by Peter Watt
‘The odds are even,’ Sean said with a short laugh. ‘I have you and Harry on my side, and between us we have a fair bit of knowing how to stay alive when the bullets start flying and the whiz-bangs go overhead. Besides, I carry this.’ He lifted the walking cane beside his leg. He raised it and pushed a button near the handle, and a wicked-looking rapier blade flicked out. ‘Oh how I would love to have the excuse to slide this into Sir George Macintosh’s throat and watch the life in his eyes go out.’
‘And you are worried about me shooting Ulverstone,’ Tom chuckled. ‘At least it would be a head shot and his eyes would just blow out of his head.’
Even though they laughed at their macabre jokes, they both knew that the situation had probably come to the point of killing or being killed.
‘I have an old mate at Vic Barracks who works in a department allied to Ulverstone’s,’ Sean said. ‘He does not like the man, although I did not let on why I was asking about him. It seems that Ulverstone might be going up to Newcastle soon to inspect a couple of our coastal defence units.’
Tom knew what Sean was saying. ‘Would you be able to find out when?’ he asked.
Sean already knew. ‘This time next week,’ he said. ‘He will be chauffeured in a staff car, along the main highway to Newcastle.’
‘Day or night?’ Tom asked.
‘Day,’ Sean replied. ‘You would only get one chance.’
Tom nodded. ‘I think it is time to head over the mountains to Bathurst to look at my property there and catch up with Jessie.’
‘Be bloody careful, Tom,’ Sean said. ‘I don’t have to warn you of the consequences if anything goes wrong. As it is I expect that there will be hell to raise if you succeed.’
‘Put your faith in me, cobber,’ Tom said, rising from the chair. ‘I will be able to call you when I get to Bathurst.’
Sean rose and offered his hand. ‘Good luck, old chap. While you are gone I will make sure things are covered at this end.’
With these final words Tom Duffy left the office and stepped out onto the streets of Sydney. The stump on his arm throbbed with pain and he knew he would have to take his rifle to Bathurst to practise his marksmanship away from prying eyes. Time was short, and Tom knew that he had only this one opportunity to execute a traitor.
*
The farm manager was a surly man in his sixties who did not exactly welcome the owner onto his property.
‘We have not met before, Mr Duffy,’ he said without extending his hand.
Both men stood in drizzling rain outside the small cottage with its lean-to verandah. It was late in the afternoon and already getting dark.
‘I got a telegram from Major Duffy’s office saying that you would be staying here for a couple of days. I suppose you want to take over the house while you are here.’
Tom hunched against the cold in his old greatcoat, his hat low over his face and a suitcase by his side. ‘That will not be necessary, Mr Oldwell,’ Tom replied. ‘I believe you have a shed on the farm.’
‘Yes, but a couple of Land Army girls are bunked down there,’ Oldwell replied.
‘I noticed it when I was driven in,’ Tom said. ‘It will do fine.’
Oldwell shrugged. ‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘I think the girls are in there now. You can’t get much work out of them.’
‘In this weather, Mr Oldwell, I don’t see you out checking fences.’
‘It’s just that them not working every day bites into your profits,’ he wheedled.
‘I would rather see the girls safe and well out of this weather,’ Tom growled. ‘I will be doing a bit of shooting while I’m here,’ he continued. ‘So don’t be alarmed if you hear shots. It’s not the Japs invading.’
Tom picked up his suitcase and walked away towards the large shed filled with bales of hay and farming implements. He stepped inside and saw Jessica sitting on a straw bale, holding a steaming mug of tea. Beside her on another bale was a pretty young lady wearing overalls and an old leather jacket. Jessica peered at the figure standing in the entrance to the shed.
‘Dad!’ she exclaimed, jumping up from the hay bale. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’
‘Don’t swear, young lady,’ Tom said with a grin, as his daughter embraced him in a big hug.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ she said. ‘Working with stupid sheep you kind of pick up a few swear words.’
‘Who is your colleague?’ Tom asked, looking over at the other young girl.
‘Oh, this is Maria,’ she said. ‘Maria comes from Griffith.’
Maria rose shyly when Tom walked over and shook her hand. He figured she must be only fifteen, and he could feel that her hand was hard with calluses. ‘I am Jessie’s father,’ he said and noticed a puzzled expression on the girl’s face. He remembered that Jessica had enlisted under her alias and had kept up the false name at the farm. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said quickly.
‘Are you hungry?’ Jessie asked her father. ‘We were about to cook dinner. Maria has been able to scrounge what she needs to make a delicious spaghetti and meatballs dish for us. Her family make their own spaghetti, and the meatballs are made from minced mutton. We were able to buy some fresh tomatoes for the sauce.’
‘That sounds fine,’ Tom said, holding his daughter’s hand for a brief moment. ‘I will be bunking down in the shed while I am here so we can catch up on everything.’
‘I somehow think this is not a social visit,’ Jessie said with a frown. ‘What is going on?’
‘I thought that while I was in Sydney I would take the opportunity of coming out to see the property and see you at the same time. I miss you all the time, princess.’
