Give the Devil His Due (4 page)

“What are you doing, you bloody fool?” Colin Delaney stormed into the foyer, replacing the sheet and turning to roar at Grey.

“Rowly,” he said, once he'd finished dressing down and dismissing the errant constable. “What are you and Miss Higgins doing here?”

Rowland told him.

“Why were you returning the deceased's vehicle?”

“I didn't know he was deceased. He had dinner at
Woodlands
last night, and rather too much brandy. He wasn't fit to drive.”

“So you drove him home?”

“Not me… Milt. God, what's happened to him, Colin?”

“That's what we're trying to determine.” Delaney glanced at his watch. “I have to sort out a few matters here… organise the paperwork.” He glanced at Edna who was noticeably pale. “Why don't you take Miss Higgins back to
Woodlands
. I'll come by, as soon as I'm finished to take your statements.” Someone shouted from within the museum and Delaney nodded hastily and disappeared.

Rowland took Edna's hand. “Are you all right, Ed?”

“Yes… It was just a bit of shock seeing Crispin like that… We only had dinner with him a few hours ago…”

Rowland placed his arm protectively around her shoulders as they slipped into the crowd which was already abuzz with wild theories and speculation. The press had also arrived, though they were subdued and respectful. Crispin White had, after all, been one of their own. Rowland and Edna walked around the corner, ducking into a wine bar to gather themselves before attempting to flag down a motor taxi.

The establishment was almost empty. Perhaps there was not a great demand for wine at eight in the morning, or possibly, its patrons were amongst those congregating outside the waxworks. Rowland persuaded the proprietor to bring them a pot of tea, and they sat by the grimy window watching the passing foot traffic as they contemplated the morning's events.

“Poor Crispin,” Edna said wrapping both hands around the thick china cup and inhaling the fragrant steam. “What do you suppose happened, Rowly?”

“Well, I don't think it was a shaving accident,” he said quietly. “Beyond that, I don't know Ed. Dreadful business though.”

“It's a terrible omen for the race,” Edna murmured.

“White was barely connected with the race.” Rowland said firmly. “He's a journalist—probably covering a dozen stories… it seems jolly unfair to allocate your superstitions purely against the race.”

Edna smiled. “Of course,” she said. “One must be even-handed in the allocation of superstitions.”

“It is unfortunate though,” Rowland added. “It's a crying shame he didn't simply stay at
Woodlands
last night.”

“Why didn't he?” Edna asked as she sipped her tea.

“Milt volunteered to drive him home… he was rather insistent.”

“I thought Milt didn't like him.”

“I assumed that was why he didn't want White staying overnight.” He shrugged. “Perhaps White was a burglar when Milt last knew him.”

Edna sighed. “Milt may now have no choice but to be a little more forthcoming.”

Detective Colin Delaney arrived at
Woodlands House
only a couple of minutes after its master and the sculptress had returned. The downstairs maid admitted him without any consternation. The detective was a familiar guest, dropping by every now and then, though it was unusual for him to visit too early to be offered a drink.

Rowland received him in his studio. “Ed's just gone to check on her kittens,” he said. “She shouldn't be long.”

“Kittens?”

“Some strays she rescued.”

“I thought that was your hobby.” Delaney took the armchair and waited for Rowland to sit. “Let's start at the beginning, shall we? How do you know Crispin White, Rowly?”

“White was employed by
Smith's Weekly
. They sent him to interview me for their coverage of this charity motor race at Maroubra.”

“Oh yes… I forgot you were involved in that. What time did he leave here?”

“About ten.”

“And Mr. Isaacs drove him home?”

“Yes… I'd had a brandy too many. Milt dropped him off at his lodgings.”

“His lodgings?” Delaney frowned. “Are you sure?”

“I believe that's what Milt said.”

“You saw where he was found.”

Rowland nodded. “The appropriately named House of the Macabre. Bloody hell! Why would White choose to visit a waxworks at that time of night?”

“I had hoped you might be able to shed some light on that.”

Rowland shrugged. “We were barely acquainted. He called at
Woodlands
to interview me and stayed for dinner. Aside from being a journalist, he didn't seem like a bad chap.”

“Did he mention anything that might—?”

“No. He seemed to be looking for a sensational angle for his story, but he didn't really reveal too much about himself.”

“Colin!” Edna came into the room. She smiled at the detective. “Will you be staying for breakfast?”

Both Rowland and Delaney stood.

“I don't suppose you recall anything Mr. White might have said last night,” Delaney said scratching his head wearily.

“Nothing that made me suspect he was in any danger.” Edna's head tilted sideways as she tried to recall the details of their conversations. “He was rather… intrigued by the imagery on the dining room walls. I'm afraid he thought it was a little sacrilegious. Poor, poor Crispin.”

Delaney didn't ask what adorned the dining room walls. He had been a guest at
Woodlands
often enough to be familiar with the room's current Bacchanalian splendour and though he could understand White's concern, he did not believe Rowland Sinclair or any of his companions were interested enough in religion to be sacrilegious by design.

“Do you know who killed him yet, Detective Delaney?” Edna asked.

“That's why I'm here, Miss Higgins. As far as we can ascertain, Mr. Isaacs might have been the last person to have seen the deceased alive.”

