by Robert Gott
‘I assume,’ she said, ‘that I can be frank.’
‘Yes. You needn’t worry about offending me.’
‘I thought your brother was a sad, frustrated, angry old man. Is he a widower?’
‘A bachelor.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘A relief?’
‘I don’t think he’d have made a sympathetic husband. I know it sounds awful, but I’m glad he didn’t get to punish a wife for having had the temerity to be born female.’
‘Was he abusive to you?’
Helen thought about that.
‘Not in any remarkable way. I was glad he was in a wheelchair.’
‘I wouldn’t have sent you into a dangerous situation — not on you own, anyway.’
‘I didn’t mean that I might have felt physically threatened. I meant that I was glad he was in a wheelchair.’
It took a moment for this subtly vitriolic remark to sink in.
‘All I can say, Constable, is that I’m not surprised that he lived down to my expectations. One doesn’t choose one’s siblings.’
David Reilly’s account of his meeting with Maria Pluschow stressed her detestation of the police, but gave no hint of the way in which he’d bungled it. Inspector Lambert’s account of Hardy Truscott’s philosophy was succinct and dismissive. No one had seen George Starling for years. The fact that he’d been the butt of his father’s jokes and that he’d regularly been on the receiving end of his fists were interesting additions to the little they knew about him.
IT WAS CLOSE to 5.30 pm when George Starling walked up the driveway of his father’s farm in Mepunga. He hadn’t seen his father for several years — years during which he’d made his body hard and useful. Even so, he was nervous about meeting him. The memory of his violence and contempt remained raw. Now, though, he was ready to knock the old man down at the slightest provocation. He was going to take the motorbike, and that was that — if his father objected, it wouldn’t end well. He noticed that there was fresh hay in the paddock closest to the house (he wasn’t to know that Constable Manton had returned briefly and put it there), and that the horses and donkey were hoeing into it. Bypassing the house, he went straight to the shed where the motorbike was kept. If he could get away without having to confront his father, well and good.
While he was in the shed he heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. His father didn’t own a car, so it wasn’t him. He could see the driveway from the door of the shed, and he was shaken when he saw a police car. They’d come looking for him. Why else would they be there? He watched as four people, including a woman, got out. A female copper? Surely not. One of them looked familiar. He might have been there that night a few weeks ago in Belgrave, but Starling couldn’t be sure. There was a door in the back of the shed, and he slipped through it, out into the yard, through a gap in the fence, and crouched behind a thick clump of blackberries. He had a good view of the back of his father’s property, and he was confident that he couldn’t be seen from there.
The four visitors didn’t go up to the front door. Instead, they walked to the old cypress, just beyond the back fence. Starling didn’t have a clear view of the cypress, but he could see enough to be puzzled by their interest in it. They spent several minutes near the tree before checking the backyard, including the shed holding the motorbike. When they walked in there, Starling quickly raised his forearm to his nose. Did he smell strongly of fish? Could he have left a scent behind that would puzzle the police? No, that was a ridiculous thought. These were plods, not Sherlock Holmes. Anyway, no one would be surprised to smell fish around these parts.
The police entered the house through the back door without so much as knocking. Why would they do that? They mustn’t have been looking for him, after all. Were they hoping to take his father by surprise? No. If they’d wanted to do that, they’d make sure both the front and the back were covered. So, either they were expected or … George felt a sudden rush of excitement. They knew before they arrived that Starling senior wasn’t at home. And what could that mean? His father had either left the district unexpectedly and suspiciously, or he was dead. At any rate, something had happened to him, and George didn’t particularly care what. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t need his house anymore — George Starling had no intention of claiming it or living in it. What he intended to do was burn it down. After the police left, he’d give them time to get back to Warrnambool, and then he’d cauterise the bloody memories of his childhood with fire.
The police were inside the house for about 20 minutes. Clearly, they were searching it. If they were looking for anything to do with him, they’d be disappointed. They came out, taking nothing away with them, and drove away.
