Story and Photograph by Warrigal Mirriyuula

Sergeant Fowler drove away from the sawmill shaking his head. According to Ted Condon, the owner and manager, the money and the chain saw had turned up again and as far as he was concerned that was the end of it. He wouldn’t be pressing charges; it had all been a big misunderstanding.

It didn’t jibe. Ted had been pretty pissed off when Chook responded to the original call. It was him that had originally made the suggestion that it might be one of the mill crew. The McCulloch chainsaw alone was worth nearly a hundred quid and Ted had been spitting chips about its theft.

Chook wasn’t buying any of this new story though, not for a moment; but without a complainant and with the alleged cash and goods back in the owner’s hands, this was no longer a police matter. Then, in that way that it often did for Chook, as he drove back into town, not thinking of much really, the whole affair fell into place.

Chook would bet his pension it was Nugget did the burg. He really was a sorry case. Years of piss and too many fights had addled Nugget’s brain. It was about all he could do to get the occasional day working as a general hand at the sawmill, or on the roads for the council. As soon as he had his pay in his hand he’d be off to the pub and wouldn’t stop drinking till his pay ran out. He lived in a coldwater rat hole in East Molong. You wouldn’t call it a life. He was only half there when he was sober, when he was drunk he had a chip the size of a river red gum on his shoulder and an ugly angry violent streak. Pissed, he could convince himself that his problems were always of someone else’s making.

Chook could see it now. Nugget got himself three days at the mill, he’d seen it in the mill’s day book; on the second day, the day of the night of the burglary, he’d’ve come back from lunch half cut, slung off at someone, who’d’ve slung back. Nugget would’ve brooded on it. Somehow it gets twisted up into some kind of sawmill conspiracy to do him down. Nugget, thinking to get even, would’ve come back later, even more drunk, and done the amateur burglary. Chook smiled sardonically as he imagined a pissed Nugget lugging the heavy chainsaw away, cursing it continually for its awkward weight. Nugget didn’t turn up the next day; that was in the daybook too. A dead give away in Chook’s mind. He’d have paid a few pressing bills and begun drinking the rest of the money. When that ran low he’da tried to sell the chainsaw. Not that many buyers there, and those that might be buyers woulda known where it came from. The word woulda got back to Ted Condon. Condon gets the mill crew to find Nugget, they take him to the Freemasons, outa hours, just Jack looking on, no trouble there; play some cards, get Nugget pissed and skiting about the burg; Nugget was too addled to know when to shut up; that loud abusive stupid mouth of his was his fatal flaw.  The mill crew woulda been dark on Nugget for stealing from Ted. They take Nugget outside, give ‘im a quick tune up then over to Nugget’s to pick up the chainsaw and any cash they could recover. Nugget ends up pissed, bruised and lumpy in the cell with young Molloy scraping off the blood and dried spew. Nugget’s oblivious, collapses in the cell, pisses himself and spends the rest of the night snoring and farting; just another Sunday night for Nugget.

Ted was never going to come clean. He had his chainsaw back. That was the main thing. If he’d done dough in the process then he’d extract it outa Nugget’s hide over the next few months. Nugget wasn’t going anywhere, and the sawmill was one of a very few places where Nugget would be taken on, even if only as a day labourer.  What’s more Ted needed his crew just as much as they needed him. Timber getting and milling wasn’t for weak men. They’d back one another’s stories and alibi one another up over the beating.  It was an investigative dead end but there might be one way to prove out his theory.

Chook shuffled his day in his mind. Bagley would just have to wait a little longer; Chook was off to front Jack Hornby at The Freemasons. He could rocket him for trading out of hours; then, on the back of his not reporting Jack, maybe get Jack to fill in a few blanks about Nugget and the burg, just a conversation between two blokes in a pub, no actual police involvement.

