Give the Devil His Due (25 page)

Beejling's face became rigid, immovable. He stood at attention and would say nothing more.

“Right,” Rowland said angrily. “Get into the car—the back seat.” Once Beejling had complied he climbed in beside him. Clyde slipped in behind the steering wheel. “We might just see what Percy Armstrong has to say.”

Percy Armstrong was, in fact, as unforthcoming as Robert Beejling.

“I'll have to get instructions, sir.”

“I'm giving you instructions, Mr. Armstrong.”

“I'm afraid that in this respect I answer to your brother, Mr. Wilfred Sinclair.”

“For crying out loud!” Rowland stalked furiously into the house and booked a call through to
Oaklea
in Yass. He caught his brother at home. The conversation was terse and heated.

“If I had told you that I'd hired bodyguards you would not have cooperated, Rowly.”

“So you just went ahead and had me followed secretly? Bloody hell, Wil! What's wrong with you?”

“I know you too well, Rowly! You're reckless and you have more enemies than any man in New South Wales. I also have our mother's safety to consider. What in the name of God were thinking taking her to a nightclub? Have you lost all sense of propriety?”

“It was a tea dance, not a nightclub. She wanted to go dancing.”

“For Pete's sake, Rowly, don't be ridiculous. Mother is nearly seventy!”

“She seems to have forgotten that.”

“Well, remind her!”

“Why on earth would I do that? She's having a lovely time! It might do you good to forget you're so old from time to time.”

“How very droll.” Wilfred's tone conveyed the roll of his eyes.

“Your bodyguards, Wil, call them off.”

“Certainly, as soon as the police arrest and incarcerate the wretch who tried to shoot you.”

“Dammit, Wil—”

“I have neither the time nor the inclination to argue with you, Rowly. You won't change my mind.” Ignoring Rowland's continued protest, Wilfred said, “Kate tells me you're staging an exhibition.”

“Er… yes.” Rowland was caught by the sudden change in subject.

Wilfred sighed. “Well, I suppose if you must paint, this sort of thing is unavoidable. Kate's rather taken it as a personal mission to ensure your show is well patronised by the right sort of people from the right circles.”

“That's very kind.”

“Yes, she is. She's under the impression that this exhibition will not contain any lewdness or nudity.”

“Not in the paintings.”

“What do you mean by that?” Wilfred's voice became sharp and suspicious.

Rowland laughed. “A jest, Wil. No one will be naked.”

“Very well. I'll make some enquiries. Perhaps the prime minister will be available to open it.”

When Rowland telephoned, Detective Delaney seemed awkward and specifically requested he not call into the station. “Mackay finds my consorting with potential suspects somewhat unseemly, Rowly.”

“I'm a suspect? For what?” Rowland demanded, surprised.

“Milton was the last man to see White alive. I'm afraid that places you all in it, old boy.”

“You're not in earnest?”

“No, not really. I'd be surprised if Mackay actually believes you lot have been murdering reporters either, but he doesn't like how it looks. He'd have me flogged in the street and permanently assigned to some backwater station if he knew I'd shown you the crime scene photographs.”

“I see. Where would you suggest we meet then?”

Delaney gave him the address of Pretty Mabel's Tea Emporium in Darlinghurst and they agreed upon a time. Rowland grabbed Rosaleen Norton's folio on the way out the door. He would return it to the
Smith's Weekly
offices after meeting with Delaney. With any luck he would catch Frank Marien on this occasion.

Rowland found the optimistically named Tea Emporium housed in dilapidated premises. The interior was dim and quite opaque with cigarette smoke, the counter top invisible beneath glass domes containing sticky buns and cakes. A narrow stairwell led to the upper floor and, presumably, a residence.

Spying Detective Delaney at a table in the back, Rowland joined him. Delaney summoned the harried proprietor, a heavy, ruddycheeked gentleman with naval tattoos on his thick arms, who responded good-naturedly when the detective addressed him as “Pretty Mabel”. Delaney ordered an entire sponge cake and a pot of tea.

“Is anyone joining us?” Rowland asked as a six-inch sponge sandwiched with strawberry jam and mock cream was placed before them alongside a silver teapot.

“You wait till you taste this Rowly—you'll declare I'm a saint for splitting it with you!” Delaney replied, his eyes gleaming as he contemplated the cake. “Shall I be mother?”

“Why not?”

Delaney splashed tea into thick china cups, before cutting the sponge in two and pulling the larger portion onto his plate. He grinned like a naughty child, forked a massive chunk into his mouth and closed his eyes in appreciation. For some moments he was unable to speak and patently uninterested in doing so.

Rowland partook nodding his own approval. The sponge cake was superb. “So what did you need to tell me that you couldn't say at the station?” Rowland asked between mouthfuls.

