A Few Right Thinking Men (16 page)

For a moment, a heavy silence prevailed as they all remembered that it was the murder of the elder Rowland Sinclair that had brought them into this business in the first place. Nobody mentioned it.

“So, Ed,” Milton said, changing the subject, “when do you get to play something other than furniture?”

“I'm not playing furniture.” She lifted her head indignantly. “I'm a full member of the supporting cast. You can't go straight into leading roles.”

Milton feigned outrage. “One would think being the director's girl would count for something!”

Off the set, Edna had become a regular fixture on Ken Hall's arm. When the director came round, he claimed he'd found a new star, whom he was determined to nurture. The men who lived with the said star tolerated him, as they did all her suitors, but they hoped this latest infatuation, with both Ken and his film, would not last long. No matter what Edna claimed, it was just not art.

Chapter Nineteen

New Guard Case

Campbell Fined £2

SYDNEY, Monday

At Central Summons Court, New Guard leader Colonel Eric Campbell, charged with using insulting words near a public street, was fined £2 with 8/- costs, and in default, imprisonment with hard labour for five days.

The Chief Stipendiary Magistrate (Mr. Laidlaw), giving reasons for his decision, said that Mr. Campbell had publicly referred to Mr. Lang as a “nasty tyrant and scoundrel”, as a “buffoon” and as “the hated old man of the sea”. He also compared Mr. Lang to a bull. According to the magistrate, at least some of the words Campbell used about the Premier were insulting.

The Argus
, January 19, 1932

Campbell's trial for breaching the Vagrancy Act lasted five full days. He was represented by two eminent barristers, both King's Counsel. The distinguished silks dealt with the prosecution by attempting to indict Premier Jack Lang for misgovernment. The government prosecutor responded with equally vehement attacks on Campbell and the New Guard. It was, as Campbell had hoped, a highly publicised event, attracting crowds of media and the curious public. On the third day of the trial, Edna and Milton managed to find a seat in the public gallery and later reported on the day's verbal stoushes. As they told it, the law had never been so entertaining.

“That Lamb bloke,” Milton said, referring to Campbell's lead counsel, “is a pompous old bugger; but he's funny. It was some production. ”

“And Campbell?” asked Rowland.

“He didn't get a speaking part,” replied Edna.

“But he carried on from the dock like the romantic lead.” Milton puffed out his own chest and strutted in imitation. “I thought Ed was going to swoon.”

Rowland turned to Edna, his brow raised, “Campbell? Really?”

She shrugged. “He's very charismatic.”

“For a Fascist lunatic,” Clyde said, putting his feet up on the couch.

“The magistrate had to wait while Campbell posed for photographs,” Milton sniggered. “He did everything but actually take a bow. That man's got style. If he wasn't trying to deport me, I think I'd buy him a drink.”

“As long as Rowly paid for it,” Clyde added testily.

When the trial had run its course, Eric Campbell was convicted and fined the princely sum of two pounds. Political martyrdom had never come so cheaply.

***

It was not until the following week that Rowland again visited Boongala. This time, he carried only his notebook; he was simply there to make sketches. Campbell accepted it as some form of artistic research. In reality, it was the men in bizarre black hoods, not their leader, whom Rowland planned to scrutinise. Spending time with Campbell would allow him to “look around” the movement, without actually enlisting in it.

It was a Saturday, so the New Guard's Commander was not going into his offices at Campbell, Campbell and Campbell. Instead, the day was devoted to New Guard business, and it was for this reason he arranged for Rowland to accompany him. Eric Campbell liked to control the way in which he was depicted, whether by journalists, photographers, or now, painters. He was not impolitic enough to tell Rowland what to paint, but he could influence how the artist saw him—an important consideration when one was carving one's place in history.

Campbell welcomed him into his study and offered coffee. A wide expanse of a man with an overlarge mouth in a heavily jowled jaw was sitting outside the door in the anteroom. He held his cigarette with chunky fingers, which seemed far too thick to have ever rolled the slim stick. He stood as they entered, and Campbell introduced him to Rowland as Herbert Poynton. Apologising that he had to make some urgent calls, Campbell retreated into his office, leaving the two men in each other's company.

