by Peter Watt
He had been quizzed on his accent the moment he booked into the hotel by a curious desk clerk and told the man that he was English. The clerk had no idea of any accent other than the regional variations of his own country, and accepted Mick’s explanation as to his identity. Mick was aided in his deception, producing a British passport supplied to him by an acquaintance in Sydney known – for a price – to help out with documents for the criminal element.
Identifying his target had been easy. She featured in the gossip columns of the local papers which reported on her social life. It had not been hard for Mick to find where she lived and seeing her luxurious house in the better suburbs of the city convinced him that the killing was justified. In his twisted mind, not only was he being paid extremely generously, but he was also striking a blow for the working classes of the world. He only needed to ascertain when she was most likely to be alone and he could complete his assignment.
For nearly two weeks he watched from a distance, blending in with the crowds of people who came to the studios and discreetly following her home. She was rarely alone – except on Sundays. Two Sundays in a row he had seen Fenella from the shadows of an avenue of trees in her street after she’d been driven home in a chauffeured limousine and dropped at her door before bidding her driver a good night. Concealed under the foliage, Mick also observed that on Sunday nights she had no visitors and even gave her cook and housemaid the night off.
Now, all he had to do was fill in a week taking in the sights and sounds of the vibrant City of the Angels which was already celebrating the approaching Christmas. Mick had disciplined himself to stay away from the town’s bars and brothels. He knew that his success depended on remaining out of sight of the local police. Even before questions could be asked about her death he would be on a ship returning to Sydney. It was all too easy.
On the other side of the Pacific, George Macintosh strode along the corridor of the hospital bearing an enormous bouquet of flowers for his wife who had presented him with a healthy son. He even smiled at the nurses in their stiffly starched uniforms and distinctive headwear as he passed them on his way to the maternity ward.
Louise had been rushed to the hospital hours earlier and George had waited in his office for the news, before going to her side. His business meeting had priority over waiting at the ward. Certainly he did not see himself as the sort of man who would pace up and down nervously outside the birthing room. He had listened as his accountant read out the financial report. Everything he declared showed that George’s shrewd dealings had swelled the family coffers immensely with the war contracts he had been able to obtain through his government contacts. But what pleased George even more was the secret correspondence from Berlin via the Swiss banks that his investments in German chemicals had been protected, as promised, for his assistance to Maynard Bosch. The profits in Germany had swelled even further with the use of poison gases on the battlefronts of Europe. Personally George considered the use of chemicals in warfare a long overdue recognition of the science that had existed for some time. It did not enter his mind for one moment that fellow countrymen were dying agonising deaths or being left with irreparable injuries. After all, war was a temporary state of matters whereas industry was the backbone of civilisation.
A stern matron greeted George with an unsmiling word of congratulations as he entered the private room where Louise lay pale against the clean pillows. The infant lay asleep in a crib by her bed.
‘Ah, my dear,’ he said, placing the flowers beside her. ‘You have done a wonderful job. So, this is my son.’
Louise was still exhausted from the ordeal of giving birth and did not respond. George leaned over to gaze at the wrinkled creature that was to one day inherit the Macintosh financial empire.
‘You did not come to the hospital when I was admitted,’ Louise said in a weak voice. ‘Giselle told me that she had telephoned your office to inform you I was in labour – and that you had got the message.’
George looked away from his son. ‘I was tied up in a business meeting and unable to get away,’ he replied somewhat unconvincingly. ‘But I am here now and that’s what matters.’
Louise turned her head away as the tears rolled down her face. ‘I know all about your affairs, George,’ she said. ‘When I am well enough I wish to move somewhere else with my son, and I expect you to pay for it.’
Stunned, George did not reply immediately but stared at the back of his wife’s head. ‘That will not happen,’ he said finally. ‘You are my wife and my son belongs to me, not you. You will continue living under my roof and even if you have to pretend, you will be my dutiful wife.’
