Give the Devil His Due (20 page)

The sun had risen high enough that the light in the bay window was neither direct nor harsh. Rowland set out his palette and began. The painting was finally finding a rhythm with each brushstroke inviting the next, making sense with the next. He painted Röhm as a portly grinning figure, strutting proudly as his men burned books and declared ideas enemies of the state. Somehow the banality of the image was more chilling than any traditional monster. In the background, the silhouettes of Brownshirts going about their thuggish work as men cowered on the ground.

Engrossed in the detail of Röhm's bloated, scarred face, Rowland teased out the shadows cast by the firelight. He needed a finer brush and he turned away to find one.

An explosion of glass.

A solitary bullet shattered a pane of the bay window and pierced the canvas from behind. A second earlier, the shot might have proved fatal. As it was, Rowland felt the breeze it created as he dropped to the floor. He waited, his heart pounding, his ears ringing.

The door to the studio moved.

“No!” Rowland shouted, still expecting a second shot. “Don't come in!”

He crept away from the window, and sat pressed against the wall. Still nothing. Carefully he stood and peered out the window. The grounds were, as far as he could tell, empty.

A knocking at the studio door. “Mr. Sinclair, are you all right sir?”

“I'm fine, Bessie, but don't come in. I'll come out.”

Rowland moved to the door doing his level best to stay out of any line of sight from the garden. He closed the door behind him as he stepped into the entrance hall.

Bessie gaped at him, a pudgy hand clasped over what Rowland presumed was an open mouth. “What happened, sir?”

“I'm afraid someone's fired a shot through the studio window.”

“Oh my Lord, oh my Lord, oh my Lord,” the maid chanted, turning in an erratic circle while Rowland tried to calm her.

“I'm sure he's gone now, Bessie.”

“How do you know, sir? Perhaps he was trying to get into the house.” She stared at the studio door. “Lord, he might just walk through the broken window.”

“Do you have Mary Brown's keys?” Rowland asked.

She pulled a large ring of keys from the chatelaine around her waist. Rowland found the key to his studio quickly and locked the door.

“There,” he told the distressed maid. “I might just telephone the police now.”

Rowland made the call with Bessie hovering anxiously beside him.

“Come into the library and I'll pour you a medicinal brandy, Bessie,” Rowland said as he re-cradled the receiver. The maid looked as though she could do with a stiff drink.

Bessie shook her head so hard that her cap came loose. “There're windows in the library, Mr. Sinclair, and he could still be out there.”

“Oh… I see.” Rowland tried to recall a part of the house not made vulnerable by windows. “Why don't you stay here for just a moment?” he suggested. “I'll duck into the library and bring you a glass of brandy.”

“What if you get shot and killed, Mr. Sinclair?”

“You have the keys, Bessie. Go upstairs and lock yourself in somewhere. The police will be here soon.”

Bessie nodded, sniffling tearfully.

“Is there anybody else in the house?” Rowland asked.

The maid shook her head. “No, sir, we all usually have a half day off today. I'm only here because Miss Brown wanted to visit her sister.”

“Good, I won't be a moment.” Rowland walked into the library and grabbed the decanter of brandy and two tumblers from the silver tray on the mantel.

When the police knocked on the front door, Rowland and the maid were seated on one of the lower steps of the grand staircase which swept up from the tiled foyer. Lenin had padded out of the kitchen to investigate briefly and then returned to his kittens.

Rowland answered the knock. He was a little surprised to see Delaney at the head of the small force on his doorstep. “Colin… what are you doing here?” He shook the detective's hand.

“I have the desk sergeant call me whenever you get into trouble. It saves time.”

“I see.”

Delaney winked as he signalled his constables to make a search of the grounds. “I'm no longer investigating the White case as you know, but there's no reason to believe this is related. It's not the first time someone's tried to shoot you, after all.” Delaney removed his hat and stepped into the house. “We'd best have a look at where the bullet came in.”

The decanter crashed onto the tiles as Bessie stood. She cried out in dismay before descending into frantic apologies.

“Excuse me a moment.” Rowland diverted momentarily to the staircase to reassure the servant and suggest she make herself a cup of tea while he spoke to the detective.

Bessie sobbed and apologised again about the decanter. “Miss Brown will take it out of my wages, sir,” she lamented.

“It was my fault entirely for leaving it on the step,” Rowland said, handing her his handkerchief. “We'll clean it up before Miss Brown gets back, and she need never know.”

At this suggestion poor Bessie gasped, for fear Rowland intended to participate in the cleaning somehow. The horror shook her out of her anxiety. She made it clear that she would see to the broken decanter directly and under no circumstances must he touch a broom.

So chastised, Rowland returned to Delaney, opening the door to the studio and observing the damage. The floor below the bay window was strewn with shattered glass. The easel hadn't moved and the canvas he'd been painting was still clamped in place. The bullet had come through what should have been Ernst Röhm's mouth. Rowland considered the result while Delaney searched for the bullet.

“So, Rowly, did you see anyone… anything?” Delaney asked, as he delicately pried the bullet out of the wood panelling on the opposite wall.

“No,” Rowland said, poking a finger through the hole in his canvas. “But I was painting. I wasn't really watching anything else.”

Delaney came round to peer at the canvas. He cursed. “How he missed you beggars belief.”

“I suspect I turned away at an opportune time,” Rowland said uncertainly.

“You might just be the luckiest man alive, Rowly.”

“That's one way of looking at it.”

“Who wants to kill you at the moment?”

“No one, as far as I know.”

“Where is everybody?”

“I'm not entirely sure. Bessie might know.”

