How Handsome Harry

Died

Letter to the Editor.

F note in January issue of your paper, that Mr. Nixon Westwood again brings up Handsome Harry’s death.

You have had so many garbled versions of this affair, you may as well now have the»true one: Freise had a woman that Harry coveted, and he swore that he would get her. He mentioned that fact many times, and I assure you he did not mince mat ters about it.

At this time, Freise was living in a house at Port Moresby, and Harry happened to be in town on his way down the coast, to a village called Aroma.

He met Freise at McCrann’s hotel the day before he was going away, and they cut cards, as to who was going to have the woman. Harry won, and said that he would take her away next day, or late the following evening.

I occupied a room in the hotel, together with an old identity by the name of Billy Rowe. The next room was occupied by a man called Gilbert who was working on Stewart’s slip.

At about 2 a.m., that night, we were awakened by Harry, who had an old useless rusty revolver in his hand. He

said to Rowe and me: “I went to Freise and drove him out of his house with> this, and then got into bed with his wife.”

Mind you, he was half tipsy. We got him away.

Then, along came Freise, to Gilbert’s room. He woke Gilbert up, and Rowe and I went in to see what was the trouble. Freise told us about his being driven out of his bed, with a revolver (he did not know it was useless) and he wanted police protection. We advised him to go to Mr. Atkinson, the policeman.

He left us; and the mistake he made was to go back to his house and finish off the remaining whisky with Harry, who also had gone back there. This came out in the evidence at the trial.

Next day, Harry was roaming around the hotel, drinking and so on, and boast ing that he was going to take the woman away that night. Freise was conspicuous by his absence.

That afternoon, another very old identity came in from Table Point —Alf Greenaway. He and I had tea together; and, after tea, we decided to play a game of crib. We occupied the little room adjoining the bar.

During the evening, Freise came in, and asked us, would we mind if he stayed in the room, as he was afraid of Harry, who was “looking for him.” We told him to stay with us. The room just held a table and two chairs —not much room for anything else. Old Paddy Cahill was sitting out in front of the doorway.

A few minutes after this, Harry came along, threw a parcel into Cahill’s lap, said he was going to smash up Freise, and came into the room. He tried to get past Alf Greenaway, but there was no room between the chair and the wall.

He rushed round the table at the back of me, and knocked Freise down.

Freise tried to get up. He was knocked down again, and Harry all the time was saying what he would do to him, and that he had his woman waiting in the road for him, as he was just off to Aroma.

When Freise rose for the third time, Harry rushed him again. Then Freise drew his gun and shot him dead. Harry just swung round, said “Alf, the little b has got me!” and dropped dead.

Only Cahill, Greenaway and I saw the affair. McCrann’s son, who was a rheumatic subject, got such a shock from the report of the gun that he took a flying leap and jumped the bar counter, rushing up the road calling “murder.”

Mr. Atkinson came along and made enquiries, and Greenaway and I had to go to the court next morning. Mr.

O’Malley, the magistrate, put us under a bond of £25 to appear at court on the 25th of January. This all happened at Christmas. It was Boxing Day when the enquiry was held.

At the court, Judge Herbert told Freise that if he had shot Harry at the time that he was driven away from his house, it would have been a different matter, but he did not think that at the time he did shoot Harry he was justified in going to the extremes he did, and' sentenced him to five years.

As for us men who were in Port, at McCrann’s hotel, at the time, and knew the whole of the matter and what led up to it, we thought that Harry got what he was looking for, and all he deserved.

Both of the men were wasters, and the world is well rid of them.

That is exactly what occurred.

I am, etc,,

W. A. Simpson.

Milne Bay, Papua.