Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  Johnston’s lips pressed into a disapproving line, resigned to the lax conduct of his employer. The younger Mr. Sinclair had never observed protocol. “Very good, sir.”

  Rowland offered Edna his hand as she alighted. “Come on, we’d best see what trouble Milt’s got them both into.”

  Although it had been less than three months since Rowland had been taken to Central Police Station in handcuffs and under arrest for murder, he showed no sign of hesitation or embarrassment. He approached the desk sergeant as a Sinclair. Polite and unfailingly courteous, his manner was nevertheless that of a man who understood the power behind his family name.

  The drowsy desk sergeant was decidedly flustered, but within minutes a more senior officer was called. From him, Rowland ascertained that Clyde and Milton had been arrested at a public event at the Town Hall where Mr. Eric Campbell was launching his new book.

  Rowland’s face was unreadable, his tone calm and reasonable. Surely this kerfuffle could be sorted out between gentlemen? Perhaps Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Watson Jones had been a little strident in their literary criticism—Mr. Isaacs was a poet, after all. Rowland would be happy to personally pay any fine to settle what was, on balance, a misdemeanour at most.

  The chief inspector had only recently been assigned to Central Police Station and so he did not recognise Rowland Sinclair as a past prisoner. He assessed on face value the man who spoke for the two he had in the holding cells. Sinclair was clearly a man of means and well bred. He could tell that not only by the superior cut and fabric of his suit, but by the fact that his waistcoat was buttoned, not left to hang loose as was the style with the supposedly fashionable young larrikins of the day. No, this was a man who valued order and had a respect for authority. Perhaps it hadn’t been necessary to arrest his friends… Eric Campbell did have a tendency to overreact and demand the incarceration of all and sundry who criticised him. It was quite possible that whatever penny dreadful Campbell had written, was just that. The state of New South Wales was not in the business of locking up people for hurting Campbell’s feelings.

  In the end, the fine was paid and Elias Isaacs and Clyde Watson Jones were released without further action.

  Edna waited until they were out of the station before she slapped Milton on the shoulder. “What did you do?”

  “Me?” Milton said indignantly. And then, “All right, it was me. Clyde was just trying to stop Campbell’s goons from killing me.”

  “What were you trying to do?” Edna asked again.

  Milton groaned. He looked quite despondent. “I don’t know, Ed. We noticed there was something going on at the Town Hall so we went in to have a look and found ourselves at some kind of Boo Guard event. Bloody Campbell was on the stage talking about his time in Germany and spruiking his book, The New Road… some kind of manifesto for Australia under Fascism. When he started talking about how the Jews he met in Germany were fat and rich, I lost my rag… started shouting… Not even sure what I said.”

  “He called Campbell a bloated, Nazi-loving, sycophantic Fascist fool,” Clyde said by way of clarification. “Then he grabbed one of Campbell’s books from the display and threw it at him.”

  “Only just missed him,” Milton added. “Would have got him with the second book if the police hadn’t arrested us.”

  Clyde sighed. “Was the fine huge, Rowly?”

  “No,” Rowland said quickly, if not entirely truthfully. “I don’t suppose the chief inspector holds a particularly high opinion of Campbell.” He swallowed a curse. “I’d hoped Eric Campbell was a spent force. Were there many people at the Town Hall?”

  Milton nodded. “All the seats were taken. There were stands and sign-up sheets for his new Centre Party and every man and his dog there seemed to have a copy of the colonel’s bloody book under his arm.”

  Rowland cursed. He had no doubt that Campbell had written The New Road in imitation of Adolf Hitler’s path to political domination. The leader of the New Guard obviously hoped it would become for Australian Fascists what Mein Kämpf was for the German counterparts. A good part of Rowland wanted to laugh at the idea, to ridicule the notion that something so absurd could find adherents in Australia, among Australians, but he was no longer as sure of his fellow man as he once had been. Germany had been the centre of culture and art and Berlin its vibrant, progressive heart. But no more. The Nazis had put an end to that.

