Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  Concluding his evidence, accused said: “Devine’s evidence is manufactured to save himself from the charge of murder. I never fired the shots, or held Devine up, or took his tiepin.”

  Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’ Advocate, 1932

  ____________________________________

  John Hartley did things according to the rules. Unlike his predecessor, he would not pander to the whims of the entitled and privileged classes—cosy chats over a drink, invitations to breakfast. Rowland Sinclair and his mates would be treated just like every other potential criminal. Certainly Elias “Milton” Isaacs had a file as dubious as most petty thugs, regardless of where he now resided. Hartley did not consider himself a difficult man, simply one who had respect for the due process of the law, applied with all its force and rigour against every man.

  And so it was under Hartley’s insistence that Milton was brought into the station for questioning.

  Thanks to Delaney’s warning, Rowland was ready and they were met at Central Police Station by the gentlemen of Kent Beswick & Associates. It was possibly that fact, and that fact alone, that prevented John Hartley from arresting Elias Isaacs for the murder of Crispin White then and there. The presence of the solicitors cautioned the detective against moving too soon, lest Isaacs’ representation find a technicality on which to overturn the arrest. The case he’d built was significant but it was circumstantial. Hartley recalled that Rowland Sinclair had been arrested for murder and incarcerated the previous year, only to be released when the case fell apart. Isaacs had been arrested with him for assaulting a police officer and that charge had been conveniently dropped at the same time. Sinclair and his mates were a slippery crew, and John Hartley was determined that Elias Isaacs, at least, would not escape justice.

  Hartley sighed. Kent Beswick and associated barmaids would also make it difficult to beat the truth out of the Commie mongrel.

  Rowland waited for Milton to raise what had happened in the interview room. He hadn’t been privy to the interview, of course, waiting outside for over two hours. Milton thanked the solicitors for their able and learned assistance. Matthew Beswick gave the poet his card and they walked out of the station with Hartley glowering after them.

  Milton’s grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Glad your fancy lawyers were there, Rowly. Hartley is an attack dog. He seemed committed to the idea that I killed Crispin whatever-he-called-himself.”

  Rowland cursed. It was as Delaney warned. Hartley would not bother to look anywhere else for the murderer with Milton in his sights.

  “I didn’t tell him anything about Miriam,” Milton continued. “It won’t help me and it would hurt her.”

  Rowland accepted that. It was probably true. “Did you say anything about the tiepin?”

  “He didn’t show me the crime scene photos, so I couldn’t really say I’d seen them. We’ll just have to tell Delaney and let him present it, somehow, as his own brilliant deduction.”

  They made their way on foot to the Lion Rampant which was a good three blocks and four pubs away from the Central Police Station—a fact which kept it from being a watering hole of the constabulary. The public bar was always quite crowded in the middle of the day—patrons ducking in for a lunch-break fortification, and the hardened bar flies who’d been there since opening. Still, the atmosphere was more relaxed than it would be later, the drinking less determined. After all, there would be time to duck in again at the end of the day.

  Contented, Milton sighed as he wiped froth from his upper lip. It was with plain derision that he regarded the glass of lemonade in front of Rowland. “That isn’t going to do anything to numb the pain, comrade.”

  Rowland ignored him. There was very little Milton would not treat with a stiff drink.

  Colin Delaney made his way over with a schooner of beer in each hand.

  “Is someone joining us?” Rowland asked when he sat.

  “No, I just didn’t want to have to get up again,” Delaney replied, lining up his drinks. He tapped the side of his nose. “Planning ahead.”

  They briefed Delaney on their morning with John Hartley. Delaney commiserated. “Miserable upstart is under the impression detective work is just some kind of mechanical procedure, like plumbing. But Mackay seems to think he’s a chip off the old block. We’ll all need to be careful.”

  Rowland pulled the envelope of photographs out of his jacket and handed it to the detective. Delaney slipped it into his breast pocket as Milton informed him of the missing tiepin.

