The feeble cries for help carried a good distance on the still and chill night air. On the back porch of their Huron Street home 150 yards away Mrs McNeill took a firm grip on the rail and peered into the shadowy gloom, as if by craning forward she could make sense of the noise. It was not an agitated night bird, and nor was it extreme enough for cats at it.
‘Dear?’ she called, and when he did not respond, she shouted ‘Dear!’
Her husband appeared, sucking to get one more mouthful of smoke out of his briar. She was bent forward, poised, the faint overhead light more concealing than revealing her figure outlined under her skirt, tensed as if she was ready to launch herself into the night. For some reason it reminded him of that trip to Great Barrier, when she was about to dive off the yacht. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he growled.
‘I think someone’s in trouble.’
‘I can’t see a thing. Probably the local wildlife. Come inside, Dilly, before you catch your death of cold.’
The grandfather was doing its Westminster chimes, striking eleven. He waited while his ears cleared, aware she had not come in. He went out to remonstrate again, and then he too heard the cry for help, followed by groaning.
‘It’s coming from the bus depot,’ she said.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Get your coat on, we’ll check. Probably some drunk.’
He led the way, momentarily wishing he had changed out of his slippers. Then he reminded himself to straighten up. After all, it was only two weeks since he was retired as a senior serving sailor, along with dear old HMS Diomede. She too was due to be retired at Devonport, but he was not convinced either him or his ship should be on the scrapheap. He was proud of the rescue work his ship’s complement had done in the Napier earthquake. The least he could do was show a capable hand in front of his wife. He automatically checked the still warm bowl of the briar stuffed in one pocket, wouldn’t want an incident. Yes, he could make out a figure collapsed against one of the bowser pumps. He was holding on to the hose, calling for help.
The rumble of a bus passing caused him to stop, his wife cannoning into him.
‘What was that?’ she said fearfully.
‘A ruddy bus.’
‘No. Listen.’
Someone was walking rapidly along the main road. Then a car accelerated away behind the bus depot. The groans were intensifying.
‘Come on!’ he reminded both of them.
As they reached a dishevelled looking man, he silently and slowly subsided to the ground.
‘Call the police,’ McNeill instructed his wife. ‘Go on.’
She did his bidding, as he crouched next to the slumped figure. He had to recall his first-aid training. Yes, check the airwaves. He was breathing, but not easily. He must get him into shelter and keep him warm, that’s what they did at Napier. But how? He was not large, but seemed quite stocky. He was only dressed in shirt, trousers and socks, no sign of a coat or boots. Of course, employ the fireman’s lift. He knelt either side of the prone shape, jigged his arm under his crutch, braced his reluctantly retired body and forced himself semi-upright. He staggered the few yards to the office, bumped inside and eased his victim to the floor. He recognised Victor Penny, lived with his wife in Napier Avenue. Night attendant at the depot. But everybody knew him as the crazy inventor.
Snap to it. Had to keep him warm.
He hurried back to get blankets, his wife informing him the police were on the way. She added she had also called Dr Stewart and Mr Taylor from the North Shore Transport Company.
‘It is Vic, isn’t it?’
He acknowledged that, pulling several blankets out of the top of the linen cupboard. ‘Best wait in case they come here,’ he said.
Penny was trying to get up, gasping ‘The papers. My papers.’
As he was swaddled, Penny mumbled about a sawn-off shotgun. McNeill reassured him the doctor was on his way. The poor chap was rambling, but with good reason. He had clearly come off the worse for the struggle, his clothes ripped, severe if unclear the form of the injuries. McNeill could see his coat and boots in the asphalt yard, along with papers scattered about. He told him not to worry, the papers were here and the authorities were on their way.
The doctor arrived, checked his pulse, noted numerous scratches and abrasions, elicited a terrible groan when he fingered his abdomen area. He shone a small torch in his eyes then looked up to answer Mrs McNeill’s question, yes, call an ambulance. McNeill frowned, he had told her to wait, but she was making herself useful.
Taylor arrived, full of exclamations and questions about Penny and what happened. The doctor told him it was best not touch anything, and wait for the police. The St John ambulance arrived and Penny was placed in it, still gabbling about his papers. The doctor told him he would inform his wife. The ambulance pulled away as the police arrived.
The police officer told Taylor to calm down. The discovery of the cashbox under the office counter with the takings from benzene and accessories had the desired effect of calming the manager. The McNeills gave their names and addresses to Detectives Turgis and Mills, who arrived shortly before midnight to begin scene examination. The detectives recovered a half-smoked cigarette near the scattered papers, but nothing else. They assured the McNeills they would look into the victim’s concerns about stolen papers. Dr Stewart told them Penny’s injuries, while severe enough, particularly the concussion and blow to the abdomen, were not life-threatening.
Which made, said Detective McWhirter when he joined his colleagues for further investigations, a rum business altogether, particularly this talk about foreign agents assaulting Penny.
The talk did not leave the Princes Street offices of the detective department, on the telephoned orders of Sub-Inspector Scott, who was attached to the Commissioner of Police in Wellington. Scott had recently been in Auckland making enquiries about the work of Mr Penny in his home laboratory. It was known among the Auckland detectives that Scott and his superior Inspector Stanley Biggart investigated matters of a political or sensitive nature.
What they did not know was that the sub-inspector was flying back to Auckland to confer with selected detectives about the activities of the Auckland German Club which, unlike its Wellington counterpart, was not there merely to appreciate German music and culture. It was a rabid Nazi Club intent on weeding out all non-Germans. Fortuitously perhaps it was also the subject of information from a visiting British official. He was interested in the Auckland experience at surveillance of German nationals in New Zealand. The official, Superintendent Jonathan Smith, was attending in an advisory as well as advised capacity the urgent meeting of those Auckland detectives charged with discovering what these Nazis were up to. Temporary Acting Detective Daniel Delaney was about to join the team and experience his first active assignment.