This wonderful story has been sent in by Allen Gledhill. The story was written by his Great Uncle Norman Eric Gledhill. Thank you for sharing it with us Allen.
The Oversight
By Norman Eric GLEDHILL
HUXLEY had had plenty of time to think it over. Three months in a ten by ten cell gives a man time for thought that he seldom gets otherwise.
Anyhow, this time it would be different. Some things a man could handle alone; some things he couldn’t. But a good fence was half the game on this gold business. As he listened to the rat-at-at of the great drill battering its tool of tempered steel into the living rock, he wiped with his cap the sweat that trickled down his arms, making little lanes of whiteness in the dust and grime.
With ordinary luck, tonight should see it out. More than a week since he struck that “showcase.” But once bitten, twice shy; the stuff would have stayed where he had hidden it among the workings until the opportunity offered to get it to the surface, and a good fence was ready for it when it got there. Well, if a mine doctor wasn’t guilt-edged security on a job like this, no one was.
He spat dexterously at the guttering candle.
The gold on this damned earth was natures’. It wasn’t put there for the benefit of anyone in particular: but for everybody. And everybody were the men who had to work for it. If the Company didn’t know a nugget was there, why should the Company mind it being dropped in his or any other man’s billy?
His thoughts were disturbed by the sudden silence of the drill and the rattle of iron as the machines, tools, air hoses and other gear were bundled into the cage and twisted to the plat 200 feet above, ready for the blast.
The drilling was completed: and taking the gelignite, detonators, and fuse, Huxley arranged the loops of five double fuses and fastened them in position with little dabs of clay. Then pushing lighted candle butts under each of the fuses he clambered on the kibble and gave the order:
“Knock her away, Edgar.”
On the “Thousand” plat they heard the roar of the muffled explosion, and half an hour later descended again through a stifling smell of fuse smoke, burning tar, and nitro-gelatine fumes, to the working level.
Huxley smiled to himself as he heard, far along the drive, the rattle of the trucks which would convey the riven stone to the cages, whence it would be hoisted to the surface. ‘It was now or never.’
He watched the sweating truckers push their trucks into position, and, stripped to the waist, ply their shovels to the loosened mass of rock. The way was easy.
Crawling along the drive he halted in the darkness of a stoped-up face and quickly removed an old flannel he wore beneath his shirt. Then, scratching away the earth to the depth of a foot behind the air-blower, he ran his fingers caressingly over the jagged edges of a nugget, and, raising it, wrapped it in the flannel. With a quick glance along the drive, he hurried back to the plat and hid the bundle in the middle of a truck of reef.
Huxley almost laughed aloud at the simplicity of the whole thing. Webster would see when he did a job he did it thoroughly. He pictured the look of amazement on the other’s face when he handed over the nugget. And what a nugget!
It was 11 o’clock. At eleven-thirty Huxley saw the truck sent to the surface, and waited impatiently for the half-hour to elapse till the knock-off whistle. By that time the truck would have been run to the kick-off and its contents scattered over the ore top. Of course, Webster wouldn’t be such a fool as to try and get rid of it in one piece; it was easily broken up.
The clanging of the steel knocker was the signal for the sweating men to drop their shovels, and squelch along in the dusty glare of the flickering candles to the main plat. Huxley was first on the kibble, and as the last man boarded he gave a quick jerk on the knocker line, and the cable quivered as the cage started again on its upward flight.
Huxley changed hurriedly, and, seizing his billy, walked some distance down the road leading across the leases. Then suddenly he turned, and, taking a circuitous route, tramped past the grey dump, clinging to the shadow of the mill engine room until he came to the ore tip.
It should be easy enough; the last load is taken out before the change of shifts. He listened for the sound of the tip-truck returning from the poppet heads to the tip. Everything was quiet. Scrambling up the hill of broken ore he heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the bundle almost on top; and thrusting it in his shirt, he slid down the tip and made for the girdle of lights twinkling a mile away around the Boulder Block.
Half a mile along the road was a narrow bike pad leading to an isolated hessianed camp. In the moonlight the sagging walls looked grey and ghostly. Huxley turned sharply as he reached it. He had scarcely placed his hand on the knob when the door swung open.
“Hullo, Huxley !” Huxley leaped as though he were shot; then, still shaking all over, gathered himself as he recognised the voice. “Damn you, you fool Webster! What the hell’s the idea of frightening a man like that? ”
Webster laughed softly. “Sorry; didn’t mean to scare you. Couldn’t wait till tomorrow — just had to come and see how you got on. Did you get it? Come inside.” Huxley entered.
