Paving the New Road (17 page)

“What do you think, Rowly?”

“He’s a decent chap. I just hope he can see through Campbell.” Rowland went to the window. In the drive below he could just make out Albert Göring, climbing into a light blue Mercedes saloon. The filmmaker was wasting no time.

“Why did you tell him our real names?” Edna asked, as she came to stand beside him.

He put his arm around her. “I’m sorry, Ed … I should have warned you somehow. It just occurred to me that if it all goes to hell and we need to get out of Germany, the passports we entered the country with say Robert Negus and Millicent Greenway.”

Edna sipped her champagne, smiling. “You might make a spy after all, Rowly.”

M. and Mme. Marcel checked out on the same day that they arrived. Edna resumed her role as the spoiled newlywed with aplomb, declaring that the hotel’s top floor was just not high enough for her liking. “I want to know the whole world is below us when we make love, darling,” she announced loudly as she played with the buttons on Rowland’s waistcoat.

Rowland winced, apologised and settled the account. The mortified manager did not try to persuade them to stay.

Edna maintained the charade in the taxi ride back to the Vier Jahreszeiten. For what reason, Rowland was unsure. Perhaps it amused her to publically challenge his sense of decorum. To be truthful, he was rather enjoying the artifice, however forward and improper.

When the Marcels alighted at the Vier Jahreszeiten, the taxi driver was utterly convinced they were French.

Alastair Blanshard was waiting for them in the salon as arranged. They joined him in a private booth in the corner from which they could see anyone who entered the bar. It was still too early for the midday rush and so they were almost alone.

“Well?” Blanshard asked, as soon as Rowland had introduced Edna.

“He’s going to speak to Campbell,” Rowland replied quietly. “If he concludes we are telling the truth, he’ll do what he can. If not, he’ll call the police.”

Blanshard nodded. “Good show. Campbell will hear the name Göring and be more than eager to tell him how the New Guard isn’t giving an inch to the Left … Still, it’s a jolly good thing you’re heading out of the city, just in case. I’ll keep my ear to the ground and telephone as soon as I hear anything.”

Alois Richter was delighted that they intended to use his villa.

“A woman from the village keeps it clean and aired even when I am not there,” he said, when Rowland and Edna called in. “I’m sure you will be very comfortable.” The tailor pulled out a map and
told them of the walks and sights which surrounded the lake. “You must have a look at Berg Castle,” he said, tapping the paper. “Built by Bavaria’s beloved mad king … a romantic vision which I am sure Miss Higgins will enjoy.”

Rowland then broached the subject of the rust and moisture in Bothwell’s watch. Richter became visibly distressed. “This is terrible, Mr. Negus. You are saying that Peter’s death might not have been an accident? Oh, my poor friend …”

“I don’t know, Mr. Richter … but it does seem odd that he would wear his watch swimming. Did the investigating police not find it unusual?”

Richter removed his purple fez and stroked the half-dozen strands of hair that had been painstakingly grown to a length that would comb over the otherwise bare terrain on the top of his skull. “The police!” he spat. “Incompetent fools! Who knows who their masters are!” He paused to soothe Stasi, though the dog showed no signs of agitation—indeed, it showed no signs at all. “I thought that Peter might have been troubled, that he was keeping something from me.” He sat down, and passing Stasi to Edna, he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, if only I had pressed him, talked to him, instead of coming back to Munich to deal with orders!”

“What makes you think he was troubled, Mr. Richter?”

“Telephone calls and meetings late at night.” Richter hesitated and then whispered. “I thought perhaps money troubles … or a woman. I thought he would tell me, his old friend, in time and so I didn’t ask. I did not suspect his problems were so great.”

“Who found Peter Bothwell?” Rowland asked.

“A patrol of boys from the Hitler Youth. They were hiking around the lake.”

“I see.”

“Your cousin, Mrs. Bothwell, will be made only more sad by this discovery, I think,” Richter said sombrely. “I am afraid, Mr. Negus, you will return to her not only her husband’s possessions but more sorrow.”