As Chook pushed through the main street doors of The Freemasons his appearance drew the usual response. Several of the drinkers pulled their beers in close to them, hunched their shoulders a little, adopted a watch and see posture. A couple skulled their beers and made their way out of the pub, others looked up, noted the sergeant’s stripes and went back to their counter lunch. Through out the front bar the level of conversation fell a notch or two.

Fowler took a stool at the bar, his back to the room. He chose the muttonchops, mash and peas from the counter menu, decided against a beer and had a squash instead. Chook wasn’t a big drinker, never had been, but he had nothing against the pubs or their patrons so long as nothing they did had to be written up at the station.

As he waited for his lunch the usual hubbub returned, the lunch patrons acclimatising to the presence of the law. There was a loose copy of “The Express” lying on the bar and Chook filled his wait with the local headlines. There was a great picture of Mongrel and The Runt on the front page. Chook had heard about the young Inspector’s mysterious mishap and when he’d called Billy Martin to retrieve the abandoned ute from the rye pasture, Billy had already taken care of it. Billy was like that. He just got on with it. Not like these no hopers that filled the Freemasons during the day.

Since The Royal had burned down during the war there were just the two big pubs in town and they couldn’t be more different. The Telegraph was more like a community club, a family pub with a dining room and billiards. It was Clarrie and Beryl’s pub and reflected their character and style. The Telegraph was no trouble at all.

The Freemasons was a horse of an entirely different colour. It was the regular resort of the hard men, the sportsmen, gamblers and straight out heavy drinkers. Jack the publican was ex British army. He’d been in Tobruk and El Alamein and in the midst of that misery had run a very successful black market operation.

The story that came back was that Jack was about to be taken in charge by the Redcaps when the Boche kicked off again, lobbing in heavy fire. The surprise attack had caught many in the open and there’d been serious casualties, mostly blast and shrapnel, lots of wounds to dress. Jack’d bought his way off the charge by handing over a purloined consignment of sulpha drugs and leading a party of commandos out past the German line by a secret route normally used to move contraband. The commandos destroyed fuel and amunition dumps and several vehicles as well as chopping up the guards. Even Jack got his arm in, silently and efficiently garrotting a sleeping kraut sentry.

The Germans, seeing their dumps exploding and on fire, and fearing a rear guard attack, fell back, taking the pressure of the town. The whole thing had gone like a clock. Tobruk could breathe again for a day or two.

Jack’s CO had even been tempted to mention Jack in the despatch reporting the failed German attack. He’d decided against it on the grounds that Jack was still a complete bounder who had recently been greatly profiting from the scarcity that beset the entire besieged garrison. Besides, Jack just couldn’t be trusted to do the right thing with any cache that might attach to “hero” status. Instead the CO had simply marked Jack’s record with the notation, “No promotion this theatre”, and curiously moved him under the wing of the Supply Corps. Perhaps the CO thought that Jack’s unconventional procurement skills might be more generally beneficial to the unit.

When he was demobbed Jack had chosen Australia over Canada and New Zealand. With all the post war shortages and civil disruption in Britain it was considered prudent to offer demobbing British servicemen assisted passage to attractive destinations in the Empire. There was even a modest cash incentive. The idea was to limit the impact of returning servicemen on the labour market at a time of rebuilding and deep change at home. There was nothing for Jack in England and he ended up in Molong. Bought the pub, license and freehold for cash and never looked back. He claimed he got the money from a freakish streak at the horses that included an accumulator over four races.

The way Jack told it, he got off the boat at Circular Quay, went to a pub aptly called “The First and Last”, met a bloke, they got talking, then took a bus to the races at Randwick where Jack and the bloke had enjoyed a supernatural streak of luck. Jack had always been coy about exactly how much he’d won but it must have been a considerable sum of money. The bloke came from Wellington. He was a wool classer in Jack’s story, said he was going to retire on his winnings. This is where the bloke disappears from the yarn; but not before telling Jack of this pub he knows is for sale in this place called Molong. The pub’s going cheap after years of wartime rationing and restrictions. Jack dreams big and quick and a few days later he’s in Molong, the deal is done and after jumping through flaming hoops and walking on hot coals with the licensing division in Orange, he’s confirmed as the licensee of The Freemasons Hotel. A sanitised and heroically proportioned version of his exploits in North Africa was no small part of his success in the Licensing Court. It all just added to the legend.

