Miles Off Course (39 page)

Wilfred sat in their father’s chair, smoking. Rowland saw now what had so concerned Edna. His brother’s face was pale with an intense simmering fury. Still, Wilfred had been this
angry with him before. He couldn’t quite remember when, but he was sure he had been.

“Hello Wil,” Rowland said steadily.

“What the hell is this, Rowly?”

“A party.” Rowland stood his ground.

Wilfred crushed his cigarette into the ashtray beside him. He stood up and advanced so quickly that Rowland stepped back reflexively. Wilfred poked him in the chest. “Damn it Rowly, are
you trying to get yourself hanged?”

“I didn’t know having a party was a capital offence.”

Wilfred exploded, pushing Rowland back against the wall. “Do you have any idea who’s in your house? What the hell are you trying to prove?”

“Proof?” Rowland retorted. “Since when did you need proof? I don’t remember you asking Hardy or Middlemiss for proof.”

For a moment Wilfred held his gaze. “What happened at
Oaklea
was unfortunate… but I’m starting to think that Hardy has a point.”

Rowland stared at him.

Wilfred snorted. “You need not look so bloody wounded. Why would you invite every flaming Communist in Sydney to
Woodlands
if that wasn’t exactly what you wanted me to
think?”

The door to the library was pushed open and Edna walked in. She ignored the tension in the room. “Rowly, there you are! Detective Delaney was looking for you.”

Wilfred stepped back in disgust. “I expect all your parties end with the police being called.”

“Delaney’s a guest,” Rowland said coldly, hoping that the detective was in fact trying to find him for social reasons, and not because he needed to arrest someone.

Wilfred glanced darkly at Edna. “Would you excuse us, Miss Higgins. We’re not quite finished.”

“Rowly…” Edna looked uncertainly at Rowland.

Rowland kept his eyes on his brother. “Wil and I will be done in just a minute, Ed. Let Colin know I won’t be long.”

Edna hesitated, but in the end she left them alone again.

Rowland sat down. “Just say what you came to say, Wil, and let me get back to my guests.”

Wilfred sat opposite him. He opened his mouth to begin and then he stopped. He shook his head.

Rowland waited.

Wilfred stood and left the room.

Rowland flinched as the door slammed. He sat in the silence for a minute. Then he rubbed his face, and groaned. This latest war had gotten out of hand. “Wil, wait!”

Rowland started after his brother, but the hallway outside the library was crowded with people who wanted to chat, to slap his back and thank him for his hospitality. Consequently, it took him
several minutes to reach the front door. As politely as possible, he fought his way free of guests, hoping that Wilfred’s car had not yet pulled away. In truth, Rowland wasn’t sure what
olive branch he could offer, or even if he really wanted to offer one. He was still cut by Wilfred’s mistrust… but he didn’t want to leave it like this.

The evening air outside was significantly cooler than within. The driveway was teeming with people and vehicles. Partygoers climbed in and out of cars both coming and going. Rowland looked for
Wilfred.

A black Rolls Royce started up several feet away. Rowland recognised it. An older model, it had been originally purchased by his father. It was garaged at
Woodlands
, maintained and driven
by Johnston, but Wilfred used it and the chauffeur whenever he was in the city.

Rowland sprinted to reach it before it pulled out, flinging open the back door and jumping in.

“Wil…” He stopped, falling back with the momentum as the Rolls accelerated out of the driveway. Wilfred’s security men waved them through the gates without a second
glance—they were watching for those trying to enter
Woodlands
, not those trying to leave.

“Humphrey!” Rowland stared at the Englishman, bewildered. Wilfred sat stiffly between them. “What the hell…?”

“Keep your head on, old boy,” Abercrombie said. Then he spoke to the chauffeur. “You know where to go.”

Rowland noticed the chauffeur now. “Michaels? Where’s Johnston?”

Michaels ignored Rowland and continued to drive.

Rowland turned to Abercrombie and Wilfred, confused, and a little annoyed. “Stop the car. What’s going on? Wil?”

Wilfred didn’t move. He spoke calmly. “He’s got a gun, Rowly.”

Humphrey Abercrombie dusted the lapel of his jacket with his free hand, and he shifted the revolver into view. “Problem with white, you know,” he muttered. “Shows every speck
of dirt.”

Rowland gasped, outraged. “What are you doing?” He reached out to seize the gun from the Englishman’s grasp.

