A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Isaacs’ visitors… it’s quite the honour. We couldn’t be more excited if it was the Duke of Gloucester himself.” She scurried off before he could enquire as to the identity of these illustrious visitors.

  He wondered if he should wait outside but curiosity got the better of him and he ducked his head into Milton’s hospital room.

  16

  BRUCE-PAGE AGAIN? NO THANKS

  MYSTERIOUS RESURRECTION MOVES

  BUT GENIAL AMATEURS TOO COSTLY

  LYONS WON’T BE DITCHED FOR THE “CALAMITY TWINS”

  Strange undercurrents are flowing in the political world. A subterranean movement is being engineered to ditch Joseph Aloysius Lyons, Prime Minister of the Commonwealth, and bring back Stanley Melbourne Bruce and Earle Page as his cobber in a new U.A.P.- U.C.P. Coalition Government.

  AND IF STANLEY MELBOURNE BRUCE IS UNWILLING TO ACT, SOMEONE ELSE CAN BE PUT UP AS THE COCONUT. IT DOES NOT REALLY MATTER WHO IT IS. BECAUSE THE OBJECT OF THE FINESSE IS TO MAKE EARLE PAGE THE DICTATOR OF POLICY.

  Truth, 24 June 1924

  “Mr. Sinclair, there you are!” The familiar warmth of Ethel Bruce in an elaborate hat greeted Rowland as he walked into the room. She left Milton’s bedside and manoeuvred her way towards Rowland.

  “Mrs. Bruce,” Rowland said as first she shook his hand, and then deciding that would not do, embraced him.

  “I cannot tell you how much I’ve missed you all since our caper in London!”

  “Ethel…” Stanley Bruce cleared his throat. “Ethel… unhand the boy.”

  Ethel Bruce flapped a hand in her husband’s direction. “Oh, Stanley. We’re old friends, comrades in arms.”

  “Splendid to see you again, Your Excellency,” Rowland said smiling.

  “Edna was just telling us what a hero Mr. Isaacs was,” Ethel said.

  “Is,” Milton declared. “I’m not dead.”

  “Of course not, Mr. Isaacs!”

  “How are you, Milt?” Rowland asked.

  “No change, no pause, no hope. Yet I endure.”

  “Shelley.” Rowland smiled, relieved. Milton did not look comfortable, but his face had lost the pallor of the previous day, and he was apparently well enough to steal poetry once again.

  As Ethel Bruce exchanged news with Edna and Clyde, and fussed over Milton, Stanley Bruce spoke quietly to Rowland. “Miss Higgins seems to be of the opinion that Mr. Isaacs’ injury was not accidentally caused.”

  Rowland nodded. “Yes.”

  “I believe Wilfred has made you aware of the crude item which was delivered to the prime minister’s office via the Lamson tube system.”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “I am, of course, mindful, Rowland, of your predilection to undertake your own amateur investigations—”

  “I see.”

  “I do not intend to dissuade you. Lord knows if Wilfred couldn’t talk sense into you, I am unlikely to meet with success.” Australia’s eighth prime minister shook his head. “As you may remember, my good wife is also predisposed to play the sleuth when the opportunity arises. I would prefer it if you did not encourage her on this occasion.”

  Rowland’s lips twitched. “I see.”

  “Do we understand each other, Rowland?”

  “I doubt Mrs. Bruce will follow my direction, sir.”

  Bruce sighed. “No. Mrs. Bruce doesn’t follow directions.” He emphasised his next words. “Just don’t encourage her. It’s unseemly for the wife of the Australian High Commissioner to Britain to be solving murders like some Belgian detective.”

  Rowland glanced at the new copy of Agatha Christie’s recently released Murder in Three Acts sitting on the table beside Milton’s bed. He assumed it was a gift from Ethel Bruce, who like the poet was a fan of the genre. “I’ll do my best, sir, but I doubt Mrs. Bruce will be affected by a simple lack of encouragement on my part.”

  “Yes, quite,” Bruce conceded.

  Ethel Bruce collected her handbag from where she’d left it on the bed. “We should be on our way now, Stanley, before Mr. Isaacs gets too tired.” She considered Milton for a moment. “Kate was so hoping you’d all come out to Oaklea… perhaps when you’re up and about, Mr. Isaacs.”

