Give the Devil His Due (26 page)

Marien was propped up with pillows, smoking a pipe and issuing instructions about how to strip down a linotype printer while he inspected the artworks spread out on his bed coverings. The newspaperman was generously built with shoulders that spoke of a past athleticism. Indeed, he appeared so strong and vital that his status as a patient was unsettling.

Delaney introduced himself and Rowland Sinclair.

“Come in, come in!” Marien instructed, choosing three drawings for the next edition. “What can I do for you, Detective Delaney?”

“I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions, Mr. Marien?”

“Is this about Crispin White?”

Delaney nodded.

“Then yes, of course. You won't mind if my reporters observe, will you? Just say when you want the conversation to be off the record.”

Delaney looked around at the men in the room who watched with hungry interest. He hesitated and then thought better of it. “Don't mind at all, Mr. Marien.”

“What's Sinclair doing here? He's not joined the police force, has he?”

“He's observing,” Delaney said, smiling faintly.

Marien grinned. “Touché, Detective. We'll all stay then. What can I do to help?”

Delaney asked the routine questions about Crispin White. Marien spoke fondly of the reporter and soon the other men in the room offered stories about their colleague, warm accounts of past larks and scoops. The exchange began to resemble a dry wake as they painted a picture of a congenial, experienced newspaperman, who had a nose for a story and an eye for the ladies.

“And was Mr. White involved with any person in particular?” Delaney asked.

“You mean a woman? God no. Crispy was too bloody ugly. He wouldn't know what to do if a woman actually said yes!” Marien declared to the general approbation of the room.

“Did any of you notice the diamond tiepin he was wearing the day he died?” Rowland asked suddenly.

“Oh yes.” It was Kenneth Slessor who volunteered the information. “Gaudy piece… paste, I expect. Unless Frank paid him much better than he does me.”

A roar of jest and jibe, and a protest from Marien that Slessor was paid more than he was worth.

“Had you seen him wear it before that day?”

“Once or twice, possibly…”

“Did you speak to him about it?” Delaney asked.

“About his tiepin? Whatever for?”

“Well, it was an unusual item—weren't you curious where he got it?”

Slessor shook his head. “I assumed someone had given it to him. I quite assiduously avoided mention of the ghastly thing in case he asked me what I thought of it.”

“When are you going to return White's notebook?” Marien demanded of Delaney. “It's the property of the paper now, you know.”

“Once the investigation is finished,” Delaney said. “Can you tell me a little bit more about this chap who brought it back to you—the gentleman you paid a guinea for his trouble?”

“Oh, I didn't form the impression he was a gentleman, Detective. Looked and positively smelled like he might have been living rough. Skinny bloke with one of those weaselly faces, only about half his allotment of teeth. Didn't say much… wished me well and asked me if I knew how I was going to spend eternity.” Marien's eyes became distant. “He couldn't have known, of course…”

For a few breaths the room was silent, uneasy. Then the stocky man leaning against the iron foot of Marien's bed growled, “Just make sure the devil gives you an exclusive.”

A blast of laughter as unsympathetic humour was restored.

“Did the gentleman tell you his name, Mr. Marien?” Delaney asked when the mirth lapsed into conversation again.

“No. He was very particular about that. Wanted to remain anonymous.”

“Could I ask you about Miss Rosaleen Norton?” Rowland ventured tentatively.

“Oh God, what's Roie done now?”

“Nothing. But I was curious about her stories. She believes the first—the one about the waxworks—was a premonition of Mr. White's death.”

Marien's lower lip protruded, his mouth curved downwards as he considered it. “There's a coincidence there, I suppose, but White had his throat cut. He didn't die of fright.” He shrugged and shook his head. “Roie is talented, but like many great writers, she's eccentric.”

“Would you say Miss Norton was particularly ambitious?” Delaney asked, following Rowland's lead.

“As an artist, more than a writer, but yes, she's a very driven young lady.”

“And how did she get on with Crispin White?”

Marien's brow furrowed into the bridge of his nose. “I'm not aware of any difficulty.”