He came out from behind the blackberries and returned to the shed that housed the motorcycle. To his surprise, the petrol tank was almost full, and there were two full tins of petrol hidden under hessian bags. His father must have acquired this fuel illegally. George didn’t think that two tins amounted to stockpiling, but John Starling was unlikely to have been constrained by rationing laws, and there were probably more tins of fuel squirreled away on the property. George picked up one of the containers and took it with him to the house. He didn’t want to waste it, so he splashed it judiciously, not liberally, at points in the living room and corridor where flames would have something to crawl up. He didn’t bother checking any of the rooms — they held nothing of interest for him. The only place he did check was the kitchen, where his father used to hide money in the flour tin. George upended its contents and, sure enough, it wasn’t only flour that spilled onto the floor. He gathered up the notes, and to his astonishment found that he was holding close to £5,000. He did something he rarely did: he laughed.
He wasn’t yet ready to strike a match, though. He’d give the police another 15 minutes. He didn’t want them seeing smoke and coming back. He wanted a head start on them, but he also wanted them to know that he’d been there, that the house fire had been deliberately lit, and that he, George Starling, had lit it. He wanted them to know that they’d missed him, and that he was smarter than they were. He walked out into the backyard and picked up the wood splitter — the same splitter whose condition Constable Manton had lamented. He took it with him into the paddock where the two horses and the donkey were eating the last of the hay. He opened the gate and called, ‘Oi!’ The animals looked up and, in expectation of more food, came placidly to him. He swung the splitter with a fierce precision, and broke a front and back leg of each animal. Starling thought for a moment that he might put them out of their misery, but decided against it. He wanted whoever found the creatures to know that the person who did this was pitiless. As he listened to the pathetic whinnying and snorting, he realised with satisfaction that he was indeed pitiless. He felt nothing, except perhaps amusement at the way the donkey tried again and again to stand.
He returned to the house and threw a lit match at each splash of petrol. He waited to make sure that the flames took hold, and then put both fuel tins on the motorcycle and set out for Melbourne. The timing was perfect. He wasn’t happy about being in Port Fairy when police from Melbourne were sniffing around in Warrnambool. There was no doubt in his mind that those police were city wallopers — a female copper in the Warrnambool force was unthinkable. Now he had some time up his sleeve. Peter Hurley wasn’t going to take his boat out for a few days, so he wouldn’t be looking for him to clean the catch. He had money, fuel, and a machine that would take him all the way to Sergeant Joe Sable.
DINNER AT THE Warrnambool Hotel was corned beef with boiled potatoes, leeks, and green beans. It was edible, although it arrived at the table without any sauce to disguise its blandness. The chef’s excuse would no doubt have been austerity, although David Reilly, who liked his leeks to swim in a white sauce, supposed its absence had more to do with laziness than patriotism. Inspector Lambert wasn’t interested in whether a sau
ce was white, green, or brindle, or in whether it was there or not. For him, food was fuel; he took no particular pleasure in it. Helen Lord found herself aligned with Reilly on the sauce question — although, as she wasn’t paying for the meal, she didn’t complain. Not that Reilly complained exactly. When the food was put down in front of him, he simply remarked that the plate looked naked.
‘Cook’s night off,’ he said, and smiled to indicate that he didn’t want this observation to be taken as a whinge.
At the end of the meal, all three of them remained in the dining room. Reilly would have preferred to decamp to the bar, but Constable Lord’s presence made that impossible. As Homicide’s budget didn’t run to alcohol, he abstained from ordering a drink on his own account. He wasn’t willing to pay the surcharge added to alcohol served in either the dining room or the ladies’ lounge.
Conversation over dinner had included speculation about the nature of the threat posed by George Starling. David Reilly wasn’t convinced that he was any more dangerous than a common or garden thug, and he felt that Starling’s connection to the Hitlerites made him a ludicrous figure, rather than a threatening one.
