Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

For all the gentlemen I have known.

“H
e's going to hang himself…” Edna gasped as the knot was pulled tight, then reefed violently apart once more. The sculptress bit her lower lip nervously as she watched the process begin again.

“Looks that way,” Clyde agreed, folding his brawny arms as he leaned against the door jamb. The faint smile on his lips was given away by the curve of the lines at the edges of his eyes.

Milton Isaacs poured tea from the silver service before him. “We'll get involved if he turns blue,” he promised her. Rowland Sinclair would ask for help if and when he wanted it. In the meantime, Milton could not resist a poetic commentary. “There is in this no Gordian knot which one might not undo without a sabre,” he said, flourishing the cake knife like a sword.

“Poe,” Rowland muttered just loud enough for them all to overhear through the bedroom's open door. It was possibly less than gracious to point out that Milton's poetry was not actually his, but the game of appropriation and attribution had become something of a tradition between the two men. Elias Isaacs had gained both the moniker “Milton” and his reputation as poet by virtue of his ability to quote the English bards at will. And, until he had taken up residence in Rowland's Woollahra mansion, few with whom he kept company had possessed either the education or interest to make the acknowledgement he so conveniently omitted.

Milton smiled, neither chastised nor offended. He handed Edna a cup of tea as they settled upon the chaise lounge to observe as Rowland struggled with his necktie, hampered by the fact that his right arm was encased in plaster beyond the elbow. It had been reset and cast just the day before, and Rowland was still becoming accustomed to the restriction it inflicted.

Cursing as he realised the tie was again too short, Rowland
pulled it off for a third time, frustrated. Movement had been painful in the rudimentary splint they had fashioned for their escape from Germany, but it had been possible nevertheless.

Ever helpful, Milton suggested Rowland adopt the cravat, which the poet himself favoured. Their friendship was such that even Rowland Sinclair did not feel the need to respond politely.

“Give up and tie a four-in-hand, Rowly,” Clyde called, checking his watch.

Although mumbled, Rowland's reply made clear what he thought of the knot Clyde advocated. He hadn't used a four-in-hand since he was a schoolboy.

Unable to watch him struggle any longer, Edna intervened. He protested, of course, but she ignored him, slapping his hand away and knotting the tie with the full Windsor she'd always known him to wear. She slipped the ends beneath the sling which supported the cast and turned down his collar.

He looked down, a little surprised that the length was perfect. “Thank you, Ed.”

She reached up to brush the dark hair off his forehead. A barber had come to the hotel suite that morning but Rowland's hair never stayed in place for long. “You really are ridiculous sometimes,” she said, smiling into the intense blue of his eyes. “Come and have some tea before we go.”

Rowland nodded. He could sense that his companions were anxious to depart, to put oceans between themselves and Germany. As much as Paris seemed a world removed from the dark, ordered insanity from which they'd fled, the fact that they were probably wanted for murder in Munich made the protection of a single border fragile. Even here in the Hôtel de Crillon on Place de la Concorde, it seemed that Nazi officialdom was a presence—on leave or
business—recognisable by language and manner, though they were not in uniform.

The four Australians had been in Paris for three days and had, in that time, kept to themselves. All their meals had been taken in the privacy of the suite. They had visited the war cemetery in Ypres where one of Rowland's brothers was buried, but such pilgrimages were nothing out of the ordinary and they'd been careful to draw as little attention as possible. And yet they were uneasy.

Eager to be on home soil as soon as possible, Rowland had booked their passages on Imperial Airways' silver service between France and Britain. They would cross the Channel and land on the coast of Kent in just hours and sail for Sydney thereafter.

They had little luggage. What clothes they now possessed had been purchased in Paris for they had left Germany with barely more than what they'd been wearing. The new bags—containing only basic and quickly acquired wardrobes—were in fact half empty.

Rowland drained the cup Milton had handed him. The poet wore a jacket of orange velvet which he had purchased from a street vendor near the hotel. In Paris it did not seem so odd perhaps, and Milton's tastes had always been flamboyant.

Rowland slipped his arm out of the sling to pull on his own jacket, easing the sleeve over the cast with Edna's help. The fabric was strained around the extra thickness, but at least it wasn't orange.

Clyde grabbed their bags, refusing to let Rowland help or call the bellboy. “It'll be quicker to take them ourselves,” he insisted, handing Edna's Gladstone bag to Milton. “We don't want to miss that flight.”

And so they made their way down to the hotel's gilded foyer. They found it uncommonly crowded. Not accustomed to anything but instantaneous and obsequious service, the guests who waited in the foyer were noticeably irritable and indignant.

“I'll settle the account,” Rowland said quietly. “You chaps get the doorman to hail a taxi. I'll be as quick as I can.”

Clyde nodded, glancing at his watch. They were cutting it fine.

Rowland joined the queue at the reception desk. There were several people ahead of him waiting impatiently. It seemed there was a problem at the head of the line. At the counter, a fair, thickset gentleman made demands of the manager. He spoke French haltingly with a German accent. He was accompanied by two gendarmes and a particularly fat man who compulsively mopped the perspiration from his brow with a large handkerchief. It was the presence of this fat man that alarmed Rowland. He knew him—Rousseau—the sweaty rotund doctor who had cast his arm and treated the burns on his chest.

The manager signalled the concierge and they conferred before he turned back to the German. “Monsieur Sinclair's party has neither checked out nor called for a bellboy, monsieur. I expect he is still in his suite.” He took a key from the rack behind him. “I shall take you up myself.”

For a moment Rowland was panicked, certain Rousseau would notice him in the crowd. As soon as the men left the service desk, the guests who had been waiting surged towards it, demanding to be attended. Rowland went with them, keeping his head down and his back turned. The concertina doors of the lift closed. Quietly then, without hurrying, Rowland walked out of the hotel.

Clyde waved him over to their taxi and Rowland slipped into the vacant front seat. The others were already inside.

“We're late, monsieur—would you hurry please?” he asked, slipping easily into French. He said nothing to his companions. There was a chance the taxi driver understood English and Rowland was uncertain of what extradition arrangements existed between France and Germany. They had already made one mistake.

When they reached the airstrip, he asked the driver to wait. “We are just seeing our friends off, and then we shall need to return to the hotel.” He handed over a generous enticement and the driver agreed readily.

Edna, who understood French, cast a questioning glance in his direction but uttered nothing to contradict his story. It was not until they were within the airport building that Rowland told his friends what had happened.

Milton cursed the doctor. “Fat underhanded pig! I knew he was too interested in how you'd been injured.”

“The cigarette burns,” Clyde said grimly. “He must have realised we'd had trouble with Nazis.”

“But this is Paris,” Edna protested. “Surely the Germans can't…”

“We can't take the risk, Ed,” Clyde replied. “We're wanted for murder, remember?”

“So what do we do?” Edna asked, glancing uneasily at the customs officials.

“I'm hoping the French police won't have put out a general alert for us simply because Rousseau reported some unusual injuries… not yet anyway.” Rowland looked out at the double-winged Argosy, ready on the runway. Passengers had begun to board. He made a decision. “Wait until I've gone through. If there are no problems, follow.” He took a pocketbook of money from inside his jacket and handed it to Clyde. “If they stop me, get back into that taxi and get out of here.”

“We can't just leave you,” Edna protested.

“There's not a lot of point in all of us being arrested.” Rowland smiled reassuringly at her. “I didn't check out. With any luck, Rousseau and company will assume we stepped out to see the sights… they are probably still waiting for us at the Hôtel de Crillon.”