Give the Devil His Due (15 page)

“Go shower, mate,” Rowland said, collecting bottles. “Ed and I will have it cleaned up by the time you come back down.”

Clyde snorted, but he was eventually bullied into going. He didn't mention Rosalina and neither did they.

“What's this?” Edna asked, picking up a large envelope with Rowland's name scrawled upon it as she gathered up the empty tumblers.

It was only then that Rowland remembered the crime scene photos that had been in his hand when he'd come upon Clyde's disappointment.

“Colin wanted us to have a look at them?” Edna said when he told her what the envelope contained.

“I don't know that he meant all of us—” Rowland started.

“Of course he did. He knows what you're like.” She extracted the photographs and spread them on the bench Clyde used to stretch canvasses.

“Oh poor, poor Crispin,” Edna whispered as she studied the images.

The chamber in which Crispin White had died was windowless.

The walls were lined with wax figures all facing into the centre, so he appeared surrounded. The scene was strangely reminiscent of a gathering about a grave. The waxen statues included Spartan warriors, the Minotaur, Medusa, an out-of-place Egyptian and Pan. White's eyes were open, his mouth parted in a final scream. A dark pool of blood formed a grim halo about his head and shoulders.

“Are you all right, Ed?” Rowland asked, taking her hand.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I wish his eyes had been closed, Rowly. The last things he ever saw were monsters. It's so very sad.”

Rowland nodded. Edna was probably correct, though he wasn't sure the monster was wax. From the photograph of the body, it did seem likely that Crispin White had been facing his attacker. Other photographs clearly showed the blood splatter on the walls as well as the waxen figures.

“What's that?” Edna pointed to lines in the plasterwork.

Rowland held the photograph to the light. “It's just electrical cabling, I think.”

They were still poring over the images when Milton joined them. The poet carried several newspapers under his arm, which he dropped onto the settee.

Rowland told them both of his conversation with Delaney.

Milton cursed. “Miriam's husband knows nothing about what happened,” he said. “If I tell this bloke Hartley the first thing he'll do is pull her in to verify it.”

“You may not have a choice, Milt. This is a murder inquest.”

“Telling them is not going to exonerate me. It'll make me look more guilty if anything.”

“I think Hartley might have guessed that, which is why he wants to interview you,” Rowland said. “We may just have to hurry up and find the perpetrator ourselves.”

“Yes, let's do that.” Milton took the sheaf of photographs from Edna and leafed through them. “One helluva way to go…” He stopped and brought the photograph of the body closer to his eye. “Where's his tiepin?”

“What tiepin?”

“He was wearing a tiepin when he came here—flash gaudy thing with a diamond. Shaped like a couple of gold horseshoes. I noticed it because it seemed so inconsistent with the complete lack of panache in his suit.”

The fashion of White's suit aside, Rowland did now hazily recall a tiepin.

“It was a gift from a lover,” Edna said, quite definitely.

“He told you that?” Rowland asked, though he was not surprised. The sculptress was the kind of person in whom even strangers often found themselves confiding.

“No,” she said. “But look at him. His suit is plain, his tie is plain, his hat didn't even have a feather in the band. A man like that would never buy a diamond tiepin, and he'd never wear it unless it was a special gift. The kind of gift a lover would give.”

“Exactly!” Milton agreed. “We already know that he wasn't a gentleman. Perhaps he had a liaison with this woman at Magdalene's… they fell out or she already hated him. She slashed his throat and, in a fit of spite, took back the tiepin!”

“A woman who carries a razor?” Rowland asked sceptically.

“Have you not met Tilly Devine or Kate Leigh?” Milton replied.

Rowland had, in fact, made the acquaintance of both women through no orchestration of his own. The reigning queens of Sydney's criminal underworld, he expected they would indeed carry blades of some sort on their persons, as would, he supposed, many women who lived their kind of life. It was possible White was involved with a less than ladylike character, but it was rather a lot to conclude from a missing tiepin.

“I'll mention it to Delaney. He might still have enough involvement in the case to establish if the tiepin is among White's personal effects.”

“Why don't you ask Miss Norton if Crispin was seeing anyone?” Edna suggested. “Or,” she added tentatively as a thought occurred, “if she were stepping out with him herself.”

Rowland glanced at the photographs again. Rosaleen Norton was only seventeen but some of her artwork revealed violent sensibilities. Perhaps they were more than artistic. His face darkened somewhat as his mind moved to the profile in
Smith's Weekly
. “How did you find Mother?” he asked Milton.

“I can report that the Dowager Sinclair was in excellent spirits,” Milton replied. “Excited to finally see the coverage of the Red Cross invitational. She loved the picture of you in the
Herald
, though she thinks you might need a haircut. I read her the coverage in
Smith's
Weekly
and
The Sun
, personally.” He winked. “I don't think their writers have ever been so eloquent. Poetic even! I took
Smith's
and
The
Sun
with me,” he added, nodding at the papers on the settee.

Rowland picked up the offending newspapers and handed them to Edna. Milton pointed out the articles.

“Hopefully this will blow over in a couple of days,” Rowland murmured without much in the way of optimism.

“It's a good picture of you, albeit a little cross,” Edna said as she began reading. She gasped. “Why, this is ridiculous!” “I wonder who wrote the article, Rowly. Was it Miss Norton?” Milton asked.

