Give the Devil His Due
Page 17
“Rightio, take a break.” Clyde glanced again at his watch. “Gotta say, mate, you’ve surprised me. I expected you to be softer than this.”
Rowland stopped punching and accepted the canteen of water Clyde held out. He took a mouthful and then poured water over his head and neck. “I haven’t gone completely to seed,” he said grinning.
“I can’t understand why, to be honest.”
Rowland was actually in more pain than he would admit and he was pretty sure his muscles would protest for days. As his breathing had become more laboured, he was made uncomfortably aware of the bruising to his ribcage, sustained in the accident that killed Charles Linklater. But he reasoned that if he managed somehow to convince Clyde that he was in peak physical condition, he could go back to sleeping until a more civilised hour. Still, the time at the boxing bag had been therapeutic in many ways.
“Right,” Clyde said as he helped Rowland remove his gloves. “We’ll just run a few miles and call it a day.”
“What?” Rowland groaned. “I thought we were done.”
His protests were to no avail. Clyde, it seemed, was determined to ensure that not only the Mercedes, but Rowland Sinclair himself, would be in perfect working order for the race. To that end, he had enlisted the advice contained in an array of training manuals published by various American strongmen. While Rowland thought that a brisk walk would more than suffice and be a great deal more dignified than pounding the streets half-dressed, he conceded in the hope that Clyde’s enthusiasm would wane in a couple of days.
They did attract the odd second glance from early-rising servants and the occasional milk cart driver, but for the most part the residents of Woollahra were asleep. The streets were quiet and the rhythm of their own footfalls and breathing became the dominant sound. Initially, Rowland noticed the vehicle only because there were no others about—a black and maroon Singer which appeared at the end of the first street, and then the second and the third. It kept its distance but he spied it every now and then. The fourth street and then the fifth and sixth.
Rowland stopped suddenly and looked back.
“’Struth, Rowly… Don’t tell me… you’re knackered… already…” Clyde wheezed as he braced his hands on his knees.
Rowland was, but he shook his head anyway. “I believe that car is following us.”
“Then why did you stop?”
“To find out what it wants. No point trying to outrun a car.”
Clyde straightened, clutching at the stitch in his side. “You’re right. No point. But what if it’s whoever tried to shoot you?”
“There is that.”
Clyde squinted at the car. It was too far away to see who was behind the wheel. “They’re not coming any closer.”
Rowland frowned. The Singer seemed to be waiting for its quarry’s next move. “I wonder what they’re playing at.”
“Perhaps they’re hoping we’ll separate so they can shoot you without witnesses,” Clyde folded his arms. “What do you want to do?”
Rowland glanced about the street. Daily life was starting; gardeners were out tending front lawns and rose beds, bakers’ and butchers’ carts had commenced their daily deliveries and curtains were being drawn open. The Singer seemed a great deal less threatening than it had in the long quiet shadows of daybreak.
Rowland started towards it at a run.
“Rowly! What the hell—” Clyde stumbled after him.
For a moment the Singer didn’t move and then gears screeched as it tried to reverse and turn. A passing milkman’s cart blocked its path. It reversed once more, scraping the gutter.
Rowland jumped onto the running board before the car could pull away and reached in through the window to grab the driver by the collar. Startled, the man swore and attempted to shake him off. Clyde caught up, flung open the passenger door and climbed into the car. He reached across and reefed on the handbrake.
“Right! Who the devil are you, sunshine?” Clyde demanded.
Rowland pulled the man out of the car. “Why are you following us, sir?” he demanded as Clyde cut the Singer’s engine.
“My name’s Beejling, Robert Beejling.” He cursed some more. “I’m with your security detail.”
“My what?”
“We’ve been retained to follow you when you leave the premises.”
“Why?”
“To ensure your safety.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
Beejling shrugged. “We were instructed to not approach or make you aware of our presence unless it was necessary.”
“We?” Rowland looked around quickly. “How many of you are there?”
