Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  The Argus, 1934

  ____________________________________

  The residents of Woodlands House set out for the Maroubra Speedway at dawn. Despite all the drama and mayhem leading up to the event they embarked with a spirit that was both festive and adventurous. Clyde had ensured the Mercedes was ready, Rowland knew his motorcar and had become well acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of the speedway; Joan Richmond was a racing veteran and her Riley, top shelf; Errol Flynn was enthusiastic and his Triumph at least sea-worthy. Surely a good time would be had by all.

  They were among the first to arrive at the track. Speedway officials with brooms, shovels and bags were clearing the bowl of debris as well as the snakes, lizards and the occasional cat that had come to enjoy the morning sun on warm concrete. Each team had been given a makeshift bay into which their cars could pull off for refuelling, minor repairs or wheel changes if necessary. The Red Cross marquee in the centre of the bowl served the racers breakfast to the strains of a bombastic brass band. After months of preparation, setbacks and anxiety, the day of the race had broken clear of clouds and the atmosphere was buoyant and infectious.

  With wishes of good luck and exhortations to be careful, Edna and Milton set off to find seats among the burgeoning throng of spectators. There was still a while till flag fall, but the venue was filling fast. Clyde hummed tunelessly as he checked the Mercedes once again, and Rowland mentally paced out his part of the race, until familiar figures caught their attention.

  It was the doctor’s ostentatious sense of style—reminiscent of Milton’s—that attracted their notice. Stuart Jones stood in the infield talking to Redmond Barry and another. For a moment the second man merely sparked a sense of vague recognition and then Rowland placed him: Les Bocquet. What was Les Bocquet doing with Stuart Jones?

  Rowland glanced at his watch—recently repaired and synchronised with Clyde’s. They still had nearly an hour. He signalled Clyde. “I’m just going to have a brief word with Stuart Jones.”

  “Rowly, the race—”

  “It won’t be a long conversation. I’ll be back in time.”

  “Well then, I’ll come with you,” Clyde said, wiping his hands on his overalls. “Ed reckons Stuart Jones carries a revolver, remember.”

  Rowland nodded. “Best bring the tyre lever.”

  They intercepted the doctor near the underpass which afforded public entry from outside the bowl through a culvert that ran under the track. Redmond Barry and Les Bocquet might have seen them coming— they were gone by the time Rowland grabbed Stuart Jones by the collar. He dragged the protesting gynaecologist into the tunnel opening and slammed him against the poster-plastered wall. Clyde stood back, keeping an eye out for anyone who might come to Stuart Jones’ aid.

  “Rowly, look, I fully understand you’re upset but you must let me explain…”

  “Explain what, you cretin?”

  “That misunderstanding with Eddie. You see Eddie and I go back a long way, it’s only natural that she come to me when—”

  Rowland punched him. “If you ever lay your filthy hands on her again, so help me—”

  “Is everything all right here?” The first good Samaritan.

  “Just move on, sir,” Clyde growled. It seemed to work.

  Rowland seized Stuart Jones’ arm as the doctor reached for his pocket, pinning it to the wall. “You’re not carrying a loaded gun are you, Reggie? Do you know how many people accidentally shoot themselves with their own firearm?”

  “What do you want, Sinclair?” Stuart Jones was discernibly nervous now.

  “How do you know Les Bocquet?”

  “Bocquet?” Stuart Jones was clearly perplexed. “He places a couple of bets for me.”

  “He’s a bookmaker?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Rowland hit him again. “Is he a bookmaker?”

  “Yes. How else would he afford that grand residence in Lindfield and that pretty little wife of his? Bocquet’s a street rat!”

  A second and third Samaritan approached. “Is there some kind of problem here?” To Stuart Jones: “Do you need some assistance, mate? Should we get the police?”

  At this Stuart Jones became tense. “No, no… just a bit of horseplay… We’re old friends, aren’t we, Rowland?” Rowland looked anything but friendly, but, keen to find seats, the Samaritans took the doctor at his word and moved on.

  Rowland relaxed his fist, and spoke to Stuart Jones with quiet and chilling certainty. “If you venture near Miss Higgins again, I’ll find you, Jones, and even the devil won’t be able to help you then.”

