A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  Egon Kisch introduced Stanley Quinlan, a Mallee farmer who was making his way back to Australia after taking polo ponies to India.

  Rowland offered the farmer his hand. “How d’you do, Mr. Quinlan?”

  Quinlan pumped his hand and then Clyde’s.

  “This is the gentleman who has been my personal tutor in all things Australian.” Kisch’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

  “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Quinlan?” Rowland asked.

  “Would I what! What are you blokes doing down here? We’re about to set sail… everybody’s on deck with streamers and such.” He winked. “The ladies seem to think it’s flaming New Year’s Eve!”

  Egon told his cabin-mate the sorry story of his exclusion from an entire country. “To be banned from England is one thing… it is such a small country, but to be banned from the Antipodes is an exclusion from half the world!”

  “Well that’s a fair cow! Why the hell have they banned you, mate?”

  “They say that I am a dangerous Communist activist.”

  “Oh.” Quinlan shrugged. “Bugger.”

  They spent the next hour or so becoming acquainted with Stanley Quinlan. The young farmer was returning penniless after a great adventure abroad. At six foot four inches tall, he was what Kisch called an “awe-inspiring Australian giant”. He had the slow, easy manner of the Mallee from which he hailed and spoke in the colourful vernacular which seemed to so delight the Czechoslovak. He had taken Kisch under his large wing, teaching him to “speak” and telling the curious journalist what he could about his country and his countrymen. He seemed to think he could overcome the government exclusion by simply issuing a personal invitation and threatening to “flatten” anyone who didn’t welcome his “little mate”.

  Without going too far into the details of the matter, Rowland did warn him that there might be men on board who wished Egon ill, and who had boarded for the purpose of inflicting it.

  “Just point the bastards out, mate.” Quinlan flexed his enormous fist. “Tell yer what, Eegone, if anyone gives you any trouble, you shout ‘Watch out, I am a boxer and I’ll break your bloody jaw’ and I’ll come running and do it for you.”

  When the bottles were empty, the party of four made its way to the Tourist dining saloon for dinner, at which they were encouraged to sign up for the various social activities offered on board. Clyde and Rowland dutifully placed their names beneath Egon Kisch’s for quoits, shuffleboard and deck tennis, all the while vigilant for any glimpse of the three men from the alley who they suspected had boarded to assassinate the journalist.

  “Can you see them, Rowly?” Clyde whispered.

  “No,” Rowland said uneasily. “I’ve seen no sign of them since we came on board.”

  “I don’t suppose they’d be in First Class?”

  “What would be the purpose of that?”

  “The First Class decks are exclusive, Rowly. Tourist Class doesn’t need to be.”

  Rowland stopped. Clyde was right. One didn’t expect First Class passengers to sneak into Tourist. That direction of movement was probably not monitored particularly. “We need to find out where the hell they are,” Rowland muttered.

  “We could take a gander at the passenger list.”

  “That’ll only tell us they’re on board… we know that.”

  Clyde checked his watch. Service in the First Class dining saloon began in half an hour. “We could go over and have a look.”

  Rowland grimaced. “Not without dinner suits, but we could try at breakfast. We won’t be as conspicuous then.”

  “What exactly are you proposing we do, Rowly?”

  “I want to find out who the devil these jokers are, why exactly they’re here.”

  “They’re unlikely to simply tell us.”

  “The three of them mightn’t.” Rowland studied the menu. “But one on his own might.”

  “You want to abduct a man from First Class?”

  “I want to have a word with a man in First Class.”

  “What’s going to stop the other two bumping off Egon while we’re on the upper decks chatting?”

  Rowland glanced at Stanley Quinlan who was explaining in some detail how he would bring down a steer with his bare hands.

  Clyde nodded. “Fair enough.” He sighed. “I don’t suppose we’d do better speaking to the captain.”

  “If he doesn’t believe us, we could end up in the brig, which would leave Egon with only Stanley to look out for him.”

  “I expect you’re right.”

  And so dinner was had in the Tourist saloon. Their table seated only four and so they were not called upon to socialise outside their Party during the meal. Egon Kisch’s new notoriety as a banned political agitator might have made socialising difficult in any case. Rowland could sense the hostility directed at the journalist from various quarters. A table of Italians near the window seemed to be taking particular exception.

