With my first waking moments next morning, I realised to myself that I had lost all moral sense, and that my instincts had become frankly criminal. There was no haziness at all in my mind about the events of the previous evening, and I had not the slightest remorse for what I had done. I had killed an elderly man on the park lands — a perfect stranger — and the action seemed to me quite natural and justifiable, under the circumstances.

I was not a bit surprised at having done it. He had been rude to me, and killing was what he had deserved. I should do the same to any others who offended me and it would serve them right too.

Of course, I didn’t want anyone to know I had done it, for I should then be punished and the form of punishment would undoubtedly be that of hanging. It made me shudder a little to think of being taken by the police and being put in a cell and all that sort of thing; but I was quite certain I should never be found out, and I thought with pleasurable anticipation how intensely interesting the newspapers would now be.

There would be columns and columns about the murder, when it was discovered today, and everyone would be wondering and puzzling over what had taken place out there in the dark last night.

And all the time I would be sitting quietly by myself, reading all the articles and listening to what everyone said.

How thrilling it would all be, and how little anyone would dream or guess that it was I who alone could disclose who had done it.

Despite a slight headache I dressed myself in a happy and light-hearted mood, and went in to breakfast.

I was rather puzzled to know what to do with the bar of iron, but ultimately, after assuring myself it was quite clean, I returned it boldly, in Mrs. Bratt’s temporary absence from the kitchen, to its old place, under the newspapers, on the pantry shelf.

I went up to the office in a state of subdued excitement, but I noticed I was not feeling nearly so irritable and had more control over myself.

The other clerks were fairly quiet all the morning, and contented themselves with whispering and tapping their foreheads significantly, when they thought I wasn’t looking at them. The remarks of Mr. William the previous day, about certain contemplated dismissals, had evidently frightened them a good deal, and they were all afraid of being reported to him in his present mood.

I knew I should have to wait until lunch time for any news I might hear. Waller always went out first, and at twelve to the second, he put on his coat.

He always chose the early hour, because then he used to meet a bookmaker at the bar of some public-house and consistently back horses that never seemed to win. The other clerks went out later, but my regular time was one o’clock, and I had no excuse for altering it.

Just before one I heard Waller talking loudly in the passage just outside our door. It sounded as if he had some exciting news.

In a flash of a second, I suddenly became sick with fear. My heart thumped like a piston and I bent low over the desk to get my breath. It was the crucial moment, I thought. The crime had been discovered and I felt suddenly that my secret was not as secure as I had hoped. Everyone in the office knew that I lived in Bowden, quite near to the park lands by the river. If I showed undue emotion, they would at once be curious about me and perhaps suspect me. They might then search the house and find blood somewhere on my clothes. The microscope, too, might reveal blood-stains on the bar under the papers on the pantry shelf and all — all might be found out.

Terror rushed through me like a wave and I crumpled up.

“Look here, you chaps,” called out Waller excitedly, “I’ve just met a man I haven’t seen for years and he tells me to back Hoop-la in the three-thirty today. He says it’s been kept expressly for this, and will win by about half a street. I’m going to have a dollar on it, and if anyone likes to chip in they can, but it’s ready money down, you know.”

I cursed myself deeply for an ass and, like a reprieved criminal, furtively wiped my dripping forehead on my sleeve. Of course, I should never be found out, and after all what would it matter if I were. They could only hang me at the worst. My courage returned to me as quickly as it had departed, and I walked out of the office with my head in the air, only curious now to find out if anything were known.

King William street seemed just as usual, and I heard nothing to interest me while I was having my lunch. I gave myself plenty of time and it was well over the allotted hour when I started back to return to the office. I was just turning into Pirie street when, happening to look up, I noticed there was a flag on the Town Hall flying half-mast high.

I was mildly curious and stopped to ask a policeman the reason why.

“Alderman Bentley’s dead,” he said curtly — and then with a grin, “but I don’t suppose he’s left you any money, sonny.”

