8 July 1937

POLICEMAN THREATENED BY DRUNKEN SAILOR

Knife Drawn By Drink-Maddened Maniac When Arrested

'Ship ahoy!' called a voice. The scene was Nairne, not far from one of the local hotels in 1897, so the mounted constable, who in later years became Inspector LeLievre, went to investigate.

Going to the hotel, he saw a man drunk. When he was asked what was the matter the man said that he wanted his mate. 'You had better come with me and have a camp,' said the policeman, and took him along to the station. He asked if he could have something to eat, as he had not had anything that day. Plenty of food was provided for him, as well as two pannicans of hot tea.

When he had finished, Le Lievre said, 'You had better go in and have a camp.' 'What do you take me for, a blanky mug?' the man said, and made a violent blow at the constable. In the ensuing scuffle the drunk found himself bundled into the cell.

Down the street there was another man who said that he would 'knife the blanky trooper who had caged his mate,' and several local residents, who hurried to the police station, were more scared than the policeman they told about the threatened vengeance. The man would certainly knife anyone who attempted to arrest him. 'Take your revolver, by all means,' they told him. They were thanked for telling him, for the constable was now prepared for trouble. He put his baton inside his jacket and went in search of the man. One of the men was asked to follow in case of trouble.

Not far along the road a man was heard using vile and blasphemous language while standing under the verandah of one of the hotels. 'You're the fellow that caged my mate,' he said threateningly, keeping his hand at his side on the handle of a sheath knife in his belt. The man was mad drunk — almost a demon, and LeLievre could see that at the slightest provocation he would be knifed. At all costs the man must be arrested, the policeman determined, but he could see only certain death if he tried to make him a prisoner by force.

'I don't know what you mean by caging your mate,' the policeman said quietly. 'He has just had a feed and is now having a camp at the station.' 'Well,' the man said, brokenly, 'there's his blanky swag. You can take that, too.' But Le Lievre was not to fall into a trap so easily. He knew well enough that the drunken maniac was waiting only for a chance to get him off his guard so that he could knife him. The policeman turned to the landlord, who was standing by. 'Take the swag inside, and give the owner of it a pint of beer at my expense when he calls tor it,' he said.

'Leave the blanky swag alone; I'll take it to him,' growled the drunk. 'Very well, you can do that it you like,' said Le Lievre complacently. The drunk in his rage had evidently expected that this would be the last way the policeman would handle the situation. He slung the swag over his shoulder and staggered with it towards the station, with the policeman close to him. Le Lievre was prepared to use his baton on him the moment he started to draw the knife.

After they had gone a little way Le Lievre said, 'I hear that you are a sailor, and that you have a knife you are going to put into me. Do you call yourself an English sailor?' He replied with an oath that he was. 'I want you to hand me that knife and let me have a look at it said Le Lievre.' He drew it out of its sheath. As he raised his arm the policeman caught hold of his wrist, giving it a sharp twist, and took, possession of the knife.

He was taken by surprise: — 'Oh, matey,' he said, 'you're not going to keep my knife. That is the only one I have to cut my tobacco with.' Le Lievre offered to cut up what tobacco he wanted. After the trip to the station was over, the man was arrested and placed in the cell with his mate. Stamping and swearing, he seemed almost a madman. Opening his swag, he drew out from it a new tomahawk, and put it on the cell floor. When he walked over to where his fellow prisoner was sleeping soundly, the constable's offsider entered the cell, and quickly picked up the tomahawk. With the cell bolted, more blasphemy followed, and there they remained until morning.

In the morning; there was a great change. The policeman went to the cell prepared for all imaginable trouble. He asked them their names. 'What's the charge, sergeant? Not knifing, I hope. I'm a devil when in drink,' said the man with the knife, a completely changed man from the fiend of the night before. 'Fortunately for you it is not,' he was told.

They went before the Nairne Police Court and were both sentenced to imprisonment. The ugly looking knife went into the police museum.

There is a tragic sequel to that episode. A year or more after the incident a woman was found dead in a house in Stepney. She was the wife of a man about whom the police knew very little, but who proved to be the sailor Le Lievre had arrested at Nairne. Having served his sentence, he went up north, and there became acquainted with a blocker's daughter of excellent character. She was in domestic service, and two months after she met him she left for Adelaide with him, and they were married.

Glenelg was their home for a time, but the bride had to be satisfied with a brush shelter in the sandhills. They had a dog— a most ferocious animal— and woe betide anyone who went near the shack when the dog was about. While they were camped there several houses were broken into at Glenelg, but residents had no reason to connect them with the robberies. They seemed respectable, if poor.

