Hidden meaning … the suspected code found on the last page of "The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam". Credit:courtesy of Newsouth books My dad told me about him as though he was a myth. In a way, he is. Certainly, he has become an object over which many theories have been laid. But he is also himself, poor man - cold as a stone, slouched on the sand like a marooned sailor, with his last smoke dropping gently out of his mouth - and he deserves his dignity. He was somebody's son. Somebody, somewhere, missed him and mourned for him. He wasn't just a mystery. He was a man. The police ambulance took Somerton Man to the Royal Adel-aide Hospital on North Terrace. There, at 9.40am, the doctor declared that life was extinct, an ancient ritual which must be enacted, even if there is absolutely no chance that life is present. Life could hardly have been more extinct in Somerton Man. The doctor who declared him dead suggested that he must have had a heart attack and sent him to the morgue for a post-mortem. The body was processed in the usual way, being stripped and tagged and refrigerated. There was nothing odd about a heart attack victim, so no special notice was taken of the half-smoked cigarette, but the contents of his pockets were logged, as follows: Railway ticket to Henley Beach.

Bus ticket to North Glenelg.

American metal comb.

Packet of Juicy Fruit chewing gum.

Packet of Army Club cigarettes with seven Kensitas cigarettes inside.

Handkerchief.

Packet of Bryant & May matches.

The plot thickens … some of the contents of Somerton Man’s suitcase. My father was convinced that Somerton Man was an American because of his clothes, which he called "sharp". He was wearing jockey shorts and a singlet, a white shirt with a narrow tie in red, white and blue, fawn trousers, a brown knitted pullover, a brown double-breasted suit coat, socks and highly polished brown, laced shoes. Snazzy. Somerton Man was a snappy dresser, but it was a hot evening and he was wearing very heavy clothes for the weather, the ensemble of someone who had come from somewhere cold, or who had nowhere to leave a change of clothes, or no lighter clothes into which he could change. On examination of the clothes, it was found that every identifying label had been removed. Prints among men … the fingerprints of Somerton Man, widely thought to be an American and quite likely a sailor, could not be matched by either the FBI or Scotland Yard. Credit:courtesy of Newsouth books Somerton Man had no money in his pockets. If he'd had any, it had gone with his wallet - if he'd had a wallet. And, to complete our survey of his garments, folded up into a tight little wad in his fob pocket, there was a scrap of paper torn out of a book that bore the words "Tamam Shud". Of which, more later.

Naked and cold, Somerton Man waited for his attending physician, whose task was to determine how he had died. Meanwhile, the police set about trying to find out who he was. Detective Strangway of Glenelg Station and his associates began by checking all the missing persons reports on hand, but Somerton Man fitted none of them. Then they checked his fingerprints, which were not on record. So far, so inconclusive. Then, on January 14, in response to a police appeal for unclaimed baggage directed to all lodging houses, hotels and railway stations, a suitcase was found in a locker at Adelaide's Central Railway Station. It had been checked in after 11am on November 30, 1948, the last day of Somerton Man's life (see "The Contents of the Suitcase", left). The most exciting discovery in the suitcase was the sewing kit in which was found orange Barbour thread; it was not sold in Australia. Identical thread had been used to repair the pocket of Somerton Man's coat. Waxed thread is not usually used to mend clothes: it must have been an emergency repair, intended to last only until he could lay hands on a seamstress. It seemed unlikely that the Barbour thread in the suitcase and the Barbour thread in Somerton Man's coat were not connected, so the suitcase probably belonged to Somerton Man. Also, the clothes were his size and the slippers would fit his feet. And some of the garments in the suitcase actually had labels with a name on them. There must have been cautious rejoicing among the exasperated police at that point, although they should have known it was too good to be true. The name, written on a singlet, a laundry bag and a tie, was T. Keane. Or possibly T. Kean. The call went out and a local sailor named Tom Reade was said to be missing. Was Somerton Man perhaps Tom Reade? But when Tom Reade's shipmates viewed the body, they all said that it was not their Tom Reade. Meanwhile widespread searches through maritime agencies had revealed that no one was missing a T. Keane or Kean.

