To Touch the Clouds : The Frontier Series 5

by Peter Watt

  As arranged, they met with John Hughes at his office in Sydney’s Victoria Barracks for a final briefing. Only Hughes was in uniform and the men stood around his office in silence.

  ‘This afternoon your ship will steam for New Guinea and then on to German territory around Rabaul,’ Hughes said. ‘Your mission will be to go ashore at a pre-determined site, guided by Captain Macintosh, and assemble the BE.2. Once that has been accomplished, Mr Duffy and Mr Gates will fly a course along the coast, filming possible places for a naval landing. Once this is achieved, you will disassemble the aircraft and ship it along with yourselves back to Sydney. Tactical control will be in the hands of Captain Macintosh, who is to have overall command of the mission. Be assured, your efforts may prevent the loss of countless civilians here in the future. I don’t have to say how important it is that you don’t fall into German hands. If you do, I expect you to do the right thing by your King and country.’

  ‘Your king is not my king,’ Randolph said quietly.

  ‘Then I am sure Mr Duffy will do the right thing and shoot you himself, if it appears your mission has been compromised by any sign of disloyalty,’ Hughes retorted, but with just the faintest trace of a smile. Nervous laughter greeted the British officer’s remark. ‘Are there any questions?’ Hughes asked in closing. There were none.

  ‘Good,’ Hughes said, reaching into his desk drawer to retrieve a bottle of fine Scottish whisky. ‘Gentlemen,’ he added, producing a glass for each man. ‘I think it is appropriate that I raise a glass to you and the success of the task ahead of you all.’

  The bottle was passed around and each man filled the glass he was given. ‘Colonel Duffy, you should propose the toast,’ Hughes said, turning to Patrick who stood for a moment in silence.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he finally said, raising his glass, ‘to the King, and the success of the mission – and that you return safely to reap the rewards of your good work.’

  Each man raised his glass. ‘Hear, hear,’ they mumbled, each taking a swig.

  ‘Well, if there is nothing else, I am sure that you gentlemen will find a good watering hole before embarking this afternoon,’ Hughes said, placing his glass on his desk. ‘I will not be at the wharf to see you off as we don’t want to draw attention to your departure. Sydney has many German eyes, and a few keep watch of our maritime movements. But I will be with you in spirit.’

  ‘And the spirits of alcohol will be with us when we sail,’ Matthew replied, causing the nervous tension to dissipate in low laughter. The men finished their drinks, leaving their empty glasses on the British officer’s desk.

  ‘Colonel Duffy, if I could have a moment with you,’ Hughes said as the group departed.

  Patrick stopped and turned to his friend. ‘What is it, John?’ he asked, his hand on the door.

  ‘You don’t seem to be yourself,’ Hughes said with a frown. ‘Are you well?’

  Startled by his old friend’s perceptiveness, Patrick stepped inside and closed the door to the office.

  ‘I did not sleep well last night,’ Patrick answered. ‘I have had a lot to think about, sending my youngest son on what could be a very dangerous mission.’

  ‘He is a soldier,’ Hughes said. ‘He knows the risks and has not asked to be left out.’

  ‘I know,’ Patrick sighed. ‘But I am also a father.’

  Hughes nodded his understanding. He did not have children of his own and young Alexander Macintosh was the closest to being considered his own. He, too, had little sleep the night before but when he looked again at Patrick he sensed that there was something else bothering his friend. He knew him too well. They had marched together across the deserts of the Sudan so many years earlier. He would simply wait until Patrick was ready to confide in him.

  He wore a cheap suit, threadbare in patches, and it appeared to have been slept in. Detective Sergeant Jack Firth stood over the body of the famous – and now dead – actor as a sobbing housekeeper wrung her hands.

  ‘I found Mr Wilkes jus’ layin’ here, Sergeant,’ she said, barely able to look at her former employer. ‘I come in every day, ’cept Sunday, to clean his house. I was here about eight o’clock and jus’ saw him layin’ like he is with the blood on his chest.’