Jack wasn’t exactly a crook. He was just a bit of a “Jack the lad” who hadn’t quite grown up yet. He loved a caper and was happiest when he had a big deal going. Chook reckoned he fenced a bit of stolen goods, only occasionally and only if the goods weren’t from Molong. He had some scruples. He fiddled the hotel books to avoid excise and tax and ran a substantial part of the black economy in Molong. He accommodated Molong’s SP bookie in a dark corner of the front bar. He was well known and liked by a certain kind of Molong citizen and kept his record clean with the rest by making hefty donations to the local football and cricket clubs and being a “captain” in the local volunteer bush fire brigade. He was a loveable rogue with a flair for the fantastic. He’d have been the kind of bloke that’d be good to have as a mate Chook thought, if only he wasn’t into the fringes of every dodgy deal running.

What ever else Jack was, he was always reliable for a good story. The trick was to tease the truth out of Jack’s rococo embellishments. To Jack the truth was just what happened. A good yarn was something else altogether.

Chook pushed a bit of bread around his plate and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing while he shoved his plate away. Jack was at the other end of the bar talking with a truck driver whose lorry was parked illegally on the other side of highway. Chook got up, swilled the last of his squash and ambled down the bar.

“That your truck mate?” he asked the driver while Jack stood back smiling, waiting to see what would happen.

“Yeah mate. Ya gotta problem?” the driver asked as he sized up the police sergeant, scratching his ample gut through his worn blue singlet.

“No mate, not me; but you might have if ya don’t move it. Yer parked “near and close” mate. I’ll have to give ya a ticket if ya not away soon.”

The truckie, figuring he could do without the ticket said, “Yeah well I’m away right now boss.” He picked up the two bottles of Dinner Ale sitting on the bar. “See ya nex’ week Jack.” The truckie looked at Chook again still trying to size him up. “Sergeant…” he nodded. Chook nodded back, filing the face for future reference.

“What can I do ya for Chook?” Jack lent in, wiping the bar with a rag. He liked Chook. They’d be mates except that Chook was a rozzer.

“Ya wanna beer?”

“No thanks Jack.”

“On the house…”

“I’m on duty.” Chook said, looking to remind Jack.

“Suit y’self.” Jack said and shrugged his shoulders. It was only a beer. He put his rag down and gave Jack his attention. “What’s on ya mind?”

“When I got in this morning Nugget was sleeping it off in the cell. Looks like he got a seeing to last night.” Chook paused.

“He’s a fool for a fight, that Nugget.” all light and breezy like there’s nothing going on here officer.

“Yeah, well he’s a bit of a mess, the old Nugget.” Chook paused again watching for any reaction from Jack. There was none, just Jack’s affable smile.

This was where their conversations always got interesting. Chook never knew whether he was ballroom dancing or prize fighting. Jack wanted to be genuinely helpful, he was that sort of a bloke; but he couldn’t really be frank with Chook, tell him what he really knew; and Chook couldn’t give anything away either. He had to walk a fine line between encouraging Jack to open up while questioning him with just the right tone of intimidation appropriate in a policeman on an enquiry.

“He wasn’t in here earlier was he?” Chook asked directly.

“What, th’smornin’?” Jack played up “being confused”. “I thought you said he was in a cell at the station.”

“No, not this morning,” with softly played exasperation, “earlier yesterday, Sunday.”

“On a Sunday Chook? That would be against the law wouldn’t it?” Jack asked rhetorically. He picked up the rag and began to studiously wipe the bar again. It’d save him having to look directly at Chook.