The clothes were all examined by experts. The police called in a tailor, Hugh Possa of Gawler Place, who explained that the careful construction of the coat, with feather-stitching done by machine, was definitely American, as only the US garment industry used a feather-stitching machine. So the clothes were very high-value schmutter indeed. Such coats, the police were informed, were not imported. They were made up to a certain stage and then could be quickly tailored to the figure, the sort of thing which might be bought by someone who wasn't staying long in port, but was willing to pay a high price for a beautifully made, hand-finished suit. From which he then removed the label. Somerton Man also had very snazzy taste in nightwear. His pyjamas and gown were brightly coloured, and his felt slippers were red. Such things were a mark of a free spirit. Men of the time might have considered these garments to be outrageous, even effeminate. My father, drawing on his experience as a wharfie, told me that the stencilling brush, the modified knife, the screwdriver, pencils and the scissors found in Somerton Man's suitcase were all part of a cargo master's equipment - the stencilling brush for marking cargo and the other items for cutting or replacing seals. Cargoes were more fun back in those days. Instead of containers, which are anonymous and boring, balanced for weight, there were bales and sacks and boxes and crates, all carried by men out of ships and along gangplanks. Hard labour. Which brings us to the body itself and what everyone made of it. Somerton Man, in extremis, was 180 centimetres tall. He had grey eyes, also called hazel, and blond to reddish hair, greying at the temples. He was healthy, well-muscled and clean. He was uncircumcised. His toes were unusual, forced into a wedge as though he habitually wore tight, pointed, high-heeled boots, like a stockman or a dancer or a person willing to suffer to be beautiful. His legs were tanned, in the manner of someone who worked in shorts, and he had what they called "bunched" calf muscles, as seen in people who walk a lot, run long distances, dance or bicycle.

His age was estimated as "about 50". His hands and feet were smooth and well cared for, his nails short and neat, cut and filed. His hair had been neatly cut. He had what the pathologist referred to as a "fine Britisher face". Several doctors were involved in the investigation of the cause of death. The first was John Barkley Bennett, a legally qualified medical practitioner (or LQMP), who declared life extinct in the first place. Rigor was established and he thought that death had occurred within eight hours of his examination, at about 2am. By the time John Matthew Dwyer, LQMP, saw Somerton Man, rigor was intense. The post-mortem lividity behind the ears and neck was deep, indicating the body had not been moved. There was a patch of dried saliva on his cheek, which had run out of his mouth as he slumped to one side and the cigarette fell onto his lapel. Dwyer said, "His pupils were smaller and unusual, uneven in outline and about the same size. Certain drugs may be associated with a contraction in the pupils. Even barbiturates may do it, but it is by no means a distinguishing point." He added in his notes: "There was congestion of the pharynx, and the gullet was covered with a whitening of the superficial layers of the mucosa with a patch of ulceration in the middle of it. The stomach was deeply congested, and there was a superficial redness, most marked in the upper half. Small haemorrhages were present beneath the mucosa. There was congestion in the second half of the duodenum continuing through the third part. There was blood mixed with the food in the stomach.

"There was food in the stomach. I would say that food had been in the stomach for up to three or four hours before death. It is difficult to give an opinion on that because if the person is in a state of anxiety, then digestion may be suspended. "The blood in the stomach suggested some irritant poison, but on the other hand nothing detectable in the food to my naked eye to make a finding, so I sent specimens of the stomach and its contents, blood and urine for analysis." What the learned doctor appears to be saying is that there was some poison present but that he observed no poisonous matter - leaves, herbs, toadstools, berries, dyes, ground glass - in the stomach contents. Those contents are interesting precisely because they are there. Irritant poisons, even alcohol, usually announce themselves by violent vomiting, until the person has thrown up the entire contents of their stomach and is just vomiting bile. The final verdict was that he died of heart failure, which is like saying "he died because his heart stopped". This was said to be caused by poison - whether self-administered or given with homicidal intent by another person or persons unknown could not be determined. Having said as much (or as little), the Coroner adjourned the inquest sine die - that is, for another day, when hopefully someone might be able to tell him something helpful. And so matters rested, with the overworked Adelaide police force receiving answers to their requests for information from all over the world. J. Edgar Hoover wrote back to say that Somerton Man's fingerprints were not on record with the FBI, and no one at Scotland Yard identified them. Somerton Man was entirely, as police parlance says now, "off the grid".