“We work in shifts.”
“Who retained you?”
Beejling’s face became rigid, immovable. He stood at attention and would say nothing more.
“Right,” Rowland said angrily. “Get into the car—the back seat.” Once Beejling had complied he climbed in beside him. Clyde slipped in behind the steering wheel. “We might just see what Percy Armstrong has to say.”
Percy Armstrong was, in fact, as unforthcoming as Robert Beejling.
“I’ll have to get instructions, sir.”
“I’m giving you instructions, Mr. Armstrong.”
“I’m afraid that in this respect I answer to your brother, Mr. Wilfred Sinclair.”
“For crying out loud!” Rowland stalked furiously into the house and booked a call through to Oaklea in Yass. He caught his brother at home. The conversation was terse and heated.
“If I had told you that I’d hired bodyguards you would not have cooperated, Rowly.”
“So you just went ahead and had me followed secretly? Bloody hell, Wil! What’s wrong with you?”
“I know you too well, Rowly! You’re reckless and you have more enemies than any man in New South Wales. I also have our mother’s safety to consider. What in the name of God were thinking taking her to a nightclub? Have you lost all sense of propriety?”
“It was a tea dance, not a nightclub. She wanted to go dancing.”
“For Pete’s sake, Rowly, don’t be ridiculous. Mother is nearly seventy!”
“She seems to have forgotten that.”
“Well, remind her!”
“Why on earth would I do that? She’s having a lovely time! It might do you good to forget you’re so old from time to time.”
“How very droll.” Wilfred’s tone conveyed the roll of his eyes.
“Your bodyguards, Wil, call them off.”
“Certainly, as soon as the police arrest and incarcerate the wretch who tried to shoot you.”
“Dammit, Wil—”
“I have neither the time nor the inclination to argue with you, Rowly. You won’t change my mind.” Ignoring Rowland’s continued protest, Wilfred said, “Kate tells me you’re staging an exhibition.”
“Er… yes.” Rowland was caught by the sudden change in subject.
Wilfred sighed. “Well, I suppose if you must paint, this sort of thing is unavoidable. Kate’s rather taken it as a personal mission to ensure your show is well patronised by the right sort of people from the right circles.”
“That’s very kind.”
“Yes, she is. She’s under the impression that this exhibition will not contain any lewdness or nudity.”
“Not in the paintings.”
“What do you mean by that?” Wilfred’s voice became sharp and suspicious.
Rowland laughed. “A jest, Wil. No one will be naked.”
“Very well. I’ll make some enquiries. Perhaps the prime minister will be available to open it.”
When Rowland telephoned, Detective Delaney seemed awkward and specifically requested he not call into the station. “Mackay finds my consorting with potential suspects somewhat unseemly, Rowly.”
“I’m a suspect? For what?” Rowland demanded, surprised.
“Milton was the last man to see White alive. I’m afraid that places you all in it, old boy.”
“You’re not in earnest?”
“I see. Where would you suggest we meet then?”
Delaney gave him the address of Pretty Mabel’s Tea Emporium in Darlinghurst and they agreed upon a time. Rowland grabbed Rosaleen Norton’s folio on the way out the door. He would return it to the Smith’s Weekly offices after meeting with Delaney. With any luck he would catch Frank Marien on this occasion.
Rowland found the optimistically named Tea Emporium housed in dilapidated premises. The interior was dim and quite opaque with cigarette smoke, the counter top invisible beneath glass domes containing sticky buns and cakes. A narrow stairwell led to the upper floor and, presumably, a residence.
Spying Detective Delaney at a table in the back, Rowland joined him. Delaney summoned the harried proprietor, a heavy, ruddycheeked gentleman with naval tattoos on his thick arms, who responded good-naturedly when the detective addressed him as “Pretty Mabel”. Delaney ordered an entire sponge cake and a pot of tea.
