A Few Right Thinking Men (29 page)

“Bloody hell, McCreagh, it was your men that botched the Sinclair job—what makes you think you can handle this?” said Henry Alcott, the Diamond King.

That was the one moment Rowland was relieved the hood obscured his face. Despite his long-held suspicions, this specific reference to his family, this admission that these men were involved in his uncle's murder, outraged him.

“That was more to do with your supposed information than anything we did!” McCreagh bit back.

Alcott raised his voice. “He was a bloody decrepit old man…You'd think it was bleeding obvious when he opened the door!”

“He was your target. You suggested it!”

“Gentlemen!” John Dynon demanded silence. “The incident was unfortunate, but I won't let it inhibit our work.”

“That's all very well, but the original matter remains unresolved,” protested Alcott.

“Perhaps you and McCreagh could work together to resolve it then?” Dynon said to end the matter. “It might return some self-respect to both your suits. Shall we move on?”

The Kings of Diamonds and Spades nodded begrudgingly, and the topic moved to Jock Garden and other prominent Communists.

Rowland's mind worked at speed. Henry Alcott, who had served with his brother, and been Aubrey's best friend, had made the nomination that had seen his uncle killed. Why? He doubted Henry had even met the old man. Had Alcott discovered something about his uncle's ownership of the 50–50? But why would the New Guard care about that? And why was the job botched…could it be true they hadn't intended to kill him? He was getting very hot, and quite claustrophobic, under the hood.

The Kings went back to the plan to kidnap Lang. Eventually the location, timing, and props were agreed, though this time without umbrellas.

“I'll have to take this to the Colonel,” Dynon said finally. “Something involving Red Jack needs his approval…and we'll have to coordinate with whatever De Groot is cooking up for the bridge opening as well…”

They ended the meeting with “God Save the King,” for which it seemed the code of silence for the lesser cards was relaxed.

The Legionnaires left the warehouse and disappeared into various alleys and buildings to transform back into ordinary citizens once again. Rowland rolled up the robe and hood and stuffed it under his jacket.

Poynton grinned at him. “Well, Jonesy, what did you think?”

“The Sinclair job…what was that all about?”

Poynton shrugged. “I was out of the Legion by then…all I know is some fella died and it was a major cock-up—the Colonel was furious. I think that's why Alcott had to make himself scarce for a while…Something wrong, Jonesy?”

Rowland closed his mouth and focused. “No…It was hot wearing that hood; it's just made me a bit light-headed…We should go. Two men loitering in a dark alley can't look good.”

Once again, Rowland called Delaney as soon as he reached home. To his surprise, despite the time of night, the detective had just come into the station. “I'll be right over, Sinclair.”

While he waited for him, Rowland recounted the meeting of the Fascist Legion to his houseguests, who had been waiting for his return.

“So Alcott sent these lunatics after your uncle?” Edna was shocked. “But why?”

“I honestly don't know.”

Clyde frowned. “What did he mean that the matter was unresolved?”

Milton stood and started to pace the room. “Was there something at your uncle's house that they wanted? Perhaps Mrs. Donelly interrupted them before they could find it.”

“That'd fit,” Rowland said slowly. “But what would Uncle Rowland have that they would want?”

“Maybe they were after the deeds to the 50–50?”

“What would the Legion want with a sly-grogerie?”

Milton's brow furrowed. “Who knows? Maybe it was something else. The important thing was that they were after something that they failed to get.”

“Why is that important?”

“Because they might come back for it…to resolve the matter.”

Rowland looked at him in silence. The poet was right.

Delaney arrived at that point and Rowland started to tell his tale. “I know,” the detective interrupted. “I was there.” He drew the five of clubs out of his jacket pocket.

“Then you heard what they said about my uncle's murder.” Delaney sat on the sofa next to Milton.

“I'm sorry Sinclair…they didn't really say enough for an arrest. We could take them in for questioning, but that would alert them…MacKay wouldn't be happy if I blew my cover for that. Not yet.”

“What do you suggest then?” Rowland's tone was icy.

“They want to finish what they started…or that's what it sounded like. Your uncle's already dead so maybe it was something else that took them to his house.” Delaney had obviously made the same deductions as Milton. “I'll see if I can get men watching his house…It'll be difficult; most of our men are tied up with the bridge being opened and all…but I'll try.”

“What about the plan to kidnap the Premier?” Rowland asked. “Surely you can arrest them for that.”

“Probably,” Delaney conceded. “But the Super's got other ideas. We've got men looking after the Premier…but they won't go that way. Campbell will knock it on the head. They'll go with De Groot's plan.”

“And you'll stop that?”

The detective shook his head. “No. De Groot's plan is bloody daft. We're going to let him do it…it'll be a publicity disaster for the New Guard and it'll give us something concrete to go after them with.”

