Part 7 (1/2)
”How long are you going to keep it up?” I asked him.
He seemed a bit fl.u.s.tered for a moment, but then he saw there was no use beating about the bush, so he answered straight--
”Until you go back to Australia,” he said.
”Don't you know,” I said, ”that I have served the Government and got a free pardon?”
He grinned all over his ugly face when I said this.
”We know all about you, Maloney,” he answered. ”If you want a quiet life, just you go back where you came from. If you stay here, you're a marked man; and when you are found tripping it'll be a lifer for you, at the least. Free trade's a fine thing, but the market's too full of men like you for us to need to import any!”
It seemed to me that there was something in what he said, though he had a nasty way of putting it. For some days back I'd been feeling a sort of home-sick. The ways of the people weren't my ways. They stared at me in the street; and if I dropped into a bar, they'd stop talking and edge away a bit, as if I was a wild beast. I'd sooner have had a pint of old Stringybark, too, than a bucketful of their rotgut liquors. There was too much d.a.m.ned propriety. What was the use of having money if you couldn't dress as you liked, nor bust it properly? There was no sympathy for a man if he shot about a little when he was half-over. I've seen a man dropped at Nelson many a time with less row than they'd make over a broken window-pane. The thing was slow, and I was sick of it.
”You want me to go back?” I said.
”I've my orders to stick fast to you until you do,” he answered.
”Well,” I said, ”I don't care if I do. All I bargain is that you keep your mouth shut, and don't let on who I am, so that I may have a fair start when I get there.”
He agreed to this, and we went over to Southampton the very next day, where he saw me safely off once more. I took a pa.s.sage round to Adelaide, where no one was likely to know me; and there I settled, right under the nose of the police. I've been there ever since, leading a quiet life, but for little difficulties like the one I'm in for now, and for that devil, Tattooed Tom of Hawkesbury. I don't know what made me tell you all this, Doctor, unless it is that being kind of lonely makes a man inclined to jaw when he gets a chance. Just you take warning from me, though. Never put yourself out to serve your country; for your country will do precious little for you. Just you let them look after their own affairs; and if they find a difficulty in hanging a set of scoundrels, never mind chipping in, but let them alone to do as best they can. Maybe they'll remember how they treated me after I'm dead, and be sorry for neglecting me. I was rude to you when you came in, and swore a trifle promiscuous; but don't you mind me, it's only my way.
You'll allow, though, that I have cause to be a bit touchy now and again when I think of all that's pa.s.sed. You're not going, are you? Well, if you must, you must; but I hope you will look me up at odd times when you are going your round. Oh, I say, you've left the balance of that cake of tobacco behind you, haven't you? No; it's in your pocket--that's all right. Thank ye, Doctor, you're a good sort, and as quick at a hint as any man I've met.
A couple of months after narrating his experiences, Wolf Tone Maloney finished his term, and was released. For a long time I neither saw him nor heard of him; and he had almost slipped from my memory, until I was reminded, in a somewhat tragic manner, of his existence. I had been attending a patient some distance off in the country, and was riding back, guiding my tired horse among the boulders which strewed the pathway, and endeavouring to see my way through the gathering darkness, when I came suddenly upon a little wayside inn. As I walked my horse up towards the door, intending to make sure of my bearings before proceeding further, I heard the sound of a violent altercation within the little bar. There seemed to be a chorus of expostulation or remonstrance, above which two powerful voices rang out loud and angry.
As I listened, there was a momentary hush, two pistol shots sounded almost simultaneously, and, with a crash, the door burst open, and a pair of dark figures staggered out into the moonlight. They struggled for a moment in a deadly wrestle, and then went down together among the loose stones. I had sprung off my horse, and, with the help of half-a-dozen rough fellows from the bar, dragged them away from one another.
A glance was sufficient to convince me that one of them was dying fast.
He was a thick-set, burly fellow, with a determined cast of countenance.
The blood was welling from a deep stab in his throat, and it was evident that an important artery had been divided. I turned away from him in despair, and walked over to where his antagonist was lying. He was shot through the lungs, but managed to raise himself upon his hand as I approached, and peered anxiously up into my face. To my surprise I saw before me the haggard features and flaxen hair of my prison acquaintance, Maloney.
”Ah, Doctor!” he said, recognising me. ”How is he? Will he die?”
He asked the question so earnestly that I imagined he had softened at the last moment, and feared to leave the world with another homicide upon his conscience. Truth, however, compelled me to shake my head mournfully, and to intimate that the wound would prove a mortal one.
Maloney gave a wild cry of triumph, which brought the blood welling out from between his lips. ”Here, boys,” he gasped to the little group around him. ”There's money in my inside pocket. d.a.m.n the expense! Drinks round. There's nothing mean about me. I'd drink with you, but I'm going.
Give the Doc. my share, for he's as good----” Here his head fell back with a thud, his eye glazed, and the soul of Wolf Tone Maloney, forger, convict, ranger, murderer, and Government peach, drifted away into the Great Unknown.
I cannot conclude without borrowing the account of the fatal quarrel which appeared in the columns of the _West Australian Sentinel_. The curious will find it in the issue of the 4th of October 1881:--
”Fatal Affray.--W. T. Maloney, a well-known citizen of New Montrose, and proprietor of the Yellow Boy gambling saloon, has met with his death under rather painful circ.u.mstances. Mr. Maloney was a man who had led a chequered existence, and whose past history is replete with interest.
Some of our readers may recall the Lena Valley murders, in which he figured as the princ.i.p.al criminal. It is conjectured that, during the seven months that he owned a bar in that region, from twenty to thirty travellers were hocussed and made away with. He succeeded, however, in evading the vigilance of the officers of the law, and allied himself with the bushrangers of Bluemansd.y.k.e, whose heroic capture and subsequent execution are matters of history. Maloney extricated himself from the fate which awaited him by turning Queen's evidence. He afterwards visited Europe, but returned to West Australia, where he has long played a prominent part in local matters. On Friday evening he encountered an old enemy, Thomas Grimthorpe, commonly known as Tattooed Tom of Hawkesbury. Shots were exchanged, and both men were badly wounded, only surviving a few minutes. Mr. Maloney had the reputation of being, not only the most wholesale murderer that ever lived, but also of having a finish and attention to detail in matters of evidence which has been unapproached by any European criminal. _Sic transit gloria mundi!_”
_THE SILVER HATCHET._
On the 3rd of December 1861, Dr. Otto von Hopstein, Regius Professor of Comparative Anatomy of the University of Buda-Pesth, and Curator of the Academical Museum, was foully and brutally murdered within a stone-throw of the entrance to the college quadrangle.
Besides the eminent position of the victim and his popularity amongst both students and townsfolk, there were other circ.u.mstances which excited public interest very strongly, and drew general attention throughout Austria and Hungary to this murder. The _Pesther Abendblatt_ of the following day had an article upon it, which may still be consulted by the curious, and from which I translate a few pa.s.sages giving a succinct account of the circ.u.mstances under which the crime was committed, and the peculiar features in the case which puzzled the Hungarian police.
”It appears,” said that very excellent paper, ”that Professor von Hopstein left the University about half-past four in the afternoon, in order to meet the train which is due from Vienna at three minutes after five. He was accompanied by his old and dear friend, Herr Wilhelm Schlessinger, sub-Curator of the Museum and Privat-docent of Chemistry.