The boarding house proprietor hesitated, blushing slightly. “I’m afraid Mr. Kelly’s not here anymore.”
“Oh.” Milton made quite a good fist of looking disappointed. “I was looking forward to catching up with Jim… we were such great mates at school. He didn’t say where he was going did he? His mum wanted me to bring back news of him… poor old thing is not enjoying the best of health of late.”
The boarding house mistress hesitated. “I’m afraid… oh dear. Perhaps you’d best come in for a moment.”
She took them into a large sitting room which was separated from a dining room by a wall of concertinaed panels. Despite the house’s external appearance, the parlour was scrupulously clean and tidy. Its walls had been shelved to the ceiling, and displayed upon them were scores, perhaps hundreds, of porcelain dolls, all staring into the centre of the room with glass or painted eyes. A Jacquard-upholstered chaise longue also hosted more than a dozen dolls sitting primly in crinoline dresses around a picnic blanket complete with miniature tea set. Miss Marjorie Curtis, as she told them she was, invited them to take any of the armchairs while she bustled out to make tea.
“I can see why Kelly was spooked,” Clyde whispered, sitting stiffly.
Marjorie Curtis returned with a traymobile. She poured tea into a full-sized version of the tea set around which her dolls picnicked, and handed a steaming cup and saucer to each gentleman. Rowland noticed she’d also applied lipstick and removed her headscarf.
Once they all held a cup and a slice of her pound cake, she said, “I’m afraid I have some terrible news for you gentlemen.”
“Lovely cake, Miss Curtis,” Milton said with his mouth full.
“Thank you, Mr. Isaacs—my grandmother’s recipe. I’m afraid Mr. Kelly is dead.”
“Dead?” Milton looked shocked and grieved enough for the three of them. Clyde and Rowland let him go. “How?”
“I’m afraid he was murdered, Mr. Isaacs. I don’t think the police have found the culprit.”
Milton gasped. “But who would want to kill Jim? Everybody loved Jim.”
“Well, Mr. Isaacs, I’m afraid he may have got himself in trouble. Would you like another slice of cake?”
“What do you mean trouble, Miss Curtis? I wouldn’t say no to more cake… is that orange essence—quite extraordinary!”
“Mixed peel,” she said as she cut another slice. “I assumed it was gambling. A lot of my gentlemen get into trouble that way. He asked me to tell anyone looking for him that he didn’t live here. It’s why I was so unfriendly—I’m not usually like that, Mr. Isaacs.”
“Oh we can see that, Miss Curtis. You’ve been very kind and hospitable. Did anyone come looking for him?”
“Aside from you gentlemen—yes, there were two men. And they called by twice… wouldn’t say who they were.”
“Did Jim say exactly why he wanted you to tell people he didn’t live here?” Milton asked.
“No, but he sure was nervy. I was worried about him to be truthful.”
“I’m sure Jim appreciated your concern. Can I ask, are his possessions still here? Perhaps I should take them back to his mum.”
Marjorie Curtis bit her lip. “There is a bag but I don’t think I’d be comfortable doing that, Mr. Isaacs. As his landlady, I think I should send them on myself.”
“Of course.” Milton smiled reassuringly. “That’s proper. What a fascinating collection you have here, Miss Curtis. My sister collects dolls too… though she has barely two dozen.”
“Really? How wonderful. Let me show you my most prized babies.”
The next hour was lost to an introduction and explanation of several dolls: their origin, their maker and the manner in which Marjorie Curtis acquired them. Rowland glanced at Clyde who was beginning to look like he was ready to make a run for it. He honestly couldn’t blame him. It was really quite an odd way for three grown men to spend an evening. But he assumed there was a purpose behind Milton’s show of interest.
Finally after a dissertation on a particular doll fashioned after Queen Mary, Milton said, “I guess we really should be going. I don’t look forward to giving Mrs. Kelly my condolences. It’ll break her poor old heart.”
“Oh.” Marjorie seemed moved. “You know, Mr. Isaacs, perhaps I could give you Mr. Kelly’s bag to take back to his mother. It’ll save me the expense of the postage.”