  Stuart Jones reacted to the mention of Edna. “I’m a doctor, Rowland. I’ve taken an oath. If Eddie comes to me for help, I can’t refuse, and nothing you say—”

  “Right.” Rowland grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket and dragged him with them. Once they were out of the tunnel, Stuart Jones regained some confidence. There was not much Sinclair could do with thousands of people watching.

  By the time they reached the improvised pits, Stuart Jones was chatting about the race like they were old friends. Rowland was calmly livid. Clyde did not ask what his friend had planned.

  Joan Richmond was waiting for them. She barely glanced at Stuart Jones. “Clyde, quickly, you must conduct a thorough check of Rowly’s vehicle.”

  “Why?” Clyde asked, already unfolding the bonnet.

  “Saboteurs. I just chased off some chap fiddling around beneath it. The race begins in twenty minutes.”

  “What did this fellow look like?” Rowland asked, glancing at Stuart Jones, who shrugged innocently.

  “Shifty,” Joan replied. “I would normally have assumed he was simply retrieving a dropped penny or something, but with everything that’s happened…”

  “I can’t see anything,” Clyde said from under the bonnet. “Rowly, start her up will you?”

  Rowland did so and Clyde checked and tested. Joan left them to it and checked her Riley as well.

  “What did you do?” Rowland demanded of Stuart Jones.

  “Nothing, I know nothing about this.” The doctor smiled broadly. “Still, it’s rather troubling.”

  Clyde closed the bonnet, his face creased with undisguised worry.

  “Did you find a problem?” Rowland asked.

  “No. I can’t find any tampering.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  Clyde sighed. “I dunno. If I’d found something then we’d know what he’d been doing and I’d fix it. Now, we just don’t know what this bloke was up to … whether I’ve missed something.”

  Stuart Jones slipped into the passenger seat of the Mercedes. “Perhaps you ought to check it over again, my good man. You’ll be late to start, of course, but we can’t put too high a value on Rowland’s safety.”

  “Get the hell out of my car,” Rowland snarled.

  “Don’t be like that, Rowly,” Stuart Jones said, clearly enjoying himself. “This is rather a spiffing automobile.” He sat back. “Do you generally have a chauffeur? I prefer to be driven myself.” For a moment Rowland considered pulling the doctor bodily and none too gently from the vehicle, but he stopped. “I’ll take the chance that if you can’t find something, it’s because there isn’t anything,” he told Clyde.

  Clyde cursed. “You be careful, Rowly,” he said. “If the Mercedes feels strange in any way, you stop immediately. You bring her in.”

  “You have my word,” Rowland promised. “Perhaps the poor chap Joan saw was just chasing a runaway penny after all.”

  “I hope so,” Clyde said. “I’m not happy sending you out when I’m not sure.”

  “You are sure,” Rowland said. “We’re just all a little jumpy.” He nodded at Stuart Jones. “That buffoon doesn’t help.”

  “Maybe he arranged for one of his mates to—”

  “You couldn’t find anything wrong. I suspect the good doctor’s trying to unnerve us enough to ensure we lose before the start.”

  A siren summone
d the contestants to their starting positions. “Let’s get that blasted fool out of your car,” Clyde said. “It’s time to go.”

  “Leave it to me.” Rowland fastened the leather helmet and pulled on his goggles.

  Clyde slapped his shoulder. “Good luck, mate. Remember, if anything feels wrong, pull off.”

  Rowland nodded. He opened the door and gave his unwanted passenger one last chance. “Right, get out!”

  Stuart Jones smirked. “Oh dear, my foot seems to be stuck. I do hope I’m not delaying you.”

  Without another word, Rowland slipped behind the wheel and started the car. Stuart Jones folded his arms ready to call what he assumed was a bluff. Joan and Flynn ran over to wave the Mercedes away.

  “Don’t forget, we need at least three laps,” Joan said, running beside the Mercedes as Rowland took his starting position. “If you lose count of the laps, look for Clyde—he’ll hold up a number. Rowly, there’s some chap in your vehicle!”