“Is anyone joining us?” Rowland asked as a six-inch sponge sandwiched with strawberry jam and mock cream was placed before them alongside a silver teapot.
“You wait till you taste this Rowly—you’ll declare I’m a saint for splitting it with you!” Delaney replied, his eyes gleaming as he contemplated the cake. “Shall I be mother?”
“Why not?”
Delaney splashed tea into thick china cups, before cutting the sponge in two and pulling the larger portion onto his plate. He grinned like a naughty child, forked a massive chunk into his mouth and closed his eyes in appreciation. For some moments he was unable to speak and patently uninterested in doing so.
Rowland partook nodding his own approval. The sponge cake was superb. “So what did you need to tell me that you couldn’t say at the station?” Rowland asked between mouthfuls.
“Detective Hartley is pushing for the immediate arrest of Elias Isaacs for White’s murder,” Delaney said, washing down a large mouthful of cake with tea. “It’s only your fancy lawyers that have made the bastard hesitate, but they won’t hold him back forever. Hartley’s like a rabid dog with a bone.” The detective sighed. “It may be time for Milton to come forward with whatever he’s not telling us.”
“It’s not anything that will help him, Colin.”
“He didn’t—”
“No, he didn’t.” Rowland spoke with absolute certainty.
Delaney removed his hat to scratch his head. “Hartley’s narrowed his investigation to Milton. The evidence is circumstantial but unless someone else comes up with an alternative…”
Rowland nodded, grateful for the detective’s efforts. It would be up to them now.
“Of course, I’m not investigating the White murder anymore,” Delaney murmured. “And I’m afraid I haven’t had any luck locating the chap who fired that shot through your window. Sadly a couple of ocean liners were due at the harbour so, by the time the shot was fired, the reporters camped at your gate had left in search of something more newsworthy.” Delaney returned to his notebook to check the facts. “None of them recalls seeing a chap enter the property.”
Rowland groaned. He’d hoped that at least one thing would resolve easily.
“Considering the light in which the newspapers are portraying you, Rowly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was some outraged veteran acting on impulse and a few too many beers.”
“Capital.” Inwardly, Rowland cursed Smith’s Weekly.
Delaney regarded him sympathetically. “Hopefully this will all blow over quickly. In the meantime, you should be careful.”
Rowland indicated the gentleman drinking coffee at a table by the front window. Beejling nodded. “Don’t worry, Colin, Wil’s ensuring that I’m careful whether I like it or not.”
The detective chuckled. “One way of keeping an eye on you, I suppose.”
Rowland sighed. He did indeed suspect that Wilfred was using the shooting as an excuse to check on the conduct of his brother. “I’m afraid Wil is still unsure that Woodlands is the most respectable place for our mother.”
“How is that arrangement working out?” Delaney asked. The detective was aware of Elisabeth Sinclair’s frailty of mind and more particularly the crime her sons suspected she’d committed years before. As a friend, Colin Delaney was sympathetic; as a policeman, he monitored the situation lest that violence recur.
Rowland knew what the detective was asking and why he asked it. For that he could not blame Delaney. It was a difficult situation, but he was convinced his mother was not dangerous—if she had ever been. Certainly, Elisabeth Sinclair had not done anything that Rowland could confidently say he would not have done himself given the chance. “Very well, I believe. Mother seems settled and happy. She’s getting out quite a bit and has become rather fond of Milt— seems to think he’s some nephew of the Governor-General.”
Delaney laughed.
“Mother relocated to Yass—to Oaklea—when Aubrey was killed and when my father became… hard,” Rowland said, even now struggling to verbalise his father’s violence. “Perhaps Sydney only has happy memories for her. In any case, she seems better than I’ve seen her since the war.”
Delaney nodded, satisfied for now. “I’m bloody glad to hear it, Rowly. I just want you to be careful—you’ve taken on one hell of a responsibility.”
“With Wil’s private army following me around, what could go wrong?”
Delaney glanced at his watch and wiped his mouth. “I’m going to see Frank Marien now. I don’t suppose you’d like to come along?”
