The Holiday Murders

by Robert Gott

  Jones then did something which took Tom Mackenzie completely by surprise: he raised his arm above his head in the gesture of the Nazi salute, so familiar from the newsreels. The fierce expression on his face made it clear that this was not a joke. Fred immediately returned the salute. Arthur and Magill were confused, and Tom was so disconcerted that he all he could manage was a half-hearted sort of mini-salute.

  ‘Perhaps we’ve misunderstood you, Mitchell,’ Jones said. ‘I had the impression you shared the vision offered by National Socialism.’

  ‘I am entirely sympathetic to much of the National Socialist ideology, but conditions in this country don’t mirror conditions in Germany, and no one is going to join a party at this time that aligns itself unambiguously with a country with which we are at war. It would be political suicide.’

  ‘I don’t believe in discreet Nazism. Herr Hitler didn’t rescue his country by hiding behind ambiguities. He did it by offering his people a choice — you’re with us or you’re against us, and if you’re against us you’d better be ready for the consequences. The Jews are learning that lesson the hard way.’

  ‘I see no advantage in being interned.’

  ‘If we profit from Hitler’s example, it will soon be us who are doing the interning.’

  For the first time, Fred spoke, and forcefully.

  ‘You don’t negotiate with opposition. You crush it.’

  Tom understood why Magill’s guests had decided to return early to Melbourne. Ptolemy and Fred must have been a shock to people who just wanted to prance around naked and play at being patriotic. Jones took a step towards Magill.

  ‘I believe in National Socialism. Do you? And I don’t mean all that art crap.’

  ‘It isn’t healthy to say that out loud,’ he replied.

  ‘Not even here?’

  Magill looked at Tom.

  ‘Maybe not even here.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, mate,’ Tom said. ‘I like what these two blokes have got to say, and I like the way they say it.’

  ‘I’ve always admired the German spirit,’ Magill said, ‘and I certainly see her as an ally. I’m happy to call myself a National Socialist when I’m among friends, but …’

  ‘You’re soft, Mitchell,’ Jones said. ‘Your bloody Australia First people wanted to give all sorts of rights and privileges to the boongs. What do you say about that?’

  ‘It wasn’t an idea I was particularly sympathetic to. There were arguments that they’re an Aryan people. Still, it wouldn’t have been a part of the Victorian branch’s philosophy. We weren’t going to be affiliated with the New South Wales branch.’

  ‘Victoria, New South Wales! Fuck me! You think too small. You might as well form a scout troop. There should be no doubt where members of Our Nation stand on any issue. We stand together, and we don’t talk. We act.’

  Arthur cleared his throat.

  ‘Act?’ he asked.

  ‘I know,’ Jones said, ‘that there are thousands of people out there who are sick to death of this war and the way our government is kow-towing to the Poms and the Yanks. Trouble is, there’s nowhere for them to go. There’s no one who’ll listen to them, no one offering a different way of doing things. You know what I reckon? I reckon if you said to people, to individuals, that we could guarantee their prosperity, and that while we’re at it, we’ll get rid of the Jews and the blacks and the perverts, if you just told them that with no bullshit, they’d go for it. Like I say, trouble is they don’t know we’re here, and that’s what we’ve got to change.’

  ‘Your passion is admirable,’ Magill said with undisguised condescension. ‘However, we have to be realistic, and a party that is overtly sympathetic to the views of the generally acknowledged enemy is doomed before it begins. However strong our arguments and our convictions, we won’t be heard. We need to win people over subtly.’

  ‘What we need, Mitchell, is to recruit large numbers of disaffected people, and we won’t do it with meetings, or by running around with nothing on.’

  Tom saw an opportunity to consolidate his position by pre-empting what he was sure Ptolemy was about to say.

  ‘No more fucking words,’ he said. ‘What we need to do is knock a few heads together, burn one of those synagogue rat-holes.’

