Give the Devil His Due (24 page)

It was late when Milton came in behind the greyhound Rowland had loaned him. His long hair was damp with perspiration and his usually pristine attire askew. Lenin went immediately to the water bowl Rowland kept by the hearth and drank noisily before he collapsed.

Milton fell onto the couch and loosened his cravat, pointing at Rowland as he tried to catch the breath to speak.

Rowland and Clyde put down their playing cards and Edna stood to make the poet a drink.

“What happened?” Rowland asked. “Why have you been running?”

“To… get… away.” Milton paused to swig the drink Edna handed him, choking when he realised it was whisky.

Rowland and Clyde slapped him on the back while Edna poured him a glass of soda water.

“Who were you running from?” Rowland asked when it looked as though Milton might be able to speak coherently.

The poet shook his head and reclaimed the whisky. “I don't know… I just know Len and I were being followed. We tried to lose him… Must have run at least two miles back.”

“Did you lose him?” Clyde asked.

“No idea.” Milton removed his cravat completely and used it to mop his brow. “At first I thought I was imagining things… getting jumpy because of the attempt on Rowly, you know. And then it struck me that I had left Rowly's house with Rowly's dog.”

Clyde remained sceptical. “You figured someone thought you were stealing Lenin and gave chase?”

“No, you idiot. I thought someone may have mistaken me for Rowly and be looking to finish the job!”

Clyde glanced at Rowland.

“It's possible, I guess,” Rowland said uncertainly. “Are you certain you were being followed?”

“Yes, definitely. He came after me when I bolted.”

“We should notify Detective Delaney,” Edna said. “Perhaps the police have a suspect by now.”

“We'll call him in the morning,” Rowland decided. “In the meantime, I'll have a word to Armstrong.”

Percy Armstrong was in charge of the security force Wilfred had retained. He insisted on questioning Milton in private and did so for more than thirty minutes, before stepping out to inform Rowland that the matter was in hand.

“I suspect Mr. Isaacs overreacted to a simple passer-by who happened to be taking the same route. I would recommend, however, that you in particular do take every precaution until the police identify and locate the assassin.”

“Are you sure?” Rowland said. In his experience, Milton was not prone to panic.

“I'm quite certain,” Armstrong replied. “These… well, highly strung chaps, you know, sir.”

“What makes you think Mr. Isaacs is, as you say, highly strung, Armstrong?”

“It's obvious, sir. Just look at his hair.”

“I see. Thank you, Armstrong. Would you have your people check the grounds, just in case?”

“Of course, sir.”

Milton was understandably unhappy that his story was being dismissed as hysteria.

“Armstrong's an old soldier,” Rowland said apologetically. “He thinks everybody under thirty-five is hysterical by definition.”

Milton cursed under his breath. The great divide between those who'd served and those who had not, had often been used against the latter regardless of whether they'd been old enough to enlist.

“Mr. Armstrong doesn't know you,” Edna said, clutching Milton's lapel. “If he understood just how fearless you are, he would never have suggested such a thing!”

Clyde laughed.

Milton called Edna an ill-mannered harridan.

“I'll telephone Delaney first chance tomorrow,” Rowland said, trying not to smile as Edna mocked Milton, distracting the poet from whatever damage Armstrong might have done to his ego by inflicting some of her own.

They played poker until midnight, at which time Clyde insisted that Rowland retire.

“You'll need to be up at five tomorrow.”

Rowland groaned. He'd hoped Clyde would forget this nonsense about a training regimen.

“Five!” Edna exclaimed. “What on earth do you plan to do in the middle of the night?”

Clyde responded with the laboured patience of a parent to an errant child. “Rowly's about to take part in an endurance race.”

“But he's driving not running.”

Clyde cleared his throat. “My dear Edna, driving in an endurance event is as physically demanding as running a marathon. When you are behind the wheel of a motorcar you cannot let your attention falter for a moment. If Rowly is not prepared he'll get himself killed.”

Edna made a face, but she let it be. Over the years, she'd become inured to the peculiar enthusiasms of the men with whom she lived. Clyde Watson Jones had always been excessively diligent… and perhaps there was more to driving a car in circles than she could see.

The MODERN Fighter has lost his PHYSICAL Fitness!
| By JIM DONALD. |

IT is the opinion of veteran ringsiders that Australian pugilists of to-day are less tough, hardy, resolute and enduring than those of the olden time.

The Mick and Charlie Dunns, Jim Barrons and Chiddy Ryans, of old Sydney town, are emphatic in their septuagenarian scorning of the pluck, condition and capabilities of the modern mitt-slinger, and his man Friday, the ‘la-de-da trainer,' as grim old Charlie Dunn expresses it.

There's a large slab of truth in the old ‘uns' contention that there is a certain slackness and softening in the timbre of Thumpia. A stiff old-time preparation would prostrate the majority of present-day pugs, and conditioners. Let us go back to the dawn of things and swings. The great days of the prize ring. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the days of the “Bloods” and the “Whips,” “Tom Cribb's Parlour,” and the yellow “Belcher,” and “Blue Birdseye”; when a “petof- the-Fancy” rode to the ringside on the box seat of a noble man's coach and four—and the windy echoes of the tootling horn awakened the sleeping villagers in the dark hour before the dawn. The majority of the pugilists were publicans and ginners—ardent followers of the great god Lush. In all bar the actual training and fighting was a spacious, leisurely attitude towards the job in hand…

ONLY AN IRON FRAME COULD STAND IT!