‘Is your son little more than mere property to you?’ Louise asked, turning to face him, mustering as much anger as she could in her weakened condition. ‘Have I just been a means to breed an heir for you?’
George walked to an open window. He took out a large Cuban cigar he had been keeping for the occasion, lit it and stared into the courtyard below the second storey they were on. The acrid scent of tobacco filled the room, stirred by the slowly moving ceiling fan that clacked monotonously in the still, warm air.
‘You must realise that bearing me a son has more importance than you can truly comprehend,’ he said with his back to her, puffing on the cigar. ‘The Macintosh line has been let down by my weak father, and equally weak siblings. But between you and me, we will make the family name one of the greatest outside England. Your own bloodline is impeccable and that is why I married you. You should be proud that you have borne a son to carry on the Macintosh name when we are gone from the earth.’
‘I still wish to move out of the house with my son,’ Louise persisted.
George swung around and stared hard at his wife. ‘That will happen over my dead body,’ he said in a low, menacing voice. ‘You do not have the slightest idea what I am capable of when it comes to protecting my interests. No, you will stay by my side. The alternative is not something you would wish to contemplate.’
Horrified, Louise gaped at her husband before answering in a hoarse whisper. ‘Are you threatening my life? Me, your wife?’
‘Take it any way you want,’ George replied with a bitter smile. ‘If that is all, I have important business to attend to at the office. I expect that you will be home soon enough and continue as before as my wife.’
Without even a further glance at his newly born son, George left the room, pushing past the matron on her way in with a basin of warm water. The matron glanced at the stricken face of her patient and knew from long experience that this was not a happy marriage.
The sun rose cold and bleak over the Palestinian land. Even wrapped in many blankets and under the protection of the car, Matthew had shivered all night. He awoke to see that Joanne was already up and poking the fire into life. ‘I expect a pot of hot coffee when I return,’ she said cheerfully.
Joanne picked up her Winchester 30/30 rifle and walked towards the low ridge on one side of the shallow gully they were camped in. Matthew dragged himself out of his makeshift bed and stretched his body that was still stiff with the bitter winter chill of the Holy Land. He scratched his chin and thought about a shave before he made them breakfast. When he glanced in the direction that Joanne had taken she had disappeared on the other side of the ridge.
He decided to pull down the tent and stow it back in the vehicle before attending to a shave and breakfast. He had completed this, packing away the non-essentials, and was bending over the flickering flames when he heard a voice behind him.
‘The Australian flyer Captain Duffy, I presume,’ the man said with an edge of menace. Realising that his rifle was out of reach, Matthew swung around to see a German officer in the company of two Turkish soldiers who had their rifles levelled on him.
Slowly, Matthew rose to his feet. ‘You have the wrong man,’ he said, hoping that he sounded convincing. ‘I am an American citizen and have papers to prove it.’
The German officer, who Matthew recognised as holding an eq
uivalent rank to himself, took a couple of paces towards him. Matthew deduced that they had quietly come down the ridge opposite to the one Joanne had disappeared behind. He was concerned that the German officer had correctly identified him. Even if the papers appeared genuine they still stated his name as Matthew Duffy. Whoever this army officer was he appeared to know all about him. Curiously, however, the officer still had his pistol in his holster.
‘It is no use attempting to lie,’ the man said. ‘We have informants even in Rosenblum’s settlement. Not all his people are loyal to the British and some of his young men have journeyed back to the Fatherland to fight for their country.’
Matthew knew from Saul that when the war had broken out it had split the loyalties of many of the settlers. Those of German blood had cast their lot with the enemy.
‘Where is Miss Barrington?’ the officer asked almost casually. ‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting her since we were both last in Constantinople.’
‘You know Miss Barrington?’ Matthew asked, surprised.
‘Yes, she obtained travel permits from the Ottomans and before leaving was a guest at our embassy some months ago.’
Matthew could see his rifle leaning against the side of a rock but knew he had no chance of retrieving it.
