Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  Wilfred frowned. “I assure you, Madame…”

  “You shut up,” Kate Leigh snapped. She pointed the gun at Rowland. “You talk. Who the hell are yer?”

  “Rowland Sinclair.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What are yer trying to pull? Sinkers is dead. I knew him well… a good bloke all things considered.”

  “My uncle,” Rowland said uncomfortably. He was aware that Rowland Sinclair the elder had always had a fondness for the seamier side of life. Indeed, the old man had left him a half-share in one of Sydney’s most notorious sly-grogeries… it had been an unwelcome legacy. But now it appeared that illicit nightclubs were not the extent of his misbehaviour.

  Wilfred looked completely mortified.

  Kate Leigh stepped closer and stared intently at Rowland. “Well my giddy aunt, you’re that kid old Sinkers would take to the track! Gawd, aren’t you just a chip off the old block!”

  Rowland wasn’t quite sure how to respond. His uncle had taken him to the track several times as a child, but he had no recollection of this very large, very loud woman.

  “You don’t remember old Katy, do yer? I was in my prime back then, a good sort.” She laughed, a harsh uncouth cackle which exposed a halfpenny-sized gap between her two front teeth and a great deal of gold between the others. “You share your uncle’s tastes then? Don’t worry sweetheart, Katy’ll take care of yer.”

  Admirably, Rowland managed to keep the horror from his face. Wilfred turned purple.

  “Might have to clean yer up a bit first,” she went on, looking a little distastefully at Rowland. She winked and adjusted herself to lift her ample bosom. “The first time will be for old Sinkers… after that it’s two quid.”

  Wilfred looked like he was about to choke.

  Rowland decided he’d better say something. “Actually, we’re here on another matter.”

  “What other matter?” Kate Leigh asked suspiciously.

  “We were escaping, to be honest.”

  At that point a young woman in nothing but a slip rushed out of the house. “Kate! The police are at the door, Kate!”

  Kate Leigh’s congeniality evaporated. Still brandishing the gun, she fished a razor from her pocket as she exploded. “Sneaks! Sneaks and spies. If you fellas have brought the ruddy constabulary to my joint, I’ll cut you ear to flaming ear!”

  Wilfred grabbed Rowland’s arm and pulled him back as the woman waved the razor threateningly. “Miss Leigh,” he said firmly. “If we were to meet the constable at your front door then I presume there would be no need for him to set foot in your… establishment.”

  She squinted at them, her eyes becoming slits in her bloated face. She flicked the razor shut and dropped the gun to her waist. “Go on then… I’ll be right behind you. If that copper comes in you’re both dead men.”

  38

  CACHE OF LIQUOR FORFEITED

  SYDNEY, Monday

  The forfeiture of 1,001 bottles of beer, 84 bottles of whisky and one bottle of wine, found under the floorboards at the home of Kate Leigh, in Surry Hills, was today ordered by Mr. Bliss, S.M., in the Licensing Court. The magistrate said there was no doubt the liquor was on the premises for illegal sale.

  The Canberra Times, 1933

  There were several policemen standing outside the side door to Kate Leigh’s Surry Hills grogery when Wilfred opened it. They seemed ready for a battle.

  The first constable looked Wilfred up and down, clearly concluding that he was one of Kate Leigh’s more well-to-do customers. The officer informed them that he was investigating a burglary in one of the adjoining houses during which a man in pursuit had fallen from the roof and died.

  “If you wouldn’t mind if we stepped inside, sir, I’d like to…”

  The gun clicked behind them as Kate Leigh readied to make good her threat.

  “There’s no need, constable,” Rowland said, pushing in front of Wilfred. “We’re the men you want. We’ve been trying to hide out in this… home… but we can see now that the game is up. We’re quite happy to come quietly as it were…”

  The officer studied him. “That’s very good of you, sir.”

  “Well, a man’s been killed, constable. Giving ourselves up seems the decent thing to do… right, Wil?”

  “Quite,” Wilfred agreed, looking anything but agreeable.

  “Shall we then?” Rowland smiled brightly. “It’s about time we stopped imposing on Miss Leigh’s hospitality.”