More can now be guessed about the movements of Somerton Man after he arrived at Central Station on November 30. He bought a ticket for the Henley train. He then requested a wash and a shave and was told that the station amenities were closed and he would need to go to the City Baths, which housed not only a swimming pool but an actual set of bath tubs for travellers who needed a wash. This detour would have caused him to miss the train, so when he returned to Central and checked his suitcase, all shaved and clean, he decided to take a bus. Both tickets in his pocket are now explained. Somerton Man took the bus to Glenelg and would have arrived there by noon. He was next seen sitting on the beach and - probably - dying at 7pm on a hot night, wearing lots of clothes. His shoes were still highly polished. Where had he been in the interim? Somewhere along the way someone gave him supper - a pastie, which was still in his stomach. And in his watch pocket, folded up very small, was the last page of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, the words "Tamam Shud", which means, in effect, the end. The police began a vigorous rummage through public libraries and bookshops hoping to find the actual book from which the page was torn. Amazingly, on July 22, a Mr Ronald Francis recalled seeing a copy of The Rubaiyat in the glovebox of his brother-in-law's Hillman Minx. When Mr Francis called to inquire, his brother-in-law told him he had discovered the book lying in the back of his unlocked car. On November 30, the car had been parked in Moseley Street, the street above Somerton Beach. The next day, Mr Francis took the book to the police. The torn-out page matched the book and, what's more, the book contained a code and a telephone number written in pencil. The case had just become even more complicated.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam was a free - some say unduly free - translation of a Persian poet's series of verses and, from the moment it hit the bookshops in London in 1859, it was a success. It is a collection of quatrains expressing an unsentimental yet lyrical and definitively alcoholic view of the universe, which quite captured the Victorian imagination. They were a serious people and here was a reprobate old poet who cared for no one, with no philosophy and no religion, apart from wine, women and song. The Rubaiyat is exotic, positively reeking of the mysterious Orient, with towers and minarets and bulbul, but familiar enough in its sentiments to be easily applicable to everyday life. The copy of the book found in the car near to Somerton Man was a first edition, published in 1859 by Whitcombe and Tombs. This is curious in itself. If Somerton Man or his colleagues wanted a throwaway book to use for a book code, one would have thought that they would have chosen one of the commonly available editions. In fact, there are substantial differences between the editions of 1859, 1868 and 1872 which could have an effect on the decryption of the code. The second odd thing is that The Rubaiyat is the only thing in Somerton Man's possession which is not strictly utilitarian. It was his only extraneous possession, probably an expensive one. Which he treated with such disdain that he - or someone else - wrote telephone numbers and a code in pencil on the end page. The code is as follows: W [or possibly M] RGOABABDWTBIMPANETP

MLIABO AIAIQC

ITTMTSAMSTGAB



Extensive efforts have been made by Adelaide University to break the Tamam Shud code, using as a base the idea that it is a "one-time pad" encryption algorithm, but they need a copy of the first edition of The Rubaiyat and so far have not been able to find one [the Adelaide police threw out the copy found in the car]. A retired detective, Gerald Feltus, who has written an excellent book on Somerton Man called The Unknown Man, believes that the code is a series of capitals which refer to the first letters of words, in the same way as SWALK means "sealed with a loving kiss". For example, the final line of the code could mean "It's Time To Move To South Australia Moseley Street".