  Live music in the First Class saloon was piped across, and soon couples stood to dance. Egon and Clyde smoked and Rowland took the notebook from his pocket to sketch. He drew loosely, without breaking contact between his pencil and the page—silhouettes of dancing couples, young stewards from the subcontinent, and in greater detail, the faces at his table. Stanley Quinlan asked a girl from the neighbouring table to dance. She accepted, giggling excessively in response, and Rowland wondered if the Mallee farmer would take her to view the Southern Cross.

  Before they left the dining saloon, Rowland found a purser and procured a passenger list. Egon was keen to stretch his legs upon the promenade deck before retiring and so they accompanied him, ever watchful for Smith, Brown and Lamb. Rowland felt they were being watched but that may have been because, thanks to that day’s newspaper headlines, every passenger had cause to look askance at Egon Kisch. On many occasions the journalist’s friendly salutations were snubbed, mothers pulled their children away as if he may devour them. All this obviously hurt the Czechoslovak though he tried to make light of it.

  They retired to the reading room where, in the comfort of armchairs positioned for intimate conversation, the rebuff of fellow passengers was less noticeable.

  “We’d better have a look at this passenger list then, Rowly,” Clyde said as a steward brought coffee and cognac.

  Rowland handed over the booklet, and Clyde thumbed through the names. As Smith and Brown were such common names he looked instead for Lamb. “As I thought,” he said triumphantly. “They’re in First Class.”

  Kisch sighed. “At least I will be murdered by a gentleman.”

  Clyde continued browsing through the list. He stopped at a name. “They’ve got you listed in First Class, Rowly. Must be force of habit.” He handed the open booklet to Rowland.

  Rowland squinted at the tiny print. He put down his coffee and sat up. “This isn’t me, Clyde.”

  “Oh, of course.” Though not as common as Jones, there were other Sinclairs.

  “Good Lord, what’s she doing here?” Rowland said, still staring at the list.

  “Who?”

  “Mother. This listing is for my mother and Aunt Mildred.”

  “Your mama is on board?” Kisch asked.

  Clyde took the booklet back. “I thought Mrs. Sinclair wasn’t due home till next month.”

  “She isn’t.” Rowland was worried now. “She should still be in Ceylon. Dammit, I hope she hasn’t become unwell.”

  Clyde understood the extent of Rowland’s concern. While Elisabeth Sinclair had been quite well since taking up residence in Woodlands, she’d suffered a number of breakdowns in the past.

  Rowland stood. “I think I might just check on her.”

  “Rowly…” Clyde was torn. Of course Rowland had to go, but they couldn’t leave Kisch entirely unprotected. He rose uncertainly.

  “You stay with Egon,” Rowland said. “I’ll be perfectly safe on my own.”

  “They’ve tried to kill you once already, Rowly, we don’t know that they’ve given up.”<
br />
  “I’ll speak to one of the officers,” Rowland replied. “Explain that my mother is currently residing in one of the staterooms. I expect they’ll escort me up.”

  “I will be safe in the cabin, my mates,” Kisch interrupted. “Do not concern yourselves about my welfare.”

  “It’s the whisky we’re worried about, Egon.” Rowland smiled. “We’re not leaving you alone with a new bottle.” To Clyde, he said, “I’ll be careful.”

  Clyde checked his watch. “One hour, Rowly, and then I’m going to hide Egon under the bed and come after you.”

  Rowland grinned as an image of Clyde doing just that flashed upon his inner eye. He saw them to the door of their cabin and then, finding one of the ship’s officers on deck, he explained the situation.

  “Are you saying you had no prior knowledge of your mother being on board, sir?”

  “I only joined the ship in Fremantle. My mother wasn’t expected back until next month. I’m concerned that her change of plans might mean she’s unwell.”

  “And she’s in a First Class stateroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, sir. If you’d care to follow me, we’ll see if Mrs. Henry Sinclair is willing to receive you.”

  The First Class staterooms were located amidships on D Deck. Rowland followed the officer, a Mr. Webster, to the appropriate door and waited as he knocked. The door was answered by one of two nurses who had accompanied his mother abroad. She looked directly past Webster to Rowland. “Mr. Sinclair! As I live and breathe! What are you doing here, sir?”

