A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  “One of the constables who guard Parliament House came over to help when Milt was run down,” Edna said. “He got there first.”

  “And left the badge on Milt’s lapel!” Rowland dragged a hand through his hair as he thought. “He would have seen you go in to meet Harrison and recognised you from the night Kelly was killed… perhaps he got a message to whoever was driving the car.”

  “Bloody hell!” Milton murmured, as the cold-blooded, calculated nature of both attacks became clear.

  “What about you, Rowly?” Clyde asked. “They didn’t pin a badge on you in Melbourne.”

  “You interrupted them,” Rowland replied. “Perhaps they didn’t have time.”

  “And Alcott?”

  “He might have been there when I was attacked.”

  “You didn’t say anything—”

  “I thought I was hallucinating… but perhaps he was there.”

  “What do we do?” Edna pulled on her gloves, ready for whatever was required. “You can’t stay.”

  Rowland slipped on his jacket. “We must, Ed. You and Milt need to get to Harold Jones. If we notify the Victorian Police they’re likely to simply conclude this is a ploy to get Egon off the ship.”

  “You want me to drive back to Canberra?” Milton said dubiously.

  Rowland hesitated. A telephone call from a known Communist would probably be regarded sceptically if it was taken at all. But it was at least an eight-hour drive to Canberra and there was no guarantee that Major Jones would take Milton any more seriously in person.

  “Get in touch with Delaney if you can. Actually, better still—talk to Wil.”

  “Wilfred?” Milton gagged. “Have you lost your mind? Comrade, your brother’s the enemy, not to mention that he’s furious with you.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” Edna intervened. “Wilfred doesn’t want Egon in the country, but he’s not a Fascist, Milt. And he knows what Mr. Alcott did before.”

  “I don’t know…” Milton shook his head. “I can’t see Wilfred Sinclair caring who killed Kelly.”

  “But he would care about who stabbed Rowly.”

  “Wil would not condone assassination.” Rowland spoke with a quiet certainty that was more than mere fraternal loyalty. “These men are not his lot.”

  “We don’t even know if he’s still here. He might have taken your mother and aunt back to Yass already.”

  “No. If I know Wil he’ll want to be here to see the ban enforced.”

  Milt sighed. “He’s not going to listen to me anyway, Rowly.”

  Rowland grimaced. That much was true. At the best of times, Wilfred tolerated Milton under sufferance. He’d be unlikely to receive the poet now.

  “I’ll speak with Wilfred,” Edna said. “He’s too civil to throw me out.”

  Rowland and Clyde returned to the cabin to shower and shave, having decided that it was now time to speak to the captain of the Strathaird about the Fascists in First Class. Clean-pressed suits and faces clear of stubble would at least prevent the man concluding they were intoxicated.

  Milton and Edna were on their way to find Wilfred, to tell him about Alcott and Smith in the hope that his connections would see the information fall into the right hands. But, in the meantime, the captain needed to know that there were murderers among his passengers, particularly if their intended victim was forced to stay on board.

  Unfortunately, it seemed that the captain, too, was ashore, dealing with actions against him for kidnapping. The officer in command of the moored liner listened attentively, made many notes and promised to raise the matter with the captain when he returned. Until then, he regretted that he could do nothing.

  Rowland and Clyde found Egon Kisch still talking to visitors and well-wishers in the Tourist smoking room. Knowing that he had not returned to the cabin the night before, they couldn’t help but be in awe of the Czechoslovak’s stamina. Indeed his wit seemed, if anything, to be sharpened by fatigue.

  Arthur Howells shook his head to signal that they had still heard nothing about the outcome of the trial. And so they settled in the comfortable lounge chairs and waited. They had platters of sandwiches brought in rather than adjourning to the dining room for luncheon. The trays had been cleared away and they were taking coffee when the siren sounded to tell all the visitors it was time to go ashore. The Strathaird was leaving.

  An officer came into the smoking room to inform Egon Kisch that his application before the Supreme Court had been dismissed, that his detention on board the Strathaird had been declared legal, and, further, that he was ordered to pay costs.