“What exactly is he planning?”

Delaney grinned. “You'll see on Saturday…but make sure you get there early so you can get a good vantage spot.”

“And what about my uncle?”

“A watch on his house is the best I can do for the moment, and I may not even be able to spare that. I'm sorry, Sinclair. We're stretched right now.”

Rowland was angry. It seemed to him that his uncle's death was being afforded the lowest of priorities. It was not something to which the Sinclairs were accustomed.

“Look, Sinclair,” said Delaney. “I won't let this go. All I need to do is find one weak link in the Legion, who'll turn and dob in the others. I've got my hood now…it's only a matter of time.”

Rowland was not particularly comforted, but he accepted it. As soon as the detective's car had left the driveway, he stood and grabbed his hat.

“Where are you going?” asked Edna.

“Delaney won't be able to organise men tonight,” Rowland replied. “I'm going to keep an eye on my uncle's house.”

“I'll come with you, Rowly,” Milton grabbed an iron from the stand by the fireplace, testing its weight as a weapon. “My strength has the strength of ten because my heart is pure.”

Rowland rolled his eyes. “Tennyson,” he muttered as he led the way out.

At his uncle's house, Rowland gave the domestic staff strict instructions not to answer the door. He and Milt retired to the sitting room with their fire irons. However, the easy comfort of the old man's sofas was not conducive to vigilance.

It was nearly midnight when Rowland was jolted from the stupor into which he had fallen. Milton was stretched out on the couch. A motorcar had just pulled up in the driveway.

He shook Milton awake as he walked to the door with his fire iron in hand.

There was a knock.

He waited until Milton found his weapon. The knocking became more insistent.

They positioned themselves in the vestibule on either side of the door. Rowland was uncomfortably aware that this was precisely where his uncle had died. In similar circumstances.

The knocking was now a pounding.

Milton stood battle-ready, fire iron raised. Rowland reached for the handle, undid the latch, and flung the door open.

Chapter Thirty-four

What are you doing here?” Wilfred demanded, shocked to see Rowland and his Communist friend at all, let alone wielding weapons. “Where the hell are the servants?” The elder Sinclair glared at Milton, who smiled and lay down his fire iron.

Over a drink, when Wilfred had calmed a little, Rowland told him everything.

Wilfred's reaction was measured, thoughtful. “Your Detective Constable is right, Rowly—it's probably not enough to arrest them yet…” He shook his head. “Henry Alcott…what would Aubrey say…?”

“That's what I can't figure out, Wil,” Rowland poured another sherry for himself and Milton. “Even if Henry is in the New Guard, what on earth could he have against Uncle Rowland?”

“Who can say? We both know the old fool could find trouble anywhere. Perhaps he offended Henry somehow—he offended a lot of people, you know.”

“Henry didn't just drop him from an invitation list, Wil—he had him killed.”

“You said yourself that they didn't intend to kill him…I'm sure the police will find the answers now that you've put them on the right path. At least you can stop this insane charade you're playing with Campbell.”

Rowland was conspicuously silent.

Wilfred stared at him, waiting for confirmation he had finished with his subterfuge.

“I have to get my paint box back first,” Rowland muttered, before he changed the subject. “Why are you in Sydney, Wil?'

“The bridge opening.” Wilfred shrugged, a little embarrassed. “The A.I.F. veterans are marching in the pageant.”

Rowland refilled his brother's glass. It wasn't like Wilfred to march; he had never done so in all the years since the war. His brother wore his patriotism proudly, but he kept his service private.

“Kate insisted,” Wilfred continued uncomfortably. “She thinks I should march for Ernie's sake….They came up with me.”

“The opening will be a big show, Wil,” Rowland replied, “and Ernie's very proud of you. Every boy wants to point out his father in the parade.”

Wilfred drank his whisky. “Mick Bruxner's arranged for them to be admitted to the area reserved for the Country Party, right at the head of the bridge,” he said. “I intended to phone you tonight…I want you to escort Kate.”

Rowland nodded. “Of course.”

Lieutenant Colonel Michael Bruxner, a decorated veteran and old friend of Wilfred's, had recently won leadership of the United Country Party. Presumably Premier Lang had offered the members of the opposition and their families the courtesy of proximity, to view his moment of triumph. Rowland did have his own plans for the opening, but he would change them.

“Where is Kate?” he asked, becoming conscious of his sister-in-law's absence.

“She and Ernie are staying with her sister in Mosman tonight. I had some business to attend to in the city,” Wilfred replied. “They'll catch the first ferry tomorrow morning.”

“I'll meet the ferry,” Rowland promised.

They remained in conversation for a short time, and then Wilfred urged them to go.

