by Peter Watt
‘It was not murder,’ Patrick replied softly. ‘What happened was a terrible accident.’
‘Do you wish to go to the police and explain what happened?’ George asked with a crooked smile. ‘Or would you rather the family name stay out of any scandal that may ruin your reputation as the commanding officer of the regiment?’
‘You know why I would prefer to remain silent on the subject,’ Patrick said, feeling the whisky sour in his stomach.
‘Then think carefully,’ George said, approaching his father and standing over him. ‘I am the only person who can keep you out of the hands of the police and possibly off the end of a hangman’s rope. I need to know where my brother is right now.’
Patrick placed his glass on the small side table by the armchair and slowly rose to his feet. ‘Then it is you who has been feeding information to the Germans,’ he said. ‘Traitors are still executed in this country.’
Both men stood facing each other.
‘I am not a traitor,’ George said. ‘The little I gave the Germans was to influence favourable trade concessions and investments. It was not an act of treachery.’
‘That is not how some would view it,’ Patrick answered in a cold tone. ‘You are fortunate that I am your father and that my operation can never be revealed to the public for scrutiny. Otherwise, I would have you arrested the moment I stepped through that door,’ Patrick said, gesturing to the entrance to George Macintosh’s office.
‘And you are fortunate that I do not go to the police and inform them that I saw you kill Guy Wilkes,’ George said.
‘You did not see me kill Wilkes,’ Patrick said, puzzled by the statement. ‘You arrived after Wilkes was killed.’
‘No, Father,’ George said. ‘I saw the whole affair through the living room window, including your attempt to take the pistol from Wilkes and the struggle in which the gun went off.’
‘Then you are a witness to the fact that it was an accident,’ Patrick gasped. ‘You are able to help me clear up this whole horrible matter.’
‘That depends,’ George replied. ‘On whether you ever speak of your suspicions of me being a traitor.’
‘I would say that we are at what the Americans call a Mexican stand-off – neither of us may reveal what we know of each other.’
‘Very well said,’ George answered, turning to walk away. ‘But, if you are able to tell me where my brother is before tomorrow morning I am sure we will be able to clear up the Wilkes matter in a way that it never comes to public attention.’
‘How is that possible?’ Patrick scoffed.
‘You are rather naive for a man who has seen much of the world,’ George snorted. ‘We have at our means the most powerful weapon in the judicial system – money – and its ability to pay a poor policeman in one day what he would earn in ten years. I just happen to know about the leading investigator on the murder inquiry, and from what I have learned he is in dire financial circumstances. Just accept that I would never betray my country nor risk the safety of my brother,’ George continued convincingly. ‘Trust me when I say my need to know where Alex is has nothing to do with your military affairs. I merely wish to make money for us.’
Patrick stared at his son, wanting to believe his words. Politics had never been an interest to George and he could understand why he might provide certain information to the Germans. After all, it was beyond comprehension that one brother would want to harm another – no matter how much they may dislike each other. ‘I will help you,’ he finally replied. ‘So long as you swear on your own life that the information will not harm Alex or compromise what I am doing.’
‘I swear,’ George answered, holding up his glass of whisky. ‘Alex is my brother. I could not do him any harm – despite our differences. I just need to clinch the deal with the Germans for a cargo that Alex may be able to return for us.’
Patrick left the office with his eldest son’s oath echoing in his head. But he could not shake from his mind a story his grandmother Lady Enid Macintosh had once read to him from her much-used Bible. It was the story of Cain and Abel.
Now working as Herr Schumann’s chief overseer, Gerhard Schmidt had been recruited from the docklands of Hamburg. He was a heavily built man whose strong physique had equipped him well to lay on the lashes of less than cooperative workers. He was also a man born with an innate suspicion of the world around him, a suspicion which had helped keep him alive as a young man scraping a living in the tough working area of Hamburg’s docks.
