Miles Off Course (42 page)

Rowland sat up. Friends in Sydney. “Babbington,” he said slowly.

Clyde put down his cards. “The bloke from the caves. You think he’s in league with Humphrey?”

Rowland nodded. “It explains why Babbington was so keen to defeat the Lister franchise. He must have known the numbers added up… and he was staying at Caves House.” He stood,
retrieved his jacket from the back of the couch and slid it on.

“Where are you going?”

“Wollstonecraft… I think I’ll call on Babbington.”

“Don’t be silly, Rowly, just phone the police.” Edna tried to pull him back.

Rowland shook his head. “Here’s the thing,” he explained, scouting around for his hat. “Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps Babbington has got a bee in his bonnet about
Lister for some reason completely unrelated to world domination. If that’s the case, the last thing I want to do is tell the police I think he’s a Communist spy—it could ruin
him.”

“Has it ruined you?” Edna asked sceptically.

“God, I hope so. I’m still counting on them throwing me off this flaming board.”

Milton and Clyde stood now as well.

“We’d better come, don’t you think, Rowly?” Milton looked at him sternly. “Just to make sure you don’t end up falling into another brothel.”

Rowland laughed. “In Wollstonecraft? I’d be lucky.”

“Still,” Clyde said, “We wouldn’t mind a word with old Humphrey ourselves.”

Edna put on her gloves. Rowland looked at her. “You’re not coming, Ed.”

“Well I’m not sitting around here waiting for Wilfred to turn up so I can explain why you went looking for the man you only just escaped.”

Rowland was immoveable. “If Humphrey is at Babbington’s, I don’t really want a lady present when I talk to him.”

Despite herself, Edna giggled. “You don’t want me to come because you want to swear?” She flopped into the couch and pulled off her gloves. “Oh Rowly, you are
old-fashioned.”

“Even so.”

She rolled her eyes. “All right… go and act like men then, but if you’re not back in an hour I’m phoning Colin Delaney and Wilfred.”

T
he Babbington residence in Wollstonecraft was set well back from the road, built high to take advantage of harbour views. The driveway swept up
to a Spanish Mission styled residence. A full summer moon lit the grounds with a monochromatic brightness that was almost equal to day. They all spotted the black Rolls Royce parked by the
house.

“Right,” Rowland muttered. “No need to knock then.”

“Perhaps we should call the police, Rowly,” Clyde suggested.

“I’m sure Babbington has the phone on,” Rowland replied.

He stopped the Mercedes well before they reached the house. As they climbed out, Milton handed him his gun.

“What’s this for?” Rowland asked, alarmed.

“Take it, Rowly. You’re the only one with a licence for it.”

“I have no intention of assassinating anybody, Milt.”

“He was armed before, Rowly,” Milton reminded him. “He probably still is. You should be too.”

“You don’t have to fire it Rowly,” Clyde added. “Just wave it around like you might.”

Rowland shook his head, but he took the Webley Mark II and, checking the safety, slipped it into his hip pocket. “Fine, we’re armed. Shall we go?”

As they passed the Rolls Royce, Clyde signalled them to wait.

“Just give me a minute,” he said, quietly opening the hood and shining a torch onto the engine.

“What are you doing?” Milton asked.

“Removing the distributor cap and dizzy… just in case he tries to make a run for it.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“There, got it.” Clyde tossed the parts into the shrubbery.

“Steady on,” Rowland protested. “This is still my car.”

“We’ll find it later,” Clyde assured him as he closed the bonnet. “After the police have taken Abercrombie away.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be happening.”

Rowland spun towards the voice. Humphrey Abercrombie faced them from the doorway, arm straight, gun held high. He gripped a torch in his other hand, which he directed into Rowland’s
eyes.

Instinctively, Rowland pulled out his own gun. He cursed, recoiling as a bullet caught his weapon and ripped it from his hand.

Milton swore. “You all right, Rowly?”

Rowland nodded, glancing at the revolver which now lay on the lawn well out of his reach.

“Lucky thing, old chap,” Abercrombie said, his gun still held in line of sight. “I was aiming for your hand.”

“Humphrey, you don’t need…”

“For God’s sake, Rowly, shut up. I’ve got nothing to lose by shooting you.” Abercrombie’s voice was high, tense. “If I’m caught, I’ll hang one way
or another.”

Rowland didn’t move. “You don’t need to make it any worse, Humphrey… your family…”

Abercrombie swore at him. “You’re pathetic, Rowly!” he spat. “You play with the Left when it suits you, but you’re not man enough to take a stand.”

“Because I didn’t join you in your insane scheme?”

“We could have been part of something great, Rowly.” Abercrombie licked his lips and laughed. “Well, it’s all been a bit of a cock-up, hasn’t it? There’ll be
hell to pay I suppose… I’d better get back and sort things…”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Rowland asked, perhaps a little recklessly.

“Well I won’t be using the Rolls I guess.” Abercrombie’s hair was damp, perspiration plastered it to his forehead, and his voice was shrill and unsteady. He moved his arm
to point the gun at Clyde. “Before you contemplate moving, Rowly,’ he said, without taking his gaze from Clyde, “Consider whether you’re willing to risk Mr. Watson Jones. He
does present a rather large target.”

“We’re not moving, Humphrey. You don’t need to involve Clyde in this.”

“I rather think he’s involved himself, old boy. Now tell me, where is your car?” Abercrombie walked forward to rest the muzzle of his gun against Clyde’s head.

Rowland told him where the Mercedes was parked.