  “I’ll drop in on my way to Melbourne,” Rowland promised.

  “You pulled it off then?” Clyde asked grinning.

  Rowland nodded. He had not previously had the chance to inform his friends that he’d been successful in securing the Comet.

  “Well done, Rowly!” Milton too applauded, albeit gingerly.

  “What have you pulled off, Mr. Sinclair?” Ethel Bruce enquired curiously.

  “Rowly has bought himself a new plane, Mrs. Bruce,” Clyde said.

  “And it’s in Melbourne?” Ethel said.

  “It will be, I hope,” Rowland replied. “The aircraft in question is competing in the MacRobertson Air Race so I’ll need to be there at the finish to claim her.”

  “How very exciting,” Ethel clasped gloved hands. “But you shall miss all the excitement here. The Duke of Gloucester will be opening parliament, and I believe there will be a grand ball that evening.”

  “Ethel, my dear…” Bruce opened his pocket watch pointedly.

  “Yes, yes, we must be off to luncheon.” Ethel made a face. “There’s nothing like the talk of Imperial markets and the gold standard to aid digestion.”

  And so they bid Mr. and Mrs. Bruce farewell. Ethel assured them she would return as soon as she could, and insisted Edna promise to report any “developments” directly to her.

  “Major Jones may think he’s in charge of CIB…” Milton murmured.

  The Bruces departed, pausing to shake hands with the hospital staff who it seemed had forgotten Stanley Bruce was no longer prime minister.

  Edna placed her hand gently on the poet’s forehead. “Would you like us to leave too, so you can get some sleep, darling?”

  “God no! We have developments to deal with!”

  Rowland and Clyde begged a couple of extra chairs from the matron. Still glowing after having exchanged pleasantries with Stanley Melbourne Bruce and his charming wife, she was happy to indulge them.

  Milton had already told Clyde and Edna about the Communist badges, and their implications.

  “I’ve let Arthur know that the government is communicating with London about Egon,” Clyde said.

  Rowland assumed that was the communication out of which Milton had been careful to keep him. He was grateful. Not that he thought the message was of great import, but he would have struggled with reporting to the Communist Party on the activities of government, however trivial.

  “How do you know they’re talking to the government about Egon?” he asked.

  Edna told him about their meeting with Harrison.

  “Good Lord, are you sure he didn’t run you down?” Rowland murmured as Edna described Milton’s ludicrous demands for representation.

  “It’s possible,” Milton replied gravely.

  “I was speaking in jest, Milt. The Member for Wentworth did not try to kill you with a Ford Tudor.”

  Milton frowned. “You’re right,” he said in the end. “Harrison’s much more likely to drive a Rolls Royce… can you instruct a chauffeur to run a man down?”

  “I don’t know,” Edna replied. “I don’t think Mr. Johnston would follow such a direction, but Wilfred’s chauffeurs might and Mary Brown definitely would.”

  They lapsed briefly into a discussion of which of the Sinclair servants could be successfully instructed to kill. It was generally agreed that Rowland’s housekeeper could indeed be so directed but by Wilfred rather than Rowland, who had never had real control of his staff.

  When the homicidal potential of the staff had been adequately explored, Rowland told them about his conversation with Jones and the director’s promise of men to guard the hospital.

  “Good,” Milton said. “Since you don’t have to be my personal security, you’ll be able to
find out who’s been trying to knock off Reds.”

  “And how do you suggest we do that?”

  “Sunshine Studios. There’s something odd about those photos.”

  Rowland agreed. “It might allow us to establish why Kelly had them.”

  “Rowly and I will go this afternoon,” Edna decided. “I can pretend I want to have some portraits taken.”

  “Ed, did you see who was near Milton after the accident?” Clyde asked.

  Edna closed her eyes to recall. “Police, Parliament House staff, a couple of people trying to help and the ambulance. Why?”

  “Well, one of those people pinned a Communist badge to Milt’s jacket.”