“Only if you’re comfortable with that, Miss Curtis.”
“We know each other now. I’m sure it would be all right.” She disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a carpetbag, which she handed to Milton. “You tell Mrs. Kelly that I’m so dreadfully sorry, that her son was a gentleman even if he was behind with his board.”
“Thank you, Miss Curtis, I will.”
Clyde and Rowland stood quickly lest Milton feel moved to talk about dolls again.
“If it’s not too intrusive a question, Miss Curtis, just how far behind was Mr. Kelly with his board?” Rowland asked quietly as she showed them out.
“Oh don’t you worry about that, Mr. Sinclair,” she said blushing. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
Rowland took five pounds from his pocketbook and pressed it into her hand. “Please do allow me. In Jim’s memory.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“I’m sure Jim wouldn’t want you to be out of pocket, Miss Curtis.”
“It’s too much—half that would cover it.”
“You’ve been very kind.” He took out his card. “We’re staying at the Hotel Canberra. If those men call by again you can reach us there. We might be able to stop them bothering you.”
12
THE LIQUOR PROBLEM AT CANBERRA
Successful as it has been in the construction of buildings, the provision of essential services, and the accommodation of the people, the commission has failed to cope with a problem that is perplexing the Territory. This (says a correspondent) is the liquor traffic. The sale of liquor is prohibited, and, the commissioners are known to favour the holding of a local option poll to decide whether the prohibition shall continue. Under the present system hundreds of pounds worth of liquor is brought into the Territory every week, some of it from the neighbouring New South Wales town of Queanbeyan, and some of it from farther afield. Queanbeyan is only nine miles from Canberra, and its hotels and picture theatre, but especially the hotels, are the architectural ornaments of the town. To be the licensee of a hotel in Queanbeyan is to be, to use a colloquialism ‘on velvet.’ Since the population of the Federal Territory began to increase rapidly, the earnings of the Queanbeyan hotels have been enormous, and several fine hotels have been erected, and old ones remodelled. There are bars in the Queanbeyan hotels as palatial as any in Melbourne or Sydney.
Monaro Mercury, 17 October 1927
The Royal in Queanbeyan was a fairly new establishment sporting a modern art deco facade rather than the broad verandahs of the older public drinking houses. It was crowded. Despite the fact that the prohibition which operated in Canberra till 1928 had been lifted, the habit of crossing the border to drink had not yet faded. The hotels were full of workers who had become accustomed to saving their thirst for a night out in Queanbeyan. Clyde fought his way to the bar and came back to the small round table they’d commandeered with three froth-topped middies.
“I might need something stronger to get over those blessed dolls,” Rowland murmured. “I swear some of them were breathing.”
“Sadly, old mate—” Clyde drank deeply—“you’re driving. Bloody oath that was peculiar.”
Rowland raised his glass to Milton. “I thought you’d lost your mind there for a moment, but you did well, Milt.”
The tapestry carpetbag Marjorie Curtis had given them had been stored in the back seat of the Airflow. They would go through the late Jim Kelly’s possessions later in the privacy of the hotel suite.
“I felt a bit bad in the end to be honest,” Milton admitted. “Poor lonely old thing, sitting in her one nice room talking to china fac
es.”
“It’s a wonder that the police hadn’t collected Jim Kelly’s property themselves,” Clyde said thoughtfully.
“The Commonwealth Peace Officers probably have no jurisdiction in Queanbeyan. And New South Wales has its hands full with its own unsolved murders at the moment,” said Rowland.
“Who do you suppose the blokes looking for him were?”
“Could be anyone really. Maybe there’s a clue in the bag.”
“This place is barely a jump from the boarding house,” Milton said suddenly. “I’d bet London to a brick that he drank here regularly—to get away from the dolls if nothing else.”
“Possibly…” Rowland began but Milton was already standing.
