It was nine in the evening. Legal liquor sales had concluded at six, and clubs like the 50–50 now divided up the market among themselves, plying their trade in sly grog. It was a thriving, profitable industry.
Milton had procured the password and they had been admitted to the crowded premises. After claiming a table, they ordered drinks. It was not the first such establishment at which Rowland had found himself. The sly grog trade was integral to the social lives of the bright young things of the era. Many clubs had become quite chic, ignored by the police and frequented by the supposedly respectable. This enterprise, however, made no pretensions toward any form of refinement. Milton, of course, seemed entirely at home.
“So where is he?” Rowland loosened his tie just a little. The hall was badly ventilated and packed with patrons. Cigarette smoke cast the space in a blue-grey haze.
“The Doc will be here, Rowly. Relax.”
Rowland started as a hand fell on his shoulder and trailed up his neck. The woman stooped to whisper in his ear. She was passably pretty, but her nostrils were dilated and her eyes showed the unmistakeable signs of the drug they called Angie. Her breath reeked of poor hygiene, cigarettes, and cheap gin. Rowland sipped his drink purposefully, saying nothing while she proposed various obscenities and called him “lover.”
Milton waved her away. “Forget it, sweetheart. He can afford someone a lot prettier than you.”
The prostitute swore at them both and stomped off to another table.
“Bloody hell, Milt.” Rowland muttered.
“What? Were you interested?” Milton was surprised. Despite his torch for Edna, Rowland had not taken holy orders. He enjoyed the company of women, but girls on the game were not his style.
“Of course not,” Rowland replied. “But there was no need to insult the poor wretch.”
Milton sized him up for a moment and then laughed. “Look at her, Rowly.” He pointed ever so subtly. “Notice the scar across her cheek; probably slashed by a razor. And the bruises on her arms? See her eyes? The girl’s chock full of Angie…She’s a rough piece who’s had a rough life. Me telling her she’s not pretty enough for you isn’t going to upset her much in the scheme of things. You’re really going to have to let go of this excessive civility of yours.”
Rowland did not reply. The ruthlessness of the city, of the Depression, and the people who felt it most, seemed concentrated here, intense. The faces around them were hard, prematurely aged, and scarred by violence and life in general. The laughter was false and harsh, and the language vulgar. Patrons huddled around the tables over small bowls of white powder, snorting and hooting.
Rowland took out his notebook to draw the confronting coarseness. As he had once told Wilfred, it helped him see. At Milton’s insistence, he kept the book on his lap under the table and away from hostile eyes.
It was at least a half hour later that a stocky man approached the table. He was well dressed, his tie matched exactly by the silk handkerchief that protruded from the upper pocket of his expensive pinstriped jacket. His patent shoes were polished to a sheen that was matched by that of the dark hair slicked back from his high forehead. He clenched a cigar between his teeth. He was not an old man, by any means. He had, however, a certain dissolute worldly air that made it hard to call him young, though he may well have been.
“Milton Isaacs,” he boomed, putting out a manicured hand. “Sorry, I’m late.” He pulled out a chair and, turning it around, straddled it from behind.
Milton introduced Dr. Reginald Stuart-Jones to Rowland Sinclair. “Well, well,” said the doctor as he shook Rowland’s hand. “So old Sinkers had a nephew! And another Rowland, at that. Full of surprises, that fellow.”
“So you knew him?” Rowland asked uneasily.
“Of course… He came to the track every other day. Had a good eye for the dogs when the race was fair.”
Milton ordered a drink for their guest, and another for himself. Rowland had hardly touched his glass.
“So, Sinkers left you his interest in this fine establishment?” Stuart-Jones took a whisky from a passing waitress’s tray and swigged it.
“It appears so,” Rowland replied. “Milt informs me that you can introduce me to my uncle’s partners.”
“That I can.” The doctor’s smile was broad, revealing a gap between his two front teeth. “And I will.” He glanced at his gold watch, breathed on the face and polished it with his handkerchief. “In fact, Snowy should be here in a few minutes.”