  Rowland nodded. “We’re not talking about one person then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the driver of the Ford Tudor didn’t stop to pin a badge on Milt—he had to be acting in concert with someone.”

  Milton shifted against the pillows. Edna stood to adjust them for him. “That makes sense. We’re not talking about random, opportunistic murders… Communists are being targeted.”

  “How do you suppose they knew Milt was a Communist?” Clyde pondered. Milton did not hesitate to declare his politics but in the streets of Canberra, wearing one of Rowland’s suits, he was hardly wearing a sign.

  “The men in the car clearly knew who they were looking for,” Edna said quietly.

  “Men?” Rowland said sharply. “You saw them?”

  “I saw that there were two men.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t recognise them.”

  “They must have known that Milt was going to be at Parliament House,” Clyde added.

  “I wasn’t supposed to be at Parliament House,” Milton said. “Rowland Sinclair had the appointment.”

  Rowland groaned for many reasons. “So they’re not targeting Communists…”

  “Not necessarily. You’re Red Rowly, remember.” Milton pointed at Rowland. “Before you even think about flogging yourself over this, mate, bear in mind that I’m quite put out that they wouldn’t try to run me over in my own right.”

  “Don’t worry,” Clyde muttered. “I’m sure someone will soon.”

  “The point is, Rowly,” Milton continued, “you need to be careful. Don’t assume it’s just we bona fide Communists in their sights. You know Howells is convinced there’s a rat in the movement. They could well know that you’re the man we’re relying on to get Egon to the congress.”

  Sunshine Studios at Eastlake was a thriving photographic studio which specialised in formal portraits. The modest office was gloomy and cluttered. Dusty frames exhibited examples of the studio’s work. On the counter stood price lists for anything from passport pictures to wedding portraits.

  Edna enquired of the gentleman behind the counter about having her portrait taken.

  “We offer a very reasonable service, Madame,” he said enthusiastically, “and we come highly recommended. Will it be just of yourself, or perhaps you and your husband would prefer to be taken together?”

  “Oh just of me,” Edna said, smiling. “My husband doesn’t like being photographed.”

  “Who’ll have copies of the photographs you take?” Rowland asked gruffly. “I don’t particularly fancy my wife’s photo being stuck on your wall as an advertisement!”

  “Well… I’ll… I’ll just have to fetch Mr. Banks.”

  “Please do.”

  The man disappeared through a door into what Rowland assumed was the studio. Edna peered behind the counter before returning to link her arm through his in a manner that was quite conjugal. Rowland winked at her. Somehow they seemed to always fall into masquerading as husband and wife when called upon to play a part. Perhaps it was because married couples raised less suspicion.

  The man who emerged through the door was no more than forty. Dapper and well-groomed, he moved and spoke smoothly. “Good afternoon, sir, madam, George Banks at your service.”

  “How d’you do, Mr. Banks. Rowland Sinclair. May I introduce my wife?”

  “Charmed, thoroughly charmed. As a photographic artist, Mr. Sinclair, can I tell you that I would be very excited to make your wife’s portrait. Madame, the planes of your face are perfect!”

  Rowland frowned. “I am concerned about the privacy of any prints.” He glanced pointedly at the portraits on the walls.

  “Oh no, Mr. Sinclair, let me assure you that the portraits on our walls are there only with the consent of the subjects. Most of our clients consider it an honour.”

  “I’m afraid Rowly’s far too proper, not to mention jealous, to allow that.” Edna gazed adoringly at her supposed husband. On cue, Rowland placed his arm possessively around her shoulders and tried to look as tyrannical as possible.

  “Well of course. If it bothers you, we shall never use your wife’s portrait for display.”

  “How can we be sure?” Rowland demanded. “Do your clients receive all printed copies?”

  “Well yes, we only keep the negatives on file in case you should want a reprint at some later date.”

  “And where are these files, Mr. Banks? Who has access to them?”

  “I’ll show you.” Banks opened the door to the adjoining studio.

  Rowland and Edna walked through. The room was long, naturally lit through lateral windows just below the ceiling. The walls were hung with backdrops, some neutral, others exotic. Plinths and urns, ostrich feather fans, draperies, armchairs, chaises and a stuffed toucan, all ready to add visual interest to a portrait. The back wall of the room was lined with wooden filing cabinets, each drawer labelled with a letter.