I looked at him coldly, annoyed that he should show no respect and that his manner should be so familiar. Then I thought it must be because my clothes were badly cut and shabby. I stopped before a looking-glass in a tailor’s shop window, and took good stock of my general appearance. No — I wasn’t bad looking, I told myself. I had what people always were wont to call a ‘nice’ face; my complexion, however, was white and sickly, and my mouth too small and sensitive for a man. But my clothes — oh, how sloppy and shabby they looked. I got hot with shame as I noted the ill-fitting collar and the baggy knees. No wonder people sneered at me and had no respect.

I felt quickly in my pocket — yes, my pocket-book was there and I knew there were six one-pound notes inside.

I walked into the shop, and speaking as indifferently as I could, asked to be measured for a suit. The man eyed me curiously, but produced a book of patterns for me to choose from.

I selected one, the same kind of cloth that I had seen our Mr. William wear, and the man told me it would be five guineas. I paid three pounds on deposit and was promised it should be ready in three days. I also bought half-a-dozen collars of a fashionable shape and a smart looking heather mixture tie.

I reached the office nearly half an hour over time, and was stared at inquisitively by every pair of eyes. The men whispered among themselves, but no remark was made. I thought to myself with a sneer how like rabbits they all were.

“Rabbits,” they had always called me readily enough, and with the same contempt that sporting men have for the courage of that animal, they had always regarded me, and yet whenever anyone threatened them ever so little — only the few quiet words from Mr. William that he was going to send some of them away — they were all cowed to nothing at once, and bolted to their holes in a body, just like a field of rabbits when the farmer’s boy appears at the gate.

Bah! how I despised them and with what a vengeance was the boot now on the other foot.

It seemed a wretched long time that afternoon to half-past five, and many times I thought surely the clock must have stopped. The room was very quiet, however, and save for the gloom of learning from the office by about half-past four that Waller’s wonderful horse had lost — and with it had gone fourteen shillings and sixpence of the office money — the monotony of the afternoon was unbroken.

Five-thirty, however, came at last, and at the corner I breathlessly bought a copy of ‘The Evening Journal.’

Yes, here it was, all there this time, and just as I had wished, with big headlines on the front page:—

TERRIBLE TRAGEDY ON THE

PARKLANDS

ALDERMAN BENTLEY
    BLUDGEONED TO DEATH

MURDER, NOT ROBBERY, THE MOTIVE OF THE CRIME A FOUL DEED IN THE DARK HOURS OF THE NIGHT.

I was thrilled with pleased excitement. So it was really known at last, and now would commence all the queries and conjectures that follow on such deaths. Detectives would search over every inch of the spot and the reporters from the newspaper would go down. They would unravel and discuss. They would take photographs and make sketches, and all sorts of rumors would get about. I should read everything and thoroughly enjoy it all. It would be just like sitting in some dark corner of a theatre all by myself, with the lights out everywhere except on the stage, and watching the players play out a play, entirely for me.

Fancy, too, it being Alderman Bentley — I had always heard of him as a very rich man — one of the richest in Adelaide.

Well, he shouldn’t have been rude to me. He was only a man just as I was, and simply because he had money he had no business to think he was a different kind of human being to me and could just ignore me and thrust me away when I asked him the time.

I didn’t feel sorry at all.

Going home in the train everyone was talking about it, and I lay back in the corner with my eyes half-shut, thinking dreamily what a poor weak thing civilisation was after all, and how easily — how very easily — everything could be upset by a white-faced, baggy-trousered clerk and an insignificant little piece of useless iron.

After tea I went to see Lucy. Somehow I felt quite different about her. A week ago she had seemed a far-off vision to be gazed at and dreamed of at a distance, but to-night I wanted to put my arms round her and press her to me. I wanted to feel if her lips were soft. I wanted to hold her tight, and to tell her that I was going to be her master. I wanted to make her blush when I looked at her, and I thought of how one day she would close her eyes and sigh when I tipped up her chin to kiss.

I put on my new tie carefully and, snipping a white rose from one of Mrs. Bratt’s best trees, walked confidently round to the shop.

For a wonder the place was empty when I arrived, and it was Lucy herself who came out of the back room to serve me. She looked tired and sad and there were shadows under her pretty eyes. She smiled nicely, however, when she saw who it was, and I pulled a stool close up to the counter. “Bless my soul, Miss Lucy,” I said confidentially, “but you do look tired tonight. Don’t you feel well?”

