just froze and went to ground, blubbering like a kid. I heard that after we cleared the Hun in the morning the boss had him hauled away to return to brigade. No doubt they'll say he had a serious breakdown and ship him back home, lucky bastard. The officers always look after their own. There is another rumour that he will be discharged because they found out he was underage when he joined up.'

Tom took his pipe from the pocket of his trousers and thumbed down a plug of tobacco into the bowl. ‘They'll use that excuse to save face,' he said, searching for a box of matches in his webbing.

Paddy stared over the valley as Tom lit his pipe. ‘I thought I was going to cop it today,' he confessed quietly. ‘I don't know how much more I can take of this.'

Tom looked at his friend and fellow sergeant. ‘You and I don't have the privilege of showing fear. Those poor bloody boys who fear this war have to fear us even more – or they wouldn't get out of the trenches and do the insane things asked of them. We can't show fear.'

‘Cobber, every man in this battalion knows that you're a born fighter,' Paddy said. ‘The number of men you killed as the company sniper last year still stands as a record. I don't reckon you get scared like the rest of us.'

‘Paddy, I can't remember the last time I could hold a glass of beer without spilling it,' Tom answered with a weak smile, grey-blue smoke curling from his pipe. ‘All I want to do is just bloody stay alive with two arms, two legs and a head so I can find out who I am.'

‘You're a bloody blackfella,' Paddy said in a brighter tone, nudging Tom in the ribs. ‘But you could almost be a whitefella.'

‘If this is what whitefellas consider solving disputes over land, then I think I would rather remain a blackfella,' Tom grinned. ‘Well, I have to get ready for an O group – so your mob can finish laying the wire.' With these parting words and a rude gesture to follow, Tom picked up his rifle and walked away, leaving Paddy feeling reassured that he was not alone.

As Tom walked away something clicked in his mind. What was it that Paddy had said? The reference to being a blackfella. Another name came to mind – Smithers – from a previous conversation. There was a link between the two matters and Tom thought that link might be the mysterious woman purported to be his fiancée. Tom felt a chill and it was not from the cold that came with the night.

19

I
t was one of those days that had gone very badly for the Weasel. The mugging should have been straightforward, but the victim had decided not to give up his money so easily, and as a result the Weasel had stabbed him in the stomach. The Weasel, whose name was Albert Cummings, had picked the middle of the day to carry out his crime, and the sound of the wounded man screaming bloody murder had brought curious witnesses from nearby shops and off the main street.

Cummings had fled but a description of him had soon led the uniformed police to his usual haunt in an inner city billiards hall where he was arrested and the knife seized as evidence.

That had been bad enough, but worse was to come when Cummings was passed on to Detective Inspector Jack Firth's section for interrogation.

Now Albert Cummings sat in a chair from which he had fallen many times, due to Firth's method of interrogation. Jack Firth was not a patient man.

‘Okay, Weasel, stop stuffing me around and sign the statement in front of you,' Jack said, shadowed by one of his other detectives standing by smoking a cigarette. ‘We both know you did the victim, and if things go real bad for you he might even die, and that means you swing at the Darlinghurst gallows.'

Cummings was terrified because he knew that the threat was real. He sat staring at the sheet of paper in front of him on the battered wooden desk and it was rather hard to see, as both his eyes were swollen from the blows. A good crim always had to have an ace up his sleeve, and in his desperation Albert Cummings had that ace.

‘Yer still lookin' for Lenny Johnson?' he asked through split lips.

‘I might be,' Jack answered cautiously. ‘But that won't be enough to get you off the charges of robbery while armed and inflicting grievous bodily harm . . . maybe even attempted murder.'

‘Yer know that Lenny is up to something big,' Cummings said. ‘What if I threw that in too?'

‘What's Lenny planning?' Jack asked. ‘If it is any good I'll make sure you don't cop a further charge of attempted murder.'

‘I think he's planning to do over that toff's place you see in the paper all the time,' Cummings said.

‘What toff?' Jack asked.

‘That Mr George Macintosh fella. Me and Lenny drove out to his place a couple of weeks ago to look it over. Lenny wants me to go back with him tonight in a car me mate owns.' Cummings prayed that the information would appease the detective inspector enough to halt the interrogation. Sure, he knew that he would go down for armed robbery, but that was better than murder. Cummings suspected that the knife wound was not as bad as Jack Firth made out and he could see a flash of interest in the policeman's eyes. ‘I can give yer more details.'

‘I need to know where Lenny is hiding out, and if you give me any rubbish I'm going to stick you with a charge of assassinating the Arch Duke Franz and starting the bloody war.'

‘Promise you on me mother's grave that I'm tellin' yer the truth,' Cummings pleaded.