He stood in a spacious storage shed normally used to stack copra and stared at the large wooden crates taken from the English ship and now occupying the space where he felt only Schumann property should be stored. Machinery parts, he mused picking up a steel bar to jemmy open one of the smaller crates that smelled strongly of a substance he could not identify. The wooden lid came off with a protesting squeal as the nails ripped through the pine timber.
For a moment Schmidt was puzzled. He had not seen an engine of the type in the crate and wondered if it might be some kind of pump. To satisfy his curiosity he went to a larger crate and repeated the procedure. This time he was in no doubt as to what the boxes contained. Before him lay a wooden propeller. The German overseer had seen such machines before in pictures and guessed that the strange smell had to be the remnants of aviation fuel. It was a disassembled aircraft. Schmidt did not bother to replace the lids but hurried to the main house where he knew he would find his boss.
Alex Macintosh watched wistfully from the stern of the Macintosh ship as the shoreline disappeared in the distance. He knew that Giselle would be on the beach watching his ship steam over the horizon and with each nautical mile he experienced the pangs of parting. When it was no longer possible to see the shore but merely the jungle-clad mountains behind the Schumann plantation, Alex turned with a sigh and went below to meet with Matthew and Bob in the small mess room for the crew. He found both men engaged in a card game with a pile of coins between them.
Matthew glanced up at Alex. ‘It all seems to be going well,’ he said. ‘The plane is safely stored and we have nothing to hide from the Customs people when we reach Rabaul.’
Alex took a seat at the end of the tiny table. Bob was frowning as he perused the hand that he had been dealt. ‘Overall this alternative plan has set us back a bit,’ Alex said. ‘But I think it will be worth it when we double-back to the aircraft. Hopefully by then the Germans will have become impatient and called off any security measures to intercept us. I can’t see anything going wrong.’
‘You want to sit in?’ Bob growled. Alex politely declined, knowing that his cousin had a fearsome reputation for winning with cards.
‘How long before we reach Rabaul?’ Matthew asked, rearranging his hand. They were playing gin rummy and the aviator was flying high on what he had.
‘Two, maybe three days,’ Alex replied. ‘We stay around for a couple of days buying enough cargo to fill the holds, and then we leave as the traders that we are. If the German authorities have been tipped off to the mission they will soon conclude their intelligence was faulty and call off any measure they may have set in place to trap us.’
Matthew heard his cousin’s confident words but still did not feel easy about the plan. What if the security leak in Australia kept abreast of their new plan? Although that did not seem possible when Alex had gone to great measures to bring about a blackout on information back to Sydney. No radio traffic had been allowed from the ship’s signal officer. He smiled when Bob picked up a low card from the pack. If he was going to be killed on this operation, he might die a wealthy man on his winnings from the likeable New Zealander.
Hauptmann Dieter Hirsch stood behind the communications officer of the Imperial German Navy, hunched over his radio and morse key. The young sailor adjusted his headset and leaned forward, listening intently to the keystrokes emitting from a ship within the radius of his set’s ability. In the cramped room the air was hot and sweat trickled down both men’s faces.
�
��Has there been nothing from the English ship?’ Hirsch asked. The sailor turned to his superior officer. ‘Nothing for over two weeks, Herr Hauptmann,’ he replied.
‘Would you say that was unusual?’ the German officer asked.
‘Yes sir,’ the young communications sailor answered. ‘All the English trading ships talk to each other in our waters. This one has been unusually silent.’
Hirsch frowned. His last intelligence on the whereabouts of the Macintosh trading ship was that it had left Port Moresby. According to his calculations it should have been in their waters by now and yet the patrolling gun boat had reported no sighting of their target.
The sailor resumed his duties as the dots and dashes continued to flood the airwaves. Suddenly he reached for his pencil and began scribbling on a pad. Many messages were being sent to his station lately from cruising German warships and traders. Hirsch took a deep breath and sighed. It was time to return to his office and resume his duties for the governor administrating the island. He placed his cap on his head and turned to make his way to the door.