‘You have read the case notes?’ Helen said.
‘Yes,’ Reilly replied evenly. ‘I’ve read them, and I’ve re-read them.’
‘And have you understood them?’
Reilly’s eyes darted to Inspector Lambert. If he was hoping that he would intervene in what was, at the very least, an expression of insubordination, he was disappointed. Lambert seemed unperturbed by Lord’s offensive question. Reilly breathed in, and waited a few seconds. He’d found this a useful technique when dealing with some irrational remark made by his wife. Early in his marriage, he’d flown off the handle, and said things that he’d meant, but which he regretted. So he’d learned to pause and not to say them. This had little to do with protecting his wife’s feelings. Rather, he saw losing his temper as a weakness, and he gained great satisfaction from controlling it. His wife no doubt believed that she’d won her point. Reilly knew differently; Barbara Reilly never won any points. Her husband’s carefully managed annoyance was a form of condescension that Helen Lord wouldn’t respond well to. He knew this, and the situation was novel to him. He wasn’t sure how to respond to her question, so he chose to agree with its implication.
‘Perhaps I haven’t fully appreciated how violent these people can be. I wasn’t there to see it.’
‘You’ve seen Joe Sable, and you’ve seen the other consequences.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I suppose I was just put off by my meeting with Maria Pluschow. She’s the only Hitlerite I’ve ever met, and she struck me as absurd.’
‘How did The Publicist strike you?’ Titus asked.
‘Well, of course I was shocked by all that stuff about Jews, but as I’d never even heard of the magazine, or of Australia First, I just assumed that they were fringe-dwellers and of no more importance than, I don’t know, Tarot readers or circus freaks.’
‘The friends of these people are killing Jews in Europe in unimaginable numbers,’ Titus said. ‘We know that. Keep that in mind. Maria Pluschow’s absurdity is just a matter of geography.’
Sergeant Reilly, who felt unfairly chastised, was about to offer a response when Inspector Halloran entered the dining room. He wasn’t smiling as he walked towards the Homicide officers.
‘Starling’s house has burned down — or, more correctly, someone’s burned it down.’
Titus stood up. Helen Lord followed his example. David Reilly remained seated, caught now between appearing slow to move or being too obstinate to do so.
‘George Starling?’ Titus asked.
‘It was set alight not long after we left, and it was definitely set alight. There were no grassfires or bushfires in the area.’
‘He was there, wasn’t he, when we were looking over the place?’ Helen said.
‘He left a message, of sorts,’ Halloran said. ‘We had to put the horses and the donkey down — their legs had been broken. A wood splitter was leaning against the fence, just in case we were wondering.’ He paused, and in the pause Helen shot Reilly a pointed look, as if to suggest that perhaps he might now care to take George Starling seriously.
‘The motorcycle that was in the shed is missing.’
‘He’s on his way to Melbourne,’ Titus said. ‘We need to telephone Sergeant Sable, and we need to get back there tonight.’
‘There are fires around Camperdown,’ Halloran said, ‘but the last I heard they were under control. Does Starling know where Sergeant Sable lives?’
‘Yes, he does,’ Reilly said, and hoped that would prove definitively how closely he’d read the case notes.
‘He’s already paid Sergeant Sable one visit,’ Titus said. Helen Lord looked at him, and saw in his face something like fear.
–5–
JOE SABLE WONDERED whether his almost obsessive scouring of newspapers for news of atrocities in Europe was unhealthy. The massacres had shifted his indifference to his own Jewishness — an indifference that had been encouraged by his parents’ belief that they were English first, and Jewish a very poor second. Joe felt no connection to the Jews he saw in Carlton. His father had dismissed these ‘ostentatiously Semitic’ types as an embarrassment. He’d called them ‘shtetl peasants’ who gave Jews a bad name. The Sables were several cuts above, possibly even aristocratic.
