by Peter Watt
Both men swigged from their ports, engrossed in their private reflections of what together they had plotted to change the course of history, a plan unauthorised by their respective governments. Colonel John Hughes knew that the chief of intelligence in London would not want to know about it – especially if things went wrong. Both men in the room were acutely aware that their reputations and careers were on the line as much as the security of their beloved countries.
In the back seat of Patrick Duffy’s chauffeured car, Matthew Duffy and Randolph Gates remained silent. Patrick had arranged to pick up the two men from the Emu Hotel in Chippendale where they were staying while in Sydney and then take them back after the dinner. The men’s thoughts were in turmoil; the proposition put forward for their assistance in a scheme to spy on the German military to the north of Australia occupied Matthew’s mind, while the meeting with Fenella Macintosh at the dinner hours earlier filled the American’s thoughts.
The car stopped in the dark city street dimly lit by a gas light in front of the hotel, a two-storey building well known to country visitors. Thanking the driver, Matthew and Randolph alighted to knock on the door and be ushered inside by an elderly night porter who recognised two of the younger guests of the establishment.
‘I know it’s late but is there any chance of getting a bottle?’ Matthew asked. ‘It will be worth a bob for you.’
The porter was a man experienced in the needs of hotel guests and had a thriving little business on the side, supplying their requests ranging from after-hours liquor to discreet visits from certain shady ladies. He also had contacts with starting price bookies and a good knowledge of social gossip. ‘Would you prefer rum or whisky?’ he asked.
‘Whisky would be fine, Harry,’ Matthew answered. ‘Could you deliver it to my room as soon as possible? I think Mr Gates and I could do with a stiff drink before retiring.’
The porter shuffled away to fill the order, leaving Matthew and Randolph to make their way up the stairs to Matthew’s room. Unlocking the door, they entered the room already lit by a gas light. Now it was time to talk.
‘Are we going to actually go along with the colonel?’ Randolph asked, slumping down in a comfortable chair by the window overlooking the empty city street below. He’d had time to let the ramifications of what they were embarking on truly hit him during the car journey back to their hotel.
Matthew pulled out a chair behind an elegant desk and sat down. ‘I said we would,’ he answered. ‘But I do not expect that you have to stick with me on this one, old friend.’
‘God damn you, Matt – you think I would let you go alone on this one?’ the American growled. ‘Your mother would hunt me down and skin me alive if anything happened to you.’
Matthew grimaced at the mention of his mother. For years he knew she had accepted her only son’s wanderlust and thirst for the dangerous as something he had inherited from his father, Luke Tracy. Matthew knew that as a young woman his mother had faced danger every day of her life forging her fortune on the wild Queensland frontier. And he guessed she had accepted that exposure to war had changed her son, and had expressed gratitude for the fact that, for a couple of years upon returning from South Africa, he had at least worked one of the family cattle properties in Queensland under the watchful eye of her chief manager, Randolph Gates. Eventually, Matthew had gone to her and begged for a substantial allowance to pursue a life travelling the world. He knew that his mother had agonised over his plea to be set free to wander. At first she had resisted but after a year she relented, setting one proviso: Matthew could only travel in the company of Randolph Gates. Matthew gladly accepted the condition. Over the years he and Randolph had formed a mutual respect for each other. That had been the first step on Matthew’s path to roaming the world and learning how to fly in Egypt, and Randolph had honoured his promise to his employer that he would keep in touch by letter informing her of Matthew’s welfare.
‘I promise that I will see Mother before we go on this little job for the colonel,’ Matthew replied.
A knock at the door alerted the two men to the fact that the porter had delivered their bottle. Matthew thanked Harry and slid a note into the grateful man’s hand. When they were alone again, he poured the whisky neat into tumblers, handing one to Randolph. Matthew raised his glass in the manner of a toast. ‘Here’s to beautiful women, a long life and the success of our mission,’ he said.
