A Few Right Thinking Men (23 page)

“You all right?” Milton asked.

“I'm fine. Just wondering where the hell tonight leaves us. Beating a man to death still seems more like Jeffs' style than Campbell's to me.”

Milton said nothing for a moment. “If I was you, mate, I'd take Jeffs at his word.”

Rowland looked sceptical.

“Don't get me wrong,” Milton went on. “The man's the worst kind of criminal and liar, but I think if he did have your uncle killed, he would have told you to your face—if only to make sure you toed the line. His kind don't take people out in secret…it doesn't serve their purpose.”

“I suppose so,” Rowland conceded. It was true that the gangland figures of Sydney did have a tendency to just walk up and shoot people. Disguises did seem out of character.

“Anyway, I think he was sincere about his regard for your uncle.”

“Why's that?”

“He could have given us a good kicking…he's bashed men for a lot less than what you said to him.”

“So that was him being sentimental?”

“Believe it or not Rowly, I think it was.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

New Guard
Statements Against Police

Minister Refutes

SYDNEY

The Chief Secretary (Mr. Gosling) said to-night that he had received from Mr. E. D. Irving, the acting Metropolitan Superintendent, a report replying to a statement made by Mr. Campbell in the Town Hall last night.

The report said: “A statement by Campbell that a detective officer was promoted, and another derated over the insulting words case is incorrect.”

The report also challenges many other statements by Campbell and denies that a transcript or notes was taken by police at a meeting held at St. George's Hall, Newtown, on January 31, when Kavanagh, a Communist, is alleged to have insulted the King.

The Daily Telegraph
, February 19, 1932

Rowland pushed his necktie into place and buttoned his jacket. He slicked his hair back and promptly dishevelled it with a careless drag of his hand. Even so, he was the picture of the young conservative gentleman. No one would suspect that he had just divested himself of a part-interest in the city's most disreputable nightclub.

He could hear the motorcab idling in the driveway. He touched the outside of his jacket pocket to check he had his notebook, and grabbed his hat as he headed out the door. It was early evening. The New Guard was gathering at the Sydney Town Hall, or at least a representation of the New Guard. The Hall would hold a maximum of three thousand men, so only a few delegates would be allowed from each locality.

In the pocket of his trousers, Rowland carried the khaki armband he had been issued. He'd take it out to slip over the sleeve of his jacket when he got there. He certainly wasn't going to wear it in the street.

Traffic clogged the main roads of the city centre, and so there were several minutes between the moment Rowland spied the clock tower of the Hall, and when they actually reached the building. Eventually, his motorcab dropped him at the porte cochere that had been constructed in front of the entrance for the comfort and convenience of the city's wealthier citizens. As he alighted, Rowland paused briefly. The Town Hall was looking a little worse for wear. The construction of the railway station beneath the building had caused significant cracking. Even the porte cochere had to be reinforced with temporary supports, and wooden scaffolding had been creeping up the sandstone tower, following the progress of the cracks. Still, this was the Sydney Town Hall, majestic, even if its foundations were compromised and the stability of its tower in doubt. To Rowland, it was the perfect place for the New Guard to meet.

He paid the driver through the window and pulled on his armband, ready to be marshalled by the staff officers who were on duty to ensure a quick and orderly entrance into the venue.

“Hello, Jonesy.” It was Poynton. “Wrong arm, mate.” He pointed to the armband. “Goes on the other arm.”

“Thank you.” Rowland moved the khaki strip to his left arm.

“You're to come with me,” Poynton said. “The Colonel wants you up front.”

“Lead on.” Rowland suppressed any sign of his reluctance. He had hoped to slip into the back unnoticed.

He saw the hall was beyond full. Poynton informed him that, by crowding, the organisers were aiming to squash in a force of double the standard capacity. The men were seated in groups, their units distinguished by the colour and markings on their armbands. Poynton escorted him down the left-hand aisle and toward the steps leading up to the stage.

“We're just here.” The bodyguard turned into the first row.