Poynton was a gregarious individual and not at all unfriendly. Campbell had apparently spoken well of Clyde Watson Jones, the painter who would immortalise, if not legitimise him on canvas.

“So Jonesy,” said Poynton, “you don't mind if I call you Jonesy…? What do you think of our Colonel?”

Rowland sipped his coffee. “He is certainly a patriot.”

Poynton nodded vigorously. “Of course, you've only just made his acquaintance.” He sat back, exhaling a dense cloud of smoke. “The Colonel and I have been close for a while…he's come to rely on me, if you like, and, of course, I am honoured to be a man he can rely upon.”

“You work closely with Colonel Campbell?” Rowland was both intrigued and a little repelled by the man.

“I look after his personal security,” Poynton replied. “The Bolsheviks would pay dearly to procure his demise, and we are called on to travel a great deal to meetings and rallies. I have some experience with this sort of thing, but circumstances prevent me from speaking about it…Suffice to say, I spend a great deal of time with the Colonel and have the privilege of his confidence.”

“Indeed.” Rowland took the notebook from his breast pocket. “You don't mind if I draw while we chat? It's a professional habit, I'm afraid.”

“Be my guest.” Poynton straightened his back as best he could, and lifted his chin slightly.

“The New Guard seems a colossal organization.” Rowland opened the conversation as he sketched Poynton with dark, heavy lines. “I guess the Colonel must be very busy. It's very generous of him to allow me so much time.”

“He is busy…very little happens without his input, on some level at least. Of course, there are different branches and specialised forces within the New Guard, like there are in any army. They may have special tasks,” Poynton tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially, “under the authority of particular officers. Regardless, we all know who leads us.”

***

Rowland travelled with Campbell from Boongala to visit various divisional branches. At each stop, Campbell spoke stirringly of the Communist threat to like-minded crowds who did not need convincing, but who nevertheless appreciated the eloquent echo of their own convictions.

Rowland watched with interest, filling page after page of his notebook with studies, not of Campbell, but of the men who made up his army. Of course it was futile. The New Guard was at least fifty thousand strong, and he didn't have a clue who he was searching for. It occurred to him, then, that this plan of Milton's was somewhat half-baked.

Poynton stood by him at each meeting, hanging on Campbell's every word with a kind of obsequious pride, applauding each time with the same zeal. Rowland found Campbell's bodyguard fascinating. In the Colonel's presence, he was almost militaristic, at pains to be useful and unobtrusive. When Campbell was absent, however, Herbert Poynton liked to talk. Mainly of his own importance both within the movement and to Campbell. With a great deal of gratuitous nose-tapping, he alluded to special assignments that Campbell entrusted only to him.

Rowland suspected Poynton was exaggerating his own significance; but still, the bodyguard knew a lot. Already he had told Rowland of the factional tensions within the movement, the men among them suspected of being either Communist or police plants, and the attempted blackballing of aspiring Guardsmen by business competitors who had already enlisted. All this came between Campbell's speeches.

When Campbell took lunch with some of his General Council, Rowland and Poynton went instead to a nearby hotel where Rowland heard much about Poynton's own plans. The bodyguard saw a great future for himself in the new order that he was convinced would come.

“Tell me, Poynton,” Rowland said when the man finally paused, “you seem like a man of action. It must be immensely frustrating to stand by while the Communists, protected by both the law and Lang, openly talk of revolution.”

Poynton wiped the white beer froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand. He grinned knowingly. “As I said, Jonesy, we have special troops to deal with the bludgers. Of course, I can't talk about it, but let us just say the law and the Premier are notably absent when the New Guard deals with the worst of the Communists.”

“The worst? Aren't they all bad?” Rowland couldn't believe what he was saying. He resisted laughing at the idiocy of his own words.

“Well, yes, I guess they are, mate.” Poynton nodded. “But some need to be taught a lesson, as an example to the others.”