  Rowland nodded as he gunned the motor. Only then did Stuart Jones panic. The Mercedes took off into the bowl with the doctor screaming from the passenger seat.

  The first five laps were designated to allow the drivers to warm their tyres, at which point they would line up at the start once more. But Stuart Jones didn’t know that, and even at a relatively gentle speed, the prospect of the bowl clearly terrified him. He wailed like a banshee and wept, clinging white-knuckled to the dash and promising Rowland anything and everything if only he’d stop the car. Rowland kept his eyes on the track.

  Clyde pulled the hysterical doctor out when Rowland took his position for the beginning of the race proper. Rowland waved at his friend, hoping Stuart Jones’ reaction was not connected to any actual knowledge that the motorcar had been compromised. The flag came down and they were away, this time in earnest.

  The rest seemed a dream, the sequence of events he’d practised for weeks, with the addition of a cheering, thirty-thousand strong crowd to make it more surreal. It was no longer just him and his car. For the first ten laps, Rowland was tense, painfully alert to any malfunction, a slight wobble, a miniscule rattle, any sign of interference. But there was nothing. He settled into a rhythm, a pattern by which he avoided the most deteriorated sections of the track.

  The Mercedes was responsive, building up to speed and finding her position high on the bowl, but not so high that he was at risk of going over the edge of the “Killer Track”. Rowland focussed his mind and shut out everything else. The crowd disappeared into the blurred mass of everything but the track. Though it had been publicised as an endurance event, he had only to complete two hundred laps. His part of the race would be over in about two hours. The Honourable Charlotte Linklater’s Bentley Speed Six stuck stubbornly with him, pulling in to refuel and change tyres when he did. He engaged the supercharger and pulled away, climbing higher on the bowl as he accelerated. By seventy laps he was one ahead of Charlotte, with at least two laps on every other contestant. Charlotte Linklater was clearly a better racer than her late brother had been. At one hundred laps, she’d clawed back Rowland’s lead. Rowland knew the Mercedes had more in her, though to unleash the extra power he’d have to risk the highest point of the bowl. But he was confident now.

  Clyde watched from the infield as the Mercedes climbed to the very rim of the speedway. Under his breath, he prayed. The 1927 S-Class was a fine machine, but he was not sure she was built for this. Clyde’s eyes stayed fixed on the yellow saloon, watching for any sign of trouble. He’d driven the bowl with Rowland. He knew what seemed precarious and downright foolhardy from the infield would seem less so from behind the wheel. He could only guess that was why Rowland was tempting disaster.

  With her hands over her eyes, Edna watched through the small spaces between her fingers, turning her face into Milton’s shoulder when it became unbearable. The Mercedes seemed to be clinging to an almost vertical plane as spiralled up to the very top of the bowl. “It’s all right, Ed,” Milton whispered. “Rowly knows and loves that car. He won’t risk scratching it.”

  The absurd reminder was strangely comforting. Edna had often accused Rowland of being in thrall to a gaudy German mistress. He’d been most offended by the word “gaudy”.

  Ernest Sinclair rotated in his seat, determined not to take his eyes off his uncle’s car. He was consequently becoming quite dizzy. Wilfred was tempted to demand the boy sit still, but the excitement on his son’s face stayed any censure. He remembered that same expression on Rowland’s face years ago, when the Sinclairs had acquired their very first automobile. Wilfred glanced at the position of the Mercedes, telling himself that men of his brother’s age had grown up tearing about in motorcars—it was second nature to them and not as dangerous as it seemed to those whose youth had been spent on horseback. Still, the reputation of the track had not escaped him and Wilfred wondered if he ought to have forbidden Rowland’s participation, at the same time realising that doing so would probably only have cemented his brother’s determination to race.

  Rowland had extended his lead to four laps when Charlotte Linklater made her move. She climbed higher onto the bowl until the Mercedes and the Bentley were virtually abreast. He remembered her words, her warning to stay out of her way and he realised she would pull in front of him regardless of whether or not she had the speed to complete the manoeuvre. He made the decision to slow down, sure he had more than the three laps lead he needed, though he’d lost count of how many he’d completed. Charlotte reefed the Bentley to the left in front of the Mercedes. Rowland swore, his car fishtailing wildly as he was forced to take what evasive action he could.

