“This Senator,” Richter said, puckering as he cradled Stasi like a baby. “He is a client of yours?”
“Oh, yes,” Milton replied. “He’s quite the connoisseur. Recently developed an insatiable taste for modern art.”
“Is this one of von Eidelsöhn’s?” Rowland tilted his head to one side, in case a change of perspective would help. Perplexing though it was, he quite liked the painting…it was amusing, if nothing else.
“No…this was a chap called Miró. Von Eidelsöhn won’t take our cheques anymore.”
“Why?” Rowland asked, worried that the Old Guard had stopped payment on their previous purchases.
“Apparently he’s in love with my sister,” Milton replied, rolling his eyes at Edna. “He doesn’t want to tarnish the purity of his admiration with something so base as money.”
Edna smiled, curling her legs up into the armchair on which she sat. “Hans is so intense. I’ve never met anyone quite like him.”
Rowland noticed then that her left wrist was bandaged.
“What happened?” he asked, taking her hand gently to inspect it.
“It’s just a little burn,” she replied. “Nothing really.”
“She was welding,” Milton said.
“Welding?”
“Hans has this wonderful welder that automatically feeds the fusing wire,” Edna explained, the excitement bubbling quickly into her voice. “I’d heard of them but I’d never used one before…I usually cast, you know. It’s the most amazing technology, but it takes a little getting used to.” She laughed, embarrassed. “I’m afraid I fused the welding head to the sculpture a couple of times.”
“Oh, dear.” Rowland tried to look as though he knew what she was talking about. “You should be careful, though.”
Edna smiled. “Don’t worry, Robbie darling, it’s far too late for my hands…they’ll never look anything like a lady’s should.” She put out both hands to support her claim.
Rowland did not need to look. He knew Edna’s hands—he had drawn them often. They were strong and sensitive, marked with several small scars from welding sparks, or pit fires or sharp edges, which the sculptress considered marks of her trade and showed off with a kind of professional pride. Her nails were short and rarely manicured and when she was working, the skin often became calloused. They were far from ladylike hands. To Rowland they were perfect.
“Thank goodness for gloves,” he said.
“Dear Hans,” Edna went on dreamily, “he was very understanding and patient. Once I got used to the technique, it opened my mind to so many possibilities for finer, more complex pieces than I’ve conceived before. Hans may seem solemn but it’s only because he has a real vision for his work.”
“Well, my dear, you must invite him to dine here,” Richter said warmly. “He’s obviously a man of impeccable taste, but we must meet him to decide if he’s good enough for our Millicent.”
“Do Dadaists have dinner?” Clyde muttered. “Surely dinner is just an archaic social tradition? Who can say if dinner really exists?”
Rowland laughed.
Edna laughed too. “You are becoming part of the artistic establishment, Joseph,” she needled. “You’ll be joining the Country Party next.”
Clyde snorted.
They spent that evening quietly in the company of Richter and Stasi. Rowland pulled out his notebook, drawing from memory as Clyde and Edna argued over whether the Modernist movement had gone too far. Their host discussed the problems he was having with the black uniform of the SS, which he maintained was a maudlin atrocity. “If Göring had retained the SS, my pleas for colour might not have fallen on deaf ears,” he complained. “But Himmler is a boorish Prussian peasant.”
Rowland contemplated the other Göring as he sketched a man kneeling in the plaza in the shadow of a Brownshirt. The filmmaker had surprised him with his open subversion of the regime in which his brother served. Rowland could not help but admire the man.
He didn’t speak of the incident, however, until Richter and the servants had retired and they were alone.
Edna perched on the arm of his chair, looking curiously over his shoulder at the notebook. He looked up, distracted by the lingering scent of roses, the familiar smell of the sculptress’ perfume.
“You’re quiet, Rowly,” she whispered. “Where were you today?”
Rowland stood and shut the door. He recounted the events of the day.
Edna clapped her hands softly as he told them of Göring’s stand.
“So he’s a good bloke?” Clyde said.
Rowland nodded.
“And this Nancy Wake…she’s the woman Bothwell was involved with?”
Rowland dragged a hand through his hair. “She certainly knew him, but it might not have been anything improper. Albert appeared before I could find out.”
“And now she thinks you’re an actor?” Milton laughed. “Gotta hand it to you, mate, that’s one way to impress a girl.”
Rowland groaned. “I couldn’t think of anything else to explain why Albert was calling me Rowland Sinclair instead of Robert Negus. To be honest, I felt like a jolly fool. And I’m not sure she believed me.”
“Do you think she had something to do with Bothwell’s death?” Clyde asked.
Rowland shrugged. “I rather like her.”
Clyde shook his head. “That doesn’t mean anything, mate.” He glanced at Milton, who was turning the Miró upside-down to see if it improved. “You’ve been known to display unfortunate lapses in judgement when choosing your friends.”
Chapter Eighteen
HECKLING THE
YOUNG MASTER
A certain Duke’s son, very young, was finishing his campaign by addressing the electors near his father’s estates, when at question time an old man at the back shocked everyone by asking, “Sonny, does yer mother know you’re out?”