  The police officer seemed dubious, but with both suspects surrendering outright, there was really nothing he could do but allow them to walk into his custody.

  And so the Sinclair brothers were arrested.

  Detective Sergeant Colin Delaney handed Rowland a cold compress. Superintendent Bill Mackay sat behind the desk watching him thoughtfully.

  “So who exactly is this chap Abercrombie working for?”

  “Some Communist group he met in Cambridge—classicists probably, they were always a bit mad.” Rowland glanced at his brother. Humphrey Abercrombie had confirmed all of Wilfred’s paranoid tirades about the insidious plots of Communists. Instinctively he reacted against it. “I doubt the ACP even knew about this scheme of his.”

  Wilfred snorted.

  “You can’t really be sure of that, can you, Mr. Sinclair?” the superintendent said, scowling. “After all, you didn’t even realise you were harbouring a spy. Only Mr. Abercrombie knows who his masters are.”

  “Well, why don’t you just ask him?” Rowland snapped. His head ached, his entire body was bruised and he hadn’t slept.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t apprehended him as yet,” Mackay said tightly.

  “We can’t find him,” Delaney admitted.

  Mackay glowered at his detective.

  “What about the others?”

  “Well, one of them’s dead… broke his neck in the fall. We have three of the others. A German and two Irishmen—all here illegally. No links here as far as we can tell.”

  Rowland felt vaguely vindicated.

  “I’m not sure I understand Abercrombie’s connection with this chap, Moran.” Delaney took the hard-backed chair beside Rowland’s. “Don’t tell me your stockmen were Communists.”

  “It wasn’t a real connection,” Rowland replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mentioned Moran to Humphrey. Must have approached him—mutual benefit I suppose. When we got away, Moran started making demands and Humphrey shot him… to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was in self-defence. Humphrey’s more likely to kill a man in panic than cold blood.”

  “Well, one thing’s clear—this Communist vermin, Abercrombie, was trying to take advantage of your past acquaintance,” Wilfred said angrily. “I’ve always said your so-called friends would ruin you.”

  “He wasn’t a Communist back then for God’s sake,” Rowland muttered. “He was the bloody Honourable Humphrey Abercrombie. If he hadn’t been a chap, you would have wanted me to marry him!”

  Delaney coughed.

  Mackay cleared his throat. “Senator Hardy has taken charge of the prisoners for the moment—national security.” The superintendent was clearly unhappy with his authority being overridden. “Some special committee looking into the matter.”

  “I’ve met them,” Rowland said contemptuously.

  Mackay stood. “We should allow you gentlemen to get cleaned up. Don’t worry, we’ll find Mr. Abercrombie.”

  “His mother,” Rowland asked, remembering suddenly. “Lady Abercrombie… he said she was visiting a cousin in Melbourne. Does she exist?”

  “We’ll find out,” Mackay assured him. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sinclair, he won’t give us the slip.”

  Rowland lay on the couch in the main drawing room of Woodlands House staring idly at the ceiling rose. He could feel his muscles stiffening in the wake of the exertions and trials of the last twenty-four hours. He hadn’t yet caught up on the lost night’s sleep.

  He leafed through the handwritten manuscript which rested o
n his chest. Sarah Brent had sent him Aubrey’s novel, along with a letter which outlined her expectations for the illustration of her monkey book. As much as he wanted to read his brother’s writings, he was not able to concentrate.

  A long hot shower had washed away the remnants of the vegetable garden into which they’d fallen, and Wilfred had once again summoned poor Maguire from his Macquarie Street surgery to patch up his brother. Milton had taken such great delight in his friend’s embarrassed account of Kate Leigh’s invitation that Rowland, too, had come to see it with amusement rather than horror. But Abercrombie was still unfinished business and the whereabouts of the Englishman played on Rowland’s mind.

  Edna left Clyde and Milton to play the next hand without her, and came to sit by Rowland. She picked up the compact she had left on the side table and opened it, posing, admiring it quietly in the light. It was a handmade piece, engraved silver with her initials inlaid in seed pearls. A gift from Rowland to replace the compact which they had turned into a makeshift surgical instrument.