  Milton suggested a drink. Rowland agreed, realising suddenly that he was famished. They elected to eat in town, rather than incurring Mary Brown’s reproval by requesting luncheon so late in the day. And so they made their way to Romano’s on York Street. The restaurant had been Sydney’s premier dining venue since its opening, and so it was crowded even at three in the afternoon. They enjoyed a drink in the lounge as they waited for a table to become available in the extravagant dining room. Milton and Clyde recounted in more detail the events that led to their arrest.

  “Rowly, Charlotte Linklater was there… sitting on the stage beside Campbell.”

  “That shouldn’t be surprising, I suppose,” Rowland said after a moment’s pause. “The Linklaters are friends of Oswald Mosley. They’re quite possibly members of the British Union of Fascists, which would, of course, endear them to our Mr. Campbell.”

  “Perhaps, but it does give you more reason to be careful of Miss Linklater on the track,” Clyde warned.

  The tail-coated maître d’ came out to inform them that their table was ready and seated them on the edge of the dance floor. It seemed that dancing in the afternoon was catching on, as a dozen or more couples moved to the subdued strains of a string quartet.

  A gentleman in white tie and tails and a fez stopped by their table. A pencil-thin moustache defined a smiling lip beneath an aquiline nose. He greeted them each by name, kissing Edna’s hand and complimenting her so lavishly that Milton threatened to leave if he did not desist.

  “Milt’s just jealous, Mr. Romano,” Edna said. “You must tell him he’s pretty too, or he’ll sulk.”

  Azzalin Romano laughed. “It has been too long since you beautiful people were last here. We have been bereft.”

  Rowland glanced around the crowded dining room. “I don’t think you’ve been too bereft, Mr. Romano.” Despite the economic stringency of the times, the restaurant was doing well, offering a low-cost menu that was within the reach of sparser purses, in spite of its reputation as the bon ton. Of course cost was not an issue for Rowland Sinclair, it was the easy atmosphere of Romano’s he liked, the reckless ostentatious furnishings that contrasted with the quiet refined elegance of fine dining to which he was accustomed.

  They all ordered the specialty of the house—steak Diane prepared at the table by the maître d’—and a couple of bottles of Romano’s sparkling wine. Over the meal they discussed Campbell’s new push.

  “Hopefully your exhibition will head Campbell’s account of the glories of Germany off at the pass,” Clyde said thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should just let him wax lyrical about his Nazi mates and the wonders of the fatherland for a couple of months. Surely he’ll look like a fool or worse when your exhibition opens.”

  “Possibly,” Rowland said pensively. “It might be a bit ambitious to expect my exhibition will have wide coverage. Campbell could well just ignore it.”

  “What if you invite him to the opening?” Clyde suggested.

  “He’s hardly likely to accept an invitation from me.”

  Clyde conceded regretfully. “You’re right, of course. Still, it would have been interesting to see him explain what we saw, and what happened to you.”

  “I’m not sure I could explain it,” Rowland murmured. Their experiences in Munich had taken a strangely vibrant, loud place in his memory. It seemed too real and unreal at the same time… like a nightmare from which he’d just woken, remembered in snatches that still moistened his brow with cold sweat.

  “There’ll be a way to get him there,” Edna said quietly.

  “Rowland Sinclair! Fancy seeing you he
re.”

  Rowland winced visibly before he turned to acknowledge Reginald Stuart Jones. The good doctor was not alone. Redmond Barry and Wombat Newgate stood with him. “Well, well,” Stuart Jones said rubbing his hands together. “What a happy accident. You don’t mind if we join you, do you?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve just finished,” Rowland replied quite civilly.

  The three men pulled up chairs anyway. “We’ll just stop for a drink then.” Stuart Jones caught Romano’s attention. “Azzalin, my good man. A couple of bottles of your finest for my friends if you don’t mind.”

  Romano bowed and signalled for a drinks waiter to see to the request.

  “What do you want, Reg?” Milton asked bluntly. He and Edna had known the flamboyant doctor since the days when he was plain Reginald Jones, before he married an heiress and set up his lucrative illegal practice.