  Jones, who hadn’t been particularly impressed by Mackenzie over morning tea — he’d assumed he was in Magill’s circle — reassessed him. He doubted the authenticity of that occasionally working-class accent, but here he was, convincingly passionate. He’d tread cautiously, nevertheless, until Tom could be tested. Jones was very keen on testing people’s bona fides, on committing them to the party through criminal acts. For now, though, he showed his approval.

  ‘Good idea. That’ll be a success, and success is exactly what we want. How many people do you know who think the way you do?’

  ‘A good few.’

  ‘Everyone knows a good few, that’s the point. The few becomes the many.’

  Mitchell and Arthur had remained impassive when Tom suggested arson. The idea appalled Magill, not because he disapproved of it in principle — he’d happily have every synagogue razed — but because the act would bring the authorities down on them like a ton of bricks. He didn’t believe in Ptolemy Jones’s National Socialist utopia, not in Australia. Looking from Fred to Ptolemy, at the tension in their bodies and faces, he began to think that they were actually insane. He also began to think that the Australian Patriots needed to dissociate themselves from Our Nation. If they wanted to start that party they’d have to find finance elsewhere. He knew Arthur well enough to be sure he’d be of the same mind. Now, however, wasn’t the time to show his hand.

  ‘It’s hot,’ he said. ‘I think we should have a swim in the dam and go in for lunch.’

  ‘Bloody good idea,’ Tom said. ‘I’m starting to stink in this heat.’

  As they were about to move up the incline toward the dam, Magill pointed at a branch above them. A black-and-yellow bird — a crested shrike tit, Magill said — had extracted an enormous huntsman spider from beneath the bark and was efficiently removing each of its limbs before swallowing the velvety, fat bulb of its abdomen. Tom noticed the rapt look on Fred’s face; strangely, this disconcerted him more than anything that had been said. What, Tom wondered, was such a man capable of? His impulse wasn’t to run. For the first time since the war had begun, he felt he now had a job to do.

  There was a faint smell of the dam about them as the four swimmers sat down to lunch with Peggy, Margaret, and Joe. No mention was made of Tom’s idea. The conversation was about movies mostly. To everyone’s surprise, Fred revealed that he was a keen movie-goer, and spoke easily about them. The swim seemed to have loosened something in him. He wouldn’t, he said, kick Gene Tierney out of bed. The piquant mock ham wasn’t terrible, Joe decided, but he couldn’t see the point of ruining a leg of lamb by disguising it as pork. If it had been real pork he’d have eaten it happily — he didn’t adhere to any of the dietary restrictions of Judaism.

  There was some discussion about John Dedman, the minister for the wartime organisation of industry. He was held in general contempt, but this was hardly a subversive opinion to hold — Dedman being a frequent object of ridicule in the press. Joe came close a couple of times to weaving John Quinn’s name into the discussion, but no opportunity presented itself convincingly, and simply bringing up his name would almost certainly have exposed Joe and Tom to suspicion. After lunch, he reminded his hosts that he and Tom had a train to catch.

  ‘No, no, not me,’ said Tom. ‘I’m staying the night — if that’s all right with Mitchell.’

  Joe shrugged, apparently unconcerned. He was, though, very concerned. This hadn’t been a part of their plan.

  Magill felt obliged to extend his hospitality to Tom. In truth, he’d be glad when Jones, Fred, and now Tom, left as planned the
following day. He and the Australian Patriots would quietly drop them.

  ‘Before you go,’ he said to Joe, ‘I want to show you a painting.’

  Joe followed him into the master bedroom, leaving the rest of the party at the lunch table. Above the bed was a painting of Leda and the Swan that seemed at once obscene and oddly anodyne — a peculiar paradox that drifted out of so much approved German art. The swan arched its neck, its beak open in an ecstatic trumpet as it thrust itself between the legs of a naked woman, the glimpse of dark, pubic hair accentuating both her nakedness and the transgressiveness of the image. One arm was flung over her face in a gesture of modest anonymity — although it was clear that the model had again been Peggy — but also suggesting her wanton pleasure in the rape.