“I thought you weren’t on the investigation into White’s murder anymore—”
“I’m not.” Delaney winked. “I’m just looking into the theft of his notebook. Do you want to come?”
“Yes, I do actually. I have to return Miss Norton’s folio to her anyway.”
“Oh, we’re not going to the office,” Delaney said, dusting the crumbs from his tie as Rowland took care of the account. “Marien’s in the hospital here.”
“The hospital? Why?”
Delaney shrugged. “He’s poorly. Something quite grave, apparently. He’s been running Smith’s Weekly from his hospital bed.”
DO you remember the time when “Smith’s Weekly” had a front page to say that Alan Kippax was through as a batsman, and ought to be dropped from the State side? And the same day Kippax made a double century, and has been making centuries ever since!
Last Wednesday “Smith’s Weekly” published a wild screed attacking the “Sun” for its heat wave stories. Wednesday was the hottest day for two years; Wednesday night the hottest for 19 years, and Thursday hotter and hotter. It’s a shame the way “Smith’s” points out the errors of others, and always misses the bull’s eye itself. Someday “Smith’s Weekly” will do something right, and someone will get the sack. “Smith’s” bosses will think it’s wrong!
Truth, 1934
____________________________________
Frank Marien’s hospital room was crowded with journalists and artists. So much so that if it were not for the hospital bed at its centre and the occasional nursing nun, one might have been excused for thinking it a gentlemen’s club of some sort. The antiseptic smell of the corridor was replaced with that of cigarettes and pipe smoke as one entered the room. Deep-voiced conversations were broken intermittently with resounding laughter.
Rowland recognised Kenneth Slessor standing by the doors that opened out on to a small private balcony and provided the room with a view of the St Vincent’s lawns and gardens.
Marien was propped up with pillows, smoking a pipe and issuing instructions about how to strip down a linotype printer while he inspected the artworks spread out on his bed coverings. The newspaperman was generously built with shoulders that spoke of a past at
hleticism. Indeed, he appeared so strong and vital that his status as a patient was unsettling.
Delaney introduced himself and Rowland Sinclair.
“Come in, come in!” Marien instructed, choosing three drawings for the next edition. “What can I do for you, Detective Delaney?”
“I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions, Mr. Marien?”
“Is this about Crispin White?”
Delaney nodded.
“Then yes, of course. You won’t mind if my reporters observe, will you? Just say when you want the conversation to be off the record.”
Delaney looked around at the men in the room who watched with hungry interest. He hesitated and then thought better of it. “Don’t mind at all, Mr. Marien.”
“What’s Sinclair doing here? He’s not joined the police force, has he?”
“He’s observing,” Delaney said, smiling faintly.
Marien grinned. “Touché, Detective. We’ll all stay then. What can I do to help?”
Delaney asked the routine questions about Crispin White. Marien spoke fondly of the reporter and soon the other men in the room offered stories about their colleague, warm accounts of past larks and scoops. The exchange began to resemble a dry wake as they painted a picture of a congenial, experienced newspaperman, who had a nose for a story and an eye for the ladies.
“And was Mr. White involved with any person in particular?” Delaney asked.
“You mean a woman? God no. Crispy was too bloody ugly. He wouldn’t know what to do if a woman actually said yes!” Marien declared to the general approbation of the room.
“Did any of you notice the diamond tiepin he was wearing the day he died?” Rowland asked suddenly.
“Oh yes.” It was Kenneth Slessor who volunteered the information. “Gaudy piece… paste, I expect. Unless Frank paid him much better than he does me.”
A roar of jest and jibe, and a protest from Marien that Slessor was paid more than he was worth.
“Had you seen him wear it before that day?”
“Once or twice, possibly…”
“Did you speak to him about it?” Delaney asked.
“About his tiepin? Whatever for?”
“Well, it was an unusual item—weren’t you curious where he got it?”