  Redmond Barry spoke up. “We’re racing enthusiasts, real keen… been wanting to show Mr. Sinclair our admiration for his skills. Wombat here wanted an autograph.”

  Newgate nodded. “Yeah, I wanted you to sign something for me, Sinclair.”

  Stuart Jones gazed intently at Edna. He placed his hand on his heart as he winked at the sculptress. Rowland remembered vaguely that she had stepped out with the doctor once or twice in the twenties.

  “How are you, Eddie?” Jones asked.

  “Very well, Dr. Jones.”

  “By George, there’s no need to be so formal, Eddie. I might have married you, darling!”

  Rowland bristled immediately.

  Edna laughed. “I don’t think that’s likely, Dr. Jones.”

  “How are you coping, Sinclair?” Barry asked. “After that appalling accident. Enough to give me the creeping horrors every time I get behind the wheel.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself, you know,” Stuart Jones added. “We all understand that motor racing is a ruthless sport. And the Maroubra Speedway has a hex on it—I reckon the Devil’s in more than the name of the cup. You weren’t to know that Linklater would lose control when you forced him to go round.”

  Wombat Newgate nodded emphatically. “You weren’t to know.”

  “Of course, no one would blame you either if you hung back a bit,” Barry added. “Before anybody else was killed.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” Clyde demanded.

  Milton turned on Stuart Jones. “Just what are you bloody well up to, Reg?”

  “Gentlemen, language,” Stuart Jones tutted. “We are in the company of a lady after all. One must be considerate of more sensitive dispositions.”

  Edna had had enough. She grabbed Rowland’s hand. “I’m afraid Rowland has promised to dance with me gentlemen, so I’ll say goodbye now, since—” her voice was hard and uncharacteristically cold, “—I’m sure you’ll have gone by the time we return.”

  The men rose from their chairs as she stood.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Rowland said evenly with a warning glance at Milton who looked ready to take a swing.

  “Don’t be so hasty, Sinclair,” Barry said grabbing Rowland’s arm.

  “You might want take to your hand off him, Barry,” Clyde growled.

  Azzalin Romano spotted the impasse from across the room and began to make his way over.

  Barry removed his hand slowly. “You’d be well advised to talk to us, Sinclair.”

  Stuart Jones reached for the sculptress. “You stay and talk, I’ll dance with Eddie.”

  Rowland moved so that he was standing between the doctor and Edna, his fists clenched and his ire undisguised. Reginald Stuart Jones backed off hastily but Wombat Newgate stepped up and the encounter threatened to deteriorate.

  “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Azzalin Romano reached the table.

  “Not at all Mr. Romano,” Rowland said clearly. “Dr. Stuart Jones and his associates were just taking their leave.”

  For a few tense seconds it seemed that Barry might refuse, and then finally he nodded, smiling broadly. He shook his finger at Rowland. “Next time, Mr. Sinclair, we shall arrive in time to insist you join us for a meal.”

  “Indeed. Goodbye, Mr. Barry.”

  Romano discreetly ushered the three men to a table on the other side of the dining room.

  Rowland pulled Clyde aside. “Would you mind settling our account and organising for a motor taxi to be waiting?” He handed him his pocketbook. “Have Romano signal us when it’s here. I don’t want to give these jokers a chance to follow us out.”

  Clyde nodded. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to dance with Ed.”

  “Brightest City in Europe” MR. ROMANO’S IMPRESSIONS

  Vienna is no longer the fairy land of fame, according to Mr. A. O. Romano, of Romano’s Cafe, who returned last night by the Remo from England and the Continent. London, he says, is now the brightest capital in Europe. Paris, in comparison, is a dead city.

  Mr. Romano said he went abroad to learn of the latest novelties in cafe entertainment. London cabarets were employing more and more American artists and were becoming brighter. The latest craze was to have small dancing floors. Australians who attended cabarets were more conservative than Englishmen. The cabaret proprietors in England could more easily cater for the people, who were outspoken and indicated what they wanted.

