A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  “You’re going to have to pilot solo on the way back,” Clyde reminded him. From Perth, Egon Kisch would take the second cockpit and Clyde would return on the train. As far as they knew, the Czechoslovakian journalist could not fly a plane.

  “By then, we’ll know each other,” Rowland said, running his hand along the aeroplane’s thin single wing. “Good Lord, she’s beautiful.”

  Clyde agreed without reservation. “Bloody gorgeous!” He chuckled. “There was a black Comet and a green one, wasn’t there? You did well to pick the Grosvenor House, Rowly. No one will believe bringing Egon Kisch to Melbourne in a red aeroplane wasn’t an orchestrated act of propaganda genius.”

  They climbed into the cockpit and, after making the requisite checks, the chocks were removed and they taxied the plane around the tarmac. The exercise allowed Clyde to familiarise himself with the configuration of the instrument panel and become accustomed to the tightness of the cockpit and the lack of forward view. They finished just after sunset, exhilarated, eager to try her in the clouds when the time came.

  In a buoyant mood despite the trials of the day, they took supper at the Café Florentine. While Rowland had not forgotten that the morning’s edition of the Truth might bring disaster, he was able to put it out of his mind… substantially at least.

  Indeed, it was Clyde who brought the situation back to his thoughts as they enjoyed the Italian-styled cuisine of the popular restaurant.

  “Do you really believe Mrs. Roche when she says she didn’t inform the newspapers, Rowly?” he asked as he passed a small basket of freshly baked bread appreciatively beneath his nose.

  “Yes. She was genuinely distressed at the idea of her grandmother discovering the… indiscretion.”

  “Then who? Ley?”

  “I’m not sure it would serve his purposes either. I stayed the night in Jemima’s suite. I didn’t sneak in and she mentioned my name when she ordered breakfast. Even if I’d tried to deny being there, she has ample evidence. Ley is Jem’s solicitor… I don’t suppose he wanted to see her unnecessarily humiliated.”

  “Unless he enjoyed the idea.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “I’ve been asking around at Trades Hall about Thomas Ley. They say that when he was Minister for Justice, he relished sending men to hang… revelled in the fact that they knew he had the power to grant reprieve. They say he’s an evil bastard.”

  The consternation showed on Rowland’s face. “Bloody hell, I hope not. He’s still Jem’s solicitor.”

  “If it isn’t Ley, or Mrs. Roche herself, who was aware the pair of you would be in the Windsor compromising yourselves last night?”

  “As I said, Clyde, we weren’t sneaking about. There’s probably some member of staff at the Windsor who keeps an eye out for scandalous pairings and informs the Truth for some kind of consideration.”

  “Possibly.” Clyde was not entirely convinced. “Well, look at it this way, Rowly. At least you’re not married on top of everything else.”

  “It was you, my dear friend, who suggested I marry her,” Rowland reminded him.

  “I did. But I’m still glad you didn’t have to go through with it.” Clyde wiped sauce from his chin. “I realise you must feel a bit deflated about how it all turned out, mate, but I believe you dodged a bullet.”

  Rowland smiled. “Would it be ungentlemanly of me to admit I was relieved?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d best not admit it then.” Rowland raised his glass. “I am glad you’re here, old boy.”

  Clyde was still asleep when Rowland stepped out to buy the paper. The hotel customarily provided the Melbourne Age with each guest’s breakfast tray. The Truth, however, was not the kind of publication supplied by establishments such as the Federal.

  Rowland turned up his collar and pulled down his hat against the drizzle. He vaguely remembered a paperboy stationed at the corner of Bourke and Spencer. Though he had not mentioned it to Clyde, his greatest concern was that Edwards might, on seeing the story, consider Rowland Sinclair an inappropriate man with whom to associate the name of Grosvenor House.

  It began to rain a little more heavily and Rowland cut through an alley to save time. Most shops were still shut, and the hour and the weather combined to keep the streets deserted. Perhaps it was the rainfall that cloaked the second set of footsteps until he was in the alley. Rowland stopped and turned on his heel. The man behind him sidestepped past, and continued on his way. Rowland relaxed. The situation was making him edgy. Two more sets of footsteps behind him… It appeared the citizens of Melbourne were finally emerging for the day.