  Jack Firth was a New South Wales policeman who had risen through the ranks. He’d had his fair share of years on the street in uniform, battling drunken workers and violent husbands. He was a highly intelligent man, which belied his coarse looks, and he had seen many deaths before. This one puzzled him, however. At first glance it appeared that the actor had shot himself through the chest as the small pistol was still in his hand. But his keen eyesight had spotted a second bullet hole in the wall. When he looked closer he could see signs of a violent struggle: a vase on the floor spilling flowers, a wrinkled carpet.

  ‘What do you think, Jack?’ a voice asked from behind him. It was the uniformed sergeant who had been initially summoned to the house. ‘Suicide – or a jealous husband?’

  ‘The latter, Frank,’ Jack Firth replied. ‘Or a very irate lover. From what I can see this was no suicide.’

  ‘It’s goin’ to make good news for the morning papers,’ the uniformed sergeant said, thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Dead actor killed by person or persons unknown.’

  ‘Our job is to make that person or persons known,’ the plainclothes policeman said. ‘In the meantime we have to get Mr Wilkes here booked in for an autopsy and have some fingerprints lifted off whatever we can. Tell any of your boys that if I catch them taking souvenirs I will kick their arses until their noses bleed. Just leave everything alone until I say it is okay. You wouldn’t know if our dead friend had any particular close lady friends, would you?’

  ‘Jesus, Jack, for a good copper you mustn’t go to the pictures very much,’ the uniformed sergeant answered. ‘Everyone knows that Wilkes was stepping out with Miss Fenella Macintosh. It’s in all the gossip rags. Australia’s darlings, they write of them.’

  Jack Firth was not one for the movies. He was happier spending his spare time playing rugby union for a wellknown Sydney club, where on Saturday afternoons he excelled as a front row forward. ‘Then Miss Macintosh is at the top of the list of people I most want to meet,’ Jack Firth said, reaching into his pocket for his battered pipe. He was a systematic man who worked his way from those closest to the dead man out until he found what he was looking for – a suspect. In his experience, most people died at the hands of someone they knew. Random killings were very rare. In this case, according to the housekeeper who had looked around the house for him, nothing appeared to have been stolen.

  Arthur Thorncroft stood in his office staring down at the single-page letter written by Fenella and left that morning before he arrived in the afternoon to go through accounts. ‘Oh, you silly child,’ he moaned, folding the letter neatly and placing it in his breast pocket. ‘Why must you go away so mysteriously?’ He slumped into his chair and gazed at the telephone on his desk. Did Patrick know his daughter had opted to disappear?

  ‘You Mr Arthur Thorncroft?’ a gruff voice asked from behind him in the doorway. When Arthur turned he saw what could be mistaken for an oversized thug in a bad suit.

  ‘I am,’ Arthur replied, rising defensively from his chair. ‘Who, may I ask, would like to know?’

  ‘Sergeant Jack Firth of the Criminal Investigation Branch,’ the policeman answered without offering his hand. ‘Do you have a Miss Fenella Macintosh working for you?’

  ‘I have,’ Arthur answered. ‘But I am afraid I do not know of her whereabouts. It seems she has chosen to take a holiday without leaving a forwarding address.’ Arthur noticed that his statement appeared to cause a discernible reaction in the police officer’s battered face.

  ‘I believe that a Mr Guy Wilkes was a former employee of yours,’ Firth continued. ‘Were he and Miss Macintosh involved in any illicit relationship?’

  Arthur flared at the burly policeman’s inference that their romance might be a crime. ‘If you
are here about what occurs between Mr Wilkes and Miss Macintosh I suggest that you start by asking them the questions – not me.’

  ‘Can’t do that, Mr Thorncroft,’ Jack Firth answered. ‘Not in one case, at any rate. Mr Wilkes is dead. He was found this morning with a bullet in his chest and is currently lying on a slab at the morgue. I would very much like to speak with Miss Macintosh about the matter, though.’

  Arthur gripped the edge of the table to prevent himself collapsing. He now realised that his initial statement made it look as if his beloved Nellie was deliberately attempting to avoid any confrontation with the police. ‘I am sorry but I cannot tell you where Miss Macintosh is, because I do not know.’

  The policeman glared at Arthur, telling him with his eyes that he did not believe him. ‘When you next see Miss Macintosh I would appreciate it if you could let me know,’ Sergeant Jack Firth said. ‘I will speak with you at a future time, Mr Thorncroft.’