“Detective Hartley is pushing for the immediate arrest of Elias Isaacs for White's murder,” Delaney said, washing down a large mouthful of cake with tea. “It's only your fancy lawyers that have made the bastard hesitate, but they won't hold him back forever. Hartley's like a rabid dog with a bone.” The detective sighed. “It may be time for Milton to come forward with whatever he's not telling us.”

“It's not anything that will help him, Colin.”

“He didn't—”

“No, he didn't.” Rowland spoke with absolute certainty.

Delaney removed his hat to scratch his head. “Hartley's narrowed his investigation to Milton. The evidence is circumstantial but unless someone else comes up with an alternative…”

Rowland nodded, grateful for the detective's efforts. It would be up to them now.

“Of course, I'm not investigating the White murder anymore,” Delaney murmured. “And I'm afraid I haven't had any luck locating the chap who fired that shot through your window. Sadly a couple of ocean liners were due at the harbour so, by the time the shot was fired, the reporters camped at your gate had left in search of something more newsworthy.” Delaney returned to his notebook to check the facts. “None of them recalls seeing a chap enter the property.”

Rowland groaned. He'd hoped that at least one thing would resolve easily.

“Considering the light in which the newspapers are portraying you, Rowly, I wouldn't be surprised if it was some outraged veteran acting on impulse and a few too many beers.”

“Capital.” Inwardly, Rowland cursed
Smith's Weekly
.

Delaney regarded him sympathetically. “Hopefully this will all blow over quickly. In the meantime, you should be careful.”

Rowland indicated the gentleman drinking coffee at a table by the front window. Beejling nodded. “Don't worry, Colin, Wil's ensuring that I'm careful whether I like it or not.”

The detective chuckled. “One way of keeping an eye on you, I suppose.”

Rowland sighed. He did indeed suspect that Wilfred was using the shooting as an excuse to check on the conduct of his brother. “I'm afraid Wil is still unsure that
Woodlands
is the most respectable place for our mother.”

“How is that arrangement working out?” Delaney asked. The detective was aware of Elisabeth Sinclair's frailty of mind and more particularly the crime her sons suspected she'd committed years before. As a friend, Colin Delaney was sympathetic; as a policeman, he monitored the situation lest that violence recur.

Rowland knew what the detective was asking and why he asked it. For that he could not blame Delaney. It was a difficult situation, but he was convinced his mother was not dangerous—if she had ever been. Certainly, Elisabeth Sinclair had not done anything that Rowland could confidently say he would not have done himself given the chance. “Very well, I believe. Mother seems settled and happy. She's getting out quite a bit and has become rather fond of Milt— seems to think he's some nephew of the Governor-General.”

Delaney laughed.

“Mother relocated to Yass—to
Oaklea
—when Aubrey was killed and when my father became… hard,” Rowland said, even now struggling to verbalise his father's violence. “Perhaps Sydney only has happy memories for her. In any case, she seems better than I've seen her since the war.”

Delaney nodded, satisfied for now. “I'm bloody glad to hear it, Rowly. I just want you to be careful—you've taken on one hell of a responsibility.”

“With Wil's private army following me around, what could go wrong?”

Delaney glanced at his watch and wiped his mouth. “I'm going to see Frank Marien now. I don't suppose you'd like to come along?”

“I thought you weren't on the investigation into White's murder anymore—”

“I'm not.” Delaney winked. “I'm just looking into the theft of his notebook. Do you want to come?”

“Yes, I do actually. I have to return Miss Norton's folio to her anyway.”

“Oh, we're not going to the office,” Delaney said, dusting the crumbs from his tie as Rowland took care of the account. “Marien's in the hospital here.”

“The hospital? Why?”

Delaney shrugged. “He's poorly. Something quite grave, apparently. He's been running
Smith's Weekly
from his hospital bed.”

DO you remember the time when “Smith's Weekly” had a front page to say that Alan Kippax was through as a batsman, and ought to be dropped from the State side? And the same day Kippax made a double century, and has been making centuries ever since!

Last Wednesday “Smith's Weekly” published a wild screed attacking the “Sun” for its heat wave stories. Wednesday was the hottest day for two years; Wednesday night the hottest for 19 years, and Thursday hotter and hotter. It's a shame the way “Smith's” points out the errors of others, and always misses the bull's eye itself. Someday “Smith's Weekly” will do something right, and someone will get the sack. “Smith's” bosses will think it's wrong!

Truth, 1934

____________________________________

F
rank Marien's hospital room was crowded with journalists and artists. So much so that if it were not for the hospital bed at its centre and the occasional nursing nun, one might have been excused for thinking it a gentlemen's club of some sort. The antiseptic smell of the corridor was replaced with that of cigarettes and pipe smoke as one entered the room. Deep-voiced conversations were broken intermittently with resounding laughter.

Rowland recognised Kenneth Slessor standing by the doors that opened out on to a small private balcony and provided the room with a view of the St Vincent's lawns and gardens.