Milton and Stuart-Jones fell into conversation about the shortcomings of some greyhound for which the doctor claimed to have paid a substantial sum. Rowland continued to sketch. Every now and then, girls would call by the table to offer their services suggestively, sometimes explicitly. Stuart-Jones joked with them, using double entendre to an extent that Rowland considered excessive and a little juvenile.
Harold “Snowy” Billington was a big man. He arrived at the 50–50 with a simpering young woman on each arm and a few swishing behind. A thin, dark-featured man ran ahead of him, loudly organising chairs and drinks for “the Boss.” It was an entrance calculated to impress.
Rowland and Milton stood.
As Stuart-Jones made the introductions, Billington regarded Rowland suspiciously. “Sinkers never mentioned a nephew.”
“He didn’t mention an interest in the 50–50, either.” Rowland’s voice was even.
“And what’s it to you?” Billington sneered, biting the tip off a cigar and spitting it onto the floor.
“I appear to have inherited his interest.”
Billington laughed—the harsh, scornful kind of laugh that Rowland noticed earlier. “That’s not the way we do things, Mr. Sinclair. My agreement was with Sinkers—and it died with him.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Billington. The thing is, my uncle didn’t just leave me his interest in your club… He left me the deeds to these premises. I appear to be your landlord.”
“Rowly!” Milton whispered in warning.
The man who entered ahead of Billington, now standing beside him, put his drink on the table, and in a move so quick that Rowland missed it, he pulled out a razor. The straight-edged blade was at Rowland’s cheek before he had time to flinch. The 50–50’s patrons went about their business, laughing and snorting and hooting.
“And just who do you plan to leave those deeds to, Mr. Sinclair?” Billington asked with a cold smile. “We might need to contact them…let them know of their windfall…if you catch my meaning.”
Rowland looked calmly down the arm holding the razor, to the face of the man who held it, and then to Billington once more.
“The Salvation Army, actually.”
The silence was heavy, palpable. Stuart-Jones looked nervous, Milton somewhat panicked. Rowland did not move his eyes from Billington, despite the blade resting against his face.
And then, suddenly, the other man laughed and flicked the razor shut, before returning it to his pocket. “He’s got you, Snowy.” His voice was clipped, the accent an antipodean mutation of its original Cockney. Billington’s razor-wielding thug was wiry, his face cunning, and his manner restless. His features combined to give an impression of volatility. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite Rowland as he waved for Billington to follow suit. “Sit down, Sinclair.”
Rowland did so slowly, a little confused by the abrupt switch in authority from Billington to this thug. The doctor straddled his chair as before, but Milton remained standing behind him.
“Now, Mr. Sinclair, what is it that you’re wanting?” The question was direct and delivered coldly.
Rowland glanced uncertainly at Billington, who was sitting attentively with a girl in his lap, as well as one at each shoulder.
The other man noticed the glance. “I am Phil Jeffs,” he said. “Sometimes Phil Davies, sometimes ‘The Jew.’ This”—he waved his hands widely—“is my joint. Snowy here’s my cover.
Welcome.”
“Am I to understand that you were my uncle’s partner?”
Jeffs nodded.
“I want to know who killed him, and why.”
“And in exchange?”
“I’ll give you the deeds and make no further claims.”
“Your claims don’t worry me, mate,” Jeffs replied. “Where are the deeds?”
Rowland smiled, barely. “With my lawyer,” he said. “I can have them sent to you tomorrow.”
Jeffs glared at him. Milton stepped forward, ready for something, but unsure what. One of the girls draped over Billington began to inhale Angie from a bowl that had appeared on the table.
Then Jeffs grinned. “Sinkers wasn’t stupid… ’Spose I shouldn’t be shocked that his nephew isn’t either. First tell me, Sinclair, why’d you think I’d even have a clue about what happened to Sinkers?”