  ‘It caused a scandal in Berlin,’ Magill said.

  ‘I can see why. Who’s it by?’

  ‘Paul Matthias Padua.’

  ‘What did the authorities have to say about it? I can’t imagine they approved.’

  ‘Some of them made a few noises. They all shut up when Hitler bought it for himself, though. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’ve done a great job of copying it. You’re very good.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And I like it.’

  ‘I don’t think your friend, Tom, or those other two would like it. Do you?’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose they would. Not everyone is as sophisticated as Herr Hitler.’

  ‘I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, Joe, but I think you and I are on the same wavelength. Can I show you something I wrote for The Publicist?’

  ‘You write as well as paint?’

  ‘When I’ve got something to say.’

  He took a copy of The Publicist from a bedside drawer, opened it to the page he wanted, and handed it to Joe.

  ‘It’s not long. It’ll only take a minute to read. It’s the bit under Contemporary Art.’

  Joe took the magazine and read:

  During the month of September, an exhibition in Sydney of paintings by members of the ‘Contemporary’ Art Society attracted some public attention among persons interested in freakishness-for-freakishness’ sake; but it was intrinsically no more interesting or important than somewhat similar exhibitions of abnormality in the ‘side-show’ section of the Royal Easter Show, where dwarfs, giants, fat women and other distortions of nature are annually on view. A noticeable proportion of the exhibitors were refugee Jews. The exhibition fell flat, as only credulous persons, with more money than gumption, would want to buy pictures of merely ‘contemporary’ value. The Publicist is very glad that such exhibitions are held, as they give emphasis to our warnings against the influences of decadence now operating in the Australian community.

  ‘That’s excellent, Mitchell. Really excellent. You nailed it.’

  ‘I thought you’d be sympathetic.’

  ‘I’m all for the Australian Patriots, Mitchell.’

  ‘Good man.’

  They returned to the dining room, and Tom walked with Joe to the outhouse. Once inside, Joe let fly.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Something useful, I hope.’

  ‘You can’t stay here. That wasn’t part of the plan. We’ve got good information that Intelligence will be happy with. That’s why we came, and that’s the only reason we came.’

  ‘We can get much more. These blokes are proper fucking Nazis.’

  ‘Peggy Montford was quite happy to tell me that Mitchell is a fan of National Socialism, and he’s quite happy to say it himself.’

  ‘He’s a fan, but he’s not the real deal, Joe. This Ptolemy and his furry friend are crackers. They’re synagogue-burning, vicious, fanatical Nazis. Magill’s got nothing on them. It’s unbelievable. It’s mind-boggling. They actually, truly, believe that people are champing at the bit to get behind them and form a National Socialist government.’

  ‘That’s why you can’t stay. We can pass all this on to Chafer and Goad, and let them take it from there.’

  ‘What are you going to pass on — that Magill and his friends wander about in the nude sometimes and fantasise about a brand-new day? Ptolemy and Fred have plans, and there are probably a handful of others like them. They don’t believe in democracy. They won’t engage with opposition, except to remove it. I’ll bet London to a brick that they’ve got an assassination list.’

  ‘I think you might be giving them more credit than they deserve. They’re thugs, I grant you, but a person who can’t spell “argument” isn’t destined to lead a revolution.’

  ‘It’s the tattooist who can’t spell.’

  ‘That tattoo is recent, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’d say so. Why?’

  ‘No reason. Maybe it was a Christmas present.’

  Joe sat on the edge of one of the bunks.

  ‘I can find out so much more, Joe. I’ve got them hoodwinked. I can tell that Magill and Arthur are going to bail. Ptolemy and Fred scare the shit out of them. I think I can get in close to the ones who really matter.’

  ‘Titus doesn’t know you’re here. If something happens to you, my life won’t be worth living.’