“Righto, then.” Abercrombie pushed Clyde in front of him. “Mr. Watson Jones is coming with me. At some point I will either let him out or shoot him, depending on whether I
believe I’m being followed. Do you understand, Rowly?”

“Yes, but…”

“Once Mr. Watson Jones and I have departed, you may go into the house. You will find Mr. and Mrs. Babbington in there. The old chap lost his nerve after this morning’s
unpleasantness. I’ve shot them both, but not fatally… you may yet be able to help them.”

“My God, Humphrey, have you lost all decency?”

“I’m not shooting you Rowly. A kindness in memory of our past camaraderie… perhaps you should not have dismissed me so easily, old chum.”

Rowland said nothing more, sickeningly aware that there were two people possibly bleeding to death inside the house and that there was a gun against Clyde’s skull. Afraid any move would
panic the Englishman into shooting, he and Milton stayed where they were as Abercrombie and Clyde walked away.

The Mercedes roared to life and turned back down the driveway. Rowland hesitated for only a moment before running into the house with Milton on his heels.

“I’ll look upstairs,” Milton said when they found no one in the drawing room.

Rowland nodded, beginning his search of the lower floor for the wounded Babbingtons. When a search of the drawing rooms, dining room and study proved fruitless, he headed to the back of the
house, to the kitchens and servants’ quarters. It was then he noticed the banging. He located the source quickly—the large pantry bolted from the outside. He opened the door to the
cowering forms of two domestic servants. They screamed when they saw him.

He tried to calm them. Milton burst into the kitchen having heard the initial screams. On sight of him, their shrieks began anew. It took a couple of minutes to talk them out of hysteria and
then finally Rowland was able to ask about the whereabouts of the Babbingtons.

“We don’t know,” the older woman sobbed. “We’ve been locked in that pantry all day. The Master and Mrs. Babbington aren’t due back from the mountains till
tomorrow.”

Rowland glanced at Milton. Abercrombie had tricked them again. He’d be well away now.

“Are you able to phone the police?” Rowland asked the younger servant, who was the less distraught of the two.

“Yes, sir.”

He and Milton wasted no further time, running back to the drive and scrabbling in the shrubbery for the parts Clyde had thrown into them. They had just found the distributor cap and dizzy, when
Clyde came wheezing up the driveway.

“Bloody hell, Clyde! What are you doing here?”

“He let me out just down the street,” Clyde gasped. “Ran back… a little out of breath…”

Rowland clapped him thankfully on the back.

Milton opened his arms wide. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms my beamish boy…”

Clyde took a step back.

Rowland shook his head. “Lewis Carroll.” He handed Clyde the parts they’d retrieved. “We’re glad to see you, mate… Now, would you put these back?”

“Why?”

“We need to go after Humphrey.”

“Are you mad—he’s got a gun.”

“He’s got my car.”

Clyde groaned. “Fair enough. I think he was heading towards the bridge.”

The Rolls was returned to working order quickly under Clyde’s expert hands. Rowland got behind the wheel and they set off in pursuit of Abercrombie, passing an approaching police vehicle
as they drove out.

“Did he say anything when you were in the car, Clyde?”

“Quite a lot actually… daft blighter’s on some kind of personal crusade.” Clyde shook his head. “He sure had me fooled. I thought he was just another one of your
poncy school chums, Rowly. Turns out he’s some kind of international insurgent. Must’ve taken some nerve to try to pull off this scheme of his.”

“Crazy bloody scheme though—destabilising the country’s economy to bolster membership.”

“I dunno,” Milton ventured thoughtfully. “The Depression has been good for party numbers. When people have jobs they have more to lose by speaking out… I can see his
reasoning.”

“You don’t…?”

“Of course not. When the revolution comes here, it’ll be the ACP leading it—not some bored English Lord playing Bolshevik on his hols!”

Rowland smiled. “He’s not a Lord, you know… just Honourable.”

They were approaching the bridge. It was nearly midnight now and there was very little traffic. The yellow Mercedes stood out from some distance away, parked just outside the Milsons Point
pedestrian access to the bridge.

Rowland pulled up, leaving the headlamps on. There was no movement from his motor car. Abercrombie had apparently abandoned her.

They all stepped out cautiously. Rowland could hear sirens approaching. Whether it was the police they had passed leaving Babbington’s house, or officers called to investigate the
abandoned car on the bridge, he could not be sure. In any case he did not wait for them to arrive. Abercrombie had to be somewhere nearby.

They checked the Mercedes first. It had been parked and the headlamps turned off.

Clyde pointed to the stairs which led onto the bridge. “He must be on the footway.”

They started up the stairs. Like the road, it was virtually deserted except for the occasional soul who had decided to sleep there, huddled against a pylon, visible only as a pile of clothes in
the shadows. They began to sprint, caught by a sudden feeling of urgency. Abercrombie had a decent lead timewise, but perhaps he had not expected they would follow so quickly. Once he crossed the
bridge, who knew where he would go from there.

It was Clyde who first spotted the shoes, placed neatly by the rail, near a streetlight, the jacket folded beside it.

“Rowly, Milt!”

Rowland looked down at the shoes. They looked expensive, an English label embossed on the inner sole. For a moment he stared mutely.

“Damn it! He wouldn’t…” Rowland pulled himself up to lean out over the rail and looked down. The harbour was dark. The odd craft still traversed its waters but it was
impossible to make out anything.

Milton grabbed Rowland’s shoulder as a sudden rise in the wind challenged his grip on the rail. “You can’t fish him out this time, Rowly.”