Rowland tried to be nonchalant. “And the Colonel decides who needs to be educated in this way?”

“Now, that wouldn't be wise. Colonel Campbell is, after all, a solicitor, an officer of the courts.” He laughed into his beer.

Once Campbell had rejoined them, they spent the rest of the afternoon at a New Guard Smoking Concert. The programme was pleasant, inoffensive, and, to Rowland, somewhat bland. But it was not for the songs and piano recitals that the men of the New Guard had gathered. The concerts were all-male affairs, during which politics was discussed in a vague cover of cigarette smoke.

The Colonel worked the room, a hero among his people. Rowland wondered, briefly, if Campbell's back was bruised with all the slapping. The idea of their leader's portrait being hung with the other distinguished subjects of the Archibald met with considerable approval; and they generally assumed that an artist perceptive enough to make such a selection would be one of their number.

Rowland recognised the odd face because he noticed and remembered faces, but they belonged to acquaintances remote enough not to identify him as Rowland Sinclair, even if he seemed somewhat familiar.

***

“Goodness, Rowly, you reek,” Edna said when he arrived home late that night.

“Smoking concert,” he said with a grimace.

“So how was it?” Clyde, who smoked himself, was less critical. “Are you aglow with the reflected glory of the great man?”

“You might say that.” Rowland loosened his tie.

Milton sat forward. “Learn anything?”

“The Communists are amassing an army,” Rowland replied gravely. “Apparently we are in danger of becoming a Soviet colony. Parliament House is about to be painted red and I think the Labor Party has been stealing babies and drowning puppies.”

“Did you find out anything about the men in hoods?” Milton pressed.

“Come on, Milt, I could hardly just walk in and ask ‘Who killed Rowland Sinclair?'”

“I suppose you're right.” The poet was clearly disappointed. “So what did you do all day?”

“Mainly, I followed him around to branch meetings. I talked more to his bodyguard than to Campbell.”

Clyde snorted. “I told you. Ridiculous bloody plan…”

“I don't know.” Rowland was thoughtful. “This man, Poynton—the bodyguard—he seems to know rather a lot about the movement, or at least he claims to.” Rowland filled them in.

“Hmmm, that is interesting.” Milton was on his feet pacing the room. “Do you think you could get him to tell you more?”

“If he knows more, I don't think it would be too difficult,” Rowland removed his jacket. “He's a forthcoming sort of fellow. A bit of a braggart, really.”

“I take it no one recognised you?” Clyde frowned. He was yet to be convinced that what Rowland was doing wasn't completely foolhardy.

“There were a couple of chaps I'd met ages ago.” Rowland shrugged. “But they didn't look twice. Apparently, I'm entirely forgettable.”

Clyde shook his head, not comforted by his friend's flippancy. “Have you thought about what you're going to do if someone does recognise you?”

“Not really. They're not assassins, Clyde. If they were, Lang would be dead by now. If I get found out, it'll be more embarrassing than anything else.” He laughed. “Of course, Wilfred might kill me if he hears…”

Clyde wouldn't be distracted. “If someone recognises you as Rowland Sinclair, what are you going to do?” he repeated.

Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. Clyde was obviously not going to let this go. “I'll just keep insisting I'm you,” he said. “I'll say I've never heard of this Rowland Sinclair.”

“That's it? Rowly, that's just…”

“Get them to telephone here,” Milton interrupted, his face intense with a new idea. “Anyone who recognises you will know you live at Woodlands—the telephone exchange will put them through. When you're out with Campbell,” and at this point Milton adopted a very British accent, “it will be I who is Rowland Sinclair, gentleman and all round good chap. I'll be here, smoking pipes and drinking brandy with all the other jolly good fellows…pip-pip and all that.”

“I don't speak like that,” Rowland protested.

“Of course you do,” Milton said, lightly punching his shoulder. He became serious. “Look mate, the charade'll create enough doubt to get you out of there in one piece. At the very least, it will let us know you're in trouble and we'll come get you.”

“Brilliant, that's just smashing, wot.” Edna supported the idea enthusiastically and added her own parody of his accent.