“I expect so, though the quotes are cobbled from what I said to White.” He frowned. “I'm sure she said he hadn't written anything up. When would he have had time?”

“Perhaps his notebook was found and duly returned to the paper,” Milton mused.

Rowland put the crime scene photographs back in their envelope. “I might just ask Miss Norton when I return her folio.”

FRANK GREEN ACQUITTED
DEVINE'S TIEPIN
Shooting Affray Recalled

SYDNEY, Monday

Charged at the Central Criminal Court to-day with having assaulted James Devine on June 16, 1931, and stolen a diamond tiepin while armed, Francis Donald Green, 28, a clerk, known as Frank Green, was found not guilty and discharged. Green failed to answer when the case was called on last year, and was arrested at Moore Park a few weeks ago.

The Senior Crown Prosecutor (Mr. McKean, K.C.) said that the case rested on the evidence of James Devine. There was no doubt that Green was present at the time of the robbery.

James Devine, a fruiterer, said he met Green at the Sir Walter Raleigh Hotel, and Green asked for money. He was driven to his home in Maroubra, and Green arrived later with a man and a woman. Green again asked for money and seized witness's tiepin, at the same time pressing a revolver against him. Green then backed to the door, and the witness went to get a gun. Shots were exchanged, and the taxi driver, named Moffitt was shot dead.

Devine said he fired three shots at Green who told him that Moffitt had been hit. He denied having gone through Moffitt's pockets that night.

Mr. MacMahon (for accused): I put it to you that you robbed that unfortunate man of his money the night he was dead?

Devine: I deny it. It is not my job to rob the dead.

GREEN DENIES CHARGE

Green denied having fired at Devine. He said he did not have a gun, and did not have his hands in Devine's pockets. Devine invited him to attend a party at his home at Maroubra. When he got there he found Moffitt inside and also a man named Jordan. Some liquor was consumed and a fight began. He and Moffitt went out to the taxi, and were followed by Devine, who fired at them.

“We crouched in the bottom of the taxi and he fired again,” said accused. “I called out, ‘Turn it up, Jim; you have shot the driver.' Devine replied. ‘—the driver, and you, too.'” Green said he ran away with Hourigan.

Concluding his evidence, accused said: “Devine's evidence is manufactured to save himself from the charge of murder. I never fired the shots, or held Devine up, or took his tiepin.”

Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners' Advocate, 1932

____________________________________

J
ohn Hartley did things according to the rules. Unlike his predecessor, he would not pander to the whims of the entitled and privileged classes—cosy chats over a drink, invitations to breakfast. Rowland Sinclair and his mates would be treated just like every other potential criminal. Certainly Elias “Milton” Isaacs had a file as dubious as most petty thugs, regardless of where he now resided. Hartley did not consider himself a difficult man, simply one who had respect for the due process of the law, applied with all its force and rigour against every man.

And so it was under Hartley's insistence that Milton was brought into the station for questioning.

Thanks to Delaney's warning, Rowland was ready and they were met at Central Police Station by the gentlemen of Kent Beswick & Associates. It was possibly that fact, and that fact alone, that prevented John Hartley from arresting Elias Isaacs for the murder of Crispin White then and there. The presence of the solicitors cautioned the detective against moving too soon, lest Isaacs' representation find a technicality on which to overturn the arrest. The case he'd built was significant but it was circumstantial. Hartley recalled that Rowland Sinclair had been arrested for murder and incarcerated the previous year, only to be released when the case fell apart. Isaacs had been arrested with him for assaulting a police officer and that charge had been conveniently dropped at the same time. Sinclair and his mates were a slippery crew, and John Hartley was determined that Elias Isaacs, at least, would not escape justice.

Hartley sighed. Kent Beswick and associated barmaids would also make it difficult to beat the truth out of the Commie mongrel.

Rowland waited for Milton to raise what had happened in the interview room. He hadn't been privy to the interview, of course, waiting outside for over two hours. Milton thanked the solicitors for their able and learned assistance. Matthew Beswick gave the poet his card and they walked out of the station with Hartley glowering after them.

Milton's grin didn't quite reach his eyes. “Glad your fancy lawyers were there, Rowly. Hartley is an attack dog. He seemed committed to the idea that I killed Crispin whatever-he-called-himself.”

Rowland cursed. It was as Delaney warned. Hartley would not bother to look anywhere else for the murderer with Milton in his sights.

“I didn't tell him anything about Miriam,” Milton continued. “It won't help me and it would hurt her.”

Rowland accepted that. It was probably true. “Did you say anything about the tiepin?”

“He didn't show me the crime scene photos, so I couldn't really say I'd seen them. We'll just have to tell Delaney and let him present it, somehow, as his own brilliant deduction.”

They made their way on foot to the Lion Rampant which was a good three blocks and four pubs away from the Central Police Station—a fact which kept it from being a watering hole of the constabulary. The public bar was always quite crowded in the middle of the day—patrons ducking in for a lunch-break fortification, and the hardened bar flies who'd been there since opening. Still, the atmosphere was more relaxed than it would be later, the drinking less determined. After all, there would be time to duck in again at the end of the day.