Randolph responded in silence by raising his glass. He had been thinking about Fenella Macintosh and could not get her out of his mind. He also felt uncomfortable as he was aware of Matthew’s romance with her some years earlier. Taking a long swig from his glass, Randolph said casually, ‘You must have been pleased to be able to meet again tonight with one whom you must be very fond of.’
Matthew stared blankly at his friend in the flickering light of the room. ‘Who . . . oh, you mean Nellie,’ he replied with a knowing grin. ‘That was a long time ago and I was surprised at my feelings towards her tonight when we were together. I have to confess that all I felt was a very strong affection for my cousin, but nothing more than that. Nellie was merely a school boy crush.’
Inwardly, Randolph felt his spirits soar. So only that effeminate actor, Guy Wilkes, stood in the way of him convincing Miss Macintosh that he would like to see more of her. Randolph’s opinion of the actor was low. As a man of action, he considered all men who could not rope a steer and brand a cow to be pansies. He doubted Guy Wilkes could do those things. ‘I am sorry,’ Randolph said.
Matthew blinked. ‘You old devil,’ he chuckled. ‘I was right when I thought you had a bit of a thing for Nellie tonight. I could see the way you were hanging on to everything she said and the way you were looking at her with cow eyes.’
‘I think that Miss Macintosh is one of the finest ladies I have had the honour to meet, that’s all,’ Randolph answered, dismayed that his interest in Matthew’s cousin was so obvious.
‘Well, you have a bit of competition for Nellie’s affections,’ Matthew continued. ‘Guy Wilkes is very popular with the ladies.’
Randolph did not reply immediately but took a swig of his whisky. ‘What do we do next?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘We have six weeks to get matters organised before we are due to steam from Sydney in company with my cousin Captain Alex Macintosh,’ Matthew replied. ‘In that time, we can stow away the Bleriot and make a trip to visit my mother.’
‘A good idea,’ Randolph agreed. ‘It has been at least a year since Miss Tracy last saw you. It will kind of prove that you are still alive.’
Matthew winced. It had always been his friend who had sent the letters from different parts of the world to keep Kate Tracy up to date on where they were and some of what they were doing. Randolph knew that he could not tell his boss that her only son was popular with many of the ladies they encountered from Shanghai to Moscow and had indulged himself in the charms they offered. Nor could he tell Kate Tracy of the times that he had been called on to tend to the wounds her only son received as a result of the occasional bar room brawls and small wars they stumbled into in the course of their wanderings. From what Randolph knew of the extended family history, trouble was a constant shadow in their lives. Kate’s brother Michael Duffy had lived as a mercenary soldier from the battlefields of New Zealand through the end of the Civil War in Randolph’s country and Mexico to the veldt of South Africa. Patrick Duffy, Kate’s nephew, had served fighting from Egypt through the Sudan to South Africa as well. And Matthew too had served as a soldier in the war against the Boer farmers. Even now, Randolph could see that the young man’s experiences in South Africa had left an indelible mark on his soul. His fanatical interest in the use of aviation in warfare was only an extension of his past. But one thing stood out about Matthew – he was a patriot to his country and born to soar with the eagles.
‘Then we carry out our mission in Neu Pommern and come home.’
It sounded simple, Randolph thought. But what Colonel Duffy ou
tlined earlier that evening was fraught with danger. The American brooded that he was participating in a mission that was of little concern to his own country. After all, a war among the Europeans that dragged their colonies into the conflict would not involve America, which had stated its neutrality in European politics. Only his friendship with Matthew dragged him into the plot.
Guy Wilkes angrily paced the carpeted floor of Fenella’s small house located not far from Arthur Thorncroft’s film studio. Patrick had purchased the house for her years earlier and because of its proximity to Arthur’s studio it had witnessed many parties to celebrate the completion of a project. On a narrow, tree-lined avenue, the house was situated in a pleasant, middle-class suburb within walking distance of the trams that rattled through the city streets. Fenella sat at a mirror in her room set apart from the small living room where the actor fumed in his jealousy.