‘Okay,' Jack sighed, as if he had just given up his pay for the year. ‘I'll give your information a try – and if it pans out, maybe you won't swing after all.'

‘Thanks, Mr Firth,' Cummings said gratefully. ‘You'll catch a bigger fish than me, I promise.'

Jack left the office and walked out into the corridor of the police headquarters to think about the proposal. It was interesting that Lenny should be thinking of doing over George Macintosh's house. With Cummings's help they could catch him in the act, and that should make George Macintosh appreciate having such a good friend in Jack Firth. He knew that getting Cummings out of remand to help them would mean bending the rules, but that was never a problem for Jack.

He walked back into the dingy room. ‘Got to get you cleaned up a bit,' he said to Cummings. ‘Don't want you looking like you've been a round or two with Les Darcy. You're going to go ahead and meet Lenny tonight to do the job, but don't forget we'll be as close as maggots on rotting meat. Do anything stupid and all deals are off.'

‘I'll do what yer say, Mr Firth,' Cummings replied, nodding his head vigorously.

‘All right,' Jack replied and turned to the detective standing by the door. ‘Let's get our man to a shower and see if we can line up a change of clothes.'

The detective escorted Cummings from the room, leaving the detective inspector to think about the job in silence. By letting the crime go ahead Jack would not only have the kudos of the arrest, but he'd also get his hands on Lenny. The murder of Mary Jackson was still outstanding, and maybe this time Lenny would realise just what trouble not showing up when and where Firth told him to could bring to his freedom. Jack was sure that Cummings would go along with the plan to nab Lenny, knowing how serious the charges he faced were. Jack was confident that nothing could go wrong, and now it was time to round up a few capable men to effect the arrest this night.

Maude lay on her back, a spent George beside her, fast asleep. She was pleased that her plan was working out. Over the weeks she had managed to wheedle enough information from George to work out which nights the staff had off. Tonight the governess would be out, and the manservant had taken leave to visit a friend. The gardener would be in the cottage, which left only George's wife and his son alone in the house. Maude had been able to take a key to the house from George's pocket while he was sleeping and had pressed it into wax to have a duplicate made, which she had passed on to Lenny.

Lenny had asked about the fate of the boy and Maude had said she would double his payment if he killed him too. If he was left alive, he would always be a reminder of his murdered mother. Lenny had been taken aback by her ruthlessness, but he'd shrugged and accepted the deal. Two dead got him double the pay.

Maude could hear the city growing silent as the night deepened. Soon she would be the mistress of George Macintosh's mansion and her future would be secured.

Lenny had been surprised at the state of Albert Cummings when he'd pulled over to the kerb to pick him up at their designated meeting place in the city. But Cummings had explained that he had received a beating from an SP bookie he owed money to, and Lenny had accepted the story.

Just after midnight Cummings drove them to the Macintosh house and stopped in the dark street outside the big iron gates. Lenny settled back to watch the house. There was only one dim light showing from an upstairs room.

‘You a bit nervous, Weasel?' he said when he noticed Cummings fidgeting behind the wheel. ‘Anything you want to tell me?'

Cummings had good reason to fear Lenny, as it was rumoured he had killed one of his girls for holding back on money from clients. Some said that the war had turned Lenny even more dangerous as he was known to succumb to explosive fits of anger, and his size usually meant he won any fights he got into.

‘Nothin', Lenny,' Cummings replied. ‘Get a bit like this before a job.'

‘You'd better not let me down,' Lenny growled, lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke into the tiny cabin of the car. ‘I am relying on yer to get me out of here real quick when the time comes.'

‘Weight's right,' Cummings replied, gripping the steering wheel to prevent Lenny seeing how his hands were sweating. He wondered where the police were hiding out, and hoped that they were not seen by Lenny too early, otherwise he would suspect a trap. After all, only he and Lenny knew of the plan to break into the house, and any police in the area would make Lenny immediately suspicious that he had been betrayed.

‘Time to go,' Lenny said, noting that the light had gone out in the window. He flipped his half-smoked cigarette into the dark and stepped from the vehicle. ‘You just bloody well be ready when I come out,' he growled. ‘You hear?'

‘Got it, Lenny,' Cummings replied with a reassuring smile as Lenny disappeared into the shadows.

For a moment Cummings was tempted to start the car and drive away, but he knew that might mess up Detective Inspector Firth's plan to ambush Lenny when he broke into the house. Cummings feared the policeman more than his criminal colleague.

Jack had placed himself and another detective out of sight in the gardens of the house. He also had uniformed police standing by at the rear of the house, within a whistle call. Jack had moved his team into place late in the evening, and not even Mrs Macintosh was aware they were in the grounds of her harbourside home.

Jack squatted behind a flowering bush that gave off a sweet scent.