Joe had never experienced overt anti-Semitism, which was why he’d been so dismayed when news of what was happening in Europe had begun to find its way into the newspapers. It was a trickle, never a flood, but he cut out whatever he could find, and put the pieces in a folder, as if in marshalling them in this way he could contain the horror. He couldn’t. He read and re-read the reports; and, when he did so, outrage, despair, and shame grew and spread like gangrene in the soul. The discovery that National Socialism had local admirers had shocked him. When he’d first read The Publicist, a magazine unknown to him before the investigation, he’d been sickened by its brutal certainty that he, as a Jew, represented a threat to everything that was decent about Australia. Two sentences from among thousands decrying the presence of Jews had taken up residence in his mind, and they hummed constantly, like a hovering wasp: ‘What is the solution to the Jewish problem? There can be none while a Jew lives.’
He’d kept his feelings to himself, and it disturbed him to think that his contact with Australia First and with the psychopathy of Ptolemy Jones had poisoned him. It had weakened his capacity to trust, and Joe worried that he might never recover from this blight. So he searched the papers looking for proof that optimism was a kind of moral blindness. The past week had been dominated by stories covering the bushfires, which were even more devastating than the fires in 1939. There’d been growing panic that the state would be overwhelmed. The fires had swept into the suburbs: Rosanna, West Heidelberg, and Preston; and Mentone, Beaumaris, and Cheltenham. Beyond the city, in Daylesford, Woodend, Gisborne, Mortlake, Hamilton, Camperdown, Seymour, the whole Western District; Pakenham, Gippsland, the Dandenongs — north, east, and west of Melbourne — the fires burned. Even the air in Princes Hill smelled of smoke. It came in through Joe Sable’s windows.
He noted, within the catalogue of destruction reported by the newspapers, that William Dobell had won the Archibald Prize. It was hard to tell what his portrait of Joshua Smith actually looked like. The black-and-white reproduction of it made it look odd. He cut out the image and put it among his other cuttings. He did this because he liked Dobell, and he thought the picture would provide some relief when he hunted through his collection.
The fires had taken up so much space that there’d barely been room in the past week for war news. The Allies were advancing into Italy — that, at least, made it to the front page. But tucked away in The Argus, on page 16, was an article that snagged Joe’s eye:
Hungarian War Cr
iminals Seek Refuge In Germany
From Our Own Correspondent
LONDON, Friday
Admiral Herthy, Regent of Hungary, has been forced into the extraordinary position of having to demand from Hitler the extradition of three war criminals who were whisked across the frontier into Germany. They are the Hungarian officers Field-Marshal Ferenc Feketehalmy-Czeydner, Gen Joseph Grassy, and Col Lazlo Deak.
They are accused by their own government of mass murders in a Jugoslav town on the Danube which the Hungarians occupied and renamed Novisad. After holes had been knocked in the frozen river, between 1,500 and 3,000 Serbs and Jews were driven at bayonet point to the river and drowned.
The officers now in flight are alleged to have directed the massacres, news of which could not be suppressed. After an official inquiry they escaped with the connivance of the Germans. There has been a storm of protest in the Hungarian press, which demands that they should be punished.
Joe looked for more, but there was nothing. This was a strange article, and Joe was wrestling with its meaning when the telephone rang. He looked at his watch. It was just after 10.00 pm. He picked up the receiver, expecting to hear George Starling’s voice.
‘Person-to-person call for Joe Sable,’ the operator said.
‘Yes, fine. I’m Joe Sable.’
‘Thank you. Go ahead.’
‘Joe, this is Inspector Lambert.’
‘Sir?’
‘I want you to do exactly as I say, without argument, without even thinking about it. George Starling is on his way to you. I’ll give you the details later, when I see you. For now, I want you to go to my house immediately. Maude will be expecting you. It’s absolutely critical that you leave your house now. We’re not sure exactly when Starling left Warrnambool. He’s on a motorcycle, and wherever he is, he’ll be fairly close to you by now.’