Jessie shook her head. She knew her father too well. ‘Why are you really here, Dad?’ she asked.
‘To see you and our property,’ Tom lied, although there was some truth in wanting to see his daughter. ‘Anyway, I brought a gift,’ he said, bending to open his suitcase.
Jessie felt a sick feeling in her stomach when she glimpsed the dismantled rifle but did not comment as her father passed a small leg ham to Maria, who squealed with delight at the luxury. She thanked Tom, and took it to a battered kerosene fridge in the corner of the shed, cleared to provide a makeshift living area.
‘We will dine well for the next couple of days,’ Tom said cheerily, but Jessica did not reply. She was in a world of dark suspicion and fear.
*
Detective Sergeant Preston eyed a few of the patrons in the pub. He saw one or two familiar faces of men he had arrested for petty crimes, but they steered well clear of him. He had chosen this sleazy hotel as a place to meet Sir George because he felt comfortable mixing with Sydney’s underside and he knew Sir George did not. Cigarette smoke and the stench of unwashed bodies filled the small bar.
‘The job needs to be done as fast as possible,’ Sir George said quietly across the table. ‘I will leave the details to you.’ He pushed a folded newspaper across the table. Preston slipped his hand inside the fold, quickly withdrawing a wad of money, which he pushed into a pocket of his cheap suit. ‘It is a generous amount. You can count it later.’
‘I know that you are a generous man, Sir George,’ Preston said. ‘But I trust you have also provided for the help I will need for that bastard solicitor to have a serious accident.’
‘I have,’ Sir George said. ‘I expect to read in the morning papers about the sad demise of Major Sean Duffy before the weekend is over.’
‘I can promise you that,’ Preston replied, lifting his large glass of beer topped by a head of froth. ‘Duffy will be headline news in the Sunday morning papers.’
Nineteen
He was big, and sweat streaked his muscled body under a tropical sun. From his corner David Macintosh punched his gloves together, sizing up his opponent in the company’s boxing ring. The CO had issued a standard operating procedure tha
t physical fitness was to be maintained as they stood on standby for deployment back into the war. The men had access to many sports such as swimming, tennis and cricket. There was even a cooking competition between the battalions to see which catering section could turn out the best roast with potatoes, gravy and peas. The gravy proved to be the winning point in the fiercely contested competition.
David had been cajoled into the ring by the old soldiers who knew of his formidable reputation before the war as a heavyweight fighting in Sydney. There had been a time in the Dachau concentration camp that David had boxed for his life, but now he was fighting for the honour of his rifle company against the reigning champion from a sister company in the battalion. David had easily won his intercompany fights to reach the finals, and now money was changing hands behind the ring for the title of best heavyweight in the battalion. His opponent was a warrant officer from the quartermaster’s stores, and he rippled with upper-body strength.
‘C’mon, boss, show him how Charlie company are the best,’ came the chorus of encouragement from the men and officers of David’s unit. They were clustered around the boxing ring that comprised a piece of cleared ground with a rope around four padded pickets. The referee was the regimental sergeant major who had only a vague idea about the rules of boxing, but he had been appointed to adjudicate the match as no man would dare question his decisions.
The RSM made his grand announcement of the rules – as he saw them – and introduced the two fighters. David rose from his wooden crate that stood in for a stool, and it was whisked from the ring by his company second-in-command, Captain Brian Williams. The two men fought in sandshoes, shorts, singlets and head gear. It would be a three round match, and David knew in that time he had to deliver as much power as possible for a knockout.
The two fighters touched gloves and a bell sounded. Neither fighter spent any time probing for a weakness in their opponent’s defence; this was purely a slugging match, and David could feel the power of the other man’s punches as they found their marks on his face and body.
The bell rang and David lurched back to his corner. Captain Brian Williams shoved the wooden crate under him, and he slumped down onto it gratefully.
‘The big bastard can punch,’ David gasped as water was spilled into his mouth. Blood was trickling from a cut above his eye.
‘I noticed that he keeps his guard up,’ Captain Williams said. He too had spent a lot of time in the ring and had been a good light-heavyweight fighter in his state of Victoria. ‘You need to get under it and have a go at his stomach and ribs.’
David glanced over to the opposite corner and could see the smile on the other fighter’s face. He appeared confident and relaxed.
The bell rang again, and this time David came out wary of the power of his adversary. Remembering Williams’s observation, he moved in and hammered the other fighter’s midriff before he could deliver any punches of his own. David took heavy blows to the head but made sure that he was close enough that the blows did not have much leverage behind them. David thought he might have cracked his opponent’s rib when he heard the man grunt with pain. The distraction was enough and David stepped away to concentrate on blows to his opponent’s head. He remembered the man’s overconfident smile and now he could hear the roar of the spectators baying for blood. He continued his barrage of bone-breaking punches, and when his opponent reeled away, David was sure he was weakening. The bell rang to signal the end of the second round, and both men staggered back to their respective corners.
‘You have him!’ Captain Williams said. ‘I think you might have broken one of his ribs.’
David splashed water over his face. The tropical humidity made fighting uncomfortable. He glanced across at the other fighter and could see that his second was checking the man’s ribs.