“Roie is passionate and admittedly a little odd, Detective Delaney.” Slessor spoke up with a chorus of assent behind him. “But there's a lot of that in this game. She's harmless really.”

Delaney jotted a few lines in his notebook but made no comment about the perceived harmlessness of Rosaleen Norton. Rowland recalled the unnerving relish with which Rosaleen had told him of how White's throat had been cut. Still, that might well have been adolescent immaturity as opposed to a true delight in violence. He found it hard to believe that a seventeen-year-old girl could be so coldblooded.

“What was it that Mr. White was investigating at the waxworks, Mr. Marien?” Rowland asked on the off chance that the reporter had been at Magdalene's on business.

“Blowed if I know!” Marien was adamant. “He was covering the car race—the Maroubra Invitational—as you know. I expected him to cover all major sporting events, but otherwise he was free to pursue whatever newsworthy stories took his fancy. An experienced journo like Crispy had his own sources, spotters and leads.” He looked round at his journalists. “Any of you fellows know what he was up to?”

A general murmur claiming ignorance but Rowland noticed one man, short and round with a hefty distinctive head. He said nothing, but a line appeared in his expansive forehead that had not been there before.

“Tell me, Detective,” Marien said, blowing billows of sweet smoke from his pipe. “When are you going to give White back so we can give the poor chap an appropriate send-off?”

“The coroner will release the body as soon as his findings are finalised, Mr. Marien. Soon, I expect.”

“Good, good. We must do the right thing by Crispy.”

“Great Scott!” Slessor jumped as a pebble skipped through the open French doors.

“That'll be Brian,” Marien said excitedly. “Mo, quickly, keep an eye out for Mother Superior will you? George, send down the rope.”

The rotund gentleman with the large head moved to stand watch in the corridor. Rowland followed him out.

“Rowland Sinclair, Mr…?” Rowland said, offering the cockatoo his hand.

“Moses, Reg Moses. Most people call me Mo.” Moses' handshake was firm. “I'm the
Weekly's
literary editor.”

Unsure how much time he had, Rowland came straight to the point. “I couldn't help but notice that you were perhaps not as ignorant of Mr. White's activities as your colleagues.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

“I believe so.”

“Well bully for you, Sinclair!”

Rowland persevered. “Do you know what White was working on?”

Moses regarded him disdainfully, and then he sighed. “I don't know anything really. Crispin was looking into the occult. At first I thought he was just trying to impress Frank.”

“Mr. Marien is interested in the occult?”

“No, no. He's Catholic. But he did like Roie's stories, was convinced she'd be the next Edgar Allan Poe. I suspected Crispin was put out and I assumed he was trying to write his own story to show Roie up.”

“But you don't think that now?” Rowland asked, reading Moses' face.

“No. I don't. Crispin was probably too long in the tooth to be rattled by Frank's infatuation with Miss Norton's scary fairy tales. It must have been something else… a piece he was working on.”

Cheering and applause from inside the hospital room.

“I think we can go back in now,” Moses said opening the door. Clearly the conversation was over.

Within the room, a large tin pail had been pulled up via the balcony. Marien beamed, regarding the bucket as if it were filled with gold.

Rowland leaned over to Delaney. “What's in the—”

“Baked rabbit. Forbidden by his doctors and some killjoy called Mother Patrick, and all the more delicious for that reason.”

Rowland laughed quietly. “Of course.”

As the conversation fell again to linotype and advertising space, they took their leave of Marien and his staff and departed. On the steps of St. Vincent's, Rowland told Delaney of his conversation with Reg Moses.

The detective was impressed. “You sure you don't want to join the force, Rowly?” He winked. “Earn an honest living. There's a pension, you know, and you'd make the height requirements easily.”

“A pension you say?” Rowland accepted the compliment hidden in the joke. Sinclairs did not get jobs, with or without pensions. “I'll give it some thought.” He decided to push his luck a little. “I don't suppose I could look through White's notebook?”