Meanwhile, it is time to remind you that there was a telephone number pencilled on the back page of Somerton Man's Rubaiyat, as well as the code. The telephone number was unlisted and belonged to a nurse called Teresa Powell or Johnson. She lived in Moseley Street, Glenelg, just above Somerton Beach. And here the story gets very interesting. The police questioned Teresa, who said she was not at home on November 30, but her neighbour mentioned that a strange man had called at the house. When Teresa was shown the body cast of Somerton Man, the police officer who exhibited it said "she was completely taken aback, to the point of giving the appearance that she was about to faint". An odd reaction, perhaps. Nurses are, regrettably, used to death and Somerton Man's face had been extensively plastered across the newspapers. Teresa must have already known that he was dead. If she knew him at all, that is. When asked about the phone number in The Rubaiyat, she volunteered that she had once owned a copy while she was working at the Royal North Shore Hospital in Sydney, but in 1945 she had given it to Alfred Boxall, who was a soldier [and rumoured to have worked in an intelligence unit]. This, as the alert reader will have noticed, is not an answer to the question. But she also said that the body cast was not of anyone she knew. The police decided to find Alf Boxall, hoping that this mystery would finally be marked "closed". But Boxall was not Somerton Man. He was alive and well, living in Randwick and working in bus maintenance. Boxall was unable to identify Somerton Man and what's more, he produced his copy of The Rubaiyat, complete with its last words, "Tamam Shud". The copy given to him by Teresa was the 1924 Sydney edition. When Teresa pleaded that she was now married and such exposure would damage her reputation, the police acceded to her plea that they shouldn't allow her name to be publicly known. She was instead referred to as "Jestyn", which was the name by which she signed Alf Boxall's copy of The Rubaiyat, until her real name was accidentally disclosed years later.

Teresa herself is an intriguing person. In 1945 she was nursing at Sydney's Royal North Shore Hospital, where she was known as Jestyn and unmarried. Then she moved back to her mother's house in Melbourne, had a baby and moved to Adelaide. When she told the police that she was now married, it was not true. She had taken the name of her future husband, Prestige Johnson, whom she would marry when his divorce came through in early 1950. When Teresa was interviewed by the indefatigable Gerald Feltus, he found her evasive and unwilling to talk about The Rubaiyat and Boxall, insisting that "she didn't know anything then, and she did not know anything now". Feltus came to the conclusion that Teresa knew the identity of Somerton Man. Researchers may have hoped that after her husband died she would reveal something interesting, such as that Somerton Man was her lover, but they were disappointed. Teresa, who died in 2007, has taken her secret, if she had a secret, to the grave. Edited extract from Tamam Shud: The Somerton Man Mystery by Kerry Greenwood, published by NewSouth Books on December 1. Like Good Weekend on Facebook to get regular updates on upcoming stories and events – www.facebook.com/GoodWeekendMagazine

THE CONTENTS OF THE SUITCASE

The suitcase located in a locker at Adelaide's Central Railway Station, thought to belong to Somerton Man, contained the following: ■ Red checked dressing gown ■ Red felt slippers, size 7 ■ Undergarments - four pairs

■ Pyjamas ■ Four pairs of socks ■ Shaving kit containing razor and strop, shaving brush ■ Light brown trousers with sand in cuffs ■ A screwdriver

■ A cut-down table knife ■ A stencilling brush ■ A pair of scissors ■ A sewing kit containing orange Barbour's waxed thread ■ Two ties

■ Three pencils ■ Six handkerchiefs ■ Sixpence in coins ■ A button ■ A tin of brown shoe polish, Kiwi brand

■ One scarf ■ One cigarette lighter ■ Eight large envelopes and one small envelope ■ One piece of light cord ■ One scarf

■ One shirt without a name tag ■ One yellow coat shirt (a shirt with an attached collar) ■ Two airmail stickers ■ One rubber [eraser] ■ One front and one back collar stud

■ Toothbrush and toothpaste