“So you were here when Goldspink was murdered, and a man named Parsons, eh?”

“Now look here, Inspector,” pleaded Jimmy. “You know I wouldn’t go in for murder. You know very well I’ve never carried a gun or ever done any bashing.”

“Working?”

“N-no. Holidaying, as I told you.”

“I marvel that you were not picked up by the boys from Sydney-Inspector Stillman, too.”

“Never showed out,” declared Jimmy, wishing the pavement would become mud soft enough to bury him. The terrifying blue eyes went on prodding his ego with blue-hot needles.

“Where living?” came the barked question.

“Twenty-two King Street, South Broken Hill.”

“Much left of the cash you took from the bookmaker’s flat in King’s Gross?”

Jimmy fought a losing fight. The blue eyes were terrific.

“Most of it,” he confessed. “I’ll do a deal, Inspector. I’ll return the lot if you-”

“Don’t bargain with me, Jimmy. I’ll issue orders. You will stay put. If you clear away from Broken Hill without my permission, I’ll track you ten times round the world if necessary to get you put away for a nice seven years of the best.” The blue eyes softened, and Jimmy was truly grateful. “Be around, and don’t get yourself arrested. By the way, your tie is a monstrosity. Run along and buy yourself others at the shop owned by the late Sam Goldspink. Take afternoon tea at Favalora’s Cafe and make love to the waitress who served old Parsons with his last cup of tea. Clear, Jimmy?”

“You want me to work with you, Inspector?”

“I didn’t actually say so, Jimmy. Some distance along the street I see a young man who is a reporter. You don’t know me at all well. We met, you will remember, at a reception at Government House in Brisbane.”

Thoroughly shocked, Jimmy the Screwsman sauntered down Argent Street.