‘Sir!’ the young signaller called to him. ‘I have just received an urgent message from the Schumann plantation. I think you should see it.’
Hirsch took the sheet of paper and read the deciphered signal. ‘God in heaven!’ he exclaimed. ‘You have just sentenced yourself to death, Captain Macintosh,’ he said aloud as the radio officer watched him in expectation. Hirsch glanced across at the young man. ‘Are you in contact with our patrol boat?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the sailor replied.
‘Then get a signal off to them to return to Rabaul immediately,’ Hirsch commanded.
The communications officer began tapping out the signal as Hirsch scribbled the formal signal for transmission on an official message pad. He turned to a map on the wall covering the immediate area of German interests around Rabaul that also stretched to German New Guinea. He knew the Schumann plantation from formal visits in the past and it had just recently installed a radio set. With his finger he drew a line between it and Rabaul, calculating how long it would take a coastal steamer to arrive. He knew that he must now hurry to the governor’s office and brief him on developments. He was certain that the Australian ship was on its way to carry out an act of espionage against the Kaiser’s interests in the Pacific. With the current international situation as shaky as it was he was convinced that they had to be moving towards inevitable war in Europe although he still prayed England would remain neutral. No matter what the rest of the world was experiencing he was at least certain his war had already started.
18
George Macintosh stood by the window of his office, his hands behind his back. Patrick Duffy held the telegram in his hand, reading its contents while Randolph Gates hovered, waiting for the reason he had been asked by Patrick to accompany him to the Macintosh offices in the city.
‘I believe that you may know something of the man who has sent this telegram regarding the situation Fenella has found herself in,’ George said to his father without turning to face him.
‘I do not know him personally,’ Patrick replied. ‘But I do know his uncle’s firm. It enjoys a very high reputation and for many years in the past our companies used their legal services. When did you receive this?’ Patrick asked, holding up the telegram.
‘This morning,’ George said, turning to face the two men in his office.
‘What is it?’ Randolph asked, sensing the tension between father and son.
‘Nellie is currently in the custody of the American police in their territory of Hawaii,’ Patrick answered. ‘It appears from the telegram that she is safe and well but she is to be extradited home to face a murder charge.’
‘Fenella did not kill Wilkes,’ Randolph blurted. ‘That is impossible.’ He noticed that neither man disagreed with him but that was to be expected when it was a family matter. ‘I will vouch that she was with me the night Wilkes was killed.’
‘Is that true?’ Patrick asked eagerly.
‘No,’ Randolph replied, shifting uncomfortably for the perjury he knew he would commit in any court of law as he suddenly remembered something. ‘God damn it!’ he swore. ‘I am not in a position to do that. I have already given a statement saying Fenella was not in my presence for that time.’
‘Could it be that you left out Nellie’s being with you, to protect her reputation,’ Patrick offered hopefully.
For a moment Randolph thought about the idea but dismissed it. ‘I was at my rooms in the hotel and the night porter confirmed that when the police spoke with me,’ he said. ‘I doubt that I could include Fenella.’
‘We could bribe the chap,’ George said quietly. ‘He could swear that Nellie was with you.’
Patrick shook his head. ‘We would be creating too many loose ends that could easily unravel, and we know that my daughter did not kill Wilkes.’
George nodded. ‘Then all we can do is wait until Nellie is returned to us, and employ the best defence lawyers in Sydney to represent her.’
‘That would have to be your distant cousin’s firm,’ Patrick said, wondering at the strange turn of events. He had let his contact with the Duffys from Redfern lapse over the years. Now that he would need their help to save his daughter he felt the pangs of crushing guilt. All he had to do was go to the police and tell them the story of what actually occurred on that night and his beloved daughter would be free. But that would also mean seriously jeopardising the military mission so vital to Australia’s future security. He knew that he was caught between saving his daughter and saving his country. The only hope he now had was that the Duffy blood of his father would be strong enough to save both his daughter and his country.