“Look Jack, no names, no pack drill, OK? You wouldn’t want me to have a closer look at your license, maybe call in the Licensing Sergeant from Orange.” Fowler let that sink in. “I know Nugget was in here and I know there was some others from the mill.” Chook lied smoothly.

“Seems you know more than me Chook.” Jack wasn’t giving anything away. “The last I saw Nugget was at closing on Saturday night, after the darts. He was lying in the garden over at the railway station.” Jack’s face took on a look of innocent befuddlement as if to say he was at a complete loss as to how Chook could be so wrongly misinformed.

“So you know nothing about the burglary at the mill, the missing chainsaw now miraculously turned up again? What about the thirty-five quid? Anybody been a little too splashy with their cash?”

Jack was on easier ground now the conversation had passed by any direct focus on his license. He stopped wiping the bar and pulled in close to Chook so as not to be overheard by the regular patrons.

“Yeah I heard about that.” Jack heard about everything. “Ted Condon gave me a call. Asked me to be on the lookout for someone trying to sell a McCulloch chainsaw.” Jack did an impression of someone trying to remember. “You know, now that I think of it, Nugget has been a bit flash lately, and he lost a fiver on the darts.” This was the gem of truth around which this entire conversation had been skirting. “I didn’t hear anything about the chainsaw though;” Jack and Ted were both wheels in the local bush fire brigade, thick as thieves, “but Ted’ll be pleased to have it back.”

“Yeah, it’s almost as if it was never stolen.” Chook offered with thick irony. “So Nugget wasn’t here yesterday but he has been a bit flash lately, right?”

“That’s about the strength of it, yeah.” Jack confirmed.

“So he wasn’t in here drinking and playing pontoon with the other blokes from the mill. They didn’t ply him with piss and get him skiting, giving himself up. They didn’t take him out the back and sort him out then fetch the chainsaw from that dump he calls home, leaving him mindless blind drunk and bleeding on Bank Street.” Chook took a breath and fixed Jack with his copper’s stare. “None of that happened?” Chook asked in a tone of mocking disbelief.

Jack’s face became a mask of guileless innocence. “Nah Chook mate, nothing like that happened.” Jack said nodding his head.

That was the “tell”, the nodding head. For such an accomplished liar Jack was still easy to read and Chook felt vindicated. Not that it meant anything, the investigation was going nowhere, but it was good to know that his instincts had been basically right. Chook smiled at Jack.

“Right, well I s’pose that’s that,” Chook had all he came for, “except that if I were to find out, for sure, that you’d been selling on a Sunday I’d be bound to do something about it Jack. It’s the law. You understand that don’t you.”

“Of course mate, fa sure.” Jack took Chook’s diaphanously veiled meaning, assuring him that Chook would never have any reason to treat the pub or the publican any differently than from this friendly conversation. The balance was restored. Both men had their pride and both were oddly thankful to the other for the manner in which this curiously refracted conversation had been executed.

“Righto, well I better get cracking.”

“No worries Chook, any time.”

Fowler turned and took a quick squiz around the bar, just in case there was anyone else he might need to talk to, new faces to note. It was the usual crowd. He walked out through the highway doors.

Chook slung his slicker over his shoulders and ran for the ute. The radio was calling. Opening the passenger door Chook leaned in and grabbed the handset.

It was Pat the local Volunteer Fire Brigade Warden on the emergency services channel. He wanted Chook at an outbuilding fire on a block along the highway to the east of town.

“Let me get this straight”, Chook needed a little clarification; ”You’ve got a fire on a day like this?” The rain continued to rattle on the ute roof.

“Not just a fire mate. Ya better get out here smartish.”

There was something in Pat’s tone, an urgency, serious concern. It was all Chook needed. He jumped in, slid across the seat, lit up the ute, dropped a tearing “Uee” and took off back down the highway past the railway station. He could be there in ten minutes.