  Rowland smiled as he watched her. Edna had been playing with the compact all day. She’d always been like that, taking such a singular and childlike delight in every new acquisition that giving her anything was a joy.

  She closed the compact and placed it carefully back onto the table. “Where do you think Mr. Abercrombie is, Rowly?” she asked, sensing what was troubling him.

  “I wish I knew, Ed,” he said frustrated.

  “They’ll catch up with him.” Milton spoke from behind his cards. “The Party’s none too happy with some Lord Muck from the mother country interfering with things here without consulting them. Harry Garden’s put the word out. Abercrombie won’t have many friends in Sydney.”

  Rowland sat up. Friends in Sydney. “Babbington,” he said slowly.

  Clyde put down his cards. “The bloke from the caves. You think he’s in league with Humphrey?”

  Rowland nodded. “It explains why Babbington was so keen to defeat the Lister franchise. He must have known the numbers added up… and he was staying at Caves House.” He stood, retrieved his jacket from the back of the couch and slid it on.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Wollstonecraft… I think I’ll call on Babbington.”

  “Don’t be silly, Rowly, just phone the police.” Edna tried to pull him back.

  Rowland shook his head. “Here’s the thing,” he explained, scouting around for his hat. “Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps Babbington has got a bee in his bonnet about Lister for some reason completely unrelated to world domination. If that’s the case, the last thing I want to do is tell the police I think he’s a Communist spy—it could ruin him.”

  “Has it ruined you?” Edna asked sceptically.

  “God, I hope so. I’m still counting on them throwing me off this flaming board.”

  Milton and Clyde stood now as well.

  “We’d better come, don’t you think, Rowly?” Milton looked at him sternly. “Just to make sure you don’t end up falling into another brothel.”

  Rowland laughed. “In Wollstonecraft? I’d be lucky.”

  “Still,” Clyde said, “We wouldn’t mind a word with old Humphrey ourselves.”

  Edna put on her gloves. Rowland looked at her. “You’re not coming, Ed.”

  “Well I’m not sitting around here waiting for Wilfred to turn up so I can explain why you went looking for the man you only just escaped.”

  Rowland was immoveable. “If Humphrey is at Babbington’s, I don’t really want a lady present when I talk to him.”

  Despite herself, Edna giggled. “You don’t want me to come because you want to swear?” She flopped into the couch and pulled off her gloves. “Oh Rowly, you are old-fashioned.”

  “Even so.”

  She rolled her eyes. “All right… go and act like men then, but if you’re not back in an hour I’m phoning Colin Delaney and Wilfred.”

  39

  WORKERS BEWARE!

  The Friends of the Soviet Union in Australia is appealing to Australian workers for funds to send another delegation to Moscow.

  Certainly the workers can do much better with their money than provide a jaunt or overseas picnic for four or five Communists or spies for the Red Internationale.

  This organisation is well known as a revolutionary agency and is outlawed under the latest Commonwealth legislation. The wonder is that the Federal Attorney-General does not put the law into operation.

  Sunday Times, 1933

  The Babbington residence in Wollstonecraft was set well back from the road, built high to take advantage of harbour views. The driveway swept up to a Spanish Mission styled residence. A full summer moon lit the grounds with a monochromatic brightness that was almost equal to day. They all spotted the black Rolls Royce parked by the house.

  “Right,” Rowland muttered. “No need to knock then.”

  “Perhaps we should call the police, Rowly,” Clyde suggested.

  “I’m sure Babbington has the phone on,” Rowland replied.

  He stopped the Mercedes well before they reached the house. As they climbed out, Milton handed him his gun.

  “What’s this for?” Rowland asked, alarmed.

  “Take it, Rowly. You’re the only one with a licence for it.”

  “I have no intention of assassinating anybody, Milt.”

  “He was armed before, Rowly,” Milton reminded him. “He probably still is. You should be too.”

  “You don’t have to fire it Rowly,” Clyde added. “Just wave it around like you might.”