She gave me a little quick look of curiosity — noticing, I was pleased to see, my new tie.

“Oh, yes, thank you, I’m quite well. It’s only the heat has given me a headache. We’ve been very busy today.”

“You’re working too hard,” I went on. “That’s what it is, and I suppose your energetic hard-worked uncle, as usual, has done the lion’s share of the work.”

She smiled prettily, showing a sweet little dimple that I longed to examine closer and to kiss.

“Well, I don’t think uncle’s overdone himself today, at any rate!”

“Someone ought to tell him off,” I said angrily. “He puts far too much on you two girls.”

“Well, why don’t you do it, Mr. Wacks?” and she looked at me in a shy, amused way. “You always agree so well together.”

“Oh,” I smiled shamelessly, “that’s only to keep on good terms with him so that I can come round here and look at you. Good gracious! You don’t think, surely, that I believe a quarter of his silly ideas, do you? You must think me a soft. Yes — I’ll tell him off tonight — see if I don’t.”

She looked at me strangely, but said nothing, as two more customers at that moment entered the shop.

I took out a cigarette and commenced to smoke. Some more people arrived, and Lucy was too occupied to return to her conversation with me.

I watched her hungrily all the time. What pretty rounded arms she had, and how bewitchingly the soft curves of her bosom showed up through her dress. Her skin, too, was like ivory and her hands, with all her work, were pretty and well shaped.

What an ass I had been, I thought. Here was no cold spirit creature with the frail and sacred beauty of another world — but a loving earthly woman, with all the impulse and the longing of her sex — a woman to be kissed and fondled deliciously by the lucky man who would one day possess her.

Old Brickett came in grunting, and broke through my agreeable train of thought.

He waddled ponderously to his chair and saluted the company generally, in what he always considered to be the strict military manner. Before he had got too fat he had been one of the local fire brigade and, as he was never tired of telling us, strict military discipline had been the order of the day.

“Evening, Brickett,” I said casually. “How’s the cool slop trade today? Been busy in the pickles and tea, eh?”

He looked round sourly to make out who it was had addressed him so disrespectfully and, seeing it was me, he frowned in a puzzled sort of way.

He mumbled something, however, in reply, and then, turning to Beaks the butcher, at once started an acrimonious discussion as to the respective merits of their different places of worship, and the varying degrees of influence of the pastors who had care of their souls. Beaks was Methodist New Connection, and we were Strict Baptist. Beaks banked on the new man who had recently come to take over their chapel, and old Brickett was strong on our chap — the Reverend Michael Pitchfellow. The arguments soon became very fierce and I wanted to butt in.

“Look at our man!” almost shouted old Brickett presently —“look at the good he’s a-doin’ here — look ‘ow he’s making people think. Look ‘ow the takings of the pubs is going down. Why, only last week I ‘eard as ‘ow the owner of the ‘Wattle Tree’ ‘ad told the income tax man as ‘ow all his profits was agoing to the dogs, and that he oughtn’t to be paying ‘alf as much as he did last year. Now that’s because of our chapel, sure; the influence is a-gradually beginning to be felt and in a year or two anything may happen. Now what I say is ——”

“Tosh,” I called out loudly, unable to keep silence any longer. “Tosh, sir, tosh! Who the blazes has ever heard of our chapel out of this street, and who the blazes would take any notice of us if they had?”

There was a dead silence when I had spoken and everyone looked hard at me. The old man himself simply gasped in astonishment. That anyone should interrupt him in such a manner at all, and that I of all people should dare to put in my spoke when he was laying down the law, appeared to him to border almost on the incredible. He looked at me very sternly.

“Wacks — Peter Wacks, was you speaking then, to me?”

“Well,” I answered arily, “who the devil else should I be speaking to? You were the only one talking rot, weren’t you?”

A titter went round the shop at this and everyone stopped whispering, to enjoy the unexpected passage of arms. I was so well known to them all as the meekest and most slavish supporter of the old man, that to hear me now contradicting him as I was surprised them as much as it did him. It was in the nature of a treat, of the enjoyment of which nothing must be lost.

“Do you mean,” said old Brickett slowly and ponderously after a while, “do you mean as our chapel is rot and the Reverend Pitchfellow what you call tosh?”