  “Not another bloody tiepin!” Delaney grumbled. “Who would’ve thought a tiepin was worth killing a man for?” He pointed at Rowland. “Your friend Green stole Big Jim Devine’s tiepin if I recall. Got at least one man killed over it.”

  “Green’s hardly a friend, Colin.” Rowland had encountered Frank Green in Long Bay Gaol a few months earlier, where the man had threatened to kill him and tried quite earnestly to do so.

  Delaney sighed. “Green’s still locked up, else I’d bring him in.” Even so he was pleased. “It’s something at least. Rather clever of me to risk my job to leave the photographs with you chaps. I’ll tell Hartley that I just happened to notice a discrepancy between the photographs and your statements.”

  “Did any of us mention the pin in our statements?”

  “No, but Hartley doesn’t know that.”

  “Do you know whether White had a sweetheart?” Rowland asked.

  “He had a wife,” Delaney said. “She might have been his sweetheart once, but they’ve been estranged for the last five years.”

  Rowland noticed Milton tense. That White had married soon after abandoning Miriam must have rankled. “Ed’s certain it must be someone on whom he’s currently keen,” he said.

  “Is she indeed? It’s good to know Miss Higgins is running CIB now,” Delaney snorted.

  Rowland explained Edna’s reasoning. “She does have a rather good point,” he added.

  “Yes, I suppose she does.” The detective sighed. “I’ll make the necessary enquiries.”

  “You’ll let us know?” Milton prompted.

  Delaney eyed them both sternly. “I suppose you chaps have been promoted above me now that Miss Higgins is in charge,” he muttered good-naturedly.

  “Good man,” Milton replied. “You’ll go far.”

  Delaney laughed and drank deeply from his first glass. He questioned Rowland about the race then, and listened thoughtfully.

  “Is there something untoward about the race?” Rowland asked, alert to the detective’s sudden interest.

  “According to the tabloids you’re driving for Germany.”

  “Apparently one should never let the facts get in the way of a good story,” Rowland replied.

  “Yeah, well just you be careful. You have a distinctive car and we’re coming up to Anzac Day. War wounds take a long time to heal.”

  Rowland nodded. It was not the first time that the Mercedes had been a victim of patriotic animosity. Over the years he’d often found himself defending his automobile, both philosophically and physically. He was not entirely unsympathetic to the hostility she evoked, but despite having lost a brother in the war, he didn’t share the sentiment and was quite fond of his car. Recalling the Smith’s Weekly article, he asked, “Was Crispin White’s notebook ever found, Colin?”

  “Not by our people. Why?”

  “The profile piece Smith’s ran on me contained quotes, details of my conversation with White.”

  Delaney took out his own notebook. “What quotes exactly?”

  Rowland shifted uncomfortably. “Something about the war being over and that my brother was not shot by a Mercedes.”

  “You said that?” Delaney asked surprised.

  “Not in the context in which it was printed.”

  “But you did say it?”

  “To White. Which is why I don’t see how it got into the article unless White wrote it up or they found his notebook.” Rowland rubbed his chin. “I don’t suppose White h
as any family other than this estranged wife?” he asked.

  Delaney shook his head. “The coroner will have to eventually release the poor bastard’s body to his editor—some bloke called Frank Marien. The paper’s taking care of the funeral, apparently.”

  “I’ll speak to Mr. Marien this afternoon,” Rowland decided.

  “Steady on, Rowly,” Delaney said, alarmed. “You’re not actually a member of the force. You can’t interrogate the public.”

  “Of course,” Rowland said, his eyes widening innocently. “I’m simply enquiring about the funeral arrangements.”

  The female artists at Smith’s Weekly were accommodated in the “Keep Out” room, an area set aside with the best of intentions so that the ladies could work unmolested by their male colleagues. In this sanctuary from the presumably simmering lust beyond the door, Rosaleen Norton had been assigned a desk and drawing materials.