Spartan treatment brought the warrior lean and hard and phenomenally fit, to the ringside for the fray… The trainer was king, and he was a hard taskmaster. He took his man to a camp on the outskirts of the city, and never left him day or night until he stepped into the ring. He talked, walked, ate, and slept with the boxer in training. Ten miles on the road, walk, jog, trot, and sprint, and a solid hour and a half in the gym was the order of the daily grind…

Until the boxers get back to the old regime of genuine oldfashioned roadwork and stiff, sturdy application in the sparring rooms, and favour the conditioners who insist on this procedure, the boxing game so far as the production of dyed-in-the-wool champions is concerned, will remain on the wane in Australia. Fisticuffs is a hard game, and its rotarys must accustom themselves to hard usage in preparation for the fray—as it is, the proper conditioning of pugilists is almost a forgotten art in Australia.

Referee, 1933

____________________________________

T
he heavy leather bag creaked on its chain, groaning under the assault as Rowland rained blow after blow. Clyde stood by, one eye on his watch as he counted the minutes, assessed his charge's progress and kept his thoughts from Rosalina Martinelli. That Rowland had boxed at Oxford was clear, as was the fact that he'd not forgotten the technique. Clyde was a little surprised with the ferocity with which his friend was want to punch, regularly cautioning Rowland to pace himself.

They had been at it for nearly an hour, though the sun was barely free of the horizon. Rowland's dark hair was wet with his exertions, but his breath was still relatively even and he was not flagging. Clyde was, if truth be told, astounded that Rowland's lifestyle had not taken more of a toll on his fitness. One would not have thought that painting, dancing and the occasional brawl was enough to counteract the effects of luxury. Clyde pushed Rowland further than was probably fair in the search for some evidence that the indolent lifestyle of the upper classes had some deleterious effect.

“Rightio, take a break.” Clyde glanced again at his watch. “Gotta say, mate, you've surprised me. I expected you to be softer than this.”

Rowland stopped punching and accepted the canteen of water Clyde held out. He took a mouthful and then poured water over his head and neck. “I haven't gone completely to seed,” he said grinning.

“I can't understand why, to be honest.”

Rowland was actually in more pain than he would admit and he was pretty sure his muscles would protest for days. As his breathing had become more laboured, he was made uncomfortably aware of the bruising to his ribcage, sustained in the accident that killed Charles Linklater. But he reasoned that if he managed somehow to convince Clyde that he was in peak physical condition, he could go back to sleeping until a more civilised hour. Still, the time at the boxing bag had been therapeutic in many ways.

“Right,” Clyde said as he helped Rowland remove his gloves. “We'll just run a few miles and call it a day.”

“What?” Rowland groaned. “I thought we were done.”

His protests were to no avail. Clyde, it seemed, was determined to ensure that not only the Mercedes, but Rowland Sinclair himself, would be in perfect working order for the race. To that end, he had enlisted the advice contained in an array of training manuals published by various American strongmen. While Rowland thought that a brisk walk would more than suffice and be a great deal more dignified than pounding the streets half-dressed, he conceded in the hope that Clyde's enthusiasm would wane in a couple of days.

They did attract the odd second glance from early-rising servants and the occasional milk cart driver, but for the most part the residents of Woollahra were asleep. The streets were quiet and the rhythm of their own footfalls and breathing became the dominant sound. Initially, Rowland noticed the vehicle only because there were no others about—a black and maroon Singer which appeared at the end of the first street, and then the second and the third. It kept its distance but he spied it every now and then. The fourth street and then the fifth and sixth.

Rowland stopped suddenly and looked back.

“'Struth, Rowly… Don't tell me… you're knackered… already…” Clyde wheezed as he braced his hands on his knees.

Rowland was, but he shook his head anyway. “I believe that car is following us.”

“Then why did you stop?”

“To find out what it wants. No point trying to outrun a car.”

Clyde straightened, clutching at the stitch in his side. “You're right. No point. But what if it's whoever tried to shoot you?”

“There is that.”

Clyde squinted at the car. It was too far away to see who was behind the wheel. “They're not coming any closer.”

Rowland frowned. The Singer seemed to be waiting for its quarry's next move. “I wonder what they're playing at.”

“Perhaps they're hoping we'll separate so they can shoot you without witnesses,” Clyde folded his arms. “What do you want to do?”

Rowland glanced about the street. Daily life was starting; gardeners were out tending front lawns and rose beds, bakers' and butchers' carts had commenced their daily deliveries and curtains were being drawn open. The Singer seemed a great deal less threatening than it had in the long quiet shadows of daybreak.

Rowland started towards it at a run.

“Rowly! What the hell—” Clyde stumbled after him.

For a moment the Singer didn't move and then gears screeched as it tried to reverse and turn. A passing milkman's cart blocked its path. It reversed once more, scraping the gutter.

Rowland jumped onto the running board before the car could pull away and reached in through the window to grab the driver by the collar. Startled, the man swore and attempted to shake him off. Clyde caught up, flung open the passenger door and climbed into the car. He reached across and reefed on the handbrake.

“Right! Who the devil are you, sunshine?” Clyde demanded.

Rowland pulled the man out of the car. “Why are you following us, sir?” he demanded as Clyde cut the Singer's engine.

“My name's Beejling, Robert Beejling.” He cursed some more. “I'm with your security detail.”

“My what?”

“We've been retained to follow you when you leave the premises.”

“Why?”

“To ensure your safety.”

“Why wasn't I informed?”

Beejling shrugged. “We were instructed to not approach or make you aware of our presence unless it was necessary.”

“We?” Rowland looked around quickly. “How many of you are there?”

“We work in shifts.”

“Who retained you?”