Follow the suitcase
Nobody remembered if it was a man or woman who arrived with the suitcase at the railway station luggage counter on November 30, 1948. Which could mean the owner arrived in Adelaide by other means and on another day. You didn’t need to show a train ticket to rent a 24 hour slot in one of their racks.
And he had packed for more than an overnight stay, a couple of days perhaps, enough time to change his underwear: he looked to be the fastidious type about his outer appearance so it would have been a quirk of his nature not to apply the same standards to his underwear when packing for the trip. His fingernails were clean and trimmed, his clothing neatly packed.
He stayed in an Adelaide hotel perhaps, but in this case we only have Ina Harvey’s long-term memories to sustain the proposal. Feltus would have none of it.
His suitcase was re-packed together with the soiled underwear and the three articles that bore the name Keane, then taken to the railway station before lunch on November 30. Storage for one day only.
We’ve been looking for a man named Keane ever since but the problem is that before Smith and Jones became the most commonly used names Keane lead the field. The man is still a phantom.
So the notion that comes to mind is whoever lodged the (repacked) suitcase knew Keane wasn’t the name of the man who owned it, therefore cared little. Leaving us with a question not widely discussed.
Why would somebody lodge a man’s suitcase at the railway station when they knew he would never collect it?