  Now satisfied of the veracity of Rowland’s claim, Webster left them to it.

  “Mrs. Sinclair is just having a sherry with your aunt,” the nurse said, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Perhaps you’d better let them know I’m here,” Rowland suggested, not wanting to shock the elderly ladies unduly.

  “Nonsense, there’s nothing wrong with your mother’s heart! Seeing you will do her the world of good.”

  “Maggie…” Rowland heard his mother’s voice. “Who is that at the door?”

  30

  TOURIST CLASS OPPORTUNITY

  Homeward bound travellers are offered an exceptional opportunity to enjoy an economical, comfortable voyage by using the Tourist Class of the P. & O. Company. The new 22,500 ton steamers “Strathnaver” and “Strathaird” carry special Tourist Class facilities, in addition to their First Saloon, and the Royal Mail Steamers “Mongolia” and “Moldavia” are exclusively reserved, for this method of sea travel. Fares, subject to exchange:—1st Saloon, from £96; 2nd Saloon, from £80; Tourist Class, from £39.

  Australian Christian Commonwealth, 9 September 1932

  Rowland stepped into the stateroom. It was spacious, furnished in English Manor style with large porthole windows. Elisabeth Sinclair and her sister-in-law, having not long returned from dinner, were formally attired and sparkled with jewels. They sat together on a floral upholstered settee with glasses of golden sherry.

  “Hello, Mother, Aunt Mildred.”

  “Aubrey!” Elisabeth Sinclair said. “Good Heavens! What are you doing here? Have we arrived in Sydney already?”

  Mildred glared at him in horror. Rowland half expected his aunt to shoo him out.

  He explained that he’d boarded the ship at Fremantle. “I didn’t realise you’d both be on board… thought you’d be in Ceylon for the rest of the month.” He kissed his mother’s cheek. “I hope this doesn’t mean you’re unwell.”

  “Unwell!” Mildred exclaimed. “Elisabeth has never been in better health. We were having a truly splendid time!”

  “Then why did you cut your trip short?”

  “I thought we’d been away quite long enough to make hearts grow fonder,” Elisabeth replied, smiling coyly.

  Inwardly Rowland cringed; outwardly he showed no sign that he’d even noticed his mother’s coquettishness, or suspected the object of it.

  “Sit down, Aubrey, and let us hear your news,” Elisabeth commanded.

  “Where are your rooms, dear boy?” Mildred enquired. She looked him up and down. “I’m surprised we didn’t see you at dinner, but judging by your attire you did not go down.”

  Rowland smiled. “I did actually, but dinner suits are not compulsory in Tourist Class.”

  Mildred gasped and placed her sherry glass down firmly. Elisabeth looked confused. “What is a Tourist Class, Aubrey?”

  “What has happened to bring you so low that you would do such a thing, Rowland?” Mildred demanded.

  Rowland laughed. “Nothing at all, Aunt Mildred. I’m travelling with friends whose tickets are Tourist Class.”

  “What friends, Aubrey?” Elisabeth asked enthusiastically. “Is Mr. Isaacs on board?”

  “I’m afraid not. Mr. Watson Jones is here though.”

  “Oh. How nice.” Elisabeth sighed.

  “Really, Rowland!” Mildred’s mouth tensed and pulled closed like the neck of a drawstring bag. “Tourist Class! Your dear departed father would have been mortified! You may as well be sleeping in the servants’ quarters.”

  “I’m perfectly comfortable, Aunt Mildred.”

  “Well I’d say that’s more alarming than anything else!”

  Elisabeth Sinclair attempted to change the subject. “Mrs. Kenneally, in the stateroom across the way, says there’s a spy on board. Imagine that!”

  “Apparently he’s some dreadful Bolshevik; and a foreigner no less!” Mildred said. “We’ll probably all be murdered in our beds.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much, Aunt Mildred. He’s travelling in Tourist.”

  “You’ve seen him?” she gasped.

  “Indeed, I have.”

  “Oh how terrifying!” Mildred clutched her hands to her breast. “We’ll have to speak to the captain about moving you to a cabin in First Class—there’s nothing else for it. You’re in danger!”