‘She is an extremely interesting and attractive woman and . . .’
The German officer did not complete his sentence. The crack of a rifle was followed immediately by the head of one of the Turkish soldiers suddenly jerking back in a mist of red. Before the surviving Turkish soldier could react, a second shot followed and he too crumpled to the cold earth, also shot through the head.
In the confusion, Matthew did not hesitate. He dived towards the rock where his rifle lay, scooped it up and lay on his back, barrel levelled at the German who was now grappling desperately to remove his holstered pistol.
‘Don’t move!’ Matthew barked. The German officer froze.
Matthew could see Joanne, advancing down the ridge, her rifle at her hip. She appeared paler than usual under the smatter of freckles. He nodded his thanks when he caught her eye and when he turned his attention back to the prisoner, he could see that he was badly shaken by the events of the last few seconds.
When Joanne was within a few feet the German spoke. ‘Miss Barrington, I . . .’ Joanne brought up the tip of the rifle, firing a shot into his head. The German officer slumped to the ground beside the bodies of the two Turkish soldiers.
Slowly Matthew rose to his feet, stunned by this woman’s cold-blooded act of shooting a defenceless man. Joanne levered her rifle to eject the spent cartridge and casually reloaded as if she had just been on a turkey shoot. She brought the rifle barrel to rest against the dead officer’s head as if to deliver another shot into him.
‘He’s dead,’ Matthew said sharply. ‘He was no threat to us and as a prisoner of war might have been valuable to our interrogators.’
Joanne glanced up at him, angling the barrel away. ‘I just saved your life,’ she said flatly. ‘How dare you question my actions.’
Matthew was taken aback by the change in this woman he had come to think of as perhaps a little eccentric but essentially gentle in nature. She seemingly showed no emotion to taking the lives of three men. Then, unexpectedly, she began to tremble uncontrollably and slumped to the ground, sobbing.
Matthew kneeled beside her, holding her in his arms.
‘I have never taken a life before,’ she confessed, gripping Matthew’s shirt. ‘I saw that you were in trouble and did what I could.’
‘But there was no need to kill the German,’ he chided gently. ‘We could have taken him as a prisoner.’
‘How do I, as a neutral American, explain that I am holding a German officer as a prisoner of war if we are stopped by Turkish patrols?’ Joanne asked.
Matthew had to agree with her reasoning but the fact that the officer already knew Joanne troubled him. He had a momentary deep suspicion as to the answer but immediately dismissed it. Perhaps he was becoming paranoid. But war did that to a man, he thought.
‘We have to hurry and get away from here,’ Joanne said, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. ‘I suspect that Hauptmann Klaus may have others with him if he has continued to track me from Jerusalem.’
‘You know his name?’ Matthew asked incredulously. ‘And what do you mean, track you?’
Joanne rose to her feet, scanning the low ridges around them for signs of further Turkish troops. ‘It is a long story, but since I arrived in Constantinople the Ottomans have suspected me of spying. It is not true,’ she sniffed, bringing her emotions under control. ‘I am nothing more than an archaeologist, as you know.’
Matthew watched her walk unsteadily towards the Packard. He shook his head as he followed her. He knew so little about this extraordinary woman who could kill so easily one minute and then break down with remorse the next.
Fenella stepped from her limousine and bid her chauffeur a good night. It had been a long day attending a luncheon organised to raise funds for the Red Cross but she felt the effort worth it given her beloved father was fighting on the Western Front. Sunday evenings had become a tradition for some time alone, away from the constant swirl of people around her during the working week and her frenetic social life of night clubs, parties and dinners. She opened the door and stepped inside her luxurious house with the idea of a long soak in the tub, flute of champagne in hand and a good dose of bath salts to soothe her weary body.
