Give the Devil His Due (32 page)

“I've been working. My studio is a bit of a dog's breakfast at the moment.”

“It always is.”

“I'm preparing for an exhibition, Wil. It's more of a mess than usual.” Rowland opened the study door and allowed his brother to enter ahead of him. As much as he hated this room, Rowland knew Wilfred preferred its traditional gravitas to the informality and idiosyncrasy which had worked its way into the rest of the mansion.

Rowland pulled the copy of Campbell's
The New Road
that Milton had borrowed from his pocket and handed it to Wilfred. “Have you seen this?”

Wilfred nodded. “I've read it, in fact.”

Rowland had intended to argue his case reasonably, logically, but quite soon he became aware that he was ranting about the possibility that Campbell would regain the public support he'd once had, the possibility that the anti-Communist hysteria which had gripped New South Wales two years before would return.

Wilfred listened patiently, waiting until his brother was finished before he cautioned, “I'm not sure the fear of a Communist insurgency was, or is, unwarranted, Rowly.”

“For God's sake, Wil!”

“Look, Rowly, I'm no more enamoured with Campbell's corporate state than you are, but he's a spent force, old boy. You're wasting your energy fighting him.”

“I can't help wondering if perhaps there were people who thought Adolf Hitler was a spent force, too.”

“We are not Germany, Rowly.”

“Not yet.”

“Not ever!” Wilfred said, so sharply that Rowland was reminded that his brother had served. “We live in a democracy. As much as it means your Communist chums can spread their poison, it also means Campbell's free to do the same. There's nothing we can do.”

Rowland put Milton's proposal to Wilfred then, without mentioning that it was the poet's idea, of course.

Wilfred regarded his brother incredulously. “You want me to foster relations with Campbell?”

“I want you to absorb him into the fold of the Graziers' Association. Make him feel important, give him a knighthood… I don't care. If Campbell feels appreciated by the status quo, he'll have no reason to follow Hitler's path.”

“The king gives knighthoods, Rowly, the Graziers' Association does not.”

“You know what I mean.” Rowland did not want to argue about honours. “Look Wil, the New Guard, the Fascist Legion, Campbell's attempts to meet Hitler and Mussolini were all about his own ego. You shut Hardy up with a senate seat—why not Campbell?”

“We don't like him.”

Rowland was startled by the simple admission. “You're not serious.”

“I am. Campbell rubs people the wrong way. He's a self-important, arrogant braggart.”

The description seemed to Rowland to be applicable to most of the Graziers' Association but he was diplomatic enough to leave that unspoken. “Which is why what I'm suggesting will work better than decrying him.”

Wilfred sat forward in his chair. “Rowly, I'm genuinely worried about you.”

Rowland straightened, startled. “Me? Why?”

“I'm concerned that you've developed a tendency to become anxious.”

“What? You're the one who's having me followed.”

“Calm down Rowly. Hear me out. The trouble you got into in Munich has left you unjustifiably apprehensive about Eric Campbell. It's nothing to be ashamed of—after the war there were many men—”

“Dammit, Wil, I'm not suffering from some kind of shell shock!”

“You've got to let this go, Rowly. You did well. If not for you, Campbell may well have forged dangerous alliances. But it's time to move on, find a real purpose. If its politics you're interested in the United Country Party could use—”

“No!” Rowland stood. “I promise you Wil, the UCP and I have no use for each other.”

The exchange deteriorated from there. The Sinclair brothers fell easily into battle, for they were adversaries of old and knew well the art of infuriating each other. In the end, Rowland stormed out of the study more livid with his brother than he had been in years.

“Whoa, Rowly… what the Dickens are you doing?” Clyde grabbed his friend's shoulder and pulled him away from the boxing bag. “At least put on gloves,” he said glancing at Rowland's already grazed knuckles.

Rowland stopped, embarrassed. He wasn't sure why he was so angry. He should have anticipated Wilfred's response. But he hadn't. For some reason he thought that Wilfred would understand, even share, his concerns about the Fascists. It seemed he'd temporarily forgotten the nature of his brother's politics. Wilfred had reminded him.

Rowland dragged one hand through his hair and adjusted his tie. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“No skin off my nose, Rowly, only your knuckles. What in the blazes is going on?”

Rowland leaned back against the stall, his arms folded. Clyde did the same, and he listened as Rowland recounted his conversation, such as it was, with Wilfred.

“He thinks you're having a nervous breakdown?” Clyde said, aghast.

“I wouldn't go that far, but he does believe I've lost perspective.” Rowland glowered at the bag as if it were, in fact, Wilfred Sinclair. “What are you doing out here anyway?” he asked, changing the subject. He had come out to the stables to vent his frustrations alone, and while he did not resent Clyde's intrusion, he was surprised by it.

“I was looking for you, actually,” Clyde said awkwardly.

“Oh, why?”

“I just took a telephone call.”

“For me?”

“No, he wanted to talk to me. It was Rosie's father.”

Rowland turned. “And what did he want?”

“He wants to meet with me. He says we should talk.”

“What about?”

“He didn't say.” Clyde stared at his calloused hands. “Perhaps he's changed his mind. Perhaps that chap Antonio's done a runner and—” He rubbed his face. “I don't want to build up my hopes, Rowly.”