“I have no intention of admitting any late-night callers,” he said. “Mrs. Donelly, bless her, doesn't seem to hear anything after eight o'clock.” He pulled a handgun out of his hip pocket and laid it on the occasional table beside him. “You needn't be concerned, Rowly.”

***

“I really have to get my paint box back from Campbell's.” Rowland and Milton walked into the drawing room at Woodlands House.

Milton didn't react. In his experience, artists were obsessive about their favourite brushes and pigments, so he was not surprised that Rowland was pining for his paint.

“I'm thinking I should retrieve it tomorrow.”

“There is the small matter of the bridge opening,” Milton reminded him. “You're going to have bugger all time to get to Turramurra. It'll keep, Rowly—just use Clyde's stuff.”

“Someone's bound to recognise me at the bridge opening, Milt—it'll be difficult to explain what Clyde Watson Jones is doing in the official party and somewhat awkward to claim my paint box from Campbell's house, once they think I'm either a spy or a turncoat.”

“Forget about the box, then. It's just paint, mate…I know you and Clyde have lucky brushes and all, but you can easily afford to replace them.”

“It's not that.” Rowland grimaced. “I only remembered, when Wil took out that gun, I never did return the revolver he gave me in Yass. It's still in the bottom of my paint box.”

Milton choked. “Good God, Rowly, how could you forget something like that?”

“Well, I did.”

“Don't worry about it—it's probably clogged with paint and utterly useless by now.”

“I'm not completely daft,” Rowland said defensively. “I wrapped it in a rag.”

He looked critically at the half-finished work on his easel. “It looks like I need to get my lucky brushes back before this is completely beyond redemption.”

Clyde and Edna came into the drawing room with cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. They were both wearing dressing gowns, having apparently tried and failed to sleep. They had encountered each other in the kitchen when hunting for a late night snack.

“You're back!” Edna exclaimed.

Milton told them why he and Rowland had returned so soon.

“So what now?” Clyde dunked a biscuit into his steaming cup. “Are you going back to being Rowland Sinclair on a permanent basis…or have you become attached to my name?”

“I may not have a choice after tomorrow…but the police seem focussed on other things at the moment. I have half a mind to call on Henry Alcott!”

“That's just going to warn him,” Milton objected.

Rowland sighed, irritated. “I still have no idea why Alcott nominated Uncle Rowland.”

“Enough!” Edna put down her cup. “Whatever you do the day after, tomorrow you're just our Rowly, and we're all going to the opening.” She was excited by the planned festivities. It was probably why she couldn't sleep. For a day, at least, the Depression would be forgotten as the whole of Sydney celebrated its bridge.

“About that…” Rowland looked at Milton for help. “Wil needs me to accompany Kate and Ernie to the ceremony.”

“Rowly, no!” Edna's face fell. “There won't be another opening day. Not ever.”

Sydney had been preparing for months and the mood was now almost euphoric. The residents of Woodlands House had long planned to spend the historic day together, attending the extravagant celebrations, both official and otherwise.

“Don't whine, Ed,” Milton admonished. “Rowly can't really say ‘no,' and we can have an even better time without him.”

“Steady on!” Rowland shoved him.

“I'm trying to help you, comrade.”

“I can still get to the Venetian Carnival,” Rowland offered, not entirely happy with Milton's help. The Venetian Carnival scheduled for the evening promised, in any case, to be the most magnificent of the celebrations. They had invitations to a number of private parties being held on the foreshore in view of the spectacle, including an outdoor masquerade ball, for which Edna had organised their costumes. Eventually, albeit reluctantly, the sculptress accepted the disruption to her plans, and they retired in anticipation of the next day.

***

As he had promised, Rowland met his sister-in-law and nephew early the next morning. He had travelled in the Rolls-Royce, an unconscious concession to his brother's feelings on the choice of motorcars.

Ernest saw him first and raced over. “Hello, Ernie. Don't you look the gentleman.” Rowland greeted the boy, immaculate in suit and tie, and ruffled his hair.

Kate, now quite obviously pregnant, hurried up behind her son and immediately began to smooth the curls, while Ernest struggled to duck away from her hand. Rowland kissed Kate and winked at Ernest.

“Unhand him, Kate—no man likes to be groomed in public”

“Rowly, isn't this exciting?” she said. “Did Wil tell you he was marching? Colonel Bruxner's been so kind to invite us to stand with him. It's so wonderful that you're with us, too. What an historic day…”

Rowland helped Kate into the Rolls while she enthused. Johnston drove them to The Rocks and they went the rest of the way on foot, slowly. It seemed like every man, woman, and child from the whole state, if not the country, had converged on Sydney. Rowland was glad Wilfred had asked him to accompany Kate and Ernest; navigating through the crowds today was no task for the faint-hearted. The streets were thick with people. Delighted, excited people, street jugglers hoping to make a few pennies, and vendors hawking memorabilia with pictures of the bridge. The route Rowland had expected to take was cordoned off for the movement of dignitaries and officials. He hoisted Ernest onto his shoulders for fear of losing him, while Kate clung to his arm. For what would normally have taken ten minutes, it was over an hour before they could take their places at the head of the bridge.