Abercrombie reacted quickly, placing the muzzle of the weapon against Wilfred’s temple. “No further, Rowly. Shooting Wilfred here would make rather a mess.” He eyed Rowland
coldly. “Just sit back, there’s a good man. There’s no reason for this to get uncivilised.”

Rowland sat slowly back in the seat, stunned. He wondered if Abercrombie had suffered some kind of mental breakdown.

“What are you doing?” He was careful to keep the anger from his voice.

Abercrombie smiled. His entire manner was unrecognisable.

Wilfred’s face was tense, his eyes furious.

“I’m kidnapping you, you idiot.”

“Why?”

“Because the buffoons I hired can’t seem to manage it.”

“They were working for you? Why would you want to kidnap me? Surely you don’t need…”

“The money?” Abercrombie laughed. “No, Rowly, I don’t.”

“Then what the hell do you want with me and Wil?”

Abercrombie regarded him contemptuously. “I don’t really want anything from either of you, I’m afraid.”

Rowland swore, barely controlling the urge to swing at Abercrombie. “Then what do you think you’re doing, you bloody fool?”

“Rowland,” Wilfred said tightly, “you would do well to remember that your old chum has a gun pressed to my head.”

Abercrombie laughed. “Well said.” He lowered the gun to Wilfred’s chest. “Your brother understands the situation, Rowly. Strikes me as a rather clever chap…
he’s certainly showing me a great deal more respect than you ever did.”

Rowland shook his head in disbelief.

“Didn’t you think I noticed?” Abercrombie said quietly. He spoke to Wilfred. “Rowly was quite the champion, you know. Stepped in I don’t know how many times to save
me from those well-bred thugs from all the best families, with whom I was incarcerated at Pembroke. I often wondered why.” The Englishman looked at Rowland now. “Let’s be honest,
old boy, you didn’t have much time for me yourself.”

Rowland didn’t respond. He felt a strange sense of guilt that he hadn’t tried harder to like Humphrey Abercrombie. It seemed clear the slight had sent the man completely over the
edge. Still, it was too late now.

“Of course, I did learn a lot at Pembroke,” Abercrombie continued. “I saw firsthand the kind of men the upper classes unleash on the working man—the exploitation of
power, the cruelty, the complete indifference to the suffering they inflict. It was a valuable lesson.”

Rowland rubbed his face in his hands. “What on earth are you talking about, Humphrey?” He glanced at Wilfred who was still pinned back by Abercrombie’s firearm. “Look, if
this is over something I did fourteen ruddy years ago, why are you pointing a gun at Wil? Let him out and we’ll settle it between us.”

Abercrombie snorted. “Good Lord man, I didn’t come halfway around to the world to address some schoolboy tiff.” He pointed at Rowland. “I remember you too well, old chap.
You’d take a bullet before you’d let poor weak, helpless Humphrey Abercrombie hold you at gunpoint… but you’re not going to allow me to shoot your brother.”

Rowland smiled. “You overestimate me, Humphrey. I’m in no hurry to be shot myself… you don’t need Wil.”

“I think I’ll keep him anyway.”

“So what is this about, Humphrey?”

“For pity’s sake, Rowly,” Wilfred said through gritted teeth. “Mr. Abercrombie is a member of your beloved Communist Party. I presume that’s why you asked him to
move into
Woodlands
with the rest of your unemployed Lenin-loving freeloaders.”

Rowland shook his head. Wilfred felt the need to hold the Communists responsible for everything. “That’s ridiculous. Not that I’d care if Humphrey was a Communist, but Milt
would know him if he was with the ACP—there’s not that many of them.”

“Of course I’m not with your local Australian Communist Party,” Abercrombie scoffed. “There’re more Fascist spies in the ACP than there are party faithful. In fact,
I’ve had a time of it avoiding those few members who have enough international connections to recognise me when they’re sober.”

Rowland glanced out of the window—they were in a seedy part of the city now, driving through Oxford Street. A thought occurred to him. “How long have you been back in town,
Humphrey?”

Abercrombie shrugged. “I didn’t come back when you sent me home, if that’s what you mean. I returned from the mountains a few hours before you did.”

“You killed Moran.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“We had an arrangement. He couldn’t keep up his end. He could identify me. A necessary precaution, I’m afraid.”

“What arrangement?” Rowland asked, aware that both he and Wilfred could now also identify Abercrombie.

“We both had reason to want you out of the way for a while, Rowly. I wouldn’t normally work with men like Moran.”

“What reason?”