Delaney sent a constable to fetch the maid. Bessie rattled off the whereabouts of the household as best she could. “Miss Higgins went with Mr. Watson Jones to deliver a painting, sir, and Mr. Isaacs has stepped out with Mr. Flynn.”

“Milt left with Flynn?” Rowland asked, surprised.

“I believe they went sailing, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Who's this Flynn?” Delaney asked.

“An actor, I'm told. He's driving for my team in the Maroubra Invitational.”

“It's not been cancelled?” Delaney asked. “I thought with the crash and all…”

Rowland shrugged. “Apparently not.”

“Where was your mother this morning, Rowly?” Delaney tried to sound casual.

“My mother did not try to shoot me,” Rowland said, bristling. “Whatever may have happened in the past… What happened to my father was…”

“I have to ask.”

“She's out with my Aunt Mildred.”

“Good.” Delaney looked out the now glassless window to the grounds.

“What are you looking for?” Rowland asked.

“Places where our mystery shooter might have stood so that he would have a clear line of sight and not be easily seen.”

“As I said, I wouldn't have noticed anyone.”

Delaney held up a finger. “Yes, that's right. But he would only have known that if he knew you.” He paced, pleased with the revelation. “If we can establish where the shooter actually stood, we'll at least be able to ascertain whether he was likely to have known you well or not.”

Rowland conceded. There was an undeniable logic to Delaney's reasoning. “Will we be able to work out where he stood?”

“Could you place your easel in the exact position in which it stood before the shooting?”

Rowland gingerly cleared the shattered glass with his shoe and manoeuvred the H-frame easel so that it was parallel with the outer wall of the bay, using the paint splatters on the polished floorboards to guide him. “This would be about right,” he said, standing back for perspective. “So how will this help?”

Delaney pointed to the oak panelling from which he had just dug out the bullet. “Bullets fly in a straight line, more or less. We know where it ended up and where it went through your painting. If we simply follow that trajectory, it should give us an idea of where the bullet originated.”

“Good Lord, you've been reading Conan Doyle.”

“Hand me your longest paintbrush, Rowly,” Delaney said, ignoring the jibe.

Rowland did so. Delaney poked the brush through the hole in the painting from behind, lining the wooden end up with where the bullet had embedded. He signalled Rowland to grab the brush from the other side of the canvas and hold it absolutely motionless, before he stepped away. “Right, it's a bit rough and ready, but the brush should point to the general area from where the bullet came.”

The paintbrush directed them towards the shaded driveway, lined with claret ash.

“Perhaps he used the trees as cover,” Delaney mused. “I'll have the area searched in case he left anything behind.”

DAY COURSING AND NEW CONTROL

NIGHT tin hare coursing is to be changed to day coursing. And the dogs will race under different and clean non-proprietary control, or else a strict and impartial board of control.

That is the Intention of the majority of the Cabinet, which has deputed the Chief Secretary (Mr. Chaffey) to inquire into all the factors and interests involved in the “poor man's sport.”…

EXPERIENCED PATRON

One of the syndicates which wishes to race at Wentworth Park on nonproprietary lines is headed by Dr. R. Stuart Jones, of Canterbury, who claims a considerable experience of tin-hare racing in England, where it has been established on a much more desirable basis than here. His organisation is called the Australian Greyhound Club, and it includes Ald. A. C. Samuels, ex-Mayor of Manly; Dr. Roy Croft, of Balmain, a follower of Plumpton coursing: Mr. L. J. Lager, a chemist of Balmain; Mr. Gordon McKay, a well-known courser and one-time owner of the champion, Fearless Buttons; Dr. Caleb Goode, of Vaucluse; Mr. J. J. Salkeld, master butcher of Darling Point; Mr. G. Harvison, a dentist of Campsie: Mr. W. C. B. Fahey, retired grazier of Waverton; and Mr. J. Collier, an executive member of the National Coursing Association and secretary of the Greyhound Owners and Trainers' Association.

Dr. Stuart Jones states that an option has been obtained over Wentworth Park oval, and plans and specifications and also an application for a licence has been in the hands of the Government since July. Increased prize money, better accommodation, and catering on a large scale for the social side of the sport, to elevate the game to the high plane it at present enjoys in other countries, are objects.

Truth, 1932

____________________________________

T
he absent members of the
Woodlands
household all seemed to return within the same fifteen minute period. The result was somewhat chaotic. Without actually lying, Rowland somehow managed to leave his mother with the impression that he'd not been in the studio when the shot was fired. He was careful to tell Mary Brown that Bessie had responded to the crisis in an admirable manner which reflected well on the thorough training she'd received under the housekeeper. Between them, Delaney and Rowland managed to tell the others what little they knew. Edna volunteered to walk Errol Flynn to his car.

“Oh, I couldn't leave now.” He put his arm around Edna. “Don't worry sailor, you're safe with me.”

“That's very sweet, Errol.” Edna squeezed the actor's hand warmly. “But I'm perfectly well protected. And the police are here now. We really just have to clean up, so unless you're proficient with a broom?”

Flynn laughed, throwing his head back as he did. “I've scrubbed more decks than I care to remember, so I might leave you to it!”

Rowland noticed the fleeting upward movement of Edna's bright eyes. Was it relief? He hoped it was.

The broken glass had been swept up and the services of a glazier engaged by the time Delaney's men had finished their search.

“Any luck?” Clyde asked the detective.

Delaney shook his head. “Nothing.” He turned to Milton and Clyde. “I don't suppose you blokes saw anyone loitering about the place this morning?”

“Only reporters,” Milton replied.

“Reporters?” Delaney took out his notebook. “I thought that they arrived after the gunshot.”