  Egon took the news on the chin, soothing the outcry of his friends who were being ushered off the ship, and wishing them farewell. “I will come out on deck to wave as the ropes are cast off,” he promised.

  A young steward approached Rowland. He shouted in his ear to be heard over the siren. “Excuse me, sir. A Mr. Sinclair has asked to see you before the ship leaves. He’s waiting for you on the lower afterdeck.”

  “Wilfred Sinclair?” Rowland shouted back.

  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid you’ll have to hurry. Visitors must be ashore in the next ten minutes.”

  Inwardly, Rowland cheered for Edna. It seemed even his brother was not immune to the persuasive charms of the sculptress. If Wilfred would use his influence with the authorities perhaps they could do something about Alcott and his minions. Quickly letting Clyde know, he made his way to the lower afterdeck, preparing himself for Wilfred’s fury. Rowland sighed—he would apologise. He did owe his brother an apology. But he did wonder what he could possibly say.

  The afterdeck seemed deserted when he reached it. Rowland stepped out of the stairwell, wishing the siren would stop already before they were all rendered deaf.

  The rope snapped around his throat and pulled tight from behind, bringing him down, as it cut off his breath. The gag was tied before the rope was released, while he was still reeling from lack of oxygen. They secured his wrists behind his back before they started laying into him.

  33

  EGON KISCH

  Writ of Habeas Corpus

  APPLICATION MADE

  MELBOURNE, Monday

  Application was made to-day to Chief Justice Irving by Mrs. Joan Rosanove, barrister, on behalf of Egon Kisch, for an order nisi calling on Captain Carter of the Strathaird, to show cause why a writ of habeas corpus should not be issued requiring him to produce Kisch before the court.

  His Honour granted the application.

  In the event of the order being made absolute a writ will be issued, and Mr. Justice Irving will then determine whether Kisch shall be released or remain in the captain’s custody.

  Warwick Daily News, 13 November 1934

  Clyde gave Rowland ten minutes before he too made his way down to the lower afterdeck. It was not that he was alarmed by the length of his friend’s absence—in his experience, Wilfred’s tirades could last for days—but he expected that Rowland might need a friendly shoulder and they also needed to get back to Egon before the last of his supporters were herded off the Strathaird.

  A muffled warning alerted him to the impending ambush as he came out of the stairwell—he turned, but too late. The blade was at his throat, Alcott’s voice in his ear. “We’ve got Sinclair. Give us any trouble and you’re both dead Reds.” He laughed. “Dead Reds…” he said again, louder so his companions could hear. “That’s quite good.”

  Clyde was dragged back behind the lifeboats, where they were almost completely hidden from view, the knife still at his throat lest he consider shouting for help. He saw Rowland then, face down on the deck, bleeding from a gash above his ear, conscious but clearly dazed. His wrists had been tied behind his back, a crude gag had worked loose and the man they knew as Lamb knelt over him with a blade against his spine. Rowland’s eyes met Clyde’s. Angry. Panicked.

  Clyde was jerked back as he tried to reach his friend. “You won’t get away with this, Alcott,” he said with more hope than conviction.

&n
bsp; “That’s the difference between us and the Commies,” Alcott said as Clyde was pushed down on the deck beside Rowland. “We’re not trying to get away with anything—to get around laws, to sneak into countries. We’re proud of our part in the defence of this country.”

  “Not wearing hoods this time, then,” Clyde murmured, reminding Alcott of the bizarre costume of the Fascist Legion.

  He gasped as someone kicked him in the back. It had probably not been a good idea to remind Alcott of past failures. He tried reason. “Look, Alcott—”

  “That’s Mr. Alcott to you… or sir. Bloody Commies never had any manners.”

  Gritting his teeth, Clyde tried again. “Mr. Alcott, the ban’s been upheld. Egon Kisch has not been allowed to land. This is not necessary—you’ve won.”

  “Perhaps,” Alcott said. “Or perhaps you people will manage to have him released at Sydney. We’re not taking that chance.”

  Rowland’s voice was hoarse. “You’ll make him a martyr, Henry.”