David stood up and walked over to the other corner and raised his opponent’s hand as the victor. The stunned silence that followed David’s noble gesture was broken by a roar of approval from the spectators – but not the bookmakers.
‘When your ribs heal, we will have a rematch,’ David said. ‘But I figure you had the edge until the second round, so I am conceding the fight to you.’
The quartermaster warrant officer gazed up in surprise at David. ‘No, sir, you won fair and square.’
‘Sorry, sergeant, but I outrank you and the RSM, so I am declaring you the winner,’ David said with a grin. ‘Besides, this way you might be a bit more generous towards my company with stores.’
The warrant officer grinned and stood to touch gloves with David. ‘You might be right on that, sir,’ he said.
David returned to his corner where he saw Captain Williams shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I know, Brian,’ David said. ‘I could have won, but we would have had a senior QM out of action, and we need more supplies for the company.’
‘I suppose I see your point, boss,’ Captain Williams sighed as he helped David remove the gloves.
The men of his company congratulated him on his display of both boxing and sportsmanship and then they drifted back to their duties. Charlie Company did not win the heavyweight title that day, but they did win the respect of the other companies and battalions when word got around.
David returned to his quarters to prepare for a shower. The cut above his eye did not require stitches, and he sat down at his desk in his shorts and singlet, sweat covering his body and bruises already starting to show. The mail delivery had been distributed and David saw a small pile of letters for him on the desk. He recognised Allison’s and Sean’s handwriting and the letterhead of the Macintosh enterprises. The business letter from the Macintosh enterprises simply reaffirmed his allowance. He set it aside and kept Allison’s letters until last, so that he could savour them. Amongst the pile was a bulky letter with no return address. Puzzled, David opened it first to see a short typed letter.
Dear Major Duffy
As one concerned for our men at the front I feel it is my duty to inform you of the despicable behaviour of a woman by the name of Allison Lowe who I believe has won your affections. It is my sad duty to inform you that she has been having affairs behind your back. I do not wish to be forced to prove what I am telling you, but I feel that I should forward photographic evidence of her treacherous behaviour.
A Friend
His hands shaking, David drew out a set of grainy black and white photos and immediately saw what they represented. He felt physically sick and an old adage came to mind . . . a picture says a thousand words. These said a lot more.
David stared at the two letters from Allison, leaving them unopened on his desk.
*
Sarah was nervous. Her father had intimated that he would be going into full retirement due to his health issues. If that was so, he would have to nominate a head of the Macintosh enterprises. So far, Sir George had sided with her, and she should have been confident in getting the nomination. But her father could be irrational, and there was always the chance that he might name Donald instead.
She sat in her office pondering the upcoming announcement which Sir George said would be made in November. As far as she knew, her brother was preoccupied with matters outside the realm of making money. She had heard rumours that her brother might even be working some kind of covert operation with the prime minister’s people. His trips away from Sydney could often not be linked with direct business concerns. Could that be used against him? Sarah knew she would need assistance to find out, and the private investigator she had hired to take the photos of Allison had proved to be discreet. Now she needed his services again. The appointment had been made, and Sarah’s assistant announced his arrival.
‘Come in, Mr Chatsworth,’ Sarah said.
John Chatsworth, a former police officer, was a tall, dour man in his early forties. He had left the police force under a dark cloud but retained links to a circle of crooked police. That made him very efficient at his job
of collecting ‘the goods’ on many so-called reputable businessmen.
He entered the room, took off his hat and sat down without invitation. ‘I believe that you require my services again, Miss Macintosh.’
‘I have a rather sensitive job for you, Mr Chatsworth,’ Sarah said, annoyed by the man’s apparent arrogance. ‘I need to have my brother followed to see who he meets and why. It may require you to travel interstate.’
‘That will be very costly,’ Chatsworth said, raising an eyebrow.
‘I can pay,’ Sarah replied. ‘My brother takes trips to Canberra and Brisbane. I want to know why.’
‘I already know about your brother,’ Chatsworth said. ‘It’s common knowledge that he works on committees for the prime minister.’
‘It’s his trips to Brisbane that I wish to know about,’ Sarah said. ‘None of the past journeys appear to be related to any of our business interests.’
‘Maybe your brother has a love interest in Brisbane,’ Chatsworth said.
‘If he does, I want to know who,’ Sarah said. ‘I want you to see if you can gather any dirt on my brother that may be considered scandalous.’
‘Are you sure?’ the private investigator asked. ‘What I might learn about your brother could be very damaging to the Macintosh companies.’
‘I am sure,’ Sarah said. ‘There is a lot at stake for me.’
Chatsworth shrugged. ‘Consider it done, but I will require upfront payment for expenses.’
Sarah reached inside a desk drawer to retrieve a cheque book. She filled in a cheque, and passed it to the private investigator, who raised both eyebrows this time as he slipped the cheque inside his suit pocket. ‘That will do for a start,’ he said as he rose from his chair, and replaced his hat on his head. ‘I will be in contact.’
Sarah watched him leave her office and had a good feeling about employing his services as he had done an excellent job framing Allison.
*