Give the Devil His Due

First published in 2015 by Pantera Press Pty Limited
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Text copyright © Sulari Gentill, 2015
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ISBN 978-1-921997-57-0 (Paperback)
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To my husband, Michael, who in a less fuel-injected,
power-windowed, air-bagged era, was the undisputed king
of the car yard.

Novels in the award-winning
Rowland Sinclair series

A Few Right Thinking Men
A Decline in Prophets
Miles off Course
Paving the New Road
Gentlemen Formerly Dressed
A Murder Unmentioned
Give the Devil His Due

MAROUBRA SPEEDWAY SENSATION

SYDNEY, Monday

The Maroubra speedway has claimed another victim. R. G. (Phil) Garlick, well-known racing driver, dashed over the embankment, crashed into an electric light standard and was then hurled 20 feet to his death during the final of the All Powers Handicap on Saturday night.

Garlick was trying to pass Hope Bartlett and was travelling at 93 miles an hour when the car swerved and left the track. He was dead when help arrived.

The dreadful fatality is the sole topic among motorists today. There is a difference of opinion as to the safety of the track, but the view is held that it is necessary to make some alterations in order to obviate the likelihood of any further accidents of a similar nature.

The Richmond River Express and
Casino Kyogle Advertiser, 1927

____________________________________

R
owland Sinclair's dealings with the press were rarely so civil. To date, his appearances in the pages of Sydney's newspapers had been, at best, reluctant, and more frequently, the subject of legal proceedings for libel. On this occasion, however, Rowland's conversation with Crispin White of Smith's Weekly began most cordially.

The reporter was, in fact, the fourth whom Rowland had received that day. Heavily built, White's broad, lax countenance belied the wily acuity of his manner. A newshound who resembled a somewhat overfed lap dog, but a newshound nonetheless.

Crispin White had written about the wealthy young artist before. He'd covered the various skirmishes and scandals in which the gentleman had become embroiled over the preceding years. More recently he'd reported on Rowland Sinclair's arrest for murder, though the charges had been dropped and the story conveniently buried on page twelve when the family's solicitors had contacted his editor. White might have been bitter if he were not so intrigued by the polite, unassuming man who seemed to somehow wield the might of the establishment without abiding by any of its rules.

Woodlands House
, where White was calling on Sinclair, had once been among the premier homes of Sydney's better suburbs, a sandstone declaration of tradition, privilege and stately decorum. These days, however, the Woollahra mansion and its acreage were rumoured to be teeming with naked women and Communists. Regrettably, White had not been able to verify that personally, having been met at the gatehouse by a servant and escorted directly to the converted stables where his subject was waiting.

Though he could not attest to the state of the main house, the reporter had noted the nude sculptures that challenged decency throughout the grounds—urns with breasts, naked nymphs and lovers entwined in the fountain. All very fine indeed, and exquisitely improper.

White's pencil scratched quickly to capture an impression of Sinclair himself. Tall, athletic build, clean cut—good jawline despite the determination of the upper classes to breed out chins—dark hair, and blue eyes… startlingly, intensely blue. They would print a photograph with the article of course, but the writer's words would be the only thing to convey colour. Sinclair wore a dark grey three-piece suit, expensively tailored. There was a conspicuous smear of yellow paint on the sleeve, and several on the waistcoat.

Rowland offered Crispin White his hand. “Rowland Sinclair, Mr. White. How d'you do?”

If White's hand had not been in Rowland's grip, he would have duly recorded that Sinclair's handshake was both firm and single handed. His inflection was certainly refined but not excessively so, and his smile, slightly bashful.

“I am sorry to receive you out here,” Rowland apologised. “It must seem a little irregular, but I thought you might like to see the old girl.” He stood back to allow White to behold the gleaming yellow 1927 Mercedes S-Class.

The reporter walked around the vehicle, making the admiring noises that were clearly expected. In a few weeks, Rowland Sinclair would take his prized automobile out on the notorious Maroubra Speedway—for a charity race in aid of the Red Cross. Plainly, Sinclair believed the motorcar deserved equal billing in any media profile.

“German engineering.” There was a slight reproach in White's voice, an unspecified criticism.

Those blue eyes regarded him sharply. “Yes,” Rowland said. “The Germans make excellent automobiles.”

“It's never bothered you then…?” White asked, identifying an angle and pursuing it now. “I believe you lost a brother in the Great War didn't you, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Aubrey, from what I remember, was not shot by a Mercedes, Mr. White.”

“But how would he feel about his brother driving a German motorcar, Mr. Sinclair?”

Rowland sighed. “I think you'll find the war is over.”

“I understand you were in Germany last year,” White continued. “Is that when you acquired your vehicle?”

“No. I won her in a card game when I was at Oxford.”

White's face lifted. This was good. “You don't say! So you're not averse to a game of chance, Mr. Sinclair?”

“I don't know that poker is a game of chance. Not if it's played well.”