They then moved to Stepney. There the wife was found dead with a bullet wound in her head, and a revolver lying near her right hand. There was no furniture, and a few old bags sufficed for bedding. There was an inquest, and the jury found that the woman had probably committed suicide, having discovered that the man she had married was leading a dishonest life.

Police had examined the place and underneath the floorboards had found property which had been stolen at Glenelg and other places. There was a fully loaded revolver as well. But had the woman commited suicide? She must have known that the stolen articles had been brought into the place, so that the jury's supposition was probably incorrect. It might easily have been murder, and the police had little doubt that it was, but they had no proof of it. The husband, however, was sentenced to ten years' imprisonment for burglary and housebreaking. — H.

[See original article, Memories of an Old Policeman 6 Oct 1925]

Hoist With Their Own Petard

Jack Graham, a well-known resident of a South Australian mining town, was a man in his late thirties, who during his younger days had gained many a pound by his skill at cards. However, at the time I am writing about, he was married and settled down, and although, like all mining towns, there were plenty of poker schools going, the only interest he took in cards was an occasional game of euchre for drinks.

As the town was noted for the high stakes in its poker schools, it attracted at various times a number of city card sharpers. Two of these men, on going into an hotel one afternoon, saw Jack Graham and a friend playing German whist for drinks, and at the expiration of the game challenged them to a rubber of euchre, also for drinks. Jack and his mate were quite agreeable, and during the third game (with the scores one all) one sharper who had just dealt the cards challenged any of the players for a poker bet on their respective hands.

Graham's partner, who was holding three Jacks and two tens, accepted the challenge, and wagered two pounds on the result. Needless to say, he lost, for the sharper had four sevens. Graham had been watching the players very carefully, and soon summed them up for what they were. Deciding that they would not get away with the two pounds so easily, he and his partner won the rubber, and after having had their drinks, asked the sharpers if they would like their revenge. This, of course, was just what they wanted.

After playing for a time, the scores were one game each, and during the third game (when Graham had dealt the cards), the sharper who had won the two pounds again remarked that he would like to bet poker on his hand. Jack had turned up a seven in the turn-up, and remarked that if they would let him discard one of his cards and have the turn-up (seven) he would bet a couple of pounds on his hand. His only intention then was to win his mate's two pounds back.

The sharper looked at his cards again— he was holding four Jacks— and noting, as he thought, that the best that Graham would be after was four sevens, because he could not hold a routine flush (his four Jacks having that blocked), promptly accepted the challenge, at the time remarking that his hand was worth more than two pounds, and he would like to bet more on the result. After a little apparent reluctance on Graham's part, the bet was made seven pounds a hand.

The sharper threw down his hand, remarking, 'I've got you beat. I have four Jacks, and I think you have four sevens.' 'Wait a minute,' said Graham, at the same time exposing his hand, and to everyone's surprise he threw down on the table four queens and one seven. His remark about picking up the seven was only a ruse to mislead the other fellow, as he had the four queens all the time.

The sharpers realised that they had been caught at their own game, but they also realised that it was no good squealing. However, they never asked Graham to play cards with them again.— 'Mike O'Bader.'

An Unsolved Mystery

Mysterious disappearances take place in the bush at times, but probably no greater mystery ever intrigued the law than that of the fate of a half-caste named Daniels and the white girl he abducted from Turkey Creek station in the Rockhampton district many years ago.

The girl, who was a housemaid at the station, was friendly with one of the stockmen; but Daniels apparently was secretly in love with her, a fact which he evidently kept to himself. One evening when the girl and her stockman friend were conversing together, the half-caste suddenly appeared with a rifle, and before the stockman realised his danger, he was shot dead. Daniels then secured the girl and rode away into the night.

For weeks an intense search was carried out by police and bushmen, but no traces of the half-caste or the unfortunate girl could be found. The country in the neighborhood of Turkey Creek station was wild and rugged, and there were plenty of out of the way places where the half-caste could hide. But his problem was how to obtain sufficient food for himself and the girl. At last, after vain attempts to locate Daniels and the girl, the belief grew that he had killed the girl and then shot himself.

Three years ago, or nearly thirty years after the murder and abduction, two skeletons were found in the bed of Cania Creek in the Monto district, less than a hundred miles from where the tragedy occurred. It was proved beyond doubt that one of the skeletons was a male, the other a female, but identification could not go further than that. In the district where the skeletons were found the natural surmise was that they were those of Daniels and the girl. Whether they were or not, and what happened to the half-caste and the girl must for ever remain one of the unsolved mysteries of the bush.— 'Old Timer.'