Rowland followed him, looking up at the stage. Several chairs had been placed in a wide arc behind the podium. Cables ran across the wooden boards and microphones had been set up. Campbell's address to the New Guard was to be broadcast over the wireless.

Rowland sat down, pressed against Poynton on one side, and another Guardsman on the other. The seats on the stage now started to fill, with several faces he recognised from the party at Boongala. De Groot sat up there with the other zone leaders and nodded primly when Rowland caught his eye.

John Dynon was in Rowland's row, a few seats down, talking to a young Guardsman. Rowland stared; he knew the man Dynon was talking to. Their dealings had been brief, but he rarely forgot a face. If the recognition was mutual, Clyde Watson Jones could be in serious jeopardy. He shifted, hoping the bulk of Poynton would be enough to keep him from the man's sight.

Every seat was now spoken for, and the temperature was rising. The air was charged with a kind of reverent expectancy as the men of the New Guard waited for their leader. When Campbell finally walked down the aisle with all the ceremony of a bride, the hall rose as one and exploded into a spontaneous ovation. Two standard-bearers walked behind Campbell, holding aloft the Union Jack and a five-coloured pennant with purple tassels which Rowland had become aware was the New Guard's own flag.

The noise had not yet subsided when Campbell stepped onto the stage and handed a carbon copy of his address to each of the men seated at the press tables.

The strains of the grand pipe organ eventually overshadowed the applause as the meeting opened with “O God Our Help in Ages Past.” The sound of close to five thousand male voices, raised in fervent song, was slightly more tuneful but no quieter than the reception that had greeted Campbell. After the chaplain dedicated the colours, Campbell rose again to thunderous applause.

Rowland took out his notebook and made a few sketches of Campbell at the lectern, more because De Groot was watching than anything else. He didn't so much listen to the words as to the tone, and it sounded like it was the standard mix of fiery rhetoric, patriotic zealotry, and ruling class paranoia he was hearing far too often for his liking. The men around him, however, hung onto every word as if Campbell was some kind of holy prophet. When his message was delivered, the audience stood and roared with unrestrained adulation.

Campbell called for silence and with him, five thousand men raised their right arms in the Fascist salute and took the affirmation of the New Guard:

“I solemnly and sincerely affirm that I will by every means in my power and without regard for consequence, do my utmost to establish in the state of New South Wales the high principles for which the New Guard stands. I will not consider my oath fulfilled until Communism has been completely crushed and until an honourable government has been established. I make this affirmation in the name of God and the King and in memory of my countrymen who lost their lives in defence of the same principles. So help me God.”

Rowland avoided the salute and the affirmation by drawing furiously and obviously.

The affirmation was followed by a bombastic rendering of the “Song of the New Guard,” a painstakingly rhymed ballad which declared the Guardsmen to be both ready and steady, and which finished with the cry “God save our King.”

Then the hall rang with “Advance Australia Fair,”

“Land of Hope and Glory,” and the national anthem. Just when Rowland was beginning to feel he was caught in a never-ending patriotic sing-along, the congregation finished with “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow” and the rally concluded.

The Guardsmen began to file out of the hall. Campbell remained at the lectern, shaking hands and accepting congratulations. Once again, there was a flurry of backslapping. Poynton stood and after stretching, ushered Rowland up the stage steps.

De Groot met them first. “Jones,” he said, ignoring Poynton, “I trust we managed to impress the nature of our organisation upon you.” His eyes fell meaningfully on the notebook Rowland was still holding.

Rowland smiled. “I did make a few sketches,” he said, “though I hope you didn't do all this just for my benefit.”

De Groot looked at him sharply, and then laughed. “Very good, very good.”

“De Groot!” John Dynon was making his way toward them. Rowland closed his eyes for a moment, sure now his game was up.

Dynon was bringing with him the man Rowland had recognised earlier. If he was going to be exposed, this was probably the worst possible time for it to happen. Dynon shook hands with De Groot. Rowland met the eyes of Constable Delaney, who had told him his uncle was dead, and who had watched him identify the body. Delaney's face was startled and Rowland knew he had been recognised. His own precarious situation meant that he did not pause to wonder what a serving member of the New South Wales police force was doing in the New Guard.