  And then the man in front of him stopped abruptly; the two behind him did too. Rowland tried to get past but the first man blocked his path.

  “Can I help you?” Rowland lifted the brim of his hat so he might see the man’s face. No reply but for a nod. Not for him—a signal. A blow to the kidneys from behind, hard and targeted; an arm locked around Rowland’s throat dragged him backwards. A fist flew into his ribs and another to his jaw. As he stumbled he felt the hold about his neck loosen just a little and the instinct honed in the boxing ring took over. Twisting, he swung back and connected, following with a punch that crunched the soft bone of someone’s nose. But numbers were against him. A crushing blow to the back of the neck and Rowland’s knees buckled. He gasped as he became aware of a piercing pain in his side. Blood, thinned by the rain, ran freely through his fingers as he clutched the wound, still not sure what had happened. He reached up and grabbed the tie of the man before him and yanked with all his strength. Strangled profanities and the man fell. A clatter as a knife was dropped. Someone kicked Rowland in the back now, until he was completely down. His head cracked against the path. The world began to lose focus. He thought he heard Edna crying, Wilfred calling his name. His enemies lined up: Eric Campbell, Henry Alcott, Ernst Röhm, Blackshirts and Brownshirts, the Fascist Legion in their black hoods and capes. The glint of a blade held high. And then a shout—familiar somehow.

  Scuffling and more shouts. “Bastard’s got a gun!”

  Rowland struggled to stay conscious. A growled whisper in his ear, “You’re dead, Rowly.”

  “Leave off, you mongrel, or I’ll shoot!” Clyde’s voice.

  The grip on his collar released. Scrambling. Rain. Agony.

  “Rowly!” Clyde’s face came out of the blur. “My God, you’re bleeding!”

  “I’m all right.” Rowland kept his hand pressed against his side. “Just help me up.”

  Clyde put his shoulder under Rowland’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “We must inform the police—” He looked around for help. There was no one.

  “Let’s… get back to… out of this flaming rain.” Rowland swore as he tried to take his own weight.

  “Rowly, you can’t walk—”

  “I’m all right,” Rowland said again through gritted teeth. They had to get back before he became too light-headed to walk.

  Reluctantly, Clyde agreed. The hotel was only a couple of hundred yards away, there wasn’t a policeman in sight and he could hardly leave Rowland in order to find one. He was mindful that Rowland’s assailants could very well return.

  And so they staggered back, Clyde’s determination and broad shoulders keeping Rowland on his feet, the driving rain washing away any trail of blood.

  The concierge responded to their arrival with what Clyde believed was appropriate alarm, and Rowland felt was unnecessary panic and arm waving. As the presence of a bleeding man in the reception area was distressing other guests, he had Rowland helped to his suite while he sent for medical assistance.

  Rowland fell into the settee. Cursing, he took his hand away from his side to inspect the damage. All he could see was a bloody waistcoat. The pain was searing. He began to shiver uncontrollably.

  Clyde sent the porters who’d all but dragged Rowland up to the third floor suite, to check on the promised doctor, and helped his friend to remove his coat and jacket, both of which h
ad been pierced.

  “Bloody hell, Rowly, I think you’ve been stabbed.”

  “That’s what it feels like.” Rowland opened his waistcoat and lifted his shirt, swearing under his breath as the wound was revealed.

  Clyde used a towel to stem the bleeding, trying to stay calm as the white cloth turned rapidly red. He applied a damp facecloth to the graze on Rowland’s brow where his head had hit the concrete. “Who were those blokes, Rowly?”

  Rowland shook his head. “I’ve no idea…” He doubled over. “God, that stings…”

  The concierge came puffing in with a doctor who, after cutting away Rowland’s waistcoat and shirt, confirmed that the trouble was indeed a stab wound. While he worked, he introduced himself as Dr. Featherstone. He didn’t ask how the wound came to be inflicted, but proceeded as if treating stab wounds was a perfectly ordinary part of a hotel doctor’s duties. The blade had pierced about three inches into Rowland’s flesh. An excruciating examination of the wound left Rowland incoherent, but established that the blade tip had not broken off, and, whether by divine intervention or dumb luck, there was no evidence that the knife had damaged any vital organs. Rowland had, however, lost a reasonable volume of blood. Repair required some rather unpleasant needlework.