  She was attired in one of the peculiar garments of her own making, fashioned from a long knotted scarf. When she was seated, the design exposed more than Rosaleen’s sense of style in a manner that bordered on the indecent. That fact did not worry Rowland as much as a suspicion that Milton might feel challenged to outdo the reporter’s fashion eccentricities. The poet was not accustomed to being mundane by comparison.

  “Did you show Norman Lindsay my work?” she demanded as Rowland attempted to return her portfolio.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t have the opportunity.”

  She thrust the folder back at him. “Well then, you must keep these until you have!”

  “I don’t know that—”

  “I insist. You promised you would!” Rosaleen now sounded like the adolescent she was.

  “Yes, of course.” Rowland took back the folder. He had said he would show Lindsay, and however irritated he presently was with the reporter, he was a man of his word. In any case, he was not there to talk about Rosaleen Norton’s artistic ambitions.

  “Miss Norton, I did want to speak to you about the piece on me that appeared in this morning’s edition.”

  “Oh, I didn’t write that,” Rosaleen said, evidently disgruntled about the fact. “Frank didn’t like the angle I was working on and had Ken Slessor put it together from my notes and Crispy’s.”

  “I see. Do you suppose I might speak with Mr. Slessor?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “Well how about you introduce us?” Milton snapped, losing patience now.

  Fleetingly, Rosaleen’s eyes narrowed into angry slits, and then perhaps she thought better of antagonising the gentlemen any further. She stood, and flicking her head imperiously, walked out of the room. “Follow me.”

  Kenneth Slessor’s desk was positioned closest to the newspaper editor’s office. Rowland assumed it indicated some sort of seniority. The journalist stood when Rosaleen introduced Rowland Sinclair and the friend whose name she had forgotten. Rowland introduced Milton Isaacs.

  “Mr. Sinclair wants to talk about your profile piece, Ken,” Rosaleen said smugly. “He didn’t like it.” Clearly there was some professional territoriality at play.

  Rowland watched Slessor. There was a precise neatness about the man, his collar crisp, his thin moustache trimmed and waxed. He regarded Norton with a kind of martyred indulgence. “Shall we use the office?” he suggested. “Frank’s not in and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  He opened a door labelled “Frank Marien, Editor in Chief” and waited till they’d walked through. He stepped in himself and closed the door before Rosaleen could join them.

  “So, Mr. Sinclair, what can I do for you?” he asked, motioning them to seats while he took the one behind the desk.

  “We have a few questions about the profile piece you did on Mr. Sinclair, in this morning’s paper,” Milton informed him.

  “I presume you are Mr. Sinclair’s solicitor?” Slessor said with an air of resignation.

  “Solicitor? No. I’m a poet.”

  Slessor’s brow rose. “I see. Isaacs you say. I’m afraid I don’t know your work.”

  Milton responded sympathetically. “Don’t worry about it, comrade. Poetry’s not for everyone.”

  Slessor paused. “Am I to understand, Mr. Sinclair, that you and your… poet are unhappy with this morning’s profile?”

  It was Rowland’s turn to pause. “You may understand that, sir,” he said. “However, it’s not my unhappiness about which we are here.”

  “I see. What exactly brings you to this garden by the dark Lane Cove?”

  “Garden by the dark Lane Cove…” Milton repeated thoughtfully. “Is that Henry Lawson?”

  “No.” Slessor’s reply was frosty.

  “Are you sure? It sounds like him.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “We were wondering, Mr. Slessor, from where precisely you sourced the information upon which you based your profile of me.” Rowland brought the conversation back to the topic at hand.

  Slessor shrugged. “Roie—Miss Norton—had made rudimentary notes though they were for the most part unintelligible. Some nonsense about a second story coming to pass. Most of the story, in fact, came from poor Crispin White’s notes.”

  “Where exactly were these notes, Mr. Slessor?”

  “In his notebook, of course.”

  “Can I ask how you got hold of Mr. White’s notebook, Mr. Slessor?”

