Give the Devil His Due (3 page)

Opening of New Hall

More than 200 people attended on Saturday evening the opening of a new lecture hall acquired in Seaview Street, Dulwich Hill by the Dulwich Hill branch of the New Guard.

Captain Donald Walker, general president, said the event was a step forward in the consolidation of the New Guard in the ideals which gave birth to the movement three years ago. The three main tenets of the movement were: “God, King and Country.” If the sacrifices of the men who served in the world war were remembered, the curse of Communism need not be feared. By carrying on the torch lit by the immortal dead, members of the New Guard were maintaining all that was Christian and British.

Mr. Ness M.L.A. said that the New Guard was a great moral force with 100 per cent loyal British men and women as members.

Presidents of other “localities” of the New Guard in the metropolitan area attended the meeting. Eighteen new members were enrolled and seven women joined the women's auxiliary.

The Sydney Morning Herald, 1934

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A
fter dinner, White and Rowland lingered at the table to finish the interview, while the others retired to the drawing room to play cards. By this time Crispin White was noticeably tipsy, though he did not seem to regard that as an impediment in any way. The reporter had a weakness for brandy and the quality of liquor served at
Woodlands House
was particularly fine. In the name of hospitality, Rowland joined him for another glass.

For his part, White was pleased with the evening's work. Sinclair was guarded and his friends rather protective, but still the shrewd reporter had managed to extract some interesting details. Of course some of them were not fit to print. The presence—or more accurately, the identity—of Elias Isaacs was a surprise. That Sinclair's set included a flamboyant Communist poet was known, he'd just not made the connection with Elias before. Even so, it had been over a decade, and Isaacs had been civil if not friendly. And surely the matter was better left alone. It was possibly this sense of satisfaction, fortified by brandy, that prompted the newspaperman to fling caution aside and put his final questions to Rowland.

“Tell me, Sinclair, this business with Eric Campbell—”

“What business with Mr. Campbell?” Rowland had assumed the subject would come up sooner or later. His infiltration of Campbell's New Guard had ended badly, and while Wilfred Sinclair had used all his power to keep the incident out of the papers, and his younger brother out of gaol, the rumours had survived.

“Word at the news desk is that you tried to assass… assass… kill the man,” White said, rummaging in his jacket for his notebook.

“Well word is mistaken, I'm afraid.”

“You didn't try to shoot him?”

“No.”

“I like you, Sinclair,” the reporter slurred, patting Rowland's shoulder vigorously. “I want to give you a chance to tell the world what really happened.”

“Thank you, but the incident is best forgotten.”

White sighed. “Of course, of course, what was I thinking? You're not going to admit to attempted murder.”

“You'll find, Mr. White, that I was in fact the only person shot that night.”

“That's right, that's right… Was it Campbell then? Were you fighting over leadership of the New Guard?”

Rowland's laugh was scornful. “I was never a member of the New Guard.”

“Why?”

“Aside from the fact that the New Guard is made up of lunatics, my politics, such as they are, do not lie in that direction.”

“Really?” White's manner seemed to sober somewhat. “My sources tell me that you have the Fascist cross tattooed on your chest, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland stiffened. “That's incorrect,” he said coldly.

“It's not a swastika then?”

“There is no tattoo.” Strictly speaking, it was the truth. The swastika had been burned into Rowland's chest. The rumour, however inaccurate, took him by surprise. That it was being used to affiliate him with the Fascists mortified and infuriated him.

White did not miss the change in his subject's demeanour. Maybe Sinclair was not an admirer of the Nazis—there was the presence of Isaacs, after all. It was interesting, but the room was beginning to spin so perhaps the paradox of Rowland Sinclair would be more usefully pursued another day. Crispin White thanked Rowland for his time and his brandy—sincerely because he'd quite unexpectedly enjoyed the young man's company.

Realising that both he and his guest were compromised by their intemperance, Rowland suggested that White stay the night at
Woodlands
and drive home in the morning.

“Why that's most handsome of you, Sinclair.”

“And unnecessary.” Milton strode into the dining room. “I'll drive Crispin home. He'll be able to report that he rode in a Red Cross Invitational racecar, and it'll give us a chance to catch up.”

“But my vehicle…” White began.

“I'll drop it back tomorrow, or you can pick it up… but there's no need for you to stop tonight.”

White seemed unsettled, but he agreed.

Again Rowland noted the prevailing tension between them. It smouldered like dry kindling about to ignite. He was accustomed to Milton's temper which was often quick and hot. But this was different. Still, Milton declined any further company and whatever the issue between the two men, Crispin White did not appear dangerous.

And so Rowland bade the reporter good night.

Edna opened the front door for Milton as the staff had long since retired. It had been three hours since the poet had departed with Crispin White. Rowland and Clyde had passed the time with hands of poker while Edna occupied herself drafting plans for a new commission—a frieze for the Miller's Flats memorial hall. They'd all been becoming decidedly concerned about the duration of Milton's absence, and so it was with some relief that Edna admitted him.

Milton took a seat, falling wearily into the armchair with his legs outstretched. “Dropped him off at Kings Cross,” he said sullenly.

