Knowing how much you have the boys’ welfare at heart, I am confident that you will bring your very wide experience to bear on this problem, the solution of which appears to be the detection of the ringleaders of this conspiracy.

I remain as always, my dear Mr. Rose,

Yours very sincerely,

Henry Walters. Inspector of Police.

Having signed his name in calligraphy appearing much like helmets on the heads of tin soldiers, Inspector Walters sealed the letter, stamped it and tossed it into his “outward” basket.

The police office was, save for himself, deserted. Sergeant Sawtell had gone to the airport to meet the inward plane from Perth. Constable Pedersen was out in the barren McLarty Hills with one of his trackers seeking a wild aborigine who was wanted for wife-maiming, and Constable Clifford was making inquiries concerning the indentures of a Malay shell-diver.

The month being June, and mid-winter, the temperature of the office was moderately low, and now the shadows of the palm trees were long across the open space between the large bungalow-styled station house and the roadway which it fronted. The storm shutters were raised high, and the entire front wall was open and fly-netted. When a flashing new car swept in through the open gateway and drew to a stop before the steps leading to his office, Inspector Walters almost snarled. He was pretending to read a report when through the swinging fly-netted doorscame a woman. Under forty, and wearing honey-coloured slacks and a peasant blouse, she was still vivid and markedly self-possessed.

“Good-afternoon, Inspector,” she said, her voice brittle. Her bold brown eyes were hard as she faced Walters, who had risen to his feet. “I’ve called to give you a piece of my mind. Have you any objection?”

“This department is always at the service of the public.”

“Well then, it’s my considered opinion that when two defenceless women are murdered and no one is arrested for it, it’s a shocking disgrace to the Police Force.