Give the Devil His Due (36 page)

“I'll only need a moment of her time.”

“Wait here,” the maid said, relenting. “I'll ask.”

The housekeeper came to the door clearly irritated by the further imposition. “What is it?” she snapped.

“I hoped, madam, to persuade you to reconsider the use of your telephone.” Rowland spoke quickly before she could stop him. “I am Rowland Sinclair of Woollahra. Mr. Watson Jones and I were abducted and robbed. If not for the kindness of strangers, we might have frozen to death last night.” He unfastened his wristwatch and handed it to her. “Please take this as a sign of good faith that I will compensate you and this establishment for the kindness you've already shown. We have been missing for over a day now and I must get word to my brother.”

The housekeeper looked at the watch he'd pressed into her hand. Despite the cracked crystal it was obviously an expensive piece. Probably stolen. She turned it over. The initials RHFS were engraved on the case.

“Rowland Henry Ffrench Sinclair,” Rowland said quietly.

“Ffrench…?”

“My mother's family name.”

“With two ‘f's?”

“Yes.”

“My aunt did for a family called Ffrench…” the housekeeper said almost to herself.

“Mother's people were from Cootamundra.”

Perhaps the housekeeper's aunt had worked for the Ffrenches of Cootamundra—Rowland could not tell, but she did ask him for Wilfred's details. He obliged, and she instructed him to wait. Minutes later she returned, and asked him to follow her.

With a hopeful glance at Clyde, Rowland did so. She directed him to a telephone in the office.

“Rowly, what the hell are you doing in Leura?” Wilfred demanded the moment he took the phone. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I think so,” Rowland replied. He told his brother that he and Clyde had been abducted and robbed, that they'd been left in the wilderness a few miles from Leura. But he was deliberately vague as to the details of why.

“Why did these ruffians feel the need to give you a thrashing? Do you need medical attention?” Wilfred asked brusquely.

“Clyde should probably see a doctor, but we'll be fine until we get back to Sydney.”

“I'll send a car and driver directly. I've already made arrangements with Mrs. Garrick to provide you with whatever else you need until they arrive.”

“Look Wil, the five chaps that helped us… they're looking for work. I don't suppose you could use anyone on
Oaklea
?”

“Are they Communists?”

“I really have no idea.”

Wilfred sighed. “Put them on a train to Yass. Tell them to alight at the
Oaklea
siding. I'll have Harry arrange something for them.”

Errol Flynn's Triumph approached the Lido just as several motorcars pulled out. “Looks like Reggie's had some friends over,” Milton murmured. He knew Stuart Jones' Studebaker and it was not among the departing vehicles. They pulled over on Ramsgate Road and waited until the last car had moved out of sight before driving onto the premises. He recognised Stuart Jones' vehicle parked inconspicuously at the far end of the Beach Court complex.

Milton led Flynn behind the nightclub building. “The door 'round the back will be easier to force,” he said.

“Shouldn't we knock first?” Flynn asked uneasily.

“Reggie Jones carries a gun, Errol. All we've got is the element of surprise.”

“I see,” Flynn said gravely. “Carry on then.”

The back door of the dance hall was not particularly secure. The lock was rusted and it had clearly been kicked in and repaired a number of times.

“Right.” Milton's voice was grim. “On the count of three.”

Flynn licked his lips and stood ready.

The door gave way on the second charge, bursting open into a long dimly lit hallway with several doors on either side.

A woman in a nurse's uniform waiting outside one closed door screamed as they stumbled in. Milton pushed past the woman and threw open the door to reveal Stuart Jones. He wore a white smock over his suit which was possibly what hampered him in pulling the gun out of this pocket. The nurse continued to scream, as Flynn launched himself at the doctor bringing Stuart Jones unceremoniously to the ground. The revolver, which he had just managed to grasp, skittered across the floor and under a bench. Milton left it there, preoccupied with the unconscious form laid out on a makeshift operating table.

A white sheet only partially covered the sculptress. Her dress and stockings had been removed and she was attired in only her cotton slip. A medical mask designed for the administration of ether covered most of her face and she had been strapped down. Milton ripped off the mask and unfastened the restraints. Edna was unnaturally pale and her breathing shallow.

He swore at Stuart Jones. “What the devil have you done to her, you belly-crawling worm?”

“I was examining her,” Stuart Jones said calmly. “Miss Higgins suffers from a somewhat nervous disposition and so I administered just a whiff of anaesthetic to keep her calm.”

“Examining her? Like hell! Why isn't she waking up, you bastard?”

“Sometimes the anaesthetic can lead to shock. If you'd get your pretty buffoon to unhand me, I could have a look at her—” “Touch her and you'll answer to me, Jones.” Milton slipped his arms under Edna and lifted her from the table. “We need to get her to a doctor—”

“Dear fellow, I am a doctor—” Stuart Jones protested.

“And then we go to the police and have this dingo locked up,” Milton finished.