“Rowland Sinclair.” Michael Bruxner, the new leader of the Country Party, their host for the day, shook his hand. “Good to see you. But I thought Wilfred said you were abroad?”

“Just returned,” Rowland lied. “Wouldn't miss this for quids. And let me introduce…”

“Kate, and young Ernest. So good to see you both again.”

Their situation afforded an excellent view of the proceedings. The official silk ribbon, which stretched from one side of the bridge to the other, was just a few yards in front of them, awaiting the Premier's scissors. The man himself was nearby, talking to his colleagues in the government, standing a balding head above the height of most men. The press was out in force, well aware of Campbell's threats to disrupt the ceremony. Rowland noted the Premier's three-piece suit; the plan to bring him dressed as a beggar had obviously been foiled. Photographers and a Movietone News camera were positioned by the festooned dais. The New South Wales Police Force was present in large numbers. Rowland caught sight of both MacKay and Delaney standing unobtrusively, but close to the official parties. More dignitaries began to arrive, heralded in by marching bands and a flurry of flag waving.

When the Governor-General, Sir Isaac Isaacs, was escorted in by the Royal New South Wales Lancers, Ernest tugged on Rowland's jacket. “Can you draw the horses?”

Rowland took out his notebook and obliged; he had in any case been itching to capture the pageantry. And because he was drawing, focussing on the details, he saw what everyone else was missing.

A horse at the tail end of the mounted escort somehow seemed wrong. It was clearly no military charger. The chestnut gelding was too overweight for that. The rider, too, was out of place; though on first glance he blended with the others. His uniform was not quite right; it seemed too big for him. As the Governor-General's escort approached the dais, closer to where Rowland's party was standing, he saw that unlike the other Lancers, the odd rider's sabre was tucked behind his belt rather than attached to his saddle. As the horseman's face came into view, Rowland's pencil lost momentum and dropped to the ground.

It was Francis De Groot.

Almost mesmerised, Rowland slipped his notebook back inside his jacket. Ernest tugged on his sleeve and handed him his pencil. “Can I see the picture?”

“Sorry…here.” Rowland gave him the book, while his eyes searched for MacKay and Delaney. They were not far from De Groot, who had stopped his horse behind the Movietone camera stand, and they were looking right at him. Delaney had an expectant smile on his face. MacKay's betrayed no emotion, though his hand was held in what Rowland guessed was a “hold firm” position at his waist. If it was a signal, it was a subtle one.

The State Governor Sir Phillip Game opened the official proceedings with a message of congratulations from King George V. Rowland removed his hat for the national anthem and then Lang made his speech. The Premier stepped from the dais to cut the ribbon.

Rowland's eyes were fixed on De Groot, who was now inching his mount through the police lines. The constabulary moved out of the way to avoid his horse, but did nothing to stop his progress. Without realising he was doing so, Rowland stepped forward, toward the advancing steed. De Groot reached the ribbon before Lang and spurred his horse forward. The animal baulked at the crowd and reared. De Groot drew his sabre and attacked the ribbon valiantly with two upward cuts. The crowd gasped as one, women screamed, but the ribbon was unharmed. Undeterred, De Groot dropped his reins, seized the ribbon and started sawing through it. Eventually the silk gave way, and turning to face the cameras, he held his sabre aloft in elated triumph. “I declare this bridge open, in the name of the decent and respectable citizens of New South Wales!”

It was only then the police surged toward him.

“You can't touch me. I'm wearing the King's uniform!” De Groot shouted at the clamouring officers.

At that moment, MacKay entered the fray, grabbing De Groot by the heel and propelling him bodily out of the saddle. With his other foot caught in its stirrup, De Groot remained half-suspended, hopping on a single leg. His horse began to panic. But with the police officers focussed on trying to free him from the stirrup, the horse's distress was missed. Afraid the animal may bolt and drag De Groot through the crowd, Rowland jumped out, grabbed the dangling reins and tried to calm the beast.

He was there for less than a minute before MacKay took the reins from him, but it was time enough for De Groot to recognise him, and to hear the Superintendent say, “Well done, Sinclair!”

As De Groot was bustled away, the crowd cheered, though Rowland was unsure as to whether it was for De Groot or for his exit. The violated ribbon was re-tied and Lang cut it, this time in a fashion more sedate, though somewhat more efficient than that of De Groot.

Delaney approached Rowland. “Glad to see you got a good spot, Sinclair,” he said. “Quite a show.”