“You were gone long enough to drive him to Melbourne and back,” Clyde muttered.

“How do you know Crispin White?” Edna asked, leaving her drawings to interrogate him. “I don't remember him.” The sculptress and the poet had known each other since they were children living on the same street in Burwood. They shared a great deal of history and most of their past acquaintances.

“His name was Weissen, not White, when I knew him. He's not a bloke I would have let near you back then, Ed.”

“Why ever not?”

“I can't say.”

“What did he do?”

“I can't say, Ed. Really. I have no right to say. Just trust me.”

“Did you have it out with him on the way to his lodgings?” Rowland had noticed the few drops of blood on Milton's usually immaculate cravat.

“Let's say we had words and he suffers from nosebleeds. What did he ask you about, Rowly… in the dining room?”

Rowland moved to sit on the couch. Edna curled up to make room for him. She made herself comfortable against his shoulder, while he told them of his conversation with White.

“He thought it was a tattoo?” Edna asked uneasily. It did not seem right that something inflicted so brutally and violently could be mistaken for a sailor's decoration.

“Chinese whispers—clearly the details have been somewhat altered in the retelling,” Rowland replied tersely.

“What did you tell him?”

“That I don't have a tattoo.” He loosened his tie and released the top button of his shirt.

Milton shook his head. “At least he was using it to cast you as a villain rather than a hero, Rowly. Perhaps Weissen, or White as he now calls himself, has changed… he claims he has.”

Rowland was tempted to ask from what White had changed, but they all knew Milton enough to be certain that if the poet said he couldn't say, then he wouldn't say.

“Don't worry about it, Rowly,” Clyde advised. “Just focus on the race. Do you know who's on your team yet?”

“Not yet,” Rowland replied. “Though I understand the teams have been drawn.” The Maroubra Multicar Invitational was to be a team endurance event. To maximise public interest, the teams would run three vehicles apiece from each of three weight and engine capacity categories in a long distance relay. “We'll all be introduced to each other tomorrow at the cocktail party.” Rowland had not realised the race was going to be so grand when he'd first agreed to participate. Perhaps it hadn't been then, but sponsorship, media interest and the involvement of celebrity drivers had seen the fundraiser grow into an international gala, with rumours of contestants travelling from the Continent and America.

“White's right about one thing, the speedway has a bad name— killed more than its fair share of drivers,” Clyde said quietly. He rubbed the shadow of stubble on his chin. “It's probably not too late to pull out, Rowly.”

“Yes it is! Far too late!” Milton said, appalled by the suggestion. “I can just see the headlines, ‘Yellow Mercedes pulls out!' They'll think Rowly's the same bloody colour!”

Rowland agreed with the poet. Withdrawing now would not be sporting, even if he wanted to, which he didn't. After years of driving the Mercedes within speed limits, he was looking forward to seeing what she could do on the track.

Clyde withdrew the suggestion without anything further in the way of caution. Despite his circumspect nature, he too was eager to see the Mercedes' supercharged engine opened up. As the selfappointed chief of Rowland's pit crew, he would in any case be able to keep an eye on both the motorcar and its driver. Hopefully that would be enough to defeat the killer track.

Rowland manoeuvred past the police cars and motorbikes gathered in McLeay Street, as he drove White's rattling Ford to the bookshop above which the reporter lived. He and Edna had decided to return the vehicle on their way to see an exhibition at the National Gallery of New South Wales. They'd catch a tram back to Woollahra after a morning viewing a retrospective of Margaret Preston's woodcuts and etchings. Milton had still been asleep when they left and Clyde busy giving the Mercedes an early morning polish in preparation for that evening's event.

It was as they approached White's side-entrance door to return the keys that they were stopped by a constable who demanded to know their business.

“I am returning a vehicle to Mr. Crispin White, who I believe resides here,” Rowland replied.

“A vehicle?”

“His motorcar.”

The constable looked startled. He took their names and, calling out to his colleagues who were apparently inside the flat, asked Edna and Rowland to follow him.

“What appears to be the problem?” Rowland asked.

The constable refused to clarify.

McLeay Street was busy, the main thoroughfare of Kings Cross which hosted many of Sydney's teahouses and entertainment venues. A crowd had gathered outside Magdalene's House of the Macabre, a waxworks which promised “Thrills and Chills” in lurid peeling paint by the entrance. The constable stopped them just inside the threshold, handing them over to the supervision of another young policeman. “If you'll just wait here with Constable Grey, I'll inform the inspector that you're here.”

Rowland tried to extract some sort of explanation from Grey, who puffed out his hollow chest and grinned excitedly. “You'll find out soon enough. Hope you've got a strong stomach.”

Now a little irritated, Rowland put his question more officiously.

It was at that point the stretcher was carried past them. It seemed someone had been killed. A white sheet cloaked the identity of the body beneath it.

“Who is that?” Rowland demanded of Grey.

The constable motioned the stretcher-bearers to pause. Perhaps it was pursuant to Rowland's inquiry. More likely it was his own curiosity. He pulled back the sheet with swagger and flourish. Edna stifled a scream. Crispin White's head sat at an odd angle, the wound at his throat gaping open. The reporter's eyes stared, cold and glassy.