“I never mentioned Pitchfellow, did I? But if you ask me I tell you straight there’s precious little in his preaching any time. A shouter, I grant you — a bonzer shouter any day — but a good preacher — no. Many’s the headache I’ve had off him, when he’s turned the tap well on, but as for any good ideas or new thoughts — well, he’s no John the Baptist, as everybody knows.”

Brickett looked sourly at me “Then why do you come to the chapel at all?” he asked bitterly.

“Why do I come to the chapel? For the same reason that I come here, and I leave you to guess it.”

I looked round laughing as I spoke, and old Brickett, thrown out of his stride as it were, could not for a moment think of any reply. But his self-confidence was too colossal for him to keep silent long, and in a minute or two he had turned a baleful eye again in my direction.

“I go to chapel,” he said heavily, “for the same reason as I don’t go to pubs — for the sake of example.”

“Blow your example,” I sneered mockingly; “the cheek and vanity you’ve got. Do you really believe, Mr. Brickett, that you’re so important that anybody’s going to wait before they do anything until they see what you’re going to do?”

He didn’t answer and I drove in my argument.

“Do you really think now, that there’s one single person in all South Australia who, if he thinks he wants a glass of beer, will wait before drinking it until he finds out about you — what you’re going to do?”

“Yuss I do,” frowned old Brickett, now looking uncomfortably in a corner. “Yuss, I do.”

“I suppose,” I went on mockingly, “he’ll hold up the glass of beer and smack his lips and then say —‘No, no — I mustn’t drink it until I find out what Matthew Brickett’s going to do.’ Something like that, eh?”

“Not quite so free with your Bricketts, young man; put the Mr. on before,” snarled the old man feeling this time on safer ground. Then screwing up his eyes curiously:—“What’s the matter with you, Wacks, tonight; is it beer or just cussedness what worries you?”

“Neither, but I’m just fed up with people talking about their examples, that’s all. It’s just blessed conceit and nothing more.”

This time the old man didn’t deign to answer me, but, turning his back contemptuously, started talking about the murder to another customer who had just come in.

I asked Lucy for another lemon-squash and in taking it from her took care that our fingers should meet. She looked up as I expected she would, and just gave me a little quick glance of enquiry — quick and fleeting only, but sufficient to rouse in me the delicious hope that there might be now the beginnings of some sweet and subtle bonds of sympathy between us.

I stopped until quite late that night and interfered in and argued about every subject that came up for discussion. I tied up old Brickett fine, and crossed and contradicted him upon every possible occasion. In the end he got quite nervous about me, and gave expression to no opinions without apprehensively cocking his eye in my direction to see how I was going to take them. A big bully, I could see he would soon get really frightened of me, and in my own mind I was determined to use that fear to make things easier for Lucy and her sister, for Lucy particularly, of course. When I at last got up to go, I tossed him a curt goodnight, but for Lucy I reserved a glance the very giving of which made my heart thump heavily and caused my pulses to throb in a way they had never quite throbbed before.

The next day I began to feel myself getting rather anxious and depressed, and directly I got home, before having any tea or anything, I took a good dose of the paste. The effect was apparent in me almost at once, and towards dusk I set out with my bar of iron to have another go at Nell. I had taken a violent dislike to the dog, and was determined to pay her out for sniffing at my clothes the other evening.

I went up round North Adelaide, and this time approached the park lands from quite a different direction. The walk took me longer than I had thought and it was almost dark when I struck the path where I had met the old man the other night. I realised disgustedly that I was too late for Nell, and irritably set myself to walk back the shortest way home.

I remembered I should have to pass the very spot where I had struck the old man down, but it didn’t trouble me in the least, and I was only just mildly curious to see if anyone would be about.

The night fell rapidly almost to pitch dark, and walking slowly along the path I suddenly almost ran into a policeman, coming from the opposite direction. I could feel him give me a hard stare, but slightly quickening my pace I passed on. About a hundred yards farther on I remembered there was a fair-sized ditch just off the side of the path, and arriving there I slipped quietly down and hid myself under the bank.