“Yes,” shouted back the candidate with a show of anger, “and she’ll know I’m ‘in’ tomorrow.”
And she did.
The interjector proved to be the old gardener at home, whom the young man had paid one guinea to ask the question.
—The Advocate, 1933
Alastair Blanshard was not happy.
“You were given clear and specific instructions,” he spat, staring at his newspaper. “You were to lie low.”
Rowland was not entirely sure how Blanshard knew he had scrubbed the plaza with Göring, but it seemed he did.
“They called it off before I gave my name.”
“And if it hadn’t been called off? If you’d been arrested by the Nazis you would have been of no use to us whatsoever!” He flicked the paper angrily. “That’s what those bloody fools get for sending me some idiot playboy.”
Rowland stood. He wasn’t about to let Blanshard dress him down like a child.
“Sit down!” Blanshard turned the page. “I’m not finished.”
“I am.”
“Sit down, Mr. Negus. I do not have time for your wounded feelings. I have a job for you.”
For a moment, Rowland considered telling Blanshard what he could do with his job.
“This is not a game, Mr. Negus,” Blanshard murmured. “You cannot take your ball and go home.”
Rowland swore, but quietly, and he resumed his seat on the park bench.
“Campbell is supposed to deliver a speech tonight at this book-burning they’ve organised.”
“A speech? What the hell could he possibly have to say?”
“He doesn’t know himself…the speech has been written for him, in German. He’s just going to read it.”
“I see.”
“I want you to be there.”
“Why?”
“To stop it, of course.”
“I suppose I could shout ‘Fire!’” Rowland muttered.
“You’re not funny, Mr. Negus.”
“Well, what do you propose I do, Mr. Blanshard?”
“Campbell is scheduled to arrive at the Plaza at midnight. I will do everything I can to prevent him getting there, or at the least, getting there on time. If I am unsuccessful, he will throw a copy of Das Kapital onto the fire and go to the podium to address the crowd. It must not be a successful appearance. Do what you can.”
Rowland shook his head in disbelief. “Fine,” he said finally. “If Campbell shows up, I’ll try to do something.”
Blanshard folded his newspaper and lit a cigarette. “Do not get yourself arrested, Mr. Negus. There will be very little I can do for you.”
Rowland sighed. “Believe me, Mr. Blanshard, I will do my best to avoid it.” He stared out at the Königsplatz which was being prepared for the evening’s event. The standards of the SA lined the square, the black and red of Nazi banners festooned all the surrounding buildings. “And if Campbell happens to see me? He knows who I am.”
Again, Blanshard looked away as he spoke. “Get yourself to Hamburg and on the first ship out of here. You would be wise not to delay for any reason…Do you understand me, Mr. Negus?”
Rowland nodded slowly. They would have to be prepared, then.
Blanshard casually handed him the newspaper. “Page three.”
Rowland opened the paper to the indicated page. A telegram had been inserted between the leaves.
ALASTAIR BLANSHARD
BUDGET ALREADY EXCEEDED STOP EXORBITANT
EXPENDITURE ON SPECULATIVE STOCK STOP CURTAIL
STOP
MUNROE
Rowland closed the paper and handed it back. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You, Mr. Negus, are the speculative stock.”
“I see.”
“We understand each other, Mr. Negus, don’t we?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good. I have more than enough to do without having to watch your wretched pocket money!”
Rowland simmered, but he did so wordlessly.
Blanshard shoved his paper under his arm. With only the barest of nods he walked away.
“Whoa, mate, what’s the matter?” Clyde asked, startled as Rowland slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.
Milton selected a crystal decanter from Richter’s Jacobean sideboard. “You look like you need a drink.”
Rowland addressed the poet. “Did you buy anything today?”
“A sculpture,” Milton replied, hesitantly. “Actually, it was a pile of old hats titled Between Man and God.”
“What did you pay for it?”
“Rather a lot.”
“Good.” Rowland took the drink Milton had poured him and raised his glass to the poet. “Well done.”
“Righto, Rowly,” Clyde said quietly, “what gives?”
Rowland told them of his latest meeting with Blanshard. He kept his voice to a virtual whisper, for though he knew Richter was out and the door was closed, Blanshard had made it amply clear that they could expect no help if they were exposed.
“The cheap bastards!” Milton was livid.
Clyde shook his head, pointing accusingly at Milton. “Look what you’ve done, you idiot.”
Rowland shook his head and spoke in defence of the poet, as he fell into a seat. “The only thing that’s keeping me from telling the whole flaming lot of them to sod off is the thought of Senator Hardy taking delivery of that deformed duck painting.”
Milton bowed. “I aim to please.”
“So what are we going to do about this book-burning, Rowly?” Clyde asked.
Rowland groaned. “Hope for rain.”
Milton smiled. “We’ll heckle.”
Rowland sat up. “I beg your pardon?”
“Campbell’s reading a speech. He doesn’t speak German, and you do,” Milton said, sitting on the occasional table opposite Rowland. “Heckle him and he won’t have a clue how to respond. We could completely derail the speech.”
“And how do you propose I do that without him recognising me and exposing us?”
“Good Lord, Rowly, I can’t think of everything.”