Rowland looked around him at the degenerate clientele of the 50–50, the drug addicts, the prostitutes, and those who profitted from and used their services. A fight had broken out on one of the far tables and a lone couple dragged a drunken Charleston on the scuffed dance floor.
“It seemed like a reasonable guess,” he said, as a woman stood and screamed slurred obscenities at the man who drank beside her.
Jeffs looked carefully at him. “I can’t help you. I have no idea who killed him. If I did, the bastards would be dead!”
“He was beaten to death in his home.”
“You think Phil ‘The Jew’ doesn’t know that? If it had anything to do with the club, I would’ve heard about that, too… It’s not the way we do things.”
“But it is to your advantage that he’s dead.”
Jeffs’s eyes grew flinty, dangerous. Rowland regarded him warily, watching for the razor.
“I had no beef with Sinkers,” Jeffs said finally. “He knew what it meant to be a silent partner…and he was very useful in matters of cash flow… In fact, if I thought you were half the bloke old Sinkers was, I’d tell you to keep your deeds and we’d talk business ourselves.”
Rowland stood. “I’ll have the deeds sent over tomorrow.” He held out his hand.
Jeffs took it. He shot a glance at Milton and sneered. “I should have you both given a bloody good hiding, coming in here all bloody high and mighty,” he said, “but for Sinkers’s sake, I’ll lay off yer.” Jeffs pulled Rowland closer. He spoke quietly. “If you find out who did Sinkers in, let me know—I’ll even the score for both of us.”
Wisely, Rowland chose not to reply. He did not want Jeffs doing him any favours.
Jeffs tipped back in his chair, suddenly amiable. “You should enjoy our attractions while you’re here.” He gestured expansively at the hall. “Or take some girls with you… They’re Tilly’s girls—perfectly legal.”
Tilly Devine was nefarious in Sydney. Madame of the city’s most successful brothels, having slipped through a loophole in the law which made it illegal for men to profit from prostitution, but which was silent on the subject of women. Tilly’s girls were not criminals by virtue of their occupation, at least, and probably at best.
Rowland declined, but politely.
“Are you sure?” Jeffs grinned lewdly and flicked his head toward a tall ginger-haired girl who sat near the piano. “Sinkers took young Gracie home when the spirit took him.”
For the first time in a long while, Rowland thought of the fishnet stockings found in his uncle’s house. He shook his head. “Thank you, but no.”
Johnston was waiting in nearby William Street with the Rolls. The chauffeur did not bother to open the doors; the younger Mr. Sinclair always climbed in before the old driver could get out to observe the proprieties.
“Well, that’s done then.” Rowland watched as Milton opened the drinks compartment.
“For the love of God, Rowly, the Salvation Army? You threatened Phil the Jew with the Salvation Army!”
Rowland smiled. It was all he could think of at the time. “It worked, Milt.”
Milton handed him a glass and raised his own. “You’re either tougher than I thought, or a bloody idiot!”
Rowland drank. “Probably both.” He had not found the 50–50 a pleasant experience. Razors and criminals aside, it disturbed him that his cheerful, doting uncle could have bankrolled something so seedy. He wondered if he should trust Jeffs’s word that the attack had had nothing to do with Rowland Sinclair’s connections at the 50–50.
“You all right?” Milton asked.
“I’m fine. Just wondering where the hell tonight leaves us. Beating a man to death still seems more like Jeffs’s style than Campbell’s to me.”
Milton said nothing for a moment. “If I was you, mate, I’d take Jeffs at his word.”
Rowland looked sceptical.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Milton went on. “The man’s the worst kind of criminal and liar, but I think if he did have your uncle killed, he would have told you to your face—if only to make sure you toed the line. His kind don’t take people out in secret… It doesn’t serve their purpose.”
“I suppose so,” Rowland conceded. It was true that the gangland figures of Sydney did have a tendency to just walk up and shoot people. Disguises did seem out of character.
“Anyway, I think he was sincere about his regard for your uncle.”
“Why’s that?”
“He could have given us a good kicking… He’s bashed men for a lot less than what you said to him.”