He banged the table with his hand until the pub quietened a little. “Gentlemen,” he said loudly. “I ask you all to lift your glasses in the memory of Jim Kelly, a diamond of a man who drowned his sorrows here from time to time.” Milton thrust his glass into the air. “To Jim!”
Rowland and Clyde both watched the crowd carefully. Some men toasted with gusto and shouted “Jim” with inebriated fervour. It was hard to know if they actually knew Kelly or were simply caught up in some sense of intemperate solidarity. One or two murmured “Jim Kelly” with contemplative feeling. Some ignored Milton and still others watched him and kept their glasses purposefully lowered. One group in particular seemed offended by the toast. They began to walk over.
“Here we go,” Milton said triumphantly.
The group stopped a few feet away and simply stood, drinking and watching.
“What are they doing?” Milton muttered.
“I think they’re waiting for us to leave,” said Rowland. “I believe this is an invitation to step outside.”
“What do you think?”
“There’s three of them, it’s even odds.”
“We’ll have to leave eventually,” Clyde agreed.
“Just a minute.” Rowland reached for his notebook. Quickly he sketched the faces of the three men, who assisted by staring in their direction. When he was satisfied with the likenesses, he closed the book. “We can go now.”
They stood, stepped out of the Royal and walked back towards Marjorie Curtis’ house where they’d left the Airflow. The men from the pub followed.
Rowland stopped as they reached the side street that led to the boarding house. While they could still hear the crowds and activity in the main street, there were few passers-by and no street lights. As they turned they saw that the three they’d spotted in the Royal had acquired another four to their cause. The odds had turned. “Right, gentlemen, what can we do for you?” Rowland asked calmly.
“What’s Kelly to you?”
“A mate,” Milton said.
“So you’re working with the Commie mongrel?”
“How do you gentlemen know Jim Kelly?” Rowland kept one eye on the men fanning out around them. In the dark he couldn’t make out their faces beyond the glow of their cigarettes.
“We’re going to tell you what we told him—we’re onto you. We’re going to stop you.”
“Stop us doing what?” Rowland asked. “Perhaps if you tell us what your issue is with Mr. Kelly we could—”
The first punch was thrown. Rowland ducked and swung back. A cigarette went flying as he hit his mark. And so the affray began. Outnumbered, they might have been in real trouble if they hadn’t been so close to the main road, if their assailants had not been shouting “Commie bastards” and “red mongrels” as they fought. As it was, the brawl was announced and it seemed Communists had friends in the main street of Queanbeyan, as did the men who took offence to them. Soon it had nothing to do with Rowland Sinclair and his friends. Clyde and Rowland dragged Milton out. It was no longer obvious who was fighting whom, and the police had arrived.
“I think we should go,” Clyde gasped.
“Yes, that might be wise.” Rowland wiped blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
They broke away from the melee and returned briskly to the Airflow.
As Edna was still out, they used the private sitting room at Hotel Canberra that Rowland had hired for use as a studio to examine the contents of Kelly’s bag. Rowland grimaced. In the well-lit room it was clear that none of them had escaped the brawl unscathed. Milton was sporting a rather spectacular black eye, Clyde’s chin bore a matching bruise, and Rowland was aware of a stinging graze above his right brow which he vaguely remembered had been gouged by a wristwatch. He rang reception for ice and supper, and they opened the bag.
There was a second suit, a couple of shirts and other items of clothing.
“They’ve been washed and pressed,” Milton noted.
“Miss Curtis I expect.” Rowland opened a leather satchel that had been under the clothes. He pulled out an open envelope in which had been stored three studio photographs—the kind of glamorous portraits that women sent to their sweethearts.
Rowland laid them out. “Looks like Mr. Kelly was rather popular.”
“What else is in the satchel?”
“There’s a notebook.”
Milton flicked through the pages. “These are odds. I suspect Kelly liked the dogs… What’s this?” He squinted at the page to which he’d just turned. “Snuff Box.”
“Snuff Box what?”
“That’s it. Just Snuff Box.”
“Could be the name of a greyhound,” Rowland suggested.
“Yes, I suppose. But he hasn’t written any other names down.”