  Thirty thousand spectators gasped with a collective horror. Many stood, bracing to witness the killer track take yet another life.

  “Come on darling. Settle.” Rowland spoke to his motorcar like she was a skittish horse as he tried to bring her under control. Avoiding a collision with the Bentley had forced him onto a deteriorated patch of the track. He could hear loose concrete peppering the mudguards and scraping against the undercarriage. The wheels skidded violently. A front tyre blew and there was no longer any control to be had. Orange sparks, the gouging screech of metal on concrete. The top of the bowl and then the sky as the yellow Mercedes hurtled over the edge. One of the towering light poles just outside the track stopped her progress, and parts of Rowland Sinclair’s beloved motorcar were flung back onto the speedway.

  For a moment the bowl seemed to fall silent of everything but the roar of vehicles still in the race. And then screams. Wilfred Sinclair stared, struggling to comprehend what he had just witnessed. There were sirens now, and more screeching as vehicles swerved to avoid the debris of Rowland’s car. Kate Sinclair started to cry.

  “I don’t understand,” Elisabeth Sinclair said. “What’s happened? I didn’t see.”

  Numbly Wilfred signalled the nurses who sat discreetly in the row behind the family. He hugged his wife, too tightly. “Katie, I must—”

  “Go,” she whispered. “I’ll take the children and Mother home.”

  “Daddy, that was Uncle Rowly’s car,” Ernest sobbed.

  Wilfred paused to embrace his son. “Yes, I know Ernie.”

  The other racers were called into the infield. People spilled on to the track, trying to run up the steep embankment to reach the Mercedes, or what was left of it.

  “That didn’t happen,” Edna said quietly. “No.” But she wanted to scream. That stupid car. Why did it do that?

  Milton grabbed her hand. He looked strange, she thought… green. “Ed?”

  “No,” she said.

  “I’ve got to go find him.”

  “Who?” she said vaguely.

  “Rowly.”

  She nodded. That was right. They should find Rowly.

  Clyde was on his knees. He’d missed something. My God, he’d missed something. It was Joan Richmond who reached him first. She grabbed him by the shoulders, looked into his eyes and spoke slowly. “Come on, old bean. We’ll go around the outsid
e.”

  He wasn’t sure what she meant, but he went with her. She drove him out of the bowl. The particular section of the speedway where the Mercedes had gone over was built up by a sand dune. Though most of the spectators had been seated in the infield several hundred had chosen to avoid admission and picnic on the dune instead. Clyde felt sick. The worst thing suddenly became even worse. They ran up to the light pole, to the smashed hulk of the yellow Mercedes that Rowland had so cherished.

  There was a crowd gathered there already. Joan asked. No spectators had been hurt. The light pole in question had claimed the life of the great Phil Garlick in a similar accident years ago—it was given a wide berth out of respect and superstition.

  Clyde steeled himself to the task of retrieving his friend’s body. He needed desperately to get Rowland out of the twisted chassis. The Mercedes had clipped the pole and wrapped around it. The passenger side of the cabin was crushed, the driver’s side empty.

  “Where the bloody hell is Rowly?” Clyde demanded, forgetting himself in his horror and grief.

  “His body must have been thrown out,” Joan’s voice caught.

  The search began. By then thousands of spectators had climbed up to the accident site as well as officials with megaphones, the inevitable media and an ambulance. The sheer number of people hampered rather than helped the hunt for Rowland Sinclair, with false sightings and hysteria.

  It was a child who found him, at least forty feet away in the scrub that dotted the dune. Of course everybody surged to see. Someone began to sing The Lord is my Shepherd and soon other well-meaning voices joined the impromptu requiem.

  “Why the hell are they singing hymns?” Milton muttered angrily as he and Edna fought to get through the crowd. “He’ll be all right. There’s no call for hymns.”

  Edna said nothing. She was pale with fury and fear. Of all the things that Rowland stood for, of all the people and noble causes for which he was willing to fight, for which he had fought, he could not die in a stupid car race. The sculptress’ heart clenched, resisting the knowledge that would break it. He could not be dead.