A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  Rowland removed his jacket, stuffing the scarf Edna had given him into the pocket. It was warm—an arid desert heat mitigated a little by Forrest’s proximity to the ocean. Being out of the cockpit was a relief. A cursory examination revealed no new bleeding, and Rowland decided that the pain which had almost incapacitated him in the cockpit was a symptom of the wound “healing”. They ate, buoyed by the fact that, despite all the drama and difficulty of the past weeks, they were finally on their way to collect Egon Kisch. Rowland had been secretly sure that Wilfred would discover his plans and find a way to scuttle the endeavour. But there was nothing Wilfred Sinclair or anyone else could do to stop them now.

  In Forrest it seemed they were able to discuss the intrigues of both Canberra and Melbourne with a kind of temporal and emotional distance.

  “Do you suppose that Oswald Roche orchestrated the attack on you?” Clyde asked as he tucked enthusiastically into roast lamb and potatoes.

  “If he knew somehow what Jem was up to—maybe.” Rowland rubbed his leg under the table. “It seems an impersonal way to do it. If some chap seduced my wife, I’d want to kill him myself, not despatch hired thugs to do the job.”

  “But that’s you,” Clyde said. “You’re a bit of a romantic about such things.” He pointed his fork at Rowland. “I suspect there are many blokes who’d be quite happy to let others do the dirty work.”

  Rowland cut into his steak. “Sadly we have nothing to connect the attack to Roche or, for that matter, Thomas Ley.”

  “What did they sound like, Rowly?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Were they likely to have been your lot, or workers?”

  Rowland tried to remember. Men tended to swear with the same inflection. “It was hardly ‘I say, Sinclair old bean, you’re a dead fellow’… but I think they were what you keep insisting is my lot.”

  “Don’t be offended, Rowly—the Good Lord wouldn’t have given you all poncy accents if He didn’t want us to tell the difference.” Clyde paused to savour the excellent gravy which graced his potatoes. “I think we can agree that your garden variety thugs-for-hire don’t normally retire to the club for an aged malt after stabbing a man.”

  Rowland laughed. “You’re beginning to sound like Milt.”

  “That’s uncalled for, mate,” Clyde said tersely. “The question is: what would cause gentlemen to attempt to murder you?”

  Rowland told Clyde then of his conversation with Edna the night before. “I didn’t register it until Edna mentioned what that assassin fellow of hers had told her, but the men in the alley did seem to know what they were doing. If they hadn’t missed my lung, it would have been over very quickly and quietly.”

  Clyde leant back in his chair as a thought occurred. “How do you know one of those blokes wasn’t Oswald Roche?”

  “Because…” Rowland stopped. “I don’t. You’re right. I wouldn’t know Oswald Roche from a bar of soap. He might well have been there.”

  “When we get back, ask Mrs. Roche if she has a photograph of her husband,” Clyde advised. “And ask her if he saw service. You do remember what the blokes in the alley looked like?”

  “One of them at least,” Rowland said grimly.

  “Good.” Clyde went back to his meal. “Perhaps Roche, too, is a romantic.”

  27

  BETTING IN HOTEL

  TWO MEN FINED

  William Armanasco (24), clerk, and Ernest Cuffe (24), labourer, were each fined £5, with 4/6 costs, at the Fremantle Police Court yesterday on a charge of having used the National Hotel, Fremantle, as a place for betting on July 25. Mr. H.J. Craig, S.M., was on the Bench. Mr. C. Greif pleaded not guilty on behalf of the accused, and Sergeant Nisbet prosecuted.

  Constable Douglas, stationed at Perth, said that at 2.30 p.m. on the date in question he went to the National Hotel, Fremantle. He saw the two accused outside. Armanasco received money from a number of men, while Cuffe was holding a book. At 4.10 p.m. they entered the front bar of the hotel and witness followed. He heard the names of a number of horses mentioned and finally a man mentioned the name Sociable. He gave some money to Armanasco and Cuffe wrote in the book. Witness arrested the accused and took possession of the book. The last entry was the name Sociable. Armanasco said “Let the other chap go. I will take the blame.”