Rowland caught himself, remembering that he was supposed to be a distant relative, here only to collect Bothwell’s effects. It would not do to sound like an investigator. He changed the subject. “We are grateful for your hospitality, Mr. Richter. We are all looking forward to a few days at Starnberger See.”

Richter smiled. “You will be enchanted by the lake, young people. If I can get away I will come down myself to have a meal with you, provided you can tolerate the company of a poor old man.”

Edna draped the flaccid Stasi over her lap. “We will look forward to it.” She smiled mischievously at Rowland. “But you must promise to bring Stasi … Robbie will teach him to fetch.”

Richter beamed. “Of course, of course … Did you hear that, Stasi? … Aren’t you excited, my love?”

Rowland stroked the dog as it lay inert on Edna, primarily to check it was still breathing.

“So, my friends,” Richter said, sitting back watching Stasi like a proud father, “when do you plan to leave?”

“Soon,” Rowland replied. “I’ll have to check the trains …”

“Trains … no, no. You must take one of my automobiles. Can you drive? Will you need a chauffeur?”

“You’re very kind, Herr Richter, but we couldn’t—”

“Nonsense!” Richter would not hear “no”. Apparently he had a stable of motor cars, though he rarely drove himself. When Rowland saw the brand new Mercedes-Benz 380S roadster, he relented.

12

ALL THE FUN OF THE FAIR

The Surrealists’ Leg Pull

BY M.J. MACNALLY

… Of course there are cults, societies, brotherhoods — call them what you will — such as Dadaists, Symbolists, Surrealists, Aesthetes, Parnassians, Symbolists, and a hundred and one other names, who on the European side are continually popping up, doing a stunt, and then fading out in a blaze of fireworks …the same old stunts, cigar bands, and matchboxes pasted on the canvas with girls covered with spots carrying cabbages, raving about ‘pattern’ … dear old London ‘falls’ for it just as it ‘falls’ for anything bizarre or freakish. It is truly the home of the chestnut.

Here in Australia we are very lucky. We get very little of this Continental hysteria. Occasionally an artistic ‘con. man’ will come to light with a freakish landscape of the ‘pattern’ and ‘design’ he has seen in reproductions and, getting hold of a group of moneyed people, will hypnotise them into the belief that he is something new and a modern John preaching in the wilderness … There was a group of young men some years ago in Sydney who called themselves “Dada-melodists,” or some such name, and who set out to produce pictures that were tone melodies. A colour would represent a note and they had a scale of pigments, each with its corresponding noise. While obvious notoriety seekers, there was a certain amount of sincerity about them. One was the son of a distinguished musician, and he it was who really started the affair and lectured on the system. One day he arrived at the office of a newspaper and wanted some publicity. “Well,” said the materialistic chief of staff, “What is it all about?” “‘It’s like this,” replied the artist. “You see this picture?” (producing an oil painting from under his coat). “Well, this is the light house at Kiama,” which was red (it was really white). “This is the sea,” which was pink. “This is the cliff, and this is the grass,” which was blue, and the sky was magenta. “What does it all mean?” said the journalist. “Well, it is a tone melody,” said the artist, “and it goes like this.” He stood up, held out the picture, and actually whistled the landscape. When we had simmered down from uncontrollable laughter we bowed him out. He got publicity all right, but not in the way he expected.

The Mail, 1936

A
nd so Edna and Rowland returned to the Vier Jahreszeiten in Alois Richter’s Mercedes. Although Rowland noticed a similarity in style and handling, it was a later model than his beloved 1927 S-Class. And unlike that flamboyant yellow tourer which waited for Rowland in Sydney, Richter’s motor was a discreet black hardtop, with a full swing axle—the very latest in modern engineering. Rowland enjoyed driving the 380S, though it did leave him feeling vaguely adulterous.

Milton and Clyde were, of course, able to be entirely enthusiastic about Richter’s automobile without the burden of loyalty. Very soon Clyde had disappeared beneath the lifted hood to examine the engine. