Slessor shook his head. “I assumed someone had given it to him. I quite assiduously avoided mention of the ghastly thing in case he asked me what I thought of it.”
“When are you going to return White’s notebook?” Marien demanded of Delaney. “It’s the property of the paper now, you know.”
“Once the investigation is finished,” Delaney said. “Can you tell me a little bit more about this chap who brought it back to you—the gentleman you paid a guinea for his trouble?”
“Oh, I didn’t form the impression he was a gentleman, Detective. Looked and positively smelled like he might have been living rough. Skinny bloke with one of those weaselly faces, only about half his allotment of teeth. Didn’t say much… wished me well and asked me if I knew how I was going to spend eternity.” Marien’s eyes became distant. “He couldn’t have known, of course…”
For a few breaths the room was silent, uneasy. Then the stocky man leaning against the iron foot of Marien’s bed growled, “Just make sure the devil gives you an exclusive.”
A blast of laughter as unsympathetic humour was restored.
“Did the gentleman tell you his name, Mr. Marien?” Delaney asked when the mirth lapsed into conversation again.
“No. He was very particular about that. Wanted to remain anonymous.”
“Could I ask you about Miss Rosaleen Norton?” Rowland ventured tentatively.
“Oh God, what’s Roie done now?”
“Nothing. But I was curious about her stories. She believes the first—the one about the waxworks—was a premonition of Mr. White’s death.”
Marien’s lower lip protruded, his mouth curved downwards as he considered it. “There’s a coincidence there, I suppose, but White had his throat cut. He didn’t die of fright.” He shrugged and shook his head. “Roie is talented, but like many great writers, she’s eccentric.”
“Would you say Miss Norton was particularly ambitious?” Delaney asked, following Rowland’s lead.
“As an artist, more than a writer, but yes, she’s a very driven young lady.”
“And how did she get on with Crispin White?”
Marien’s brow furrowed into the bridge of his nose. “I’m not aware of any difficulty.”
“Roie is passionate and admittedly a little odd, Detective Delaney.” Slessor spoke up with a chorus of assent behind him. “But there’s a lot of that in this game. She’s harmless really.”
Delaney jotted a few lines in his notebook but made no comment about the perceived harmlessness of Rosaleen Norton. Rowland recalled the unnerving relish with which Rosaleen had told him of how White’s throat had been cut. Still, that might well have been adolescent immaturity as opposed to a true delight in violence. He found it hard to believe that a seventeen-year-old girl could be so coldblooded.
“What was it that Mr. White was investigating at the waxworks, Mr. Marien?” Rowland asked on the off chance that the reporter had been at Magdalene’s on business.
“Blowed if I know!” Marien was adamant. “He was covering the car race—the Maroubra Invitational—as you know. I expected him to cover all major sporting events, but otherwise he was free to pursue whatever newsworthy stories took his fancy. An experienced journo like Crispy had his own sources, spotters and leads.” He looked round at his journalists. “Any of you fellows know what he was up to?”
A general murmur claiming ignorance but Rowland noticed one man, short and round with a hefty distinctive head. He said nothing, but a line appeared in his expansive forehead that had not been there before.
“Tell me, Detective,” Marien said, blowing billows of sweet smoke from his pipe. “When are you going to give White back so we can give the poor chap an appropriate send-off?”
“The coroner will release the body as soon as his findings are finalised, Mr. Marien. Soon, I expect.”
“Good, good. We must do the right thing by Crispy.”
“Great Scott!” Slessor jumped as a pebble skipped through the open French doors.
“That’ll be Brian,” Marien said excitedly. “Mo, quickly, keep an eye out for Mother Superior will you? George, send down the rope.”
The rotund gentleman with the large head moved to stand watch in the corridor. Rowland followed him out.
“Rowland Sinclair, Mr…?” Rowland said, offering the cockatoo his hand.
“Moses, Reg Moses. Most people call me Mo.” Moses’ handshake was firm. “I’m the Weekly’s literary editor.”
Unsure how much time he had, Rowland came straight to the point. “I couldn’t help but notice that you were perhaps not as ignorant of Mr. White’s activities as your colleagues.”
“You noticed that, did you?”
“I believe so.”
“Well bully for you, Sinclair!”
Rowland persevered. “Do you know what White was working on?”
Moses regarded him disdainfully, and then he sighed. “I don’t know anything really. Crispin was looking into the occult. At first I thought he was just trying to impress Frank.”
“Mr. Marien is interested in the occult?”
“No, no. He’s Catholic. But he did like Roie’s stories, was convinced she’d be the next Edgar Allan Poe. I suspected Crispin was put out and I assumed he was trying to write his own story to show Roie up.”
“But you don’t think that now?” Rowland asked, reading Moses’ face.
“No. I don’t. Crispin was probably too long in the tooth to be rattled by Frank’s infatuation with Miss Norton’s scary fairy tales. It must have been something else… a piece he was working on.”
Cheering and applause from inside the hospital room.
“I think we can go back in now,” Moses said opening the door. Clearly the conversation was over.
Within the room, a large tin pail had been pulled up via the balcony. Marien beamed, regarding the bucket as if it were filled with gold.
Rowland leaned over to Delaney. “What’s in the—”
“Baked rabbit. Forbidden by his doctors and some killjoy called Mother Patrick, and all the more delicious for that reason.”
Rowland laughed quietly. “Of course.”
As the conversation fell again to linotype and advertising space, they took their leave of Marien and his staff and departed. On the steps of St. Vincent’s, Rowland told Delaney of his conversation with Reg Moses.
The detective was impressed. “You sure you don’t want to join the force, Rowly?” He winked. “Earn an honest living. There’s a pension, you know, and you’d make the height requirements easily.”
“A pension you say?” Rowland accepted the compliment hidden in the joke. Sinclairs did not get jobs, with or without pensions. “I’ll give it some thought.” He decided to push his luck a little. “I don’t suppose I could look through White’s notebook?”
Delaney pushed his hat back and scratched the top of his head. “I’ll see what I can do.” He exhaled heavily. “Is your interest in White just about clearing Mr. Isaacs, Rowly?”
Rowland shrugged. “White had dinner with me just before he died. Milt drove him back to his lodgings because I’d had too much to drink. A little part of me wonders if we dropped him off into the hands of his murderer.”
“Even if you did, Rowly, you weren’t to know.”
“Yes, I realise that, but I can’t help feeling… responsible is not the right word.” He shifted, struggling for an explanation that did not sound silly. “I feel like I ought to care what happened to a man who left my table just two hours before being brutally slain.”
“Care?” Delaney shook his head. “I take it back. You’d be a bloody dreadful policeman. A good priest maybe.”
Only the female staff of Smith’s Weekly were in the Phillip Street offices as it seemed all the men had decamped to St Vincent’s, and when Rowland called in, two of those three had stepped out.
“Rowly Sinclair!” the tall willowy blonde who opened the door to the “Keep Out” room greeted him warmly. “They told me you stopped
by the other day. I’m so sorry I missed you.”
“Miss Horseman, hello.” Rowland responded to Mollie Horseman with pleasure. He had known her years ago as one of Norman Lindsay’s models. “I wasn’t aware that you worked here.”
“Clearly you’re not a reader of Smith’s Weekly or you’d have seen my work!” she said sternly.
“I have been remiss,” he apologised. “I shall henceforth read it from cover to cover.”
“Oh, you needn’t bother with the articles. Come and see what I’m working on.”
Mollie took him to her drafting table upon which lay a black and white drawing in progress, a rollicking depiction of a party which she told him would be captioned: “What was the party at Darlinghurst like last night?… They sang God Save the Furniture.”
For a while Rowland forgot the reason for which he had come, as he discussed line and ink, and generally became reacquainted with Mollie Horseman. The now established black and white artist had, like most of her colleagues, trained at the East Sydney Technical College. Married to a William Power, she still illustrated under her maiden name. Rowland found her the effervescent young woman he remembered.
“I have actually come to return Miss Norton’s folio,” he admitted after a time.
She’s out following a story, I expect, though between you and me, Rowly, I’m not sure she’s cut out to be a newshound.”
“Why do you say that?” Rowland asked.
“She’s a little odd, and the poor girl wants to be an artist not a writer. Unfortunately, Frank is convinced she’s a literary genius.”
“I have read her horror stories.” Rowland was non-committal.
“She’s refusing to write any more until Frank publishes her drawings. I’m not sure why he lets her get away with ultimatums like that, but then, he’s not been well.” Mollie frowned. “Roie has a way of getting her own way.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Mollie laughed. “You poor dear! What did she bully you into?”
“Nothing particularly unthinkable.” Rowland took the stool the artist offered him. “She wanted me to show her drawings to Norman.”
Mollie Horseman rolled her eyes. “Oh, that. I didn’t mention I knew Norman, so I escaped. Roie has rather a fearsome temper, you really can’t say ‘no’ to her without dire consequences.” She handed Rowland an ink pen. “Why don’t you help me finish this?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Come on, it’ll be a lark. Joan Morrison and I often draw together. It’s jolly good fun to be honest.”
“I’m not—”
“If the result is terrible, I can start again. If it’s not, maybe Frank will give you a job.”
Rowland removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, wondering fleetingly if there was some conspiracy afoot to find him gainful employment.
“I think we need a couple of louche characters here.” Mollie Horseman pulled up a stool beside him.
They worked in companionable silence for a time. Rowland tried to match the style of Mollie’s linework, carefully drafting straight onto the heavy cartridge paper in ink. He drew a couple dancing a wild Charleston with beads and limbs flying askew. The woman was elderly and conservatively dressed despite her actions. He drew a second gentleman swinging from a chandelier, a cliché perhaps but not something he hadn’t seen. Mollie approved, adding tiny stylistic tweaks to integrate the figures with the rest of the drawing.
“Good heavens, you’ve ink all over your shirt!” she exclaimed. “I really ought to have given you a smock.”
Rowland looked down and buttoned his waistcoat over the ink stain. “There, fixed.”
Mollie shook her head. “I’m not sure Mrs. Sinclair is going to think so.”
“Mrs…? Oh, I’m not married.”
“A nicely turned out gentleman like you? Why ever not?”
“Ink stains, I expect. I say, Mollie, did you know Crispin White well?”
“Depends what you consider well, I suppose. He was sweet, ruthless in pursuit of a story—a real oldfashioned honest-togoodness newshound. He liked the odd drink and the odd flutter. A perfectly ordinary, decent bloke really.”
“Do you know what story he was pursuing that might have led him to the Magdalene’s House of the Macabre?”
“Roie loaned him some books about the occult. She was most put out because they were library books and Crispy had not returned them when he died. If she gets fined, not even death will excuse Crispy!”
Rowland glanced at his watch. “I really ought to let you get back to work. I don’t suppose I could impose upon you to see that Miss Norton gets her folio?”
“Of course.” Mollie swung her long legs around and stood to walk Rowland out. “It’s been a real treat seeing you again, Rowly. You let me know if you want to think seriously about becoming a black and white artist. It’s not a bad way to earn a crust.”
Rowland handed her his card as he kissed her on the cheek. “It’s been grand, Mollie. Would you let me know if you discover anything about what Crispin White was doing at the Magdalene’s?”
“If I discover anything you’ll be able to read about it in the paper,” Mollie replied. She smiled. “But I’ll telephone you, too.”
ERIC CAMPBELL DEFINES UNIFICATION PROPOSALS REPRESENTATION ON FASCIST LINES
SYDNEY, Tuesday
The policy and aims of the Centre Party, a newly-formed political party, were explained by Colonel Eric Campbell at a largely attended meeting tonight.
Col. Campbell told his audience that the middle section of the community was at the moment without adequate representation in the affairs of the country and the aim of the new party was to endeavour to remedy that defect. He added that they had no confidence in professional politicians and party politics.
“Australia is grossly over-governed and there are too many laws,” declared Col. Campbell, “and we are out to simplify matters.
“The present organisation is of only a preliminary nature and none of us is after jobs, and we will leave them to better men if they will come along.”
Referring to constitutional reforms, Mr. Campbell said the first plank on the platform of the Centre Party is the abolition of State Parliaments and the redistribution of Australia into provincial areas, administered by provincial councils with powers of taxation strictly limited. There would also be a Federal Government which would direct the major issues which faced the nation. All governing bodies would be elected by a system of vocational representation, giving the employer and the employee equal strength in the Legislatures.
Col. Campbell suggested that one method of unifying the continent would be to petition the King to appoint one of the Royal Princes as a permanent Governor-General of Australia.
“The dole and relief work are only making proud citizens descend to the coolie levels,” added the speaker.
He suggested that the only method whereby the unemployment problems would be solved would be by the settlement of the unemployed on abundant surplus land. He had it on the best authority that given the opportunity, a million families could be transferred from Great Britain over a period of years for settlement on land and each family would have a capital of £1,000…
…Replying to a question, Col. Campbell said that he did not think that the system of Government obtaining in England was better than it was in Italy. He added that he was satisfied that the system of Italian representation would be in force in Great Britain within five years.
The Canberra Times, 1934
____________________________________
“Rowly, thank goodness you’re here!” Edna met him at the portico before he reached the door of Woodlands House. “We have to go!”
“Where?”
“Central Police Station. Milt and Clyde have been arrested.”
“Arrested?” Rowland turned on his heel. “Whatever for?”
“Disturbing the peace, apparently.”
“Were they at a rally?” Rowland asked. Gatherings of the Commu
nist Party were routinely invaded by the New Guard or likeminded militant groups. When this happened, it was not uncommon for skirmishes to get out of hand. Of course, Milton—ever the crusader—had been arrested on a number of occasions, but sensible Clyde usually managed to avoid police detention. The fact that both his friends had been arrested struck Rowland as unusual.
“No,” Edna said. “As far as I know, Clyde was calling in at the soup kitchen in George Street to see that friend of his, and Milt was just tagging along as Milt does.”
Rowland frowned. This was odd.
They took the Rolls Royce again. Rowland apologised to the chauffeur whose workload had risen sharply with Rowland’s newfound reluctance to use the Mercedes, not to mention the resumption of social order brought about by the residence of Elisabeth Sinclair. “I’m afraid Clyde’s adjusting the tappets again. I’m sure things will go back to normal after the race.”
“Not at all, Mr. Sinclair,” Johnston said as they pulled out of the driveway. “In your late father’s day the bell rang every quarter hour.” He sniffed. “You’ll find I’m quite able to do my job.”
“Of course, Johnston,” Rowland said hastily, realising the chauffeur had read an unintended slight in his words.
“Do you prefer driving motorcars to carriages, Mr. Johnston?” Edna asked, knowing the chauffeur had started work at Woodlands in the stables.
“Well, I don’t know, Miss. They both have ’vantages and problems. Some folks believe there’s less work in motorcars, but they take a darn sight more polishing than any horse.”
Rowland listened, as his normally tight-lipped chauffeur chatted to Edna about the pros and cons of carriages and automobiles. Though he’d known Johnston all his life, the chauffeur rarely spoke so freely to him. Indeed, Johnston seemed always to have regarded him with a vague air of profound disappointment.
“Shall I wait, sir?” Johnston asked as he pulled up outside the station.
“No, thank you. We’ll find our own way home once we get this nonsense sorted.” He stepped out of the Rolls Royce, pausing at the chauffeur’s window as he walked around the vehicle. “Don’t worry, Johnston, I’ll attend Miss Higgins’ door.”
Give the Devil His Due Page 18