Delaney pushed his hat back and scratched the top of his head. “I'll see what I can do.” He exhaled heavily. “Is your interest in White just about clearing Mr. Isaacs, Rowly?”

Rowland shrugged. “White had dinner with me just before he died. Milt drove him back to his lodgings because I'd had too much to drink. A little part of me wonders if we dropped him off into the hands of his murderer.”

“Even if you did, Rowly, you weren't to know.”

“Yes, I realise that, but I can't help feeling… responsible is not the right word.” He shifted, struggling for an explanation that did not sound silly. “I feel like I ought to care what happened to a man who left my table just two hours before being brutally slain.”

“Care?” Delaney shook his head. “I take it back. You'd be a bloody dreadful policeman. A good priest maybe.”

Only the female staff of
Smith's Weekly
were in the Phillip Street offices as it seemed all the men had decamped to St Vincent's, and when Rowland called in, two of those three had stepped out.

“Rowly Sinclair!” the tall willowy blonde who opened the door to the “Keep Out” room greeted him warmly. “They told me you stopped by the other day. I'm so sorry I missed you.”

“Miss Horseman, hello.” Rowland responded to Mollie Horseman with pleasure. He had known her years ago as one of Norman Lindsay's models. “I wasn't aware that you worked here.”

“Clearly you're not a reader of
Smith's Weekly
or you'd have seen my work!” she said sternly.

“I have been remiss,” he apologised. “I shall henceforth read it from cover to cover.”

“Oh, you needn't bother with the articles. Come and see what I'm working on.”

Mollie took him to her drafting table upon which lay a black and white drawing in progress, a rollicking depiction of a party which she told him would be captioned: “What was the party at Darlinghurst like last night?… They sang God Save the Furniture.”

For a while Rowland forgot the reason for which he had come, as he discussed line and ink, and generally became reacquainted with Mollie Horseman. The now established black and white artist had, like most of her colleagues, trained at the East Sydney Technical College. Married to a William Power, she still illustrated under her maiden name. Rowland found her the effervescent young woman he remembered.

“I have actually come to return Miss Norton's folio,” he admitted after a time.

She's out following a story, I expect, though between you and me, Rowly, I'm not sure she's cut out to be a newshound.”

“Why do you say that?” Rowland asked.

“She's a little odd, and the poor girl wants to be an artist not a writer. Unfortunately, Frank is convinced she's a literary genius.”

“I have read her horror stories.” Rowland was non-committal.

“She's refusing to write any more until Frank publishes her drawings. I'm not sure why he lets her get away with ultimatums like that, but then, he's not been well.” Mollie frowned. “Roie has a way of getting her own way.”

“I've noticed.”

Mollie laughed. “You poor dear! What did she bully you into?”

“Nothing particularly unthinkable.” Rowland took the stool the artist offered him. “She wanted me to show her drawings to Norman.”

Mollie Horseman rolled her eyes. “Oh, that. I didn't mention I knew Norman, so I escaped. Roie has rather a fearsome temper, you really can't say ‘no' to her without dire consequences.” She handed Rowland an ink pen. “Why don't you help me finish this?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Come on, it'll be a lark. Joan Morrison and I often draw together. It's jolly good fun to be honest.”

“I'm not—”

“If the result is terrible, I can start again. If it's not, maybe Frank will give you a job.”

Rowland removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, wondering fleetingly if there was some conspiracy afoot to find him gainful employment.

“I think we need a couple of louche characters here.” Mollie Horseman pulled up a stool beside him.

They worked in companionable silence for a time. Rowland tried to match the style of Mollie's linework, carefully drafting straight onto the heavy cartridge paper in ink. He drew a couple dancing a wild Charleston with beads and limbs flying askew. The woman was elderly and conservatively dressed despite her actions. He drew a second gentleman swinging from a chandelier, a cliché perhaps but not something he hadn't seen. Mollie approved, adding tiny stylistic tweaks to integrate the figures with the rest of the drawing.

“Good heavens, you've ink all over your shirt!” she exclaimed. “I really ought to have given you a smock.”