“So that was him being sentimental?”
“Believe it or not, Rowly, I think it was.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
NEW GUARD
STATEMENTS AGAINST POLICE
MINISTER REFUTES
SYDNEY, Friday
The Chief Secretary (Mr. Gosling) said to-night that he had received from Mr. E. D. Irving, the acting Metropolitan Superintendent, a report replying to a statement made by Mr. Campbell in the Town Hall last night.
The report said: “A statement by Campbell that a detective officer was promoted and another derated over the insulting words case is incorrect.”
The report also challenges many other statements by Campbell and denies that a transcript or notes were taken by police at a meeting held at St. George’s Hall, Newtown, on January 31, when Kavanagh, a Communist, is alleged to have insulted the King.
—The Daily Telegraph, February 19, 1932
* * *
Rowland pushed his necktie into place and buttoned his jacket. He slicked his hair back and promptly dishevelled it with a careless drag of his hand. Even so, he was the picture of the young conservative gentleman. No one would suspect that he had just divested himself of a part interest in the city’s most disreputable nightclub.
He could hear the motorcab idling in the driveway. He touched the outside of his jacket pocket to check he had his notebook, and grabbed his hat as he headed out the door. It was early evening. The New Guard was gathering at the Sydney Town Hall, or at least a representation of the New Guard. The Hall would hold a maximum of three thousand men, so only a few delegates would be allowed from each locality.
In the pocket of his trousers, Rowland carried the khaki armband he had been issued. He’d take it out to slip over the sleeve of his jacket when he got there. He certainly wasn’t going to wear it in the street.
Traffic clogged the main roads of the city centre, and so there were several minutes between the moment Rowland spied the clock tower of the Hall and when they actually reached the building. Eventually, his motorcab dropped him at the porte cochere that had been constructed in front of the entrance for the comfort and convenience of the city’s wealthier citizens. As he alighted, Rowland paused briefly. The Town Hall was looking a little worse for wear. The construction of the railway station beneath the building had caused significant cracking. Even the porte cochere had to be reinforced with tem
porary supports, and wooden scaffolding had been creeping up the sandstone tower, following the progress of the cracks. Still, this was the Sydney Town Hall, majestic, even if its foundations were compromised and the stability of its tower in doubt. To Rowland, it was the perfect place for the New Guard to meet.
He paid the driver through the window and pulled on his armband, ready to be marshalled by the staff officers who were on duty to ensure a quick and orderly entrance into the venue.
“Hello, Jonesy.” It was Poynton. “Wrong arm, mate.” He pointed to the armband. “Goes on the other arm.”
“Thank you.” Rowland moved the khaki strip to his left arm.
“You’re to come with me,” Poynton said. “The Colonel wants you up front.”
“Lead on.” Rowland suppressed any sign of his reluctance. He had hoped to slip into the back unnoticed.
He saw the hall was beyond full. Poynton informed him that, by crowding, the organisers were aiming to squash in a force of double the standard capacity. The men were seated in groups, their units distinguished by the colour and markings on their armbands. Poynton escorted him down the left-hand aisle and toward the steps leading up to the stage.
“We’re just here.” The bodyguard turned into the first row.
Rowland followed him, looking up at the stage. Several chairs had been placed in a wide arc behind the podium. Cables ran across the wooden boards and microphones had been set up. Campbell’s address to the New Guard was to be broadcast over the wireless.
Rowland sat down, pressed against Poynton on one side and another Guardsman on the other. The seats on the stage now started to fill, with several faces he recognised from the party at Boongala. De Groot sat up there with the other zone leaders and nodded primly when Rowland caught his eye.
John Dynon was in Rowland’s row, a few seats down, talking to a young Guardsman. Rowland stared; he knew the man Dynon was talking to. Their dealings had been brief, but he rarely forgot a face. If the recognition was mutual, Clyde Watson Jones could be in serious jeopardy. He shifted, hoping the bulk of Poynton would be enough to keep him from the man’s sight.
A House Divided Page 22