“You've met Poynton and Jones,” De Groot said to Dynon. “Jones has found tonight's meeting useful as a background for his painting of the Commander.”

Rowland didn't take his eyes off Delaney as he waited for disaster to descend.

Dynon returned the formality. “Allow me to introduce Jack Harris,” he said. “Harris has recently joined the Guard, my own unit. He'll be joining us for cards in the near future.” Dynon winked and De Groot cleared his throat.

“What line of business are you in, Mr. Harris?” De Groot asked.

“I'm a printer, sir.”

They stood in stilted conversation for a while.

Finally Poynton edged Rowland aside. “Jonesy, I'd love to offer you a lift home, but the Colonel needs me tonight.”

“I'll give you a lift,” Delaney volunteered, before Rowland could respond. “I have my car parked down the street a short way.”

“I wouldn't want to trouble you,” Rowland replied, bewildered by both the man's presence and his failure to expose Clyde Watson Jones as a fraud.

“I insist.” Delaney's tone made it clear to Rowland that he was in fact insisting.

They spoke relatively little until they reached Delaney's black Ford Tudor. Rowland climbed into the front passenger side seat, and Delaney started the car. “Right, Mr. Sinclair,” he said, “what the hell are you up to?”

“And who exactly would I be telling? Jack Harris or Constable Delaney?”

Delaney put the Ford into gear. “Actually it's Detective Constable now. We're going to make a small detour before I drop you home.”

“Why?”

“I think we may need to better understand each other, Mr. Sinclair.” Rowland didn't see he had any other option.

When they arrived at police headquarters, Delaney took him into the building through a back way, and left Rowland in a small office, alone.

A few minutes later, Delaney returned to wait with him but was unwilling to say anything more. Half an hour passed and Rowland began to pace impatiently.

There was no knock at the door. It was simply opened and a large man strode in. He was dressed in white tie and tails; apparently, he had been dining when he'd received word from Delaney. Consequently, he was not in the best of moods.

“Mr. Sinclair,” he said in a thick Glaswegian accent as he offered Rowland his hand. “I believe we have a situation.”

The newcomer's belligerent jaw and barrel chest exuded a kind of pugnacious strength but his face was otherwise round and unexpectedly boyish.

“I don't believe we've had the pleasure.” Rowland took his hand.

“Superintendent MacKay, Criminal Investigation Bureau.” Rowland had read of MacKay in the papers.

“Detective Constable Delaney tells me that you have found yourself involved with the New Guard, but that you do so under the name of Jones.”

“In that respect, Superintendent, Detective Constable Delaney is telling the truth,” Rowland said carefully.

MacKay's face flushed a little. “Just suppose, Mr. Sinclair, that you tell us why Mr. Campbell and his colleagues know you as Jones?”

Rowland looked slowly from MacKay to Delaney, and then back to MacKay. He wasn't sure if his actions to date were illegal, but he doubted it. He told them what he was doing and why, though he omitted mentioning the forged references.

Delaney raised his eyebrows, and the line of MacKay's mouth tightened considerably.

“Mr. Sinclair,” said the Superintendent tersely, “while I commiserate with your loss, you are interfering in matters best left to the police. You are not only putting yourself in danger but jeopardising a police operation.”

“About that…” Rowland tried to be pleasant. “Am I to understand that Detective Constable Delaney here has insinuated himself into the New Guard as a spy, under the false name of Jack Harris?”

“That is not your concern.”

Rowland carried on regardless. “If that is the case, it seems you require my discretion as much as I do yours.”

Delaney winced in the brief moment of silence before MacKay exploded—he was not going to be blackmailed by some well-heeled upstart. Rowland stood his ground. Indeed, despite his accent, MacKay's remonstrations took a tone similar to that of Wilfred's, and Rowland became instinctively stubborn.

“I am afraid, Superintendent,” Rowland said firmly, “I have every intention of finding out who killed my uncle. I don't see why that should be a problem for you.”