‘You seemed rather enamoured of that bloody Yank tonight,’ Guy said in a fury when he ceased pacing the floor. ‘Don’t try to deny it.’
Fenella stopped brushing her long, lustrous hair. ‘I was not showing, as you are implying, any more interest in Mr Gates than I do in any of my admirers,’ she sighed. ‘From what I have been told by my father of Mr Gates he has led an interesting life.’
‘There are thousands of women out there,’ Guy said, entering the bedroom and waving his hand in the air, ‘who would give their right arm to bed me. You are a fortunate woman to have me court you.’
Fenella felt her anger rise. ‘Do you think that I have not many admirers?’ she snapped, turning away from her reflection in the mirror. ‘What were you before Arthur employed you – a good-looking draper’s son from some godforsaken country town with big dreams of fame and fortune in the city. Well, you might have that, but you do not own me.’
Guy realised that he had over-stepped his mark. ‘I did not mean it that way, Nellie,’ he said, attempting to reconcile. ‘What I meant to say is that we are both lucky to have each other. As Arthur has often said, we are the darlings of the film-going public.’
Fenella placed the brush on the dresser in front of her. ‘I don’t give a damn for what the public think of us as a couple,’ she said slowly, choosing her words precisely. ‘I am with you because I love you – not because you are Guy Wilkes, the dashing thespian. No more or no less than that. I do not care if Uncle Arthur feels our relationship is good for business.’ She stood and walked towards Guy, whose eyes were still glazed from the withdrawal of the heroin he had inhaled. She touched his face with the tips of her fingers. ‘You have to trust me or we have nothing together.’
Guy was surprised that her caress felt condescending rather than affectionate. Carefully keeping his emotions under control he raised his own hand to grasp her fingers and draw them down to her side. ‘I do trust you,’ he said quietly, turning away from her. ‘It is time that I left to return to my place.’
As Guy made his way to the front door he congratulated himself on agreeing to George Macintosh’s request. Fenella Macintosh was as traitorous as all other women that he knew – just like his own mother who had deserted his father and him when he was only five years old. When he was able to really confront himself, Guy had to admit that he despised women for their nature. It was ironic, he mused, that women loved him for his handsome looks and charm. Destroying Fenella Macintosh would teach her a lesson she would remember all her life, he thought as he closed the door behind him. It did not hurt that he would be richly rewarded for his services. Fenella needed to learn that she was a mere woman who should not upset him with her flirting ways. Yes, she would pay dearly.
George Macintosh slipped the gears of his Buick two-seater into neutral and left the car at the front of the old horse stables, now converted to a shed to garage his cars. He would let his manservant park the car inside as he did not want to bother himself with the effort. Miss Coral Gregory-Smith was safely at her home and it was time to retire to his grand house – once the property of his relatives, Granville and Fiona White. The house was smaller than the Macintosh mansion but still built of sandstone and two storeys high, with ivy creeping up the front and framing the array of windows looking out to the harbour. Alighting from the car George walked across the fine, gravel driveway to open his front door where he was met by a sleepy, older man dressed in a much-worn dressing gown.
‘Sorry, Mr Macintosh,’ the elderly manservant apologised. ‘I thought that you might arrive home earlier. I seem to have dozed off.’
George eyed his manservant. Maybe he was getting too old for the job, he thought, and might best be replaced. He did not reply to the older man but pushed past him with a grunt of acknowledgment. When he had reached the bottom of the ornate stairway he turned to the servant. ‘I am expecting a visitor around eleven o’clock tonight, Curtiss,’ he said. ‘Please ensure you are awake to allow her entry. Oh, you can put the Buick in the stables,’ he added, tossing the key to the old man who fumbled with them, dropping the key to the floor.
‘Very good, Mr Macintosh,’ the servant replied, rising from his knees after retrieving the key and shuffling out the door.