“In my case the Lister franchise. We would like to see the vote defeated.”

“Who’s we?”

The Rolls Royce pulled up in front of a dilapidated terrace. Rowland thought they were in Surry Hills, though he couldn’t be sure. A decaying knee-high fence marked out the few square feet
of bare dirt attached to the building. There were no streetlights but the moon cast enough light for Rowland to see the rotting weatherboards and broken windows. The adjoining terraces were in no
better repair. Abercrombie ignored Rowland’s question. “Now gentlemen,” he warned. “I have a number of colleagues waiting in this salubrious residence. We are going to walk
in. If either one of you does anything other than comply completely, I’m going to shoot. As I plan to have my gun pressed into Wilfred’s back, it’s unlikely I’ll miss. Do we
understand each other?”

Rowland glimpsed a movement of curtains. Abercrombie’s colleagues obviously knew they’d arrived. The Englishman directed them into the terrace with a friendly hand on Wilfred’s
shoulder, and a gun in his ribs. Michaels walked up front with Rowland.

The door was opened by a woman, small and hunched. A half-dozen men were smoking in the front room. Two wore suits, the others sat in shirtsleeves. At least some of the accents were European.
They stood when Abercrombie and his prisoners entered the room, and voiced approval and congratulations.

Abercrombie gave orders. Wilfred Sinclair was to be taken “upstairs” and secured. Three men pushed Wilfred up a narrow staircase, leaving Rowland with Abercrombie and the others.
Abercrombie did not introduce his companions. He pulled out a chair at a small wooden table and motioned for Rowland to sit.

Rowland didn’t move.

Abercrombie waited. “You don’t have many choices, Rowly.”

Rowland sat, his eyes glittering resentfully. “What do you want?”

The Englishman sat opposite him. “You know, Rowly, I had expected to find that you were no different to all the other selfish well-heeled morons we were at school with.”

Rowland said nothing, regarding the man suspiciously.

“But after renewing our acquaintance and meeting your friends, I wonder if there is another way…”

Sullen, restrained silence.

Abercrombie gazed at him thoughtfully. “When I was at Cambridge, Rowly, I had the good fortune to join a group of men who had a vision for the world—a fairer world than we know
today.”

“I’ve read Marx too, Humphrey.”

“Then you’ll understand. We’re trying to loosen the choking grip of capitalist power, old boy… destabilise it.” Abercrombie leaned forward, looking directly into
Rowland’s eyes. “Do you know what’s happening in Germany, Rowly?’

Rowland held his captor’s gaze. He had visited Germany the previous year. Admittedly, it had disturbed him.

Abercrombie spoke for some time after that—of the Communists and intellectuals being detained and tortured under the direction of Germany’s new chancellor, of the seemingly
irresistible rise of the Fascists and the failure of democracy to stop it. He ranted about the exploitation of workers in Britain and of colonial injustice. Rowland had heard these arguments before
and he was to some extent sympathetic… but he was not a Communist.

“You’re not in Germany, or Britain—you’re here,” he said evenly.

“Rowly, I know you can see the truth in what I’m saying. Democracy is not going to survive in the face of the Fascists. Our only hope is to throw our lot in with the Communists. Join
us—help us build a better world.”

“And how exactly do you want me to help you, Humphrey?”

“You could vote against the Lister franchise and you could work with us.”

Rowland laughed. “You want me to be a spy?”

“I am aware of your dealings with the New Guard, Rowly… It seems you’ve spied on the establishment before.”

“That was personal not political.”

“There’s information you could give us. You have an insight into this country that we don’t, as well as connections. With your access to funds and people we could strike a real
blow against the capitalists. You could tell us how best to undermine the government, to give the working man a chance at managing his own destiny.”

“That’s treason.”

“Not if your loyalty is to mankind and the greater good.”

“So why the charade, Humphrey… all this bloody hysteria? What good could it possibly do your cause to annoy the hell out of everyone around you?”

Abercrombie was taken aback. He looked almost hurt. “I’d not expected you to be enlightened in any way, I’m afraid. I assumed I’d be dealing with a committed member of
the capitalist establishment and, frankly, I was rather staggered to find you openly consorting with the Left.” Abercrombie signalled to one of his comrades who brought glasses and a bottle
of Scotch to the table. The Englishman poured two drinks before he went on. “If you recall, I did try to get you away from your companions—to remain at Caves House in my suite—but
you refused to go anywhere without Isaacs and Jones.”