Patrick glanced at Randolph and could see the pain in his face. At least little Nellie had met a man worthy of her, he thought. He placed his hand on the American’s shoulder, regretting that he could not share his terrible secret with him. ‘Come, old chap,’ he said. ‘We have much work to do.’
‘Do you know that Mr Thorncroft spoke with me yesterday?’ Randolph asked as both men left the office and stepped onto the busy street shrouded by heavy winter clouds and whipped by a cold wind from the harbour. ‘He has completed the film and wants to release it in Australian theatres as soon as possible.’
Patrick thought about Arthur’s dilemma. ‘I want you to go to Arthur and tell him that we will not be releasing the film until this matter concerning Nellie is cleared up. If he needs money to get through until then you can inform him he only has to speak with me and it will be approved.’
The three men standing at the bow of the Macintosh ship scanned the harbour waters that were shimmering under the tropical sun on this cloudless day.
‘Look there,’ Matthew said, pointing across the bay to the clean lines of what from a greater distance might have been perceived as a millionaire’s yacht. The upper structure of the two-masted, single-funnelled craft with its clean white-painted upper hull, lay at anchor but there was no mistaking the three deadly four-inch naval guns on her decks or the ensign of the Imperial German Navy fluttering in the breeze at her mast.
‘It’s the Komet,’ Alex said. ‘She is Governor Haber’s gunboat in these waters. ‘At least we know where she is and apparently not on station looking for us.’
The comment did not take away Matthew’s unease. The German gunboat had the capacity to blow them out of the water and there was nothing they could do to defend themselves; .303 Lee Enfield rifles were pea shooters compared to what the formidable gunboat carried.
Bob Houston lit a cigarette and watched as the smoke swirled away. ‘What do we do now?’ he asked, taking a puff.
‘We go ashore as the innocent traders that we are,’ Alex said, turning from the bow rail. ‘I think that once we have cleared the port authority and Customs we should go to the officers’ club in town and look up a man I met on my last trip. I am sure that he will provide us with some hospitality.’
Ashore, the three men watched a column of
uniformed German men wearing slouch hats and with Mausers slung over their shoulders marching along a tree-lined avenue.
‘Interesting,’ Alex muttered as the men paraded smartly by under the command of a junior officer.
‘What do you mean?’ Matthew asked his cousin with a note of suspicion in his voice.
‘They look like reservists,’ Alex replied. ‘Maybe it’s just a routine training exercise,’ he concluded. When the column had passed the three men continued their walk towards the German club in the settlement.
‘Captain Macintosh,’ an accented voice called from across the avenue. The three men turned to see a smartly dressed German officer hurrying towards them.
‘Hauptmann Hirsch,’ Alex greeted warmly in German, extending his hand. ‘It is good to see you again.’
‘Ah, Captain Macintosh, what brings you back to Rabaul?’ Hirsch asked, eyeing Matthew and Bob.
‘Maybe we should have a discussion in your wonderful club,’ Alex said. ‘But not to the extent of last time.’
Both men laughed lightly at the reference to the generous hospitality and even more generous amounts of schnapps Alex had consumed on his last visit to the club.
‘I should introduce my companions,’ Alex said, turning to Matthew and Bob. Introductions made, Hirsch invited the three to join him at the officers’ club where it seemed that half the island’s military had gathered for a drinking session. The rowdy party of uniformed and civilian-clothed Germans fell silent upon Hirsch and his guests’ entrance.
‘Gentlemen,’ Hirsch proclaimed. ‘I would like you to extend our hospitality to our guests, one of whom many of you are already familiar from his last visit . . .’ A murmur of agreement met his words. ‘Captain Macintosh and his companions, Mr Robert Houston and Mr Matthew Duffy. Both men have served their country in the South African campaign.’