Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  Plunging his hands into his trousers, the man pulled out four thick sticks of chalk. “See, this is all I got.”

  “What were you doing crouched next to the car, sir?” Edna asked gently.

  The man looked frightened, trapped. His face seemed, at the moment, to be only startled eyes.

  Rowland opened the trunk on the back of the Rolls Royce and found the torch Johnston always kept in there. He turned it on to inspect the front tyre beside which the man had reportedly been crouched. The beam caught a word chalked in meticulous copperplate on the footpath: “Eturnity.”

  Rowland turned back to the man in the custody of Beejling and Flynn. “I’m Rowland Sinclair,” he said proffering his hand. “Pleased to meet you Mr…?”

  “Stace,” the man said, warily shaking Rowland’s hand. “Arthur Stace.”

  “Did you write this, Mr. Stace?”

  Stace said nothing.

  “Why eternity?” Edna asked. “I’ve seen it written on footpaths and walls before around Kings Cross. Was it always you, Mr. Stace?”

  Stace still appeared to be looking for an opportunity to run. “I like it. It’s a good word. Folks need to think about God and how they’re gonna spend eternity.”

  Rowland was reminded then of Frank Marien’s account of the man who returned White’s notebook. “Do you always carry chalk in your pockets, Mr. Stace?”

  “Most times.”

  “Did you return a notebook to Frank Marien of Smith’s Weekly?”

  “I didn’t steal it! That man threw it away.”

  “Which man?”

  Stace shook his head. “Dunno… a man.”

  “Where was this, Mr. Stace?”

  “He was coming out of Magdalene’s. Had a key—locked the door.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  Stace looked at him blankly. “Clothes.”

  “Nothing unusual?”

  “No, just clothes.”

  “And where exactly did this man throw the notebook?”

  Stace shifted his weight, agitated. “He didn’t ’xactly throw it. He was reading it as he walked out and he stumbled on the gutter and dropped it through the grate of the stormwater drain. Couldn’t get it out. He swore a bit and left it. But I got it out.”

  “Was there anyone with him?”

  “Nope.”

  Rowland reached into his jacket for his pocketbook. “I’m afraid we’ve detained and accused you unfairly Mr. Stace.” He pressed two pound notes into Stace’s calloused hand. “Please accept this as some small compensation for the inconvenience and the affront.”

  Stace put the notes in his pocket. “That’ll purchase me a lot of chalk, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “I hope it helps, Mr. Stace.”

  “Do you write anything other than this word ‘eternity’?” Milton asked curiously.

  “I don’t know many other words. It’s the only perfect word I know.” Beejling who had quite obviously been restraining himself, broke, and said stiffly, “My good man, you do realise it’s usually spelled E-TE- R-N-I-T-Y?”

  Stace’s face fell. “I thought I’d written it right.”

  “It’s poetic licence,” Milton said. “I, for one, like the way you spelled it better.”

  “No,” Stace said, distressed. “It’s got to be right.”

  Rowland found his notebook and pencil, and while his first impulse was to draw the furtive Arthur Stace—the wide anxious eyes, the startled stance, muscles tensed to flee—he instead wrote the word out in clear letters and tore out the page. “I like the way you spelled it, too, but if it’s got to be correct…”

  Stace accepted the page as gratefully as he had the two pounds. He turned to go and then paused. “You won’t tell anybody ’bout me, will you? ’Bout me writing the word? It’s not vandalism or nothin’, I only use chalk.”

  “Of course we’d never tell anyone, Mr. Stace,” Edna assured him, earnestly. “We promise.”

  Stace tipped his battered hat. “Thank you, miss. I’m sorry if I startled you folks.” With that he departed, leaving them to contemplate the beautifully rendered misspelled word which seemed to illuminate the concrete footpath.