‘What's this bloody bush, Dick?' he asked the young detective sitting beside him in the dark.

‘Dunno, boss,' the detective replied. ‘But it has a nice pong.'

Jack fingered the small pistol in his coat pocket. He badly wanted to light up a cigarette but he had forbidden everyone from smoking.

Just after midnight the monotony was broken by the sound of a car stopping outside the gates of the house, and Jack strained to see who it was. After a short time he could see the glow of a cigarette and then it spinning off like a small meteorite in the night sky. A dark figure stepped from the car and disappeared into the hedge to reappear moments later crossing the lawn.

‘That's him!' Jack hissed softly. ‘We let the bugger break in, then nab him inside the house with his hands full of the family goodies.' Both men watched as Lenny opened the door, with some kind of key by the looks of it. Lenny slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was inside both detectives left their place of concealment and hurried across the garden to the front door. Jack reached for the knob, presuming the door would now be unlocked.

‘The bastard's locked the door behind him,' he said in surprise. ‘We have to find another way in.'

Lenny discovered that a light had been left on in the foyer of the mansion, and he slipped the razor-sharp knife from his jacket, along with a flashlight. He moved towards the stairs and made his way up the steps until he came to a darkened landing, switching on the flashlight. Walking along another corridor he came to the room identified as the one where the little boy slept. Lenny paused and considered entering and killing the toddler first, but he had decided earlier that it would be better to eliminate the mother and then the child. Should the child cry out it might wake the woman. He flicked the flashlight off.

Lenny moved on and came to a closed door; he opened it cautiously and stared inside. Although the room was dark, light from an outside lamp illuminating the driveway disclosed the shape of someone in the bed. Lenny took a deep breath and crept into the room to stand beside the sleeping figure. For just a second he switched on the flashlight, and its beam caught the sleeping figure of Louise Macintosh.

Lenny shifted his balance to deliver the killing blow. He knew where to strike as he had been trained in the use of the bayonet by some of the best of the Australian army.

‘Bloody hell, just smash the damned window,' Jack growled to his offsider, plain-clothes policeman, Richard Mawdsley, who was fiddling with the latches. Jack was armed with a flashlight and he used the brass butt to hammer the glass. It smashed and the crash of glass was followed by the tinkling as it hit the polished wood floor below. Sweeping aside jagged shards, Jack was first through the opening and he fell heavily to the floor, winding himself. He got to his feet quickly, though. Nothing was going to stop him catching Lenny in the act of carrying away stolen goods.

The breaking window woke Louise. There was a light shining in her eyes. Confused, all she could do was scream in fear as a knife swept down to draw first blood.

‘You hear that, Dick?' Jack said to his colleague as he tumbled after him through the window.

‘I heard,' said the young plain-clothes officer. ‘Must be the missus of the house.'

‘Blow the bloody whistle as hard as you can,' Jack snapped over his shoulder, stumbling in the dark for a doorway. As soon as he found one he threw it open to find himself in the lit foyer. Behind him he could hear the whistle blasts alerting the waiting uniformed police to move in.

The razor-sharp edge sliced through Louise's upper arm but she hardly felt it. Pure instinct to survive made her roll away from the attack and then she screamed, ‘My baby! Help me!'

Lenny swore viciously. It would have been a clean kill if the sound of breaking glass had not brought the helpless woman awake just as he was ready to strike. But now he could see her exposed back and knew exactly where to put the point of his blade to sever her spine.

Lenny raised the knife but something made him hesitate. What had broken the glass and why could he hear a whistle being blown? For a moment he was back in the trenches and the whistle was signalling an attack on the enemy lines. The sound chilled him with dread and he knew he was in dire threat of being killed by the enemy. He swung his arm down, still aiming straight for the point of her spine.

Jack was up the stairs and in the corridor and he could hear the woman's screams. There was a door open and he could see the light of a hand-held torch. Jack flung himself at the open doorway, pistol raised.

The blade came down and Louise howled as it bit into her flesh. The pain was excruciating but she had managed to twist around, which saved her spine, although she took the impact in her buttock. She was still confused and terrified, attempting to claw her way off the bed to the floor. A voice was shouting from the doorway.

‘Drop it, Lenny, or I will drop you,' Jack screamed in the confines of the bedroom. ‘Drop the bloody knife or I will shoot you now.'

Lenny had snapped out of the trenches and realised that he was in the beam of a flashlight. He could hear Jack Firth's commands and he knew he was an easy target. The knife slid from his hand and within a second a plain-clothes officer was on him, punching him senseless.

Jack found the light switch and turned on the bedroom light. He could see great splashes of crimson on the bedding and spreading across Louise's nightdress. By now, two uniformed police had forced the front door and followed the sounds of commotion to the bedroom.