Strangers are Suspect

LESS THAN EIGHTY miles from Melbourne, Split Point is situated between the holiday resorts of Anglesea and Lorne. Behind the Point lies the Inlet and back of the Inlet one can be a thousand miles from the city.

During the winter months visitors are rare at SplitPoint, and at the Inlet Hotel Bony learned he was the only guest until the next day, when a Navigation Department man was expected. However, on entering the small bar he found several men who were obviously locals… soft-speaking and reserved. Their conversation ceased on his entry, and eyes examined him with an apparent lack of interest.

The licensee was large, round, bald and beery, an incarnation of the innkeepers of Dickens’ novels. His dark eyes were like those of a kookaburra, his nose a wondrous blob of blue-veined red marble.

“Go down to the beach?” he asked, drawing a glass of beer for Bony.

“Yes, Mr Washfold. A wildafternoon, and cold. Pretty place, though. I’m going to like it.”

“Looks prettier when the sun shines,” returnedWashfold. “Been around a bit myself, and liked no place better. You can haveMelbun, all of itincludin ’ the pubs. A shilling’s my price for that hole any day.”

The licensee shot a glance at the other men, received their tacit approval, and waited for opposition from this guest.

“No one living in those houses down from the Lighthouse?”Bony questioned.

“Don’t think. Summer houses they are. You been up there?”

“Walked up to see the Lighthouse, yes.”

Bony was conscious of the silence, and the licensee moved along the short bar counter to re-fill glasses. Then one man asked another if he had sighted the hardwood boards on order, and yet another admitted he had obtained roof guttering without much trouble. Washfold returned to Bony.