  “I think not. When Kisch disappears just as the Strathaird leaves Melbourne, it will be assumed that he simply came ashore illegally as his comrade Griffin did. The police will hunt for a while to no avail and Australians will feel that they’ve been taken advantage of, made to look fools… I think you’ll find the tide will turn.”

  “And us?” Clyde asked, realising that they could not be allowed to live if Alcott’s plan was to work. “How are you going to explain what happened to Rowly and me?”

  Alcott shrugged. “Perhaps you went ashore with Kisch, perhaps you left to fight for Stalin, perhaps you got drunk and fell overboard… I don’t think many people will care.”

  “Let’s just finish them now,” Lamb snarled. Rowland felt the prick of a blade against the skin of his back.

  “Later,” Alcott snapped. “Blood on the deck may arouse suspicions.”

  “What then?”

  “We send Casey to Kisch with a message that Messrs Sinclair and Watson Jones want him to meet them on the lower afterdeck. And then we take care of all three of them.”

  Clyde snorted. “Egon’s not an idiot.”

  “He has no friends left on board,” Alcott said. “He’ll be most eager to find his valiant protectors, and even illegal Commie spies seem to take a steward at his word.”

  Rowland cursed. The steward with the message from Wilfred. Egon’s words came back. “At least four Fascists.” He’d been right. There were clearly more than four. For all they knew, the captain could be one of Alcott’s men.

  Alcott grabbed Rowland’s hair and pulled back his head. “I told you two years ago that you’d get yours eventually, Rowland. My God, Aubrey would have been disgusted with what you’ve become! I can’t tell you how sick I feel when that doo-dally mother of yours calls you Aubrey.”

  Rowland bristled. He was thankful Wilfred had insisted his mother and aunt leave the ship.

  Alcott unbuttoned Rowland’s waistcoat with his free hand, smiling as he did so. He found the precise spot the blade had entered and it was here that he pressed. Rowland bucked and cursed. Clyde struggled to help his friend, but Lamb and another man kept him pinned. Alcott continued and eventually Rowland’s body grew limp as he lost consciousness. Desperate to stop the attack, to bring help, Clyde shouted “Fire!”

  Lamb punched him in the face.

  Brown kicked at Rowland’s unmoving form. “Blimey… did you kill him?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so.” Alcott shrugged. “Not yet anyway.”

  Smith called from the stairwell. “Passengers!”

  Startled, Alcott and his men moved to hide their prisoners, tying Clyde’s hands hastily, and gagging him before dragging them both into one of the tarpaulin-covered lifeboats. Voices in the stairwell. Rowland was lifted quickly into the lifeboat and gagged, but there was no time to do anything more. He was, in any case, unconscious. “Either one of you clowns makes a sound, we’ll kill the other one as well as anyone within hearing,” Smith promised for safe measure.

  The tarpaulin was resecured over the top of the lifeboat and Clyde found himself in darkness, and out of sight of anyone who should wander onto that part of the afterdeck. Rowland came to, fully aware of what had happened. The faint had not been complete. At first neither he nor Clyde moved at all, certain that Alcott and his associates would happily carry out the threats they’d made.

  A final siren told them that the last of the visitors had left the Strathaird. Kisch would begin to wonder where they were. Casey the steward, if he was in fact a steward, would be sent to fetch the journalist now.

  Then slowly, Rowland rubbed the side of his head against the bench built into the lifeboat, catching the gag and dragging it down. He paused to gather breath, to gird his will. The stab wound he’d thought healed, burned anew. They could no longer hear conversation from outside. He hoped that meant Alcott and his men had stepped away. “Clyde?” he whispered.

  “God, Rowly, are you all right?” It seemed Clyde too had got free of his gag.

  “Yes. Are you facing the wall of the boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m going to try and turn over without making a sound so I can untie you.”

  Rowland moved slowly, painfully alert to any creak or shuffle.

  It took several minutes of fumbling to free Clyde’s hands but finally the bonds came loose. “What now?” Clyde whispered.

  “If we stay here, we’re dead men.” Rowland lifted the tarpaulin a crack and peered out. “Just Smith,” he said. “The others must have gone after Egon.”

  “What do you reckon, Rowly?”