  Cross-examined by Mr. Greif, witness said he could not remember the names of any horses other than Sociable that were mentioned.

  In defence, Armanasco said that he went into the hotel for a drink. The only money in his hand when he was arrested was the change from the barman. The only time a horse was mentioned was when a friend told him a ‘good thing.’ He denied having said that he would take the blame.

  Cross-examined, he said that he had a considerable amount of money with him, as he had been collecting rents. Cuffe admitted having made bets in the street, but denied having done so in the hotel. Four men, who said they were in the hotel at the time, supported the evidence of the accused. “Why you went into the bar I don’t know. You were likely to get the publican into trouble,” the Magistrate remarked in convicting the accused.

  West Australian, 4 August 1934

  Rowland brought the Grosvenor House to land at the Maylands aerodrome, a couple of miles north of Perth, early in the afternoon, west coast time. They had landed at Merredin en route to allow Clyde to rest his cramped leg and then swapped places once more. Clyde had taken the opportunity to temporarily modify the throttle pedal with a block of wood and the final hop had consequently been considerably less painful for Rowland than the first. Katharine Prichard had organised for a vehicle to be waiting for them at the aerodrome.

  Before leaving the rudimentary terminal, Rowland made arrangements for the aeroplane to be refuelled and serviced for the flight back. On the ground, the scarlet Comet was attracting a great deal of confused attention—many people assumed the two men who emerged from her cockpit were Scott and Black.

  Clyde chatted with the aircraft engineers from the MacRobertson Miller Aviation Company. Partly owned by Macpherson Robertson, the confectionary millionaire behind the Great Air Race, the airline had recently moved its offices to Perth and operated a number of aircraft from Maylands. As such, its employees took a fraternal interest in the race winner. And, of course, to airmen, the Grosvenor House, one of only three Comets in existence, was of itself a celebrity.

  Horatio Miller, Robertson’s partner, was particularly curious as to how Rowland and Clyde got hold of the Comet.

  “We didn’t steal it,” Rowland assured him. “I hired it from Edwards for a little job we have out here.”

  “Mr. Edwards hired out the winner of the Great Air Race?” The scepticism showed plainly on Miller’s hawkish features.

  “She hadn’t won when we made the deal,” Rowland replied. He smiled. “If the Grosvenor House had been stolen, surely you would have heard by now?”

  Miller grinned as he conceded the logic of Rowland’s defence. “Well, considering she’s family of sorts, I’ll have my blokes take special care of her.”

  “Much appreciated, Mr. Miller.”

  “Though we might need to take her up to check the oil pressure problem—so we can fix it.” Miller winked.

  Rowland laughed. “Naturally. I’m sure Mr. Edwards will be delighted if you can remedy the problem. Do whatever you need to. I’ll be happy to cover any expense.”

  They took their leave of Miller and his airmen, confident that the Grosvenor House was in capable, not to mention enthusiastic, hands. Rowland was unsure from where Katharine Prichard had procured the battered Oldsmobile she’d left for them, but with a little coaxing and cranking Clyde was able to get the motorcar to start. After the speed of the Comet, the rattling momentum of the tourer seemed archaic, but the short journey was undertaken in anticipation of reunion with an old friend and so the lumbering progress did not vex them unduly.

  With a stop in Perth to get their bearings and despatch telegrams of their safe arrival to Melbourne, t
he twenty odd miles to Fremantle took them the best part of an hour and a half to traverse. They checked into the National Hotel in the High Street to await the Strathaird’s arrival. The decorative, four-storey building with its wide wraparound verandah occupied a prominent corner. The hotel epitomised all the fruits and affluence of the gold boom, offering its primarily pastoralist clientele a retreat of quality and lavish elegance. In these surrounds, Rowland and Clyde did look a little rough, still in flying suits, their jawlines shadowed after nine hours in the confines of the Grosvenor House’s cockpit. The concierge offered to send a barber to their suite as he signalled for a porter to take their bags. Though mildly irked by the sniffing condescension in the man’s manner, Rowland accepted.