  New Zealand Women

  To welcome their new president, Miss Edith Stout, members of the New Zealand Women’s Association Younger Set met last night at the club rooms, Bank of New Zealand Chambers, for bridge and dancing. This was the first of a series of entertainments which the younger set members will arrange throughout the year. Those present included the Misses Doris Clarke (hon. secretary), Betty Bannerman, Rosaleen Norton, Marie Cook, Eileen Graham, Marjorie Coburn, Cecilie Webb.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, 1935

  ____________________________________

  “If Stuart Jones is involved in what went on at Magdalene’s,

  Wombat Newgate isn’t saying,” Rowland reported as he returned the receiver to its cradle. “Delaney wants me to pull out of the race and leave the country for a while.”

  “It’s not that bad, surely?” Edna said.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Milton said grimly. “I fear you may have upset some ruthless people, my friend.”

  “So what’s new?” Clyde muttered. “What are you going to do, Rowly? It’s been a tough few days—it’s a wonder you’re still standing.”

  Rowland shrugged. “I don’t have to stand to drive… I plan to carry on. Delaney’s overreacting. I’m willing to wager Bill Mackay’s hauled the poor chap over the coals a bit.”

  Milton snorted. “Wombat could probably give you odds on that.”

  “Are they going to charge you over Magdalene’s?” Edna asked.

  “For getting accidentally locked in? I wouldn’t think so. In fact, I expect I could take action for deprivation of liberty.”

  Milton poured drinks for everyone but Rowland, who Clyde had now banned from indulging until after the race. Grateful for the innumerable hours Clyde had spent ensuring the Mercedes was race ready, it seemed churlish for Rowland to do anything but comply, however excessively puritanical his friend’s notions seemed to be.

  “The doc is one heck of a slippery bastard,” Milton said bitterly.

  Rowland nodded. Edna had attended Central Police Station in the company of the Sinclair family solicitors that morning, to make a full statement and be interviewed by Delaney and Hartley. She had returned unusually quiet and retreated to her studio with barely a word.

  Rowland had followed, standing by silently as she pummelled clay until the very concept of an air bubble was beaten out of existence. And then she had cried like a child in his arms.

  He hadn’t asked why. Just held her until his shirt front was soaked and she was spent.

  She’d told him eventually. It seemed the word of Edna Higgins was not enough to refute that of Dr. Stuart Jones and his nurse. Delaney had been kind but Hartley’s questions were offensive. The detective had neither denied nor confirmed that he’d been at the Lido, treating Edna’s claims as irrelevant and hysterical. It had made her feel so. She didn’t quite know why she was so upset…It was silly—perhaps it was the aftereffects of the ether.

  Edna had pulled herself together, and told Rowland to go change his shirt which was not only wet but smeared with clay from her hands. He’d done so, but not before he’d telephoned John Hartley and made his displeasure known in such strident terms that the detective had threatened to have him arrested. Somehow Wilfred had come to know of the exchange, and by the afternoon had duly called at Woodlands to reason with his brother.

  “What happened to Miss Higgins was an outrage, and I know you feel it keenly for many reasons. But Rowly, getting yourself arrested will only play into Stuart Jones’ claims that she is an immoral woman who keeps questionable company and was therefore in need of his services!”

  “Why is it, Wil, that the bloody New South Wales Police Force can’t seem to touch men like Stuart Jones? Why is it they seem to be protected?”

  Wilfred either had no answer or chose not to share it
with his brother. “We all do what we can. How is Miss Higgins? Shall I ask Maguire to call in?”

  Rowland shook his head. Edna was physically recovered.

  Wilfred sighed. “I could not be more sorry for what has happened to Miss Higgins, Rowly, but as I have said before, the way you and your friends live has consequences. Perhaps it’s time you all became a little more circumspect.” Wilfred went on to say a few words about the fact that his brother had apparently been discovered participating in a satanic ritual, but Rowland had expected that. He promised to attend church with the family that Sunday to placate Wilfred and God.

  And so the day had been one of conflict and frustration and guilt. It was Edna herself who had called an end to it. She’d asked Rowland to carry the gramophone into the Woodlands ballroom and dragged Clyde up to dance with her. Possibly she knew Clyde’s struggle with steps and rhythm would take their minds to inconsequential things and they would be themselves. Elisabeth Sinclair heard the music and came out to dance with Milton. They’d made something of a party of it until Elisabeth had retired exhausted.

