There was silence for some time. Jaz’s plump, pale face was still impassive, inscrutable, and his clothing was in order. Jack poured himself a half-glass of neat whiskey, put in a little water, and drank it off.
“And Willie Struthers and everybody?” asked Richard.
“Gone ’ome to his missis to have sausage for tea,” said Jack.
“Not hurt?”
“Blowed if I know,” replied Jack indifferently, “whether he’s hurt or not.”
“And is the town quiet?” Somers turned to Jaz. “Has everything blown over? What has happened?”
“What has happened exactly I couldn’t tell you. I suppose everything is quiet. The police have everything in hand.”
“Police!” snarled Jack. “Bloody Johnny Hops! They couldn’t hold a sucking pig in their hands, unless somebody hung on to its tail for them. It’s our boys who’ve got things in hand. And handed them over to the Hops.”
Somers knew that Johnny Hops was Australian for a policeman. Jack spoke in a suppressed frenzy.
“Was anybody killed?” Somers asked.