  ‘I’m a big boy, Joe, and I’m sick of doing a job that a chimpanzee could do. Ptolemy and Fred might lead us to a nest of traitors. If we leave here together, we leave with a small amount of information, but we miss a golden opportunity to get to the heart of the matter. Anyway, you’re not my superior officer; you’re not even an officer. The decision here is mine — and I’m staying.’

  ‘All right. If you’re staying, I’m staying, too.’

  ‘Out of the question. The important thing here is that we’re seen as two very different people when it comes to National Socialism. We’ve established that you’re a dilettante flirting with politics. I’m contemptuous of that. You have to leave, and I have to let them know that I’m bloody glad to be rid of you because you’re a nice fellow, but a bit, well, feminine. I’m pitching my performance exclusively to Ptolemy now. Magill’s out of the picture, as far as I’m concerned.’

  Joe was torn. Involving Tom Mackenzie had been a monumental mistake. At the same time, what Tom said made sense. They shouldn’t miss the opportunity to expose this cabal of Nazis — especially given what Joe had come to understand about where their thinking led. On top of that, he wanted very much to stun the odious Chafer with his efficiency, professionalism and, yes, talent for this line of work. Wiping the smirk off his face would be a very great pleasure indeed.

  ‘Be careful, Tom.’

  ‘They’re not going to do anything today, or tonight. We’ll just be talking. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘See if you can find out what “Argument 7” means, and contact me at home as soon as you can. You have the number. Oh, and his name is Jones. Ptolemy Jones. Can you believe that?’

  -16-

  Even though it was after nine o’clock by the time Joe returned to his flat, he rang Inspector Lambert at home immediately, and wasn’t surprised to have Titus ask him to come up to Brunswick straightaway to brief him over a cold glass of beer. Joe promptly caught a crowded tram up Sydney Road, got off at Albion Street, and walked the few blocks east to Bishop Street. He’d never been to the Lambert house before, and felt inexplicably nervous as he knocked on the door of number 17. It was a modest house, single-fronted, built around 1890. Titus answered the door and led him down a corridor into the living room. The interior was more spacious than the exterior suggested. Somebody, possibly the Lamberts, had modified the house extensively so that little trace of its nineteenth-century pokiness remained.

  Maude Lambert was seated under a standard lamp, reading. She got up when Joe came in, smiled at him — he wondered how warm that smile would have been if she knew where her brother was at that moment — and said that she’d leav
e them to it. She’d read her book in bed. Joe suspected that everything he said would be reported to her later anyway.

  ‘I haven’t reported to Intelligence yet,’ Joe said. ‘They’ll be very interested in some of the people I met at Candlebark Hill.’

  ‘Are we interested in these people?’

  ‘That’s difficult to say. I didn’t come away with anything specific. No one mentioned John Quinn, or gave any indication that they were aware of the killings. It didn’t even come up in conversation as an item that someone had read in the paper. However, we know that John Quinn had been keeping an eye on Australia First, and Magill must have had some contact with him — so if they’d seen his name in the paper, you’d think somebody would have said something.’

  ‘Unless they knew he was dead because they had him killed. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Well, either that or they genuinely don’t yet know. What is interesting, and the thing that might have got Quinn killed, is that Mitchell Magill calls himself a National Socialist in private. If Quinn knew that, and if Magill found out somehow that he was an Intelligence man, that would make Quinn a liability.’

  ‘You think Magill is capable of murder? Three murders?’

  ‘No. His National Socialism is an accessory; it’s not a driving passion. There were two men there, however, who belong in a very different category. They’re the real thing. One of them is a bloke named Ptolemy Jones. The other I only know as Fred. Jones is the talker, and the talk wouldn’t be out of place in the Reichstag. I think Intelligence is going to be very interested in him.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘About twenty-five or twenty-six, I’d say; Fred, a year older, maybe. Jones has firm ideas on how to deal with people who oppose him — stomp on them. Curiously, he has a tattoo across his abdomen, “Argument 7”, only “argument” has an extra “e” — and it’s a recent tattoo. He would’ve had it done in the last few days. It’s a long shot, but …’