  Delaney telephoned and spoke first with Edna. Rowland was, of course, unable to hear the detective’s part in the conversation, but Edna responded quite warmly. “Don’t be silly, Colin,” she said. “I know you believe me. This is not your fault. Reggie’s so despicable I sometimes forget how clever he is.”

  When Rowland took the receiver, he was as a result of Edna’s response to Delaney, more reasonable than he might otherwise have been. He told the detective of their conversation with Arthur Stace. “It seems the chap who had White’s notebook also had a key to Magdalene’s,” Rowland said. “It’s probably how he let White into the building in the first place.”

  “Magdalene appears to have issued keys to almost the entire coven,” Delaney replied. “Only two blokes, both apparently named Smith, didn’t have keys on them. They’d come in most nights and take bets confident that any activity would be attributed to witchcraft. It all seems to fit, Rowly. We just have to work out which one of them killed White.”

  “What about Hartley?”

  “He still likes Milton for it. Pointed out that Wombat Newgate was known to Milt and could well have given him the key.”

  Rowland found himself unexpectedly uneasy about the conclusion that White had been murdered by one of the bookmakers in order to keep their operation secret. As much as the arrest of the bookmakers’ coven presented alternatives to Milton, there seemed something more personal about the way White had been slaughtered. The reporter hadn’t been bound, so the attack was unexpected and carried out face to face. The tiepin was taken and the body left to be found the next day. Surely it wasn’t in the interests of illicit bookmakers to have a body found on premises they were trying to keep from the notice of the constabulary.

  “We didn’t find White’s tiepin on any of the suspects,” Delaney confirmed. “Magdalene and his fellow bookies are denying anything to do with White’s murder, but you would expect that.” The receiver crackled a little as Delaney paused. “Look Rowly, I am genuinely sorry about how hard Hartley was on Miss Higgins. But Stuart Jones’ solicitors will be much harder in court.”

  Milton was right. Stuart Jones was a slippery bastard.

  To keep their minds clear of bookmakers and the Lido, they focussed instead on the murder of Crispin White, discussing what had come out of Rowland’s encounter with the coven and the account of Arthur Stace.

  “They said they killed him,” Clyde said.

  “I think they suspected I wasn’t taking them seriously,” Rowland replied. “They were trying to scare me off.”

  “You don’t know that they wouldn’t have cut your throat if the police hadn’t arrived.”

  Rowland pondered the idea. “No, but I don’t think they would have. We know they’re not really a coven. If they’d planned to kill me surely they would just have done it without all the theatrics.”

  Edna smiled. “It was all mildly ridiculous, come to think of it.”

  “It mightn’t have been such a lark if they knew Rowly had discovered what they were really up to,” Clyde said. “But I reckon Rowly’s right. They didn’t kill White. Not as a coven anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It might have been one of them acting on his own, for his own reasons. It would explain why the murder took place at Magdalene’s.”

  Rowland shared his conversation with the detective and the fact that most of the coven members had keys. “I could ask Delaney for the names, though, by the sounds of it, everyone except Magdalene is a Mr. Smith or Jones,” Rowland mused. “But perhaps one of them had a link of some sort with White.”

  “What do the police think?” Clyde asked.

  “Hartley is still convinced Milt killed Crispin.” Rowland winced. “Wombat Newgate was in the coven, so now Milt is connected with someone who had a key.”

  “Well, that was well done,” Milton said, letting his head fall back against the armchair.

  “Arthur Stace seems to think the man who dropped the notebook was reading it,” Rowland said. “That he was upset when he lost it. I wonder what in it interested him.”

  “One of the news stories Mr. White was working on, perhaps,” Edna suggested. “Was he investigating something that would offend someone?”

  “Other than Rowly?”

  “Yes, other than Rowly.”

  “He was a punter,” Milton reminded them. “Perhaps he owed money to one of those jokers in the masks.”

  “Surely killing him would be counterproductive to collecting a debt,” Rowland argued.