I was interested that any policeman should be there at that time of night, and I smiled grimly to think that they should be now patrolling the park lands, two nights after the murder had been committed. Did they think, surely, I said to myself, that the murderer would be coming back there tonight? Then I remembered with just a suspicion of uneasiness that I was carrying about with me the incriminating bar of iron. It would never do for me to be caught, of course, I thought, but at the same time I was not in the least afraid. The excitement was distinctly enjoyable, and a thrill of impending adventure ran pleasurably through me.

Suddenly I heard slow cautious footsteps in both directions — unmistakably policemen’s footsteps. They stopped almost directly opposite to me, and a muffled conversation took place.

“Idiotic stunt this, Bill; why the deuce we’ve been put on it, nobody knows.”

“Rotten, Henery,” replied a second voice, “but the Chief swears the bloke is certain to come back — he says they always do.”

“Rats! I’ll bet he’s much too frightened to come anywhere near — but what did you make of that chap who just came along? I was a bit hazy about him myself — that’s why I turned back.”

“What chap — there’s been no one by me at all.”

“Not a white-faced looking Johnny — walking with his shoulders rather hunched up — not three minutes ago?”

“Not a soul’s come along since it got dark. He must have turned off over the grass somewhere. Why didn’t you pinch him, you goat? At any rate, it would have been a fine excuse for getting out of this. But come back with me — we’d better tell the sergeant now.”

They moved off, talking quietly, and in a couple of minutes or so I glided softly after them, crouching low down. But not a sign of them could I see, and not a sound could I hear anywhere, both policemen seemed to have completely vanished.

I went forward about a hundred yards, edging all the time a little farther away from the path.

Suddenly the big chimney of the Kilkenny bottle works flared up in the distance, right in front of me, and in the flash of a second I saw I was walking bang into as pretty a little ambush as one could have wished. The flare only lasted as long as a man might comfortably count five, but it was long enough for me to see three heads all close together silhouetted against the sky — and the heads all wore helmets, too. Even as I watched with startled eyes, the heads on either side melted gently away, leaving the middle one motionless, but with the alert expectant pose of a man who listens and watches.

Fortunately, I, too, found my wits at once and turned quickly round to see if there was anyone stalking behind me.

Fool, fool, no wonder I had been seen — there were the lights of all Adelaide behind me and every movement of mine must have shown up plainly against the sky.

It was well for me that I knew every inch and undulation of the ground. Many and many a morning had I tramped over these same parklands on my way to the office, and it would be standing me in good stead now.

I threw myself prone to get out of the way of the light and, wriggling myself into a fold of the ground that was fortunately only a few yards away, doubled like a hare up the hill.

I heard no sound and I made no sound.

When I had run for about two minutes I pulled up for breath, and then thinking I would like to know more of what was going on where I had left the policemen, made a wide circle so as to get right behind them. This time I determined the light from the city should be on my side, and not on theirs.

I made cautiously to about where, I thought, I should find them, but to my disappointment all was still and silent as the grave.

Crouching breathlessly upon the ground, my hand came suddenly in contact with a fair sized stone, about the size of a small orange. Disappointed at the apparently tame termination of my adventure, and in a spirit of mad devilry, I balanced it carefully in the palm of my right hand, and without much thought hurled if suddenly in the direction of where I knew the railway line must be. My sense of direction was very true, for the stone pinged loudly upon one of the wires of the fence running along the permanent way.

The result was startling. Within a bare radius of fifty yards, four or five electric torches instantly flashed out, and there was the shout and scuffle of men racing down to where the stone had struck.

“Quick, quick,” a voice shouted, “he’s crossing over the railway line. One of you cut him off by the signal box.”

But I was not concerned with what they were doing. A much more startling thing had happened, closer at hand. Right under my very feet, a policeman had sprung up. So close to me had he been lying, that the wonder was I had not trodden on him when I had stood up to throw the stone. He, too, flashed his torch, but I saw him the fraction of a second before he saw me. He shouted something hoarsely and made to catch me with his hands, but I got in first and struck him furiously with the iron. He went down crash, and overbalancing myself, I fell after him. But I was up again in a second, and, finding he made no movement, passed my hand hurriedly over him for an automatic. But I was disappointed, he hadn’t one; there was a whistle, however, which I at once took.