  “All our negatives are filed here under the client’s name.”

  “So you could make an extra print at any time?”

  “Yes, Smithy does most of the darkroom work.”

  “The gentleman we met at the counter?”

  “No, no, that’s Pete Wilks. Smithy only comes in the evening. He’s a bit of a night owl and it means we don’t get in each other’s way.”

  “I see,” Rowland said. “I will say, Mr. Banks, you do come highly recommended.”

  “Can I ask by whom, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Chap who used to do some work for me by the name of Jim Kelly.”

  For just the briefest moment, Banks looked startled. Almost immediately he smiled again. But Rowland had caught it. “I can’t say I recall a Mr. Kelly. But please extend him my thanks for the recommendation.”

  Rowland took Edna’s hand. “We’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Banks.”

  Banks stood back so they could walk past him through the door. “Shall I ask Pete to make you an appointment for a portrait, Mrs. Sinclair?”

  “What do you think, dearest?” Edna blinked beseechingly at Rowland.

  “I’ll consider it,” Rowland replied.

  Edna laughed. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Banks. I’ll persuade him.”

  Rowland sighed as if she were an incorrigible child. To the gaping photographer he said, “We’ll be in touch.”

  17

  VOGUE OF THE “THRILLER”

  From Horace Walpole to Edgar Wallace—and After

  People of all times have asked for exciting stories, whether they were told or written. Horace Walpole set a model for terror tales of a new type by writing in the 18th century the “Gothic” romance “The Castle of Otranto.” He had many imitators among writers in Germany, France, and England. Edgar Allan Poe developed the story of mystery in a new way by introducing the detection of crime in such tales as “The Mystery of Marie Roget.” His French detective, Dupin, was undoubtedly one of the ancestors of Sherlock Holmes.

  Dickens treated of detective work in his records of Inspector Bucket and in “Hunted Down”; but it was a younger novelist of that time, Wilkie Collins, who invented a new variety of crime story, letting the reader learn the truth gradually from the uncomprehending statements of a number of characters. After the great vogue of the Sherlock Holmes stories of a later period there was not much demand for “th
rillers” until the novels of Edgar Wallace became the fashion.

  Ingenuity is shown by a number of the writers of “thrillers,” and some of them have a good share of literary ability. Most of the writers prefer to reserve the full solution of the mystery for the last chapter, but a few think that even greater interest can be imparted to the story by telling the reader the secret at the beginning, and letting him observe the mistakes and the fresh efforts of the investigators. Among the most accomplished writers of “thrillers” are Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, G.D.H. and M. Cole, Ronald Knox, and Valentine Williams…

  The Argus, 8 December 1934

  A handful of people still lingered around the Airflow when Rowland and Edna returned to it. Rowland was becoming accustomed to his motorcar’s almost celebrity status. He had to admit she was an unusual-looking automobile. He answered a few questions and the curious soon moved on.

  Edna waited until they were both in the car before she spoke. “What do you think, Rowly?”

  “It seems any of them could have made extra copies of the portraits. Banks did appear to react to Jim Kelly’s name.”

  Edna nodded. “Yes, I saw that too.”

  “So let’s assume Banks sent Kelly the photographs,” Rowland said trying to set events in a logical sequence. “Or that he at least knew Pete Wilks had done so. I still can’t fathom why.”

  Edna wrinkled her nose. “They were hardly the kind of photos men generally collect. And Mr. Banks makes those too.”

  “He what?”

  “Mr. Banks takes photographs of nude models.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw a pile of postcards behind the counter… taken using his backdrops and props.” She smiled. “They’re not unlike your paintings.”

  Rowland suppressed an instinct to defend his work against a comparison with pornography.

  The sculptress laughed as she saw the unspoken affront in his eyes.

  He continued. “So we can probably conclude Kelly was not procuring portraits of entirely attired women for the purpose of titillation… not when there was more conventionally erotic material close at hand.”

  “Probably,” Edna said thoughtfully. “Rowly, what would you do if you came across another man—a stranger—with a photograph of your wife?”