  “As agreeable as this suite is, Mr. Sinclair, I recommend you spend the next couple of days in a private hospital,” Featherstone advised as he packed the wound with gauze and secured it with bandages. “I’ve closed the lesion but it may start bleeding again if it’s disturbed.”

  Rowland refused politely. “That won’t be necessary, Dr. Featherstone… I can recuperate perfectly well here.”

  “This is an hotel, Mr. Sinclair! The chamber maids are not trained as nurses.”

  “I don’t need a nurse, Dr. Featherstone, but I can retain one if I need to. Please don’t be concerned.”

  Featherstone employed the next ten minutes in a quite strident attempt to convince him otherwise, listing the potential consequences of refusing hospital care, before relenting. “As long as we’re agreed that you are acting against my explicit advice,” he said cantankerously. “I’m likely to lose my position if you bleed to death in the hotel.”

  Rowland smiled weakly. “We are agreed. And I give you my word that if it looks like I might exsanguinate, I shall have Mr. Watson Jones remove me from the hotel premises forthwith.”

  “Bed rest is vital to your recovery, Mr. Sinclair—I cannot speak more plainly. Anything but immobility will be positively dangerous.”

  “I understand, Dr. Featherstone.”

  “Well then, I shall call back this evening to clean the wound and check the dressings. You’ll forgive me if I refuse to give you anything for the pain, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “What?” Clyde demanded. “What kind of sadistic tin pot—”

  “The pain will keep you from doing anything other than resting as recommended,” Featherstone said resolutely, almost smugly. “If that does not suit you, then you may go to hospital, as I suggested.”

  “That seems fair.” Rowland didn’t argue. His brother had, in any case, instilled in him a suspicion of morphine. Having served with men who’d been ruined by addiction to the painkillers so often administered too liberally on the battlefield, Wilfred was vehemently opposed to the use of the drug if the pain in question might be borne by stoic determination.

  Once Featherstone had departed, Clyde poured Rowland a glass of whisky as an alternative painkiller. “Medicinal,” he said placing the drink on the occasional table before his friend. “I know you hate the stuff but it’s effective.”

  Rowland drank, spluttering as the liquor caught in his throat.

  “We should notify the police,” Clyde said.

  “Do you have a firearm on you, Clyde?” Rowland vaguely recalled shouts about a gun. He wasn’t sure how much of his memory was real.

  Clyde patted his pocket. “Actually, I have yours.”

  “Mine?” Wilfred Sinclair had given Rowland his old service pistol years before, ostensibly to shoot Communists. Rowland kept the Webley revolver in a box under his bed.

  “After what happened to Milt in Canberra, I thought it mightn’t be a bad idea,” Clyde said. “I grabbed it before I left Sydney.”

  “How did you know I needed help this morning?”

  “I was looking out the window when you left and I noticed three jokers take off after you… I figured they were up to no good, so I took the gun out of my bag and set off in the same direction. I was in the next block when I heard the commotion in the alley.”

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t mention the gun to the police.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “You don’t have a licence for it.”

  “Oh, I didn’t have time to load it. I just waved it around. If they hadn’t baulked, we would have been in serious trouble. ”

  Slowly, painfully, Rowland sat forward. “I should find another shirt,” he said pushing the hair out of his face.

  “Steady on, Rowly. You look like hell.”

  A knock at the door.

  Clyde answered it, to admit two sturdy members of the Victorian Police Force. Constables Meggit and Brown were attending on the request of hotel management who’d reported that one of their guests had been assaulted in the street. Brown, who seemed very young, turned noticeably green at the sight of the blood-soaked towel and the similarly stained remains of Rowland’s waistcoat and shirt.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Sinclair,” Constable Meggit said as Rowland tried to get to his feet.

  Afraid Brown could well faint, Clyde removed the towel and clothing out of his line of sight. Aware of Rowland’s preference for being fully dressed in public, heightened by a self-consciousness of the swastika-shaped scar on his chest, Clyde returned with a fresh shirt. Rowland redressed while answering questions.