Stuart Jones did not seem the least bit perturbed. “As my nurse will attest, Miss Higgins came in for an examination of a discreet nature. I administered anaesthetic to calm her so I could carry out that examination, which you interrupted. If Miss Higgins' heart stops due to shock, it'll be jolly bad luck exacerbated by the fact that you will not allow me to attend to my patient.”

Milton might have swung at the doctor if his arms had not been otherwise occupied carrying Edna out of the Lido. Flynn dragged Stuart Jones out to the Triumph with them, waiting for Milton's instructions on how to deal with the doctor.

Milton placed Edna carefully into the vehicle. “Just hang on old thing,” he whispered as he placed his ear to her lips to check she was still breathing.

“What do you want me to do with this scurvy wretch, Mr. Isaacs?” Flynn asked.

“Let him go,” Milton said straightening. “The police'll know where to find him.”

Somewhat reluctantly Flynn obliged. Stuart Jones rubbed the arm the actor had twisted behind his back, and opened his mouth to speak.

Milton punched him. He watched the doctor stagger and fall before he climbed into the Triumph beside the unconscious sculptress and valiantly resisted instructing Flynn to drive over Stuart Jones on the way out.

Following on the admission of a 17-year-old girl to the Women's Hospital last night in a serious condition, police arrested the mother of the girl, a nurse, another woman and a young man on a charge of conspiring to bring about a certain event.

The Braidwood Dispatch and Mining Journal, 1932

____________________________________

W
hile awaiting the arrival of Johnston and the Rolls Royce, Rowland took rooms at
Leura House
for the five men who'd given them refuge the night before. Arrangements were made with the manager and housekeeper to keep them in every comfort. He'd had to press the point with respect to Thompson whom the housekeeper initially refused to accommodate. However, in the face of Rowland's insistence, his obvious offence that she was in any way reluctant to afford hospitality to the gentleman, and the fact that he was turning out to be a very good customer indeed, she relented.

“I've taken the liberty of booking your passages to Central Station and then out to Yass for the day after tomorrow,” Rowland said as they were seated in the dining room for a proper breakfast. “If you'd care to work on a sheep property, there's employment at
Oaklea
.”

They regarded him with a mute awe that made Rowland intensely uncomfortable. “Did I misunderstand…?”

“No. Crikey no,” Thompson said shaking his head. “It's just we thought you was having us on… a bit of wag trying to save face you know. We figured you was just a bloke down on his luck, like us.”

“I am just a bloke,” Rowland said. “But I'm more fortunate than most, I suppose. Believe me, happening upon you chaps last night was a tremendous stroke of luck.”

“You don't have to do all this Mr. Sinclair,” said Petey Holmes. “We woulda let anyone sit at our fire.”

“Thank God, bacon!” Rowland murmured as a platter of rashers was placed on the table with eggs and sausages. “You were generous with what you had, Mr. Holmes. Please allow me to express my gratitude and then let us agree to never talk of it again.”

“You're a good egg, Sinclair,” murmured Grady as he crammed fresh bread spread with pale yellow butter into his mouth.

“How about you, Jones?” Eather said to Clyde. “Are you rich, too?”

“Haven't got two pennies to rub together,” Clyde replied, gazing with his one good eye upon a plate piled high with the kind of fare to which he'd become accustomed at Rowland Sinclair's table. He was getting quite disgracefully soft, but at that moment he was too excited about the bacon to care.

By the time Johnston arrived, it was nearly midday and Rowland and Clyde had cleaned themselves up a little with soap and water and iodine. They still smelled vaguely of rum, Clyde's face remained alarming and their suits were in need of a tailor's attention, but they felt much restored by the comforts of
Leura House
.

Wilfred Sinclair was at his brother's house when Flynn's Triumph returned. Percy Armstrong had called from the gate to tell him that Miss Higgins had been injured. Exasperated but concerned nonetheless, he telephoned the surgery of Frederick Maguire and summoned him hence. Why the prominent Sydney surgeon dropped everything to respond was not apparent, but the exact machinations of Wilfred Sinclair's influence were often inscrutable.

Milton carried Edna into the house, laying her on the chaise longue in the ladies' drawing room. He explained to Wilfred what had happened, as he watched anxiously for any sign that her breathing had slowed further. Appalled for many reasons, Wilfred sent servants for blankets, brandy and smelling salts. And he telephoned the police.

“What happened to Miss Higgins' clothes?” Wilfred asked quietly. He needed to know how bad this was.

“That bastard, Stuart Jones, wanted to make it look like he was examining her, I expect,” Milton said firmly, determinedly. “If she'd been fully clothed that story would have seemed untenable.”

“I see.” Wilfred did not voice an alternative, whatever he may have feared. “And what exactly was his purpose, Mr. Isaacs?”

“Clearly, Ed discovered where he'd stowed Rowly and Clyde. He was trying to keep her quiet.”