  Arthur waited until the policeman had left the studio before he reached for the telephone on his desk. He prayed that his good friend Patrick Duffy would be at home to take his call. Time was of the essence and Arthur had already figured out that Fenella had been identified as a prime suspect in the death of her lover, Guy Wilkes. It was imperative that she be found and the matter settled with the police. A major scandal would erupt in the morning papers if she could not clear herself.

  The ship rocked gently at its moorings. Her name, the Osprey II, had been handed down from the days when the Macintosh companies owned a blackbirding ship of the same name that sank off the coast of Queensland many years earlier as a result of a mysterious explosion.

  The strong smell of brine and fish permeated the dock as the three men stood by their kit bags waiting for Colonel Duffy to present any final orders before they embarked. They had spent a few hours in a hotel but had not consumed an excessive amount of alcohol. Rather they had reflected on what lay ahead of them and chatted about subjects such as cricket, football and the social scene in Sydney, trying to keep their imaginations distracted from what could possibly go wrong.

  Finally, the colonel’s car arrived and Patrick alighted, his face already registering concern.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, approaching the trio. ‘I must apologise for my lateness but something of a personal matter has cropped up to delay me.’

  ‘What is that, Father?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Your sister has disappeared without leaving any notice other than a letter to Arthur,’ Patrick replied, turning to his youngest son. ‘It appears that the police have found Guy Wilkes shot in his home and they suspect Nellie may be the killer, which we know has to be absurd. However, her sudden disappearance makes them suspect that she may have had a hand in taking his life. I must find her as quickly as possible to prove her innocence.’

  ‘That is also my duty, Colonel,’ Randolph said, stepping forward. ‘Under the current circumstances, I must excuse myself from the mission.’

  ‘But we need you to operate the camera,’ Alex protested. ‘Without you the mission is doomed to failure before it has even commenced.’

  ‘I think that I have a solution,’ Matthew interjected. ‘There is another man I would vouch for to fill Texas Slim’s role. A man I have had the opportunity to get to know over some time, and can swear to his reliability.’

  ‘Who is that?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Mr Robert Houston,’ Matthew replied. ‘He was once a sergeant with the New Zealand Mounted Rifles in the South African war. I got the impression from our chats that he would jump at a bit of excitement and a chance to do something for King and country. With your permission, Colonel, I would like to speak with him and request he join the mission in Randolph’s place.’

  Patrick frowned and mulled over the idea. He only knew the cameraman briefly through his visits to Arthur’s studios but the man had impressed him as being fairly solid in his work. ‘We will need to postpone the operation by twenty-four hours but no longer,’ Patrick replied. ‘I will let you speak to Mr Houston. It was bad enough that we had an American aboard on this one but a New Zealander! I suppose they have their merits.’

  ‘Good,’ Matthew grinned. ‘I will make contact with Bob and offer him Randolph’s role in the operation. I am ninety-nine per cent sure he will go for it. All you have to do is clear his leave of absence with Mr Thorncroft.’

  ‘Thanks, pardner,’ Randolph said, offering his hand to his friend. ‘I didn’t want to let you down but finding Fenella is more important to me than serving your king and empire. Fenella is my whole world and her welfare all I really care about at this point in time. I hope you can understand.’

  Matthew nodded, gripping the American’s hand firmly. ‘I think I know how you feel,’ he said. ‘Some things are worth going absent for but you do so with my blessings and I am sure that is also the sentiment of Nellie’s father and brother.’

  Randolph turned to Patrick, whose surprised expression at the American’s decision was still on his face.

  ‘Well, old chap,’ Alex said, stepping forward to the American and offering his hand. ‘I think that my sister is fortunate to have your concern for her in her life. If anyone will find her safe and sound I am sure it will be you and Father. Good luck.’

  Relieved, Randolph accepted the gesture from the man he hoped would be his future brother-in-law.

  The mission had not started well and Patrick felt ill at this unexpected interruption to the military plans as well as from what Arthur had read to him over the phone from the letter Fenella had left. At least Patrick could be one hundred per cent sure that his beloved Fenella had no involvement in Guy Wilkes’ death but he had to find a way of ensuring that the investigating police understood her total innocence too. That would be difficult if the real killer was not found.