I made a rapid survey of the situation. His cry had evidently been heard, for someone was now shouting to the men to come back. My escape across the line was obviously cut off and also the way behind me, on the road. There was no help for it but to sprint up the hill to the terrace at North Adelaide. I didn’t like it, for it was quite probable other people up there might join in the chase, and at any moment, too, the North Adelaide police might also appear on the scene. Stupidly omitting to switch off the fallen policeman’s torch, I started to run my hardest up the hill. I had not gone two hundred yards, however, before hoarse cries of anger brought home to me what my omission was likely to cost me. They had found their comrade, and worse still could clearly guess now in which direction I had bolted.

A shrill whistle sounded below, and it was at once answered by one on the Port road, and by one near Bowden station, too.

I should now be headed off for sure, I thought. I glanced back hastily. By the flashing of their torches, I could see my pursuers had spread themselves out with about thirty yards between each of them and were systematically beating over the ground, up the hill.

They were determined, I could see, not to let me slip by them, rightly arguing that my likeliest way to safety would be back over the railway line.

Almost spent, I breathlessly gained the wire fence against the terrace on the hill. In scrambling over, however, I slipped badly and gave my right leg an awful wrench.

For a moment the pain was simply excruciating and it was as much as I could do to keep myself from falling down. I knew at once it would be quite hopeless for me to move for a little while, and I began desperately to rub the injured limb.

I looked down the line. The four policemen were steadily advancing, flashing their torches from side to side to cover every inch of the ground, and all the time whistles seemed to be going in all directions.

I gave myself up as lost.

Suddenly a boy came riding down the terrace on a bicycle. He slowed up and got off when he saw me. I pulled my cap low down to hide my face.

“What’s up, guv’nor?” he asked, taking in the whistling and the lights as something quite abnormal to the place.

“Oh,” I replied offhand, with the first words that came into my mind, “it’s a paper chase. I’ve won and we’re whistling to call off the hounds. I was the hare, and we’ve run all the way this evening from Glenelg.” The boy, from his attitude, was obviously impressed.

Then an inspiration seized me, and I went on quickly. “Look here, sonny, just be a sport and help me, will you? I’m dead beat here, and can’t run a stitch. Take this whistle and ride down to the end of the terrace there and blow like blazes. You can keep the whistle for your trouble,” and I thrust the whistle I had taken off the policeman into his hands.

“Oh, thank you, sir,” he said eagerly; “yes, I’ll go.”

“That’s right, my boy,” I called out heartily as he at once swung on his bike, “and when you get to the end there — just ride down the hill to the post office and blow hard all the time. I’ll walk down slowly and if you’ve called them all in before I get there, there’ll be half a dollar for you when I come, see?”

He disappeared joyfully at full speed.

Two minutes later, a perfect tornado of whistles broke out on the air. Loud, long, sustained whistles — screeching whistles — short, sharp whistles — whistles that spoke of urgency and whistles that would make anyone groan for even a second’s delay.

The policemen’s torches stopped advancing instantly and then upon a hoarse order all wheeled round at right angles and in the faint light I could see quite half a dozen burly figures tearing off in the direction of my timely young friend and his bicycle.

I was saved for the present, anyhow.

My leg felt much better and I hobbled across the road with no clear plan, however, as to where I should go, But my good star was still in the ascendant.

As I reached the corner of a rather narrow by-road, I saw a huge, big lorry lumbering down. A brain-wave seized me. It would have to slow up at the corner to get round and I would catch hold and hang on behind.

But better luck still was in store for me. Not only did it slow up, but the body was open and not high off the ground. I jumped desperately as it passed and the noise of my impact among the few empty tins that it carried was drowned happily in the scrunching of its brakes.

The whistling was still going on, and I chuckled to myself as happy as a king.

I was not quite as happy, however, about half an hour later, when stiff and sore I slipped off the back of the truck at the railway gate near Port Adelaide Station.

It was the first opportunity I had had to get off. I caught the last train back to Bowden, and arriving home just before midnight was disgusted to find the detective, Meadows, smoking by the garden gate.

He shook his head jestingly when I passed him, and made some remark about the growing bad habits of young men, but I said goodnight curtly, and shut myself in my room, devoutly hoping he had not noticed my bedraggled and ruffled appearance.