Rowland put down his drink, yanking the invitation to the orchestrated bonfire from beneath Milton. He stared at it. Heckling wasn’t a bad idea, but for the fact that doing so would attract the attention of both Campbell and the SA organisers. It would be dangerous on many levels.
“You’re not thinking about trying it, are you, Rowly?” Clyde asked, aghast.
Rowland bit his lower lip. He wondered how much time they’d have to get out of Munich if they were exposed…and how they would do so.
“Rowly?”
Rowland frowned. “We’ll just play it by ear,” he said. “Do what we can, without getting ourselves arrested…but we should be prepared to have to leave in a hurry.”
Before Milton or Clyde could respond, they heard Edna’s voice in the mansion’s foyer. A few moments later the sculptress walked in on the arm of Alois Richter.
The elderly tailor had stepped out with her to one of the better hotels, where they had taken tea with Hans von Eidelsöhn. Richter had become quite paternal where the sculptress was concerned and Edna had decided to find his fatherly interest endearing rather than presumptuous. The lonely widower had elicited her compassion, and so she allowed him to fuss in a way her own father had never dared.
Of course, the men with whom she usually lived had already met von Eidelsöhn and in any case, they’d never felt it necessary to meet all of the sculptress’ many suitors.
“Well, I must say, Mr. von Eidelsöhn is certainly an earnest young man,” Richter said, settling into the settee with the drink Milton poured him. “Is he as revolutionary an artist as our Millicent claims?”
“More like civil disobedience than revolution, I would have thought,” Rowland muttered.
Edna laughed as she sat on the arm of his chair. “You’re just jealous…”
Milton and Clyde looked up sharply.
“Robbie wishes he’d discovered Hans himself,” Edna told Richter. “I’m afraid we dealers can be rather competitive.”
Rowland smiled. “Yes, that’s it.”
“Well, he is a very affable young man,” Richter said. “Although I do think you’d be more suited to someone a little more cheerful, my dear.”
Clyde laughed. “Gotta admit, he’s a bit melancholy, Millie.”
“He’s a serious artist,” Edna said loftily.
“Very serious.” Rowland winked at Clyde.
Richter chuckled, tickling Stasi, who it appeared was not in the least ticklish. “Stop with your teasing, young men,” he admonished. “I will not have you bully my Millie.”
Edna smiled warmly at the tailor. “You are gallant, Mr. Richter.” She glanced at her watch. “I might just duck out before lunch, if nobody minds. I won’t be long.”
“Where are you going, my dear?” Richter asked. “Shall I ring for the driver to take you?”
“No, please don’t bother,” Edna said standing and adjusting her hat. “I’m just going to walk down to Hoffman’s studio with some film for Eva to develop.” She turned to Rowland, the excitement plain in her face. “I’ve started shooting a series of artists with their work. I’m anxious to see how the pictures come out.”
A thought occurred to Rowland. “I’ll come with you, if you like.”
“Yes, that is a good idea,” Richter approved. “A young lady should not step out without an escort. After all, this is not Berlin.”
Rowland waited until they were well outside the gates of Richter’s mansion. “Look, Ed, I don’t think you should leave your film with Eva.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because it may be the last you see of it.” Quickly Rowland told the sculptress of the task they’d been set. Edna looked
up at him in shock.
“We should be prepared for the possibility that we may have to leave in rather a hurry.”
“Oh, Rowly,” she whispered. “How on Earth are we going to stop Colonel Campbell giving a speech?”
Rowland shook his head. “I’m not sure, Ed.”
“He’s reading a speech in German?”
“I expect it will be something simple…along the lines of ‘Herr Hitler ist unsere Freund’. Blanshard’s worried that if he does well tonight, Nazi doors might open.”
“But Campbell knows both you and me, and he might recognise Clyde, as well.”
Rowland removed his hat to push back his hair. Edna was right. She had masqueraded as his fiancée when he’d infiltrated the New Guard the previous year, and hers was not a face a man would forget. Clyde had come to Campbell’s house to drag Rowland out after Edna had shot him. It was indeed likely that the Colonel would remember him as well. Only Milton remained relatively unrecognisable. It all seemed impossible.
“Perhaps you should just tell Mr. Blanshard that we can’t do it, Rowly.”
This Rowland resisted, though he wasn’t sure why he railed so against the idea of failing Blanshard. Perhaps he was becoming increasingly worried about what Campbell might bring back to Sydney, or perhaps it was simply Blanshard’s repeated expectation that he was not up to the job.
“Herr Negus! Millicent!” Eva stuck her head out of Hoffman’s shop as they approached. “Grüss Gott! How fine to see you…I was afraid you’d forgotten me.”
“Not at all, Fräulein,” Rowland said after he’d translated for Edna.
Edna took Eva’s hand warmly. “Of course we wouldn’t forget you.”
“Do you have more film you’d like me to develop?” Eva was clearly eager to do Edna a kindness.
“No, not yet,” Rowland replied immediately. It occurred to him then that they did need some sort of reason for calling upon her, aside from Edna’s negatives. “I was going to work on your painting this evening. I was hoping you might sit for me for an hour or two, if it’s convenient.”
Paving the New Road Page 17