“Did I get it! Of course, I got it. What do you think I tried to do? Strike a match, will you; I’ve still got the willies. You’re a damned fool, Doc., to give a man a scare like that. A chap in your trade ought to know better. Here, feel the weight of that.”
Webster took the bundle in his hands, weighed it tentatively, and whistled. “Huxley,” his voice was hoarse, “that thing’s pure gold. Must be worth a thousand if it’s worth a pound. Light a match and let’s see it.”
He placed it on the deal table and, as Huxley struck a light, together they bent over the yellow shape and examined it by the glow of the match.
As the match burned down Huxley lit another from it; and only when the second died did they turn and face each other in the darkness.
“By God, Huxley, I never dreamed you had anything like that. Of course, it’s going to be a job for me to get rid of it. What’s your price? What’s the matter with you man? ”
“The price, Doc, is pretty stiff, I’m warning you.” He heard Webster’s fingers drumming the table. “But we’ll leave that till the morning. And what the hell do you think’s the matter with me? “It’s been bad enough tonight and then you spring out on a man like a family ghost.”
Webster laughed quietly. “Yes, you’re right, Huxley; it’s a beauty — a beauty.” His fingers fumbled over the nugget in the darkness. “Here, take a swig at this; you’ll forget all about it.”
In the shaft of moonlight cleaving the room through the half-drawn window blinds Huxley saw the flash of the cap of a whisky flask. He seized it quickly. “Good man Doc, you know your medicines. “Webster smiled as he ran his fingers again over the nugget “You’re right, Huxley – I do …. By God, it’s a beauty.”
Huxley threw the cap on the table and upended the flask at his lips. Suddenly, with a cry, he flung it to the floor and grasped his throat. “Webster — Web — for God’s -— it’s burning —where — where are you?”
Somewhere he could hear a scraping sound like heavy metal drawn over a board. His breath came like a panting dog’s; his eyes seemed forced from their sockets, and his jaws looked like a trap. With a paralysing effort, he stumbled blindly in the darkness towards the moonlit windows; bumped against the form of the doctor, and fell in an agony of
contortions.
Webster never moved. In the darkness, he could hear the writhing form bumping against the table legs and gasping as it tore the clothes from its chest. Then there was silence and the sound of a limp arm and fingers lightly hitting the floor. Webster waited another minute that seemed an hour. Then, with a trembling hand, he groped for the box and struck a match. Huxley lay quite still. Hurrying to the bed he turned back the sheets and disturbed the clothes; then lifting the body he lay it on the bed and pulled the sheets up around the shoulders.
By the aid of another match, he recovered the flask, wrapped the nugget in the flannel, and tip-toeing to the door, peered into the moonlight. The outlines of the distant poppet heads stood like black lace against the clear sky. There was no sound but the muffled roar of the everlasting battery stamps. For a moment he hesitated and turned towards the silent figure in the room; then pulling the door quietly behind him, and tucking the bundie underneath his coat, he walked quickly across the deserted leases.
It was late in the afternoon of the following day that Sergeant Wolfe looked up from the register and grinned at the exasperated figure lounging over the counter. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Wenzel. I think we chaps just about keep you in news. Like me to commit a murder or something for you? ” He turned over the leaves of the day’s entries. “No – I’m afraid that’s the lot. Huxley’s the name. James, George ———.”
“Just a minute, Sergeant, I’ll jot it down. What—Huxley. Yes. Miner, 42. Found dead—where? Camp was it? Yes—post mortem— who? Dr. Webster—yes—acute appendicitis. What do they call it again, Sergeant? That’s it-.—peritonitis. O.K. I’ll be getting along.” There was a preliminary tap at the door and a tall figure entered. “Good-day, Sergeant.”
“Hullo, Doc. Bit out of your way, isn’t it? What’s the trouble? Just a minute Wenzel, this may interest you. Know Doctor Moran? This is Frank Wenzel, doctor, a reporter from the “Kalgoorlie Miner ” He’ll probably star you in a paragraph.”
Pleased to meet you, Wenzel. No; I’m afraid I’m not worth it, Sergeant.” He laughed easily. “Bit of a collision as I turned out of Hannan Street. Two of us tried to take the intersection at the same time. No damage, but I thought I’d better report it. What’s the news Mr. Wenzel? ” “Nothing doing at all, Doctor. Things have given up happening in this town. Chap named Huxley died from peritonitis or something.” Moran was vaguely interested. “Huxley! What initials?” “J. G. Let’s see. James George, wasn’t it, Sergeant? “
“Yes, that’s right, Doctor. Lived up among the leases somewhere. Working afternoon shift. Baker was in the habit of giving him a call as he left the bread. Couldn’t wake him this morning; went to give him a shake and found he was dead. He rang the office, and I got in touch with Dr. Webster at the mine and sent a man around.”