  There were bags waiting when they got up to the suite. With minimal room in the Comet for luggage, they’d had the foresight to send their clothes and toiletries on ahead by train. Clyde would take it all back with him, leaving only whatever luggage Egon Kisch had to be squeezed into the limited space of the aeroplane.

  An hour or so later, they were able to come down to the dining room, showered, shaved and appropriately attired. After satisfying their stomachs from the extensive menu, they decided upon a stroll about the port city to stretch muscles which had been cramped one way or another throughout the flight.

  “Are you in pain?” Clyde had noticed Rowland wince as he stood from the table.

  “No. Not at all.” Rowland took his hand away from his side. “It twinges occasionally, that’s all.”

  Clyde frowned. “Maybe we should have a doctor look you over before the return flight… just to be sure.”

  “Nonsense. I’m perfectly well.”

  Clyde sighed. They still had no idea who had stabbed Rowland, or who had run down Milton. Jim Kelly’s death was also a mystery which would have to wait until they got back. It seemed there was enough trouble about already, and yet they were about to invite a great deal more.

  They explored Fremantle by streetlight, walking down to the port for which the town was famous, enjoying the salt breeze that blew in from the Indian Ocean. Perhaps it was the knowledge that it was not the Pacific, but they felt a world removed from Sydney. Rowland raised the subject of Edna and Milton. The sculptress and the poet seemed much closer to danger than they, and this fact played on his mind.

  “Bluey Howells has promised to keep an eye out for any sign of trouble,” Clyde said, though he too was noticeably uneasy. “First sign of anything amiss and he’ll move them from Meldrum’s.”

  Rowland loosened his tie, his eyes narrowing as he stared past Clyde’s shoulder. “That can’t be…” he said quietly.

  “What can’t be?” Clyde turned in the direction of his gaze.

  Rowland began walking. “Come on.” He broke into a run. Clyde bolted after him.

  Rowland slowed about a block away, stopping on the corner and looking in all directions.

  “What?” Clyde gasped as he caught up. “Who did you see?”

  “One of those blaggards from the alley,” Rowland said, frustrated by what seemed to be empty streets.

  “Here? Are you sure?”

  “Yes… well almost.” Rowland began to doubt himself now. “What the hell would he be doing here?”

  “Maybe it was just some bloke who looked a bit like him,” Clyde suggested. Rowland had, after all, been accosted and stabbed less than a week ago. It was likely he was a bit jumpy.

  “I suppose,” Rowland said dubiously. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks.

  “Did this bloke see you?”

  “Yes. I assumed that’s why he took off.”

  “We should be getting back to the hotel.” Clyde glanced over his shoulder. If Rowland’s assailants had indeed traversed the continent in pursuit of him, then they were probably quite determined to kill him. If that was the case, standing in a dark, empty street was possibly ill-advised.

  They walked towards the hotel in silence, listening for footsteps or any sudden approach. It was not until they approached the National’s entrance that they saw three men standing on the other side of the crossroads. Now Clyde recognised two of them. Rowland could only be certain about one, though another seemed familiar… but that was enough.

  Clyde grabbed Rowland’s arm as he moved to cross the road. “Whoa, Rowly, what the devil are you doing?”

  “I’m willing to wager that one of those bastards stabbed me, Clyde. Thought I’d have a word.”

  Clyde pulled Rowland back. “Have you taken leave of your senses? They still outnumber us and God knows what they’re armed with this time.”

  “We can’t just carry on as if nothing happened!” Rowland said angrily.

  “We could call the police?” Clyde reasoned. The three men had not moved. They stood with their arms folded, watching.

  Rowland cursed. Clyde was right, of course. Confronting these men would be foolhardy to say the least. “Let’s go in.”

  They walked into the hotel foyer and waited there, half expecting the men to follow them in. After a minute or two Rowland looked out through the doorway.

  “They’re gone,” he said, unsure if he was relieved or disappointed.

  “We should telephone the police,” Clyde said.

  Rowland shook his head. “What would we tell them? We still have no idea who those chaps are… or where they are.”