  “They might have been threatening White and got carried away. Maybe the killer took the tiepin as compensation.”

  Rowland groaned. “I don’t suppose the person who took the tiepin would be stupid enough to wear it.”

  Edna laughed. “I don’t think so, Rowly.” She moved to sit on the arm of the couch beside him.

  “White was also reporting on the Centre Party and Campbell,” Milton said recollecting suddenly. “And didn’t he ask you about Campbell that first night, Rowly? Wanted to know if you were ever a member of the New Guard?”

  Rowland rolled his eyes. “Eric Campbell did not kill Crispin White, Milt.”

  “No—not him personally but one of his minions. You can’t tell me Campbell no longer has a Fascist Legion of some sort at his beck and call.”

  “Campbell’s right thinking men favour pick axe handles and guns. A razor seems a less… bourgeois sort of weapon.”

  “I wouldn’t be too quick to assume the criminal underclasses don’t have an interest in politics,” Milton warned.

  “No, Rowly’s right.” Clyde came back into the discussion. “The New Guard is much more likely to use guns or Queensbury rules.” He sighed. “The fact that White’s throat was slashed is what makes it look like the bookies were behind it.”

  “I thought we’d already decided they didn’t do it,” Milton said wearily.

  They may well have argued in circles for some time if Mary Brown had not come in to announce a late caller. “A Miss Rosaleen Norton for you, Master Rowly. I’ve asked her to wait in the anteroom.”

  “Oh,” Rowland glanced at the clock on the mantle, surprised the young reporter would be calling so late. “Please show her in, Mary.” They were in Rowland’s studio, but most of the paintings for the exhibition had been packed and transported to the gallery for hanging.

  “Miss Norton.” Rowland met her at the door. He introduced Clyde and Edna, and reminded her of Milton Isaacs whom she had already met.

  Rosaleen Norton was wearing another figure-embracing garment, made up of artfully secured scarves, and a red camellia in her hair. She smiled and nodded politely through the introductions like a shy debutante. Rowland found himself glancing at her shoes. They were very like the ones worn by the woman in the coven, but not being an expert on women’s shoes he could not be sure. He did wonder though.

  “And what can I do for you, Miss N
orton?”

  “I came to thank you for showing Norman Lindsay my work. He’s asked me to model for him.”

  “He did? My congratulations.”

  “I’m very grateful for your intervention on my behalf, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Believe me when I say I did very little, Miss Norton.”

  “I thought I might pay you a visit and see how you were on the count of… you know.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My premonition. Did you finish that painting?”

  “Indeed, I did.”

  “Did something evil come out of it?”

  Rowland hesitated. He did not wish to lie but surely the bullet didn’t count. That had come through the painting rather than out of it, after all.

  “I mean metaphorically, ” Rosaleen said while he vacillated. “The story is about the compulsion of artists to examine the darkest parts of their souls, to lay bare the most dangerous ideas and how, in the end, we are all doomed to be consumed by the very thing we have created.”

  Rowland blinked. In the periphery of his vision he could see Milton smirking. “As you can see, I haven’t been consumed,” he said carefully.

  “Haven’t you, Mr. Sinclair?” she said, rising on her toes to gaze searchingly into his eyes. “Haven’t you?”

  Rowland shot Milton a silent plea for help.

  “The only thing Rowly’s been consumed by is the Maroubra Invitational!” Milton stepped ably into the breach. “Are you still covering that story, Miss Norton?”

  “Oh that. No, Ken Slessor’s taken over. Frank wants me to write another story for him,” she said, taking the chair Rowland offered her. The gentlemen resumed their own seats.

  “What’s this one about?” Edna asked enthusiastically.

  Rosaleen straightened her shoulders. “Actually that’s the other reason I’ve come—there’s a full moon tonight.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rowland asked. Rosaleen Norton had a very cryptic way of communicating.

  “I’ve been thinking of the statue of Pan in your garden, Mr. Sinclair. I wondered what it would look like in the moonlight.”

  Edna regarded the girl curiously. “Why don’t we have a look now?” she suggested.