  “I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Mr. White was in possession of his notebook when he left my home in Woollahra, but the police could not find the notebook on his body or among his possessions a couple of hours later. How did it come to be in your hands, Mr. Slessor?”

  Slessor reared. “You’re not suggesting I—”

  “I’m simply enquiring where you got the notebook.” Rowland’s voice was even, his eyes piercing on the journalist’s face.

  “On what authority do you question me, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “On the same authority that Smith’s Weekly makes its enquiries, I suppose—public interest.”

  Slessor was clearly rattled. Milton’s admiration was undisguised. Rowland was for the most part easy-going, and, to the poet’s mind, unnecessarily civil. But just occasionally the Sinclairs’ black sheep channelled the steely power that his brother Wilfred used to rule the world. If Milton had not known Rowland so well, it might have worried him.

  “The notebook was found and returned to the paper,” Slessor said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to his brow.

  “Who returned it?”

  “Some vagabond, I believe. We gave him a guinea for his trouble.”

  Rowland leaned forward in his seat. “Do you know this fellow’s name, Mr. Slessor?”

  Slessor scowled. “Perhaps these questions are better directed to Mr. Marien. I suggest you telephone to make an appointment when he returns.”

  For a moment there was silence as Rowland considered pressing on regardless. He decided against it. “Very well, Mr. Slessor. I’ll do that.” He stood. “In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you would keep references to my late brother out of any fiction you care to publish about me. As you can imagine, it’s something that my mother would find particularly distressing.”

  At that Slessor seemed a little surprised. He nodded curtly, whether in concession or merely to get Rowland Sinclair out of the office was debatable.

  Rosaleen Norton was leaning against the wall opposite, smoking, when they emerged.

  “May I have a word before you go, Mr. Sinclair?” she purred.

  Rowland and Milton followed her back to the “Keep Out” room where, this time, she shut Slessor out.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Norton?”

  “It’s what I can do for you, Mr. Sinclair.” The reporter lit another cigarette from the stub of the first and continued to smoke. “I have a warning from the psychic sphere.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rowland glanced aside at Milton who was already grinning.

  “I did tell you when fir
st we met that I had seen Crispy’s death in one of my stories.”

  “Yes, I recall that.”

  “There was a clipping of its publication in my folio.”

  Rowland nodded to indicate he had read the piece.

  She walked around her desk, opened the drawer and extracted another cutting. “I wrote a second story. It was published a few weeks after the first.” She gave him the page of newsprint. “It wasn’t until I came to your studio to show you my folio that I realised that you are the artist in my story.”

  “I see.”

  “Go on, read it!”

  Milton took the cutting from Rowland. “Allow me,” he said clearing his throat. He read then, giving the work its due in his characteristically theatrical style.

  The Painted Horror was the story of a young artist called Peter Raynham, who, inspired to paint a life-sized demon, becomes consumed by the task and the evil that surrounds his subject. Despite advice that he should stop, Raynham continues to paint until the demon is painted into life and devours him. Milton finished the recitation screaming the final line, “I know what killed him!”

  The ensuing silence stretched uncomfortably. Rosaleen smoked and Rowland fought the impulse to smile. The story reminded him of the kind that passed about the dormitory when he was in boarding school. Inevitably one of the younger boys would go to the housemaster in terror and they’d all be in for it.

  “Do you see?” Rosaleen said finally, her dark eyes gleaming. “You are Peter Raynham. That painting is going to kill you.”

  “Which painting?”

  “The one with the hellfire in the background. The one you can’t seem to finish.”

  “I’m not painting a demon, Miss Norton.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Sinclair?” She came around the desk and looked up to meet his eye. “I foresaw Crispy’s death. Do not dismiss me.”

  Rowland took the story from Milton. “May I keep this for a little while, Miss Norton?”

  Rosaleen’s narrow shoulders relaxed. “Yes, of course. Mummy bought dozens of this edition too.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for your concern about my welfare.”

  “You’ll be in touch once you speak to Mr. Lindsay?” Rosaleen asked, nodding as she did so.