  “I don’t know, mate.” Clyde was unhappy but he had to admit Rowland had a point. They had no real information to give the police. No crime had occurred in Western Australia and they could not prove that the men they’d seen were wanted in Victoria. Clyde took off his hat and rubbed his hair. “We’re just going to have to be bloody careful, Rowly,” he said. “Until you and Egon get on that flaming plane, you don’t go anywhere without me… and we make sure those mongrels don’t have a chance to corner you again.”

  “Seems fair.” Rowland exhaled. The important thing now was to get Egon back to Melbourne. He could not allow the consequences of his personal indiscretions to prevent Kisch from bringing his message to Australia.

  They locked the door of the suite and secured it further by wedging a chair, chocked by two bibles, against the handle. Exhaustion countered the disquiet which might otherwise have kept them from sleep. By morning, after having slept soundly, the unexpected presence of Rowland’s attackers seemed less of a threat. Breakfast was taken over reminiscences of their last meeting with Kisch in their anticipation of the great man’s arrival.

  They made their way down to the dock where the Strathaird was due to disembark its passengers mid-morning. They were among many who made their way towards the water to welcome family and lovers, or to join the ship when it sailed for Melbourne. Clyde stayed close to Rowland in the crowds, half a step behind so he could watch his friend’s back. Rowland too kept his eyes out for the faces of the men who’d attacked him.

  They pushed their way to the gangplank as the First Class passengers left the ship. The Tourist Class passengers, of which Egon Kisch was one, would disembark next. Rowland watched for the journalist while Clyde stood behind him, remaining vigilant for assailants. Smartly dressed men and stylish women were followed by a succession of less chic passengers—families with small children, single men and groups of young women. But no small dark man with a thick moustache. A couple of hours later, there was still no sign of Egon Kisch.

  A gaggle of reporters, recognisable as such by the cameras which hung on their hips, stepped onto the gangway from the dock. Hearing one of their number say something about “Keesh”, Rowland stopped the last of them.

  “Excuse me, sir, I don’t suppose you could tell me why you and your colleagues are boarding?”

  The reporter regarded him suspiciously. “What’s it to you?”

  “Is it to do with a man named Egon Kisch?”

  The reporter’s brow rose. “So it’s got out already.”

  “What’s got out?”

  “The government’s banned the Commie stirrer. They’re not going to let him of
f the bloody ship.”

  28

  HERR KISCH

  Reasons For Exclusion

  MR. MENZIES’ STATEMENT

  MELBOURNE, Wednesday

  Referring to the action of the Commonwealth immigration authorities in preventing the Czechoslovakian novelist, Herr Egon Kisch, from landing at Fremantle yesterday, the Federal Attorney-General (Mr. Menzies) said that the Commonwealth felt under no obligation to admit persons of this type.

  Herr Kisch was excluded from Great Britain because of his subversive views and his association with Communist organisations.

  Mr. Menzies said that the case had been dealt with by the Cabinet before his appointment as Attorney-General, and he could not indicate whether it would be reviewed.

  Mr. Menzies said that Mr. J. Griffin, a New Zealand delegate to the all-Australia congress against war and Fascism, had been prevented from landing in Sydney for the same reason. “Mr. Griffin is known to have Russian affiliations,” he added.

  The Kisch reception committee in Melbourne, which passed a resolution of protest last night, decided to hold a public meeting of protest tomorrow night.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, 8 November 1934

  “Wil’s worked it out,” Rowland said with absolute certainty. “He’s somehow figured out we were intercepting Egon Kisch’s ship at Fremantle.”

  Clyde swore. He had no doubt that Rowland was correct. Wilfred Sinclair had outmanoeuvred them. “Dammit! What the hell do we do now?”

  “We’d better see if we can get a message to Arthur.” Rowland glanced up towards the ship. It was unlikely that Arthur Howells would be able to receive and send instructions before the ship left port at the end of the day. He cursed his brother’s influence; his quiet, elegant power. Even if Kisch was permitted to leave the ship in Melbourne, he would be too late for the National Congress against War and Fascism. Rowland could almost hear Wilfred laughing at him.

  Clyde swore again, though this time he was staring past Rowland and up the gangway. Rowland turned in the direction of his gaze. The three men they’d seen the night before were boarding the Strathaird, carpetbags in hand.