  Mr. Romano said he preferred Australia to any country in the world, and on making purchases abroad he realised that it was not the most expensive country.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, 1934

  ____________________________________

  Rowland lay back on the couch in his studio with the latest edition of Smith’s Weekly and every intention of finding Mollie Horseman’s drawings and familiarising himself with the journalistic style of the various writers he’d met in Frank Marien’s hospital room. Once prone, however, he was reminded that he had been up since four-thirty that morning. He might have dozed off if Lenin had not jumped on top of him, circling and settling despite his master’s protests.

  The shouting brought Edna from her own studio to investigate.

  “Oh Rowly.” She pulled the greyhound off. “Are you all right?”

  He winced as he sat up. Lenin’s bony weight on his already bruised chest had startled him painfully out of languor. “I’m fine, Ed.” He scratched the greyhound’s single ear to reassure the dog that there were no hard feelings.

  Edna sat down beside him. “Rowly, would it be such an awful thing if you did pull out of the race?” she asked quietly.

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Those men at Romano’s…”

  “They’re bookmakers, Ed. They stand to make a lot of money if Joan Richmond’s team is scuttled, which it might be if I pull out now.”

  “But they said—”

  “They’re just trying to unnerve me. You mustn’t let them worry you.”

  “Reginald Jones…”

  “Yes… I can’t believe you ever stepped out with him.” Rowland broke his usual rule of never commenting on Edna’s loves.

  “It was only the once, a long time ago. I felt sorry for him.”

  “Why?”

  “He was very chubby and awkward back then. Everybody called him ‘Pudgy Reggie’.” Edna shook her head as she recalled. “I came to realise that was the least of his problems.”

  Rowland laughed. “Still, he would have been excited to have you on his arm.”

  “Sadly, when Reggie got excited he would take out a revolver and shoot at the ceiling.”

  Rowland’s brow rose. “I see.”

  Edna rested her head against his shoulder as she confided. “Milt and I used to move with a fairly wild set in those days, Rowly. But Reggie liked to associate with the most dangerous men. He’d seek them out, do anything to be included into their fold.”

  Rowland sat back, enjoying the easy closeness of her. “I’m glad you only stepped out with him the once.”

  “Rowly, if these men are Reggie’s friends, you can take for gr
anted that they’re dangerous, and capable of much more than inviting themselves to lunch.”

  “I’ll have a word with Delaney,” Rowland promised in compromise. He frowned as a thought occurred. “We’ll have to warn both Joan and Flynn that they may be approached as well, if it’s not already too late.”

  “I don’t know about Joan, but I don’t think they’ve tried to influence Errol,” Edna said. “I suspect Reggie told them you’d be the most amenable to fixing the race.”

  “Why would he think that?” Rowland asked sharply.

  Edna looked at him archly. “Your reputation is not exactly immaculate, my darling. You were once the proprietor of the 50-50 Club, after all.”

  “For about five minutes,” Rowland muttered. But she was correct. On the face of it, he did seem the least upstanding and perhaps the most corruptible member of Joan Richmond’s racing team.

  “Rowly, I wouldn’t be terribly surprised if Reggie fired that shot through your studio window. He’s always been obsessed with guns, and it’s just the kind of cowardly, stupid thing he would do.”

  Rowland heard the barely perceptible tremor in Edna’s voice. Realising that she was truly anxious about his safety, he placed an arm firmly about her shoulders and spoke calmly. “Thanks to my dear brother’s paranoia, I find myself the most protected man in New South Wales. This place is a fortress! If it were Stuart Jones or one of his associates who took that shot, he won’t have another opportunity, Ed.”

  “That’s fine if you never leave Woodlands.”

  “Nonsense… Wil has a band of men following me about.” Rowland glanced at his wristwatch. “I expect he’ll telephone any moment now to find out exactly what I was doing at Central Police Station, and why I’ve chosen to wear a red tie on a weekday.”

  Edna smiled and Rowland felt sure he was impervious to bullets anyway.

  Rowland affixed his cufflinks as he made his way down. Milton met him on the staircase. The poet had accessorised his dinner suit with a white silk scarf and a deep red boutonniere.

  “It seems a waste to get this dressed up when you’ve neglected to invite any members of the fairer sex.”