  “We rush him… hope for the best.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  A deep breath, and Rowland ripped off the tarpaulin as they launched out of the lifeboat. Smith reacted quickly, pulling a revolver from his jacket. “No you don’t.” He levelled the weapon at Rowland.

  Rowland dodged to the right and, as Smith’s gaze and the gun followed, Clyde came from the left, grabbing Smith’s hand before he could discharge the weapon. Rowland stepped in and swung, connecting with Smith’s jaw. The gun was dropped and skittered across the deck. Shouts as the commotion alerted Alcott and the others who were amidships.

  “Oh bugger!” Clyde spotted Egon Kisch near the rail with Casey in steward’s uniform.

  Rowland and Clyde bolted towards him, shouting, but Alcott and his men were ahead of them. The ship began to move away from the pier, its horn sounding.

  Rowland grabbed Alcott. Clyde threw himself at Lamb.

  “Egon!” Rowland’s voice was still hoarse.

  Clyde’s was not. “Egon, run!”

  Kisch took in what was happening. Rowland and Clyde were doing their best to hold back what seemed to be half a dozen men, but they were outnumbered. In panic, he looked for the steward.

  “No!” Clyde struggled out of a headlock. “Run!”

  But Kisch was cornered. He backed away and, with nowhere else to go, climbed on to the rail. Casey grabbed for him, his hand swiping air as the banned journalist jumped. There were screams from the pier.

  Rowland and Clyde tried to get to the rail.

  Smith and Casey grabbed Rowland, restraining him as Alcott’s fists flew into his ribs. Winded, both physically and with the horror of what he’d just witnessed, Rowland was struggling. Lamb and Brown held Clyde down on the deck, pummelling him with equal vigour. And then, from the pier, some eighteen feet below them, they all heard the shout. “If you have arrested me on shore, you have no right to put me back on the ship!”

  Egon.

  Stewards finally began to emerge from the stairwell to investigate what had happened on the afterdeck. And then the police arrived.

  Alcott faltered. Rowland and Clyde rallied. Though they still had no idea what exactly had happened, they knew at least that Kisch had survived. The fight had not yet been lost.

  Despite their protests, Clyde and Rowland were confined to the infirmary until the captain was able to resolve the disp
ute between themselves and the passengers from First Class. Knowing that Egon was off the ship and probably surrounded by supporters on the pier, they complied with less protest than they might have otherwise. The partially healed knife wound below Rowland’s ribs was spotting blood. Alcott’s assault had, it seemed, ruptured the new scar.

  A young nurse treated the area with iodine. “I think Doctor should have a look at this.”

  Rowland felt the ship move. “What on earth—”

  “We’re setting sail,” the nurse informed him.

  Rowland rebuttoned his shirt, alarmed. “We have to get off!”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late, sir. We won’t be stopping till Sydney now.” Rowland groaned. Still, the main thing was that Kisch had finally landed on Australian soil.

  “What happened to Mr. Alcott and his friends?” Clyde asked. “Did the police take them ashore?”

  The young nurse seemed surprised. “No, sir. They’ve been confined to their staterooms until the captain has a chance to resolve the dispute between you gentlemen.”

  Clyde glanced at Rowland. “But they were trying to kill us, not to mention Herr Kisch!”

  The nurse sniffed. “Herr Kisch has only himself to blame if he has broken his leg. Nobody asked him to jump.”

  “He’s broken his leg?” Rowland asked. “To which hospital was he taken? Can we send him a radiogram from on board?”

  “He claims to have broken his leg. Of course he would. Well, he wasn’t taken to a hospital.”

  “They couldn’t possibly have taken him straight to a police station after such a fall,” Clyde said sceptically.

  The nurse laughed. “No. They took him back on board. The doctor’s attending to him, but there isn’t a lot he can do without an X-ray machine.”

  “What?” Rowland regarded her with growing dismay. The relief of knowing Egon Kisch had made land, that he was safe, evaporated. In its place the realisation that both Kisch and the men who wished to assassinate him were still on board; even worse, he and Clyde were trapped in the infirmary and Egon could no longer even run.