“Perhaps it was a particularly sure bet,” Clyde said. “Anything else?”
“A tin of tobacco, cigarette papers, a razor and a couple of shillings.”
Rowland helped himself from the tray of sandwiches that had been delivered from the kitchen. “So, what do you think?”
“Those blokes in the Royal seemed to know Kelly was a Communist.”
“And they seemed rather irate about it.”
“Do you think they could have killed Kelly?” Rowland was sceptical. “Cutting a man’s throat seems a fair way removed from a drunken bar brawl.”
“They didn’t seem plastered,” observed Clyde.
Milton straddled his chair. “Do you remember the hard nuts from the New Guard and that group of Charles Hardy’s? The bastards who killed your uncle, who tried to tar and feather me and beat the hell out of you?”
“Yes, of course, but the New Guard is fading, Campbell’s caught up with his new political Party, and Hardy’s too busy being a senator to incite vigilante mobs…”
“Exactly my point. What do you suppose the militants who were in the Fascist Legion are doing now Campbell’s lost interest? Do you think that after spending the last few years convinced they were all that stood between Australia and the Red Army, beating people up for sport, they’ve just gone home and learned to play euchre?”
“No… perhaps not.”
“You know, I’d wager that without the likes of Campbell and Hardy, the hard nuts would have nothing to hold them back.”
“Good Lord, man, you’re not suggesting Eric Campbell and Charles Hardy were in fact moderating influences?” Rowland was already shaking his head.
“Yes, I am, Rowly. Campbell and Hardy saw themselves as respectable men. Neither wanted to be associated with murder.”
Rowland looked to Clyde. Milton was prone to becoming carried away, but Clyde had always been reason personified.
“I think what Milt’s saying, Rowly, is, we shouldn’t assume the clowns from the Royal are incapable of cutting a man’s throat.” Clyde poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot delivered with mixed sandwiches. “All those right-thinking men of the Fascist Legion haven’t disappeared… and perhaps they haven’t retired.”
Rolling up his sleeves, Rowland clipped a sheet of cartridge paper to the board on his easel.
“What are you doing?” Milton asked.
Rowland retrieved his jacket from the hook by the door and pulled his notebook from the breast pocket. “I thought I’d make some
proper drawings of those fellows in the pub while they’re still fresh in my memory.”
“Why?”
“I could send them to Delaney. And if these chaps are anything more than your standard bar room thugs, the police might be able to identify them.” It was the state’s worst kept secret that the New South Wales police force had its own operatives spying on many of the numerous Fascist and Communist groups. Indeed, Rowland had first met Detective Delaney when they were both undercover in the New Guard.
“Marjorie Curtis may be able to identify them if they’re local,” Milton added.
“I’m not setting foot in that flaming doll room again,” Clyde said quickly.
Milton ignored Clyde. “It might be worth showing Major Jones, too. Of course we may have to come up with some vaguely plausible explanation as to what we were doing in Queanbeyan.”
And so Rowland drew likenesses of three of the men, using the quick sketches he’d made in the pub as well as the recollections of Clyde and Milton to build what amounted to hand-drawn mug shots. With no newspapers involved, there was no need for the faces to be beautiful.
Edna found them in the makeshift studio late the next morning. Milton and Rowland were playing cards, Clyde was working on a sketch of Parliament House.
“What on earth did you get up to?” Edna demanded, scrutinising each of them in turn.
They’d cleaned up from the previous night’s fracas but bruises could not be washed away so easily.
Milton told her what had happened in heroic detail. Accustomed to him, the sculptress ignored the self-serving embellishments without comment. “Dolls? Gosh! How many?”
“Bloody hundreds!” Clyde threw his hands in the air. “I tell you, if it turns out Marjorie Curtis slit Kelly’s throat I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Milton laughed. “She’s harmless… just lonely and a little obsessed. I have a cousin who collects ashtrays—has hundreds, doesn’t even smoke.”
“What are you going to do with the bag? Does Mr. Kelly really have a mother waiting for it?”
A Dangerous Language Page 11