“Aside from the person who killed him, of course,” Edna corrected sharply.

“Of course… I wasn't suggesting—”

Rowland intervened. “Milt or Clyde could well remember something useful.”

“They're eating breakfast,” Edna said. “I haven't had a chance to tell them…”

They made their way to the dining room where, from behind
The
Sydney Morning Herald
, Milton cheerily issued the detective another invitation to breakfast in a style that was characteristically erudite. “The very bacon shows its feeling, swinging from the smoky ceiling! A steaming bowl, a blazing fire, what greater good can the heart desire?”

“Wordsworth,” Rowland murmured. “But yes, you should stay for breakfast, Colin.”

“Unless, of course, you're here to arrest Rowly again,” Clyde added in equally good humour. “That would be somewhat uncivil.”

Perhaps it was the poetic eloquence of Milton's solicitation, the fact that Delaney had no thought of arresting Rowland Sinclair, or the aromas emanating from the silver warming trays upon the sideboard, but the detective decided that a cup of coffee and some eggs would not be too great a dereliction of duty. He confessed the reason for his visit, as he took a seat at the French polished table.

“They cut his throat?” Clyde said, shocked.

“Nearly took off his head,” Delaney replied, wrinkling his nose as he recalled the characteristic smell of blood. “The manager mistook him for a new exhibit, initially.”

“He what?”

“He was found in Magdalene's House of the Macabre at Macleay Street in Kings Cross—a waxworks specialising in ghouls and whatnot.” Delaney shook his head. Clearly he could not understand the attraction.

“I've been to the House of the Macabre a few times,” Milton volunteered. “It's not Madame Tussaud's but it's quite well put together for the sixpence entry fee.”

“A few times? Whatever for?”

“It's a surprisingly romantic spot.”

“God help us,” Clyde muttered.

“Where precisely did you leave Mr. White?” Delaney asked Milton.

“Some bookshop in Mcleay Street. He lives… lived above it. It's not far from Magdalene's.” Milton declared the proximity before Delaney could.

“What time was that?”

“About midnight.”

Delaney flicked back a page of his notebook. “But Rowly says you left here about ten.”

“Yes.”

“What took you so long?”

“Traffic.”

“For pity's sake, man…”

“Crispin White and I knew each other once,” Milton said irritably. “We were catching up.”

“And where exactly did you catch up?”

“In the car, parked outside the bookshop. After a while we were entirely caught up, he said goodnight and went into his flat.”

“What were you talking about?”

“This and that… I don't remember really.”

“Was this horror museum—Magdalene's—open after midnight?” Rowland interrupted in an attempt to divert Delaney's attention from the fact that Milton's answers seemed to be intentionally evasive.

“No, not according to the manager,” Delaney replied, his eyes still on Milton.

“So Crispin broke in?” Edna poured the detective a cup of coffee.

“Someone must have, it seems. Either White or whomever admitted him.”

“Had he been robbed?” Rowland asked.

“His purse was still in his jacket's breast pocket,” Delaney said sighing.

“What about his notebook?”

“What notebook?”

“He had a notebook… wrote in it incessantly.”

“Perhaps he didn't have it with him.”

Rowland shook his head. “I doubt it.” He, too, was in the habit of carrying a notebook, to capture moments in line and shade, to pin down ideas for later works, or simply to pass the time. The notebook sat always in his breast pocket.

“We'll look for it,” Delaney assured him. He glanced once more at Milton. “It may provide a clue as to who would want to kill him.”

GERMANY ACCLAIMS PACT

BERLIN, January 28

The newspapers pay glowing tributes to the pact, with Poland as a manifestation of Herr Hitler's desire for peace. They suggest that he will go down in history as the “peace-making Chancellor”, and will, perhaps, receive the Nobel Peace Prize.

The “Allgemeine Zeitung” considers that the pact will create the confidence which is lacking throughout the world, despite the League of Nations, the Locarno Pact, and the Disarmament Conference.

The “Berliner Tageblatt” emphasises that the pact significantly does not mention Geneva, whose methods have been abandoned. Herr Hitler, it says, by leaving the poisonous atmosphere and international diplomacy has enabled a new European policy to win its first success.

The Courier Mail, 1934

____________________________________

“W
hat on earth went on between you and Crispin White?” Edna demanded once the detective was safely away. Milton groaned. “I can't say. I promised.”

“Colin Delaney is not a fool. He knows you're hiding something.”

Milton shrugged.

Rowland said nothing. He was loath to pry, though he feared Edna was right. Milton was known to the police—Rowland had never asked him for what exactly.

For several minutes the poet and sculptress argued. Edna was persistent. “Milt, whatever it is, we'll help. You know that,” she said in the end.

“It's not something you can help with, Ed.”

“I'm going to keep asking. So will the police.”

Milton glanced at the ceiling and sighed heavily. “You're a fishwife,

Edna Higgins,” he said. Then, slowly, wearily, “Do you remember my cousin Miriam?”

Edna nodded. “Not very well, but yes.”

“She was a brilliant girl… quiet. Her parents were very strict, traditional people. Miriam met Crispin Weissen when she was seventeen. He was about twenty then—determined to be the next Dostoyevsky. She fell in love with him.” The poet shook his head.