“But it's too late,” Rowland murmured. Clyde had said little about Rosalina in the past days but he was aware she rarely left his friend's thoughts. “When does he want to meet you?”

“Now.”

“Let's go. You don't mind if Beejling and I tag along, do you?”

Clyde laughed. “It just wouldn't be the same without Beejling.”

If, by all the signs, you know you're heading for a nervous breakdown, why not take the matter in hand right now? Put office problems, household cares, behind you for a couple of weeks. Give yourself some sunny, happy days and restful nights at VICTORIA'S LEADING HYDRO, where curative baths, electrical treatments, massage, correct diet will tone up your entire system, give you a fresh start. Building heated throughout. Phone Warburton 5, or write for booklet A, Victoria's Hydro, Warburton.—[Advt.]

The Argus, 1934

____________________________________

M
artinelli had asked, or perhaps directed, Clyde to meet him at a wine bar in Leichhardt.

“I reckon giving Rosie that painting must have changed her mind, made her realise I'm willing to put her before my art… or your art at least,” Clyde said happily.

“Well then, it was worth every penny,” Rowland said, pleased for his friend. They were using the Rolls Royce because Clyde had taken the carburettor out of the Mercedes. Under normal circumstances this would have meant using Johnston, too, but the chauffeur was driving for Wilfred and Kate while the family were in Sydney.

The wine bar was a less than salubrious affair, and it was only because it seemed to be a haunt of Italian men that Rowland didn't wonder at it. The proprietor welcomed them quite affably and led them to a private room at the back of the narrow building.

Martinelli was not alone. Rowland held back as he recognised the half dozen younger men who had thrown them out of the hotel restaurant just weeks before. Unsmiling, Martinelli invited them to sit at a long table set with bread and olives and wine. Clyde seemed so hopeful that Rowland ignored his misgivings and took a seat.

The door was closed. Rowland turned to see that four more men had walked into the room before locking the door behind them.

“We have no money,” Martinelli announced loudly.

“That's all right, I'm happy to pay for the food,” Rowland offered, wondering what they had walked into.

“No, we don't pay your tax!”

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean, Mr. Martinelli,” Clyde said, as confused as Rowland, but still clinging to the hope this was some kind of welcome to the family.

“Blackmail. We will not be blackmailed!”

“What exactly are you talking about, sir?” Rowland asked calmly.

“The picture.” The old man slammed the table with his fist before pointing at Clyde. “You paint Rosalina's face on a body with no clothes like some… some…” Martinelli lapsed into Italian but his meaning was clear. “My Rosalina, she is like the Madonna! This picture is an insult, it is a threat, a slander, and you demand money or you will ruin her.” He pulled the receipt Clyde had secured to the back of
Psyche by
the Styx
from his pocket and threw it down.

“No!” Clyde said, horrified. “You've got it all wrong!”

“Why else would you send us a dirty picture?”

Rowland tried to help. “I painted that picture, Mr. Martinelli, not Clyde. I can assure you—”

The eldest of Rosalina's brothers launched himself over the table at Rowland. “You insult my sister, you bastard!” Taken by surprise Rowland was knocked to the ground. Clyde leapt up immediately, but there were others to take him.

“It was a gift!” Rowland shouted as the angry men converged.

“What kind of man imagines a good girl in such a way? What kind of fiend defames the image of a decent girl?”

“I didn't, Miss Martinelli was—” Rowland stopped. Telling the outraged Martinellis that he had not simply imagined Rosalina posing nude, that he'd painted her from life, might indeed ruin her. He glanced at Clyde helplessly.

The first punch was not unexpected. Rowland and Clyde had, by then, both realised they'd been lured to the wine bar to be taught a lesson, that they'd walked into a trap, the only escape from which, it seemed, would be to betray Rosalina's secret. That path was one neither Rowland nor Clyde would consider. So they fought back because it was all that was left, but they were grossly outnumbered and aware from the beginning that it was hopeless. Still, it was satisfying to get in a few blows of their own before they were overpowered.

Rosalina's father sat down at the table, eating stuffed olives as he watched the two men who sought to compromise his daughter's good name being taught that Enrico Martinelli would not be blackmailed.

Robert Beejling had parked his Singer behind the Rolls Royce. The bodyguard no longer bothered to stay out of sight—Rowland Sinclair was well aware of his presence. He remained with the automobiles for the first two hours. In this neighbourhood, he decided, the vehicles probably needed more protection than young Sinclair. Hunger as opposed to the passing hours prompted Beejling to enter the wine bar. When he couldn't see either Rowland or Clyde at the tables inside, he enquired of the proprietor. These places, he knew, often had private rooms or courtyards.

“Yes, sir, we do have a private dining room. It's available if you'd like to—”

“Available? Are you sure it hasn't been hired?”

“No sir, it's available.”

Beejling became alarmed. “Two gentlemen came in a couple of hours ago… one was tall, dark hair, striking blue eyes… his friend was rougher looking, stocky and sandy haired.”

The proprietor looked at him blankly. “No, no gentlemen like that.”

“When did you start your shift? Could you have missed them?”

“No. I've been here since eight o'clock, sir. They didn't come in.”

“That's impossible. I saw them come in!”