  Rowland shook his head, but he took the Webley Mark II and, checking the safety, slipped it into his hip pocket. “Fine, we’re armed. Shall we go?”

  As they passed the Rolls Royce, Clyde signalled them to wait.

  “Just give me a minute,” he said, quietly opening the hood and shining a torch onto the engine.

  “What are you doing?” Milton asked.

  “Removing the distributor cap and dizzy… just in case he tries to make a run for it.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “There, got it.” Clyde tossed the parts into the shrubbery.

  “Steady on,” Rowland protested. “This is still my car.”

  “We’ll find it later,” Clyde assured him as he closed the bonnet. “After the police have taken Abercrombie away.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be happening.”

  Rowland spun towards the voice. Humphrey Abercrombie faced them from the doorway, arm straight, gun held high. He gripped a torch in his other hand, which he directed into Rowland’s eyes.

  Instinctively, Rowland pulled out his own gun. He cursed, recoiling as a bullet caught his weapon and ripped it from his hand.

  Milton swore. “You all right, Rowly?”

  Rowland nodded, glancing at the revolver which now lay on the lawn well out of his reach.

  “Lucky thing, old chap,” Abercrombie said, his gun still held in line of sight. “I was aiming for your hand.”

  “Humphrey, you don’t need…”

  “For God’s sake, Rowly, shut up. I’ve got nothing to lose by shooting you.” Abercrombie’s voice was high, tense. “If I’m caught, I’ll hang one way or another.”

  Rowland didn’t move. “You don’t need to make it any worse, Humphrey… your family…”

  Abercrombie swore at him. “You’re pathetic, Rowly!” he spat. “You play with the Left when it suits you, but you’re not man enough to take a stand.”

  “Because I didn’t join you in your insane scheme?”

  “We could have been part of something great, Rowly.” Abercrombie licked his lips and laughed. “Well, it’s all been a bit of a cock-up, hasn’t it? There’ll be hell to pay I suppose… I’d better get back and sort things…”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” Rowland asked, perhaps a little recklessly.

  “Well I won’t be using the Rolls I guess.” Abercrombie’s hair was damp, perspiration plastered it to his for
ehead, and his voice was shrill and unsteady. He moved his arm to point the gun at Clyde. “Before you contemplate moving, Rowly,’ he said, without taking his gaze from Clyde, “Consider whether you’re willing to risk Mr. Watson Jones. He does present a rather large target.”

  “We’re not moving, Humphrey. You don’t need to involve Clyde in this.”

  “I rather think he’s involved himself, old boy. Now tell me, where is your car?” Abercrombie walked forward to rest the muzzle of his gun against Clyde’s head.

  Rowland told him where the Mercedes was parked.

  “Righto, then.” Abercrombie pushed Clyde in front of him. “Mr. Watson Jones is coming with me. At some point I will either let him out or shoot him, depending on whether I believe I’m being followed. Do you understand, Rowly?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Once Mr. Watson Jones and I have departed, you may go into the house. You will find Mr. and Mrs. Babbington in there. The old chap lost his nerve after this morning’s unpleasantness. I’ve shot them both, but not fatally… you may yet be able to help them.”

  “My God, Humphrey, have you lost all decency?”

  “I’m not shooting you Rowly. A kindness in memory of our past camaraderie… perhaps you should not have dismissed me so easily, old chum.”

  Rowland said nothing more, sickeningly aware that there were two people possibly bleeding to death inside the house and that there was a gun against Clyde’s skull. Afraid any move would panic the Englishman into shooting, he and Milton stayed where they were as Abercrombie and Clyde walked away.

  The Mercedes roared to life and turned back down the driveway. Rowland hesitated for only a moment before running into the house with Milton on his heels.

  “I’ll look upstairs,” Milton said when they found no one in the drawing room.

  Rowland nodded, beginning his search of the lower floor for the wounded Babbingtons. When a search of the drawing rooms, dining room and study proved fruitless, he headed to the back of the house, to the kitchens and servants’ quarters. It was then he noticed the banging. He located the source quickly—the large pantry bolted from the outside. He opened the door to the cowering forms of two domestic servants. They screamed when they saw him.