They Met at Sooke

Harbour —

By
“THE OLD TIMER”

*

Inspector Robert Owens of the British Columbia Provincial Police Has Had
Many Exciting Adventures During His Thirty Years of Service—Here’s One

INSPR. ROBERT OWENS, who com-
mands “A” Division of the B. C. Police,
with headquarters at Victoria, is an Irish-
man. He has the Irishman’s cheerful grin,
a fund of anecdotes, and, as was said of
Chartres Brew, who founded B. C.’s crack
constabulary eighty-five years ago, “a most
ready wit.” In addition, Bob Owens (for
everyone calls him Bob) has the usual big
streak of Irish generosity. No plaintive
appeal, no beggar’s whine, goes unheeded.
No matter what the cause, he’s the first to
contribute.

But to get on with our story.

Twenty-eight years ago Inspr. Owens
was plain Constable Owens. On a crisp,
frosty day in January, 1915, just after the
outbreak of the first World War, our genial
Irishman, at that time attached to Victoria
dstrict headquarters, was assigned to in-
vestigate a petty complaint at Sooke Har-
bour. J. H. Todd and Sons’ warehouse at
that point had teen broken into and a
quantity of canned goods were missing. A
minor complaint, but it set the stage for
first-rate drama.

Those were the days of horse and buggy,
and it took time to cover the forty miles
of tortuous gravelled country road between
Victoria and Sooke. Owens arrived in the
late afternoon, and after putting up h’s
horse at the local hostelry set about his
investigation.

A chill wind swept over the waters of
Sooke Harbour, and across the straits the
Olympic Range on the American side tow-
ered in their ghostly alpine beauty.

Our police officer, however, wasn’t tarry-
ing to admire the scenery. He made for the
scene of the crime, and after a quick in-
vestigation decided to check the fish boats
ted to the nearby float. Boat after boat he
stepped aboard, checked the owners and
their goods. But not a clue. The afternoon
was drawing in when Owens, finished with
the last boat, moodily walked up the narrow
main street of the settlement, hands deep in
his pockets, thinking. Suddenly he stopped
to view the harbour. His eyes narrowed
against the slanting afternoon sun as he
swept the whole scene. And then he spied
a boat he hadn’t seen before. Tucked in
one corner of the bay was a strange fish-

boat. Turning to a bystander he asked who
owned it.

SUMMER EDITION

Thriller He Was Twice Reminded Of.

“Don’t know,” replied the onlooker. “It
came in a couple of days ago.”

Guided by a hunch, and the desire to
make a thorough investigation, Owens re
traced his steps to the float.

“Take me out to that fishboat,” he said
to an old fisherman sitting in a gasoline
launch. In a minute they were on their
way, chugging across the choppy waters.
As he came up to the fishboat, Owens read
the name on the stern, Belle R., and the port

Inspector “Bob” Owens, Commanding “A”
Division, B. C. Police.

of registry “Seattle.” Grabbing the boat’s
gunwale he swung himself aboard and bade
the ferryman return to shore.

As he stepped aboard a face poked out of
the cabin door. A frowsy looking face,
adorned with two days’ growth of beard.

“What do you want?” said he of the
beard.

“I'm a police officer,” said Owens, “and
I want to ask you some questions.”

He stooped and entered the cabin. He
saw a second figure in the cabin’s gloom.

“Where do you fellows come from?”
charply interrogated Owens.

“We're from Seattle,” said one of the
men. “We're fishing.”

And then the police officer’s glance fell
on the cabin table, where some canned goods
were lying. He saw more than the canned?
goods—he saw the J. H. Todd brand on
some cans of salmon.

“Where did you fellows get this stuff?”
enquired the constable, indicating the pile
of cans.

“We bought it in Port Angeles,” replied
one of the men. “Bought it there last
week.”

He’s a liar, thought Owens, for the Todd
brand of salmon wasn’t exported to the

Wis:

“Well, you fellows better get the engine
going,” said the police officer. “We're going
in to the dock to get this stuff identified.”

The men gave their names as Giles Mar-
tin and Gerry Aust.

Back on deck with Aust, Owens watched
Martin crank the heavy duty marine en-
gine. Then Martin hauled up the anchor
and took his place at the wheel as the deep
muffled exhaust of the engine awakened
echoes from the nearby shore

The Irish policeman glanced around the
bay, and blew on his numbed fingers. The
raw breeze from the Straits of Juan de Fuca
had quickened and the little vessel dipped
and curtseyed to the swell as it veered
around.

The man at the wheel moodily leaned
against the side of the wheelhouse, staring
ahead. His companion, Aust, was coiling
some rope in the cockpit, and Owens stood
between the two.

Suddenly Owens’ attention was rivetted
on a simple fact—the wharf was not now
ahead, in fact the gas boat was swinging
away off its course.

“Hey, where are you going?” snapped
Owens to the man at the wheel. “Head in
for the wharf!”

The figure in the pilot house paid no
attention.

“Hey, you. D’ye hear me?” barked
Owens. There was silence, then, “Stick
up your hands,” broke in a quiet voice be-
hind the police officer.

Owens whirled—and found himself star-
ing into the muzzle of a .30-.30 rifle, held
by Aust. In the fisherman’s eyes was a cold
look.

“Get over,” said the fisherman, motion-

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