  “That’s not necessary, Aunt Mildred,” Rowland said calmly. “I know Herr Kisch rather well. He’s a sterling chap.”

  Mildred responded as though he’d just admitted to consorting with the devil. “Oh my Lord, did you hear that, Elisabeth?” She looked up and entreated the ceiling. “Dear Henry, how merciful that you are not here to see your son cavorting with godless Communists. It would have broken your devout and gentle heart.”

  Rowland winked at his mother. “I assure you, Aunt Mildred, cavorting is the furthest thing from my mind. Perhaps when we get back to Sydney…”

  Mildred rose to full outrage. “Do not be smart, young man. Regardless of the dissolute company you keep, you remain Henry Sinclair’s son—raised as a gentleman! There are expectations, proprieties. People look to us to maintain certain standards.”

  Elisabeth smiled and took Rowland’s hand. “I’ve always found Aubrey an excellent picker when it comes to choosing friends, Millie. Why Mr. Isaacs is charm itself. It’s no wonder that there’s an Isaacs at Government House.”

  “I’m not sure they’re related,” Rowland said, though he knew there was nothing that would dissuade his mother from the notion that Milton was some nephew of the governor-general. It was quite possible the idea had originated with the poet in any case.

  “Nonsense, there’s a strong family resemblance,” Elisabeth insisted.

  “We met an old chum of yours this evening,” Mildred said, deciding that quite enough had been said about Milton Isaacs. “Fortunately not all your friends travel in Tourist.”

  “An old chum of mine?”

  “Yes, Aubrey.” Elisabeth took over the story. “It was that lanky boy who would spend the school holidays with us at Oaklea on occasion. His father was a doctor or dentist or some such thing. What was his name, Millie? Henry… Henry Alcott.”

  Rowland stiffened. Henry Alcott and Aubrey Sinclair had been childhood friends. They’d served together in the Great War. Aubrey had died and Henry had returned home not quite right. When Rowland had last encountered him, Alcott had joined the Fascist Legion, a ruthless clandestine arm of t
he New Guard which specialised in the brutalisation of suspected Communists. It was now a little more than two years since Henry Alcott and two other men had nearly beaten Rowland to death. But, of course, his mother didn’t know that. Wilfred had used his connections and influence to cover the incident up—ironically to keep Rowland out of gaol.

  “Are you sure?” Rowland said finally.

  “Yes, I am. He’s a grown man now, of course, and he has a simply awful scar on his face, but it’s the same boy.”

  “Did he tell you what he was doing on the Strathaird?”

  “No, he didn’t. We really didn’t speak for all that long… he just paid his respects.” Elisabeth appeared to become bored of the subject. “Really, Aubrey, why don’t you just speak to him yourself?”

  Mildred was waspish. “I expect Rowland’s embarrassed to be travelling in Tourist, Elisabeth.”

  Rowland ignored his aunt. “Look, Mother, it might be best if you avoid Henry.”

  “Good Lord, why?”

  “Well I can’t really say in this company.” Rowland scrambled for a reason. “Let’s just say he’s not the kind of chap with whom I wish my mother to be acquainted!”

  Both Mildred and Elisabeth gasped.

  “I thought there was something unsavoury about the man,” Mildred whispered. “He was wearing a white dinner jacket.”

  Rowland checked his watch. His hour was almost up. “I’d best get back. I’m delighted to see you both so well.” He kissed his mother and his aunt, though the latter offered her cheek reluctantly.

  “You must join us for dinner, Aubrey,” Elisabeth declared.

  He smiled. She seemed genuinely pleased to see him even if she didn’t know his name. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring a dinner suit, Mother… but I will call by again, and if you require me, you need only speak to one of the crew.” He left the two old ladies to contemplate how a man could possibly travel without a tailcoat let alone a dinner suit, and walked out into the adjoining corridor.

  As he passed the doors to the other five staterooms aboard the Strathaird, he wondered if any of them was occupied by the three men from Melbourne. It would be a conspicuous way for assassins to travel, but perhaps that was a disguise in itself. He needed to think about the presence of Henry Alcott. Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence. His mother and aunt had mentioned meeting Alcott only that evening. Perhaps he too had joined the ship in Fremantle with Smith, Brown and Lamb.