  Alone, Arthur waited by the telephone in his office. When he had read the contents of Fenella’s letter to Patrick he had not read the last two sentences to him. He had to respect Fenella’s trust in him and the agony of not telling his dear friend what he knew was eating away at the film producer.

  Every noise around Arthur made him jump and he was relieved when the telephone finally jangled its demand that he pick it up. As arranged, Fenella was at the other end and Arthur could hear the terrible pain in her voice. He agreed to meet her as she requested. He would not be informing the police of the young woman’s whereabouts as very soon it would not matter. With his help, by the time the sun rose over Sydney the next morning, Fenella would no longer be upon Australian soil. He would have to learn to live with the guilt of his knowledge.

  14

  Twenty-four hours after its scheduled departure the Osprey II steamed away from the wharf. Standing on the wharf watching the ship slowly swing around to head into the harbour for its voyage north were Colonel Patrick Duffy and Randolph Gates – and at the rail of the coastal steamer stood Matthew, Alex and Bob Houston. They waved to the men on the wharf as if the three were on a liner heading off on a holiday voyage instead of destined for a deadly mission in German waters.

  When the ship passed out of sight behind a small headland, Patrick turned to Randolph. ‘We have our work cut out for us,’ he said in a tired voice, ‘if we are to find my daughter.’

  Randolph nodded. Where did they start? He knew they were in a race with police investigators to get to her first.

  Even as he pondered the search for the woman he loved more than his own life, an innocuous-looking man stood some distance away watching the Macintosh ship depart. He was the assistant to the German consul in Sydney and the information he had been passed proved to be correct. Something had happened and the American had been replaced by one of Mr Arthur Thorncroft’s cameramen, Bob Houston. The fact that the replacement was a highly experienced photographer appeared to support the theory that the men were on a mission to film German territory in the Pacific, and that their destination was the waters around Rabaul. This at least pinned them down in time and place.

  Herr Bosch walked awa
y to make his report destined for the Imperial German Navy. Somehow they would disrupt the British operation and, if needs be, kill those involved. He shook his head sadly with a touch of sympathy for the three young men. Their mission was already doomed.

  Even as the Osprey II ploughed through the heavy seas east of the harbour, a young woman leaned on the rail of the English-registered liner ploughing into the heavy seas of the Tasman. The salty air whipped at her hair and caused her long dress to cling to her legs. The sky was overcast and she experienced the misery of sea sickness. Her face was unduly pale but she had succeeded in fighting her nausea.

  ‘I say,’ a male voice said behind her. ‘Aren’t you Miss Fenella Macintosh?’

  Fenella half turned to see a rather good-looking young man in his late twenties wearing a well-fitted suit and straw boater hat which he held with one hand to avoid having it blown over the side.

  ‘Many people mistake me for her,’ Fenella replied. ‘I only wish I were she.’

  ‘I don’t think you would want that right now,’ the young man said. ‘Not if one is to believe what one has read in yesterday’s papers before we left. It appears that the police would like to speak to her about the death of that actor, Guy Wilkes.’

  Fenella was glad that she had been able to change her name for the sea voyage. She had done so to avoid her father locating her. She was leaving her country of birth to avoid bringing shame on her father’s name with her addiction and unwed status with the baby she carried inside her. The only person she trusted to keep her secret was Arthur Thorncroft who was not only a close friend but almost an uncle to her. He had informed her of Guy’s death and that the police were wishing to speak with her. Fenella had already made her plans – and had the financial means to carry them out – before the sudden and terrible incident. Although she had stopped loving the actor she still sobbed in Arthur’s arms over his tragic death. He was, after all, the father of the child inside her. Arthur had pleaded with her to stay and allow her father to help, but Fenella was the daughter of the esteemed soldier and well-known philanthropist Colonel Patrick Duffy. She knew that she was innocent of any crime but also realised that if she stayed to confront the police she would be the target of malicious gossip that would hurt her father and family. Better that she disappear to prevent any chance of the tabloids smearing the family name. She had, however, promised Arthur that she would keep in constant contact with him and he had further helped by providing her with references for her future.