Moran took a cigarette from his case. “Post mortem, of course. What was it—peritonitis. Know Huxley at all, Sergeant? “Yes and No Moran. I knew him because he had a bit of a record here — you might remember the case. Three months on a gold-stealing charge. Between you and me, we had an idea he was in the game again. Had the constable search his camp, but he showed a clean sheet.”
Moran’s fingers were drumming on the counter. Suddenly he flung down the half-burned cigarette. “Tell me, Sergeant, you’ve known me a long time? ” The other nodded. “I want you to make out a warrant to search Webster’s house.” Wolfe laughed softly. “That’s impossible, Doctor. I couldn’t do it. You can’t search a man’s house without a reason.” “Yes, of course–“, Moran’s voice was just a trifle agitated. He took another cigarette from his case with clumsy fingers, and leaning across the desk spoke softly and quickly.
Gradually the Sergeant raised his eyebrows, then nodded slowly. Then, with the gesture of a sudden decision, disappeared into an adjoining office. Shortly he re-appeared accompanied by a constable. He beckoned to the doctor. “See you later, Wenzel. Come on, Doc, let’s go. It’s just after four. Webster’ll be somewhere around the mines now.”
Twenty minutes later a car drew up outside a large house portentous enough to emphasise the poverty of its surroundings. On the gate was a brass nameplate. Dr. D. M. Webster, R.C.S. After receiving no response to his knock, the constable tried the door. It was locked. Selecting a key from a bunch, he inserted it in the latch, and ten seconds later they were inside. Without a word, Moran commenced searching the room they had entered, obviously the sitting room, and elaborately furnished for a bachelor—even a medical bachelor. Detailing the constable to the back of the house, the Sergeant tackled the bedroom.
For what seemed to him an hour, Moran removed carpets, shifted sofas, looked behind screens, up the chimney, in vases, tapped skirting boards, then passed to the next room. Suddenly there was a shout from the end of the passage, and, red with the excitement, the constable appeared carrying what looked like a bundle of dirty rags. He handed it to Wolfe.
“The last room, sir; the kitchen. Found that in the stove covered with ashes. Don’t have to be a metallurgist to know what’s in a bundle that weight.” Moran seized the bundle from Wolfe’s hands, and, as he did so, a carelessly shapen nugget of dirty yellow fell to the floor. Wolfe gasped in amazement and admiration as he raised it and felt the weight. Moran was busy scrutinizing the filthy flannel. “Miner’s,” he said, half to himself; then suddenly he gave a quick gasp, and, grasping the garment by the shoulders, peered at the collar.
“Look at that, Sergeant — look there, It’s a name. What do you make of it?” Wolfe strained his eyes to see through the dirt and mud stains. “H—U—X—by God Moran, it—it’s Huxley ! ” The Sergeant wiped the back of his hand slowly across his forehead. “So Webster is in this little game with Huxley. Huxley must have brought him that slug in the flannel. Very convenient. No wonder we couldn’t fasten him with it.”
Moran handed him the flannel and looked at his watch. “Where’s the body now, Sergeant?” “Who, Huxley?—oh, at the morgue. No relatives. They’ll bury him from there of course.” Moran seized his coat and gloves. “Can we go there right away? I’d like to see it.”
With the constable at the wheel, the car swung in the direction of the city. Moran settled himself in the back seat and selected a cigarette. In a few minutes they left the subway leading from the leases, and, as they swung sharply to the right, a small rectangular, red brick building swept into view. The car came to a standstill in front of the gate of the iron fence surrounding it. Moran opened the door of the car and stopped. “How long would it take you, Sergeant, to prepare another warrant?” They had reached the gate. “Not long Doctor. Webster’s a damned fool, but he’ll have to face the music. This gold stealing is a serious business these days.”
Moran nodded. With a tap on the door, he opened it and entered, followed by the other two. He smiled to an aproned attendant, and, after a few whispered words, beckoned to Wolfe. Silently the three men followed the white-robed figure into an adjoining room. In the center of the room, on a stone slab supported by trestles, the spotless white folds of a sheet sank ominously to the still proportions of a human figure.
Throwing aside his hat, Moran walked to the figure and caught hold of the end of the sheet. “About that warrant, Sergeant—it’s not gold stealing. I want you to take one out against Webster on a charge of wilful murder.”
He flung back the sheet from the naked corpse and pointed to a faint scar stretching like a fishbone on the pit of the abdomen.
“I operated on that man twelve years ago in Ballarat. I removed his appendix!”
Moya Sharp
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