George climbed the stairs to his library and found a bottle of fine Scotch whisky in a cocktail bar adjoining the wall-to-ceiling shelves of musty books collected by the Whites over the years they had resided in their Sydney house. Given what George anticipated would fill the rest of his evening, he broke his strict rule on the consumption of alcohol and sat down in a chair behind his desk to gaze about the library, reflecting for a moment on the previous owner. George had heard the family stories about Granville White. A man of peculiar tastes, was the way his father had described Granville, leaving the rest to the imagination. George somehow felt that he might have liked the man if he had still been alive.
He poured a generous shot of whisky and his attention returned to a ream of papers stacked neatly before him. They were the financial statements of Arthur’s film company and did not reflect a good showing for the Macintosh companies to which it was indebted. George took a swallow of the fiery liquid and flipped a page of the report while removing his tie and loosening the top button of his crisply starched shirt. In the morning he would visit the bank that held the lien on the film company and either transfer funds or agree to fold the enterprise. Guy Wilkes’ agreement to help him in his special project to discredit Fenella in her father’s eyes had changed matters considerably and George knew that he would keep Arthur’s project alive for the moment.
He turned over the page that he had been viewing and stared into the dark recesses of his library. His eyes rested on an array of old Aboriginal weapons – spears, shields and nulla nullas attached to the wall. For a brief moment the thought of a curse on his family flitted through his mind. Something that his grandmother Lady Enid Macintosh believed in, he mused, sipping at the Scotch. So much so that she had the collection moved to the house he now occupied. George did not believe in the power of superstition.
A gentle knock at the door alerted him to the fact that his guest had arrived.
‘Come in,’ he called from his chair and the door opened to reveal a young woman he guessed to be in her late teens. ‘You must be Florence,’ he said, not bothering to rise from his chair. ‘A mutual friend recommended your services.’
‘I am,’ she replied, attempting to appear confident.
George rose from the chair and strolled across the dimly lit library to stand before her. He could see that she wore the heavy make-up that stamped her trade on her face. ‘Pull up your dress and lay across the table,’ he commanded, walking to a corner of the room where a hollowed elephant’s foot contained a collection of canes.
The girl moved uncertainly to the desk, bent over, revealing her naked backside. She watched George across her shoulder, her confidence mixed with fear. ‘You will not hurt me,’ she pleaded.
George flexed a thin cane as he returned to stand alongside the girl. ‘That is why you are being paid so well,’ he sneered. ‘I may hurt you, but I will no
t harm you.’
The cane swished through the air, striking the girl painfully on her bare buttocks. She yelped and buried her head in the blotting paper on George’s desk. Tears of pain flooded her eyes and, biting her lip, she reminded herself that this form of perverse entertainment was worth a month’s pay to a working man.
George’s face contorted with his pleasure at inflicting the pain on the helpless girl. His eyes bulged and the flush of excitement rose in him like a raging bushfire. Five more times the cane rose and fell until the girl could no longer restrain the tears that flooded her eyes. When the caning ceased she was aware that he was behind her with his pants to his ankles. Grunting like an animal, George spent himself in the girl who offered no resistance.
‘That, my love,’ George gasped, ‘is what money can buy. Your body and soul.’
The young prostitute did not answer but bit back the pain. George was only warming up and felt a rush of ecstasy for the further pleasures that lay ahead before the sun rose.
5
Alex Macintosh had met many beautiful women in his quarter century on earth but Giselle Schumann was probably the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. At twenty years of age, her sun-gold hair, striking blue eyes, slender neck and pert nose sprinkled with freckles from her time living in the Southern Hemisphere were not her only attributes. She had a fashionable hourglass figure and moved with the grace of an aristocrat. Although she was not tall in an elegant way, being a head shorter than Alex, he knew from the moment his eyes met hers he was smitten by the young woman.
She stood with her mother at the bottom of the stairs leading to the plantation house, surrounded by suitcases as a couple of native servants manhandled the luggage from Schumann’s car. Albert Schumann was obviously delighted to see his wife and daughter and after an exchange of warm greetings Schumann turned to Alex standing at the top of the stairs and introduced him.