  “They knew your name?” Meggit asked thoughtfully, on hearing Rowland’s account of the last whispered threat.

  “Yes.”

  “And Mr. Watson Jones saw them follow you from this location?”

  Clyde nodded.

  “So this was not a random robbery but a carefully planned assault.” Meggit frowned. “Do you have enemies, Mr. Sinclair? Did you recognise any of these men?”

  “I don’t think so… I’m afraid I can’t recall much of it clearly…”

  “Why not?” Meggit sounded almost offended.

  Rowland shrugged. “I hit my head when I fell and everything got hazy and quite confused after that. I can only bring one face to mind clearly.”

  Meggit looked at him strangely but did not pursue the line of questioning. “It’s possible that this is an inside job.”

  “I beg your pardon, Constable.”

  “A gang member planted in the employ of the hotel. He identifies wealthy guests and alerts fellow gang members who set upon and rob the gentleman when he leaves the hotel at a time conducive to such criminal activity. There was a similar operation working out of the Windsor last month, though not with the level of violence we find here.” Meggit seemed pleased with his reasoning, and quickly became committed to it. Every detail Rowland mentioned seemed to his mind to confirm the operation of a gang connected to the hotel somehow.

  He terminated the interview soon after, and signalled Brown to follow as he departed to question the staff.

  Rowland got to his feet. “I need a tie, and a jacket.”

  “Why?”

  “Standards, old boy. I can’t step out without a tie.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Rowly. You’ve been stabbed.”

  “I’m not going dancing. Just back to that alley.” Rowland tested his movement tentatively.

  “Now? What the hell for?”

  “I’m hoping I’ll remember more if I go back. I’m not sure, but I think the knife fell…”

  Clyde shook his head. “Not a knife. When I caught up to you, some bloke was about to slash you with a razor. It was still in his hand when they bolted.”

  “I couldn’t h
ave been stabbed with a razor, Clyde. There must have been another knife and I’m sure it fell. Perhaps they didn’t retrieve it. It may tell us something.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “I only just remembered.” Rowland blinked, still trying to clear his head. He wasn’t thinking straight. “Perhaps I should just get them back.”

  “I’ll go,” Clyde decided. “If I find anything, we can tell Constable Meggit then. You stay here and try not to bleed.”

  “What if those blighters are still about the alley?”

  “If they are, you’re not going to be much use in your present condition, mate. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

  As he left, Clyde locked the suite door. He spoke to no one on the way out, lest doing so would alert the wrong people that Rowland was alone. Whatever the constables thought, it was clear to him that someone had tried to assassinate Rowland Sinclair.

  25

  WOUNDS

  Wounds and cuts should be attended to at once. Above all, they must be kept clean, and should be washed at once in warm water with some absorbent cotton, or other soft material. Deep, punctured wounds, from nails, broken glass, splinters, etc., require thorough opening out and cleaning by a physician, or lockjaw may develop. While waiting for his arrival, wash the wound with peroxide of hydrogen and bandage a wet compress over it. When there is much bleeding, place a piece of absorbent cotton or clean linen over the wound and apply firm pressure with the thumb or finger, until the bleeding stops and the cotton adheres. Then apply a light bandage.

  Warialda Standard and Northern Districts’ Advertiser, 17 April 1933

  It had ceased raining when Clyde stepped out into Collins Street. The sun shafted occasionally through the clouds, falling in concentrated beams upon a city sparkling after the recent deluge. Clyde inhaled. Rain smelled different in the city. In all the years he’d lived in Sydney, he’d not got used to that. He walked briskly towards the scene of the morning’s incident, keen to return to Rowland as soon as possible. The threat worried him as much as the attack. Whoever these men were, they were unlikely to be happy with their failure to kill Rowland Sinclair.

  Clyde reached the alley and went directly to the place on the footpath where the assault had taken place. The blood had been washed away but he was sure about the location. He walked the footpath slowly, searching for a knife, checking the gutters, and casting his eye in all directions. There was nothing. Perhaps Rowland had misremembered the knife falling or his assailants had simply retrieved it.