The cook had left a selection of cold meats and salad vegetables in the refrigerator and Fenella opened it to retrieve the chilled bottle and nibble on a slice of cold beef. Closing the door, she walked towards her bedroom to disrobe, magnum and glass in hand. She paused in the doorway of her bedroom. One of the windows was wide open. The silly housemaid must have overlooked it before she left, Fenella thought, annoyed at the oversight. But then a chilling thought crept into her mind. She stared at the open window. There were distinctive smudges of garden dirt on the sill. Immediately, Fenella stepped back into the hallway. But she was too late. An arm wrapped around her throat, a razor blade against her chin.
‘Don’t struggle or I’ll cut ya,’ a voice hissed in her ear.
Fenella instinctively swung her arm up, bringing the large bottle of champagne over her head and slamming it on her assailant’s skull. The thick glass did not break but the man let go with a noisy grunt.
Fenella twisted around to face her attacker, a thin man, bleeding profusely, blood running down his face. She hefted the magnum to swing again at him but despite his initial shock, he reacted quickly, slashing at Fenella’s raised arm. Fenella felt a searing heat burn her wrist and reeled back, dropping the bottle. Blood spurted from the severed artery, spraying the walls and her attacker, who was cursing her as he advanced with the cutthroat razor.
‘You bitch,’ he screamed at her. ‘Why’d ya do that?’
Fenella backed into the bedroom, attempting to stem the blood pumping from her almost severed wrist. But her fear was not helping slow her heart and the blood continued to pour stickily between her fingers. She hardly recognised her own voice as she screamed at the top of her lungs for help.
Her assailant was shaking his head, dabbing at the laceration to his skull. ‘I’m gonna cut you from limb to limb, you bitch, for what you done to me,’ he muttered as he advanced on Fenella.
Fenella suddenly felt tired. She wanted to just lay down and go to sleep. The blood was pumping furiously from her wrist as she slumped down on the edge of her bed. The advancing man was becoming a blur to her. The last word Mick O’Rourke heard from his victim was a man’s name. ‘Help me, Randolph.’
O’Rourke dropped his blade on the bed beside Fenella and went to find a towel to swab his head. The bleeding was severe and he knew that he must seek medical attention. His intention to rape her first had been thwarted by her resistance, and he was angry. His consolation was that he could now return home and collect the balance owed to him. All
he had to do was get out of the house, find a hospital where he could have his head wound stitched, and be at the docks before midday on the morrow to embark for Sydney. Considering everything, Mick O’Rourke was satisfied that he had done his homework well and there were no witnesses.
His head throbbing, the killer made only two mistakes. Instead of leaving the house the way he came in where the shrubs concealed him, he took the quickest route and went out the front door. He also left his razor on the bed beside his victim. He would be well away from the scene of the crime before he remembered it and by then it was too late to retrieve it.
An elderly lady who lived across the street had thought she heard a woman scream. When she went to her front window she saw nothing unusual but remained by the window watching the street. She was rewarded by seeing a man leave the house, holding a bloody towel to his head which he tossed into the garden by the front path. The witness had a good view of the man as he stood for a moment under a street light looking up and down the roadway. She could even see the scar on his face and from the blood on his clothing she knew all was not right. As the man strolled away, disappearing into the darkness at the end of the street, the elderly lady telephoned the local police sergeant who responded quickly. When he and one of his uniformed men found Fenella’s body slumped over her bed shortly afterwards, the sergeant immediately called a number which he knew would get him through to a studio head. This was Hollywood where the power of the men who ran the main industry was able to reach into the portals of the justice system. He would give them a half hour to discuss their strategy before calling his own detectives to investigate.
It did not take long for the news concerning the death of the famous actress in her mansion to reach the media. Before dawn the house was surrounded by a bustling crowd of reporters trampling Fenella’s once immaculate lawns and gardens. Within days, the news would spread around the world and be reported in Australian newspapers. The media would reveal that it was rumoured that the actress Fiona Owens was, in fact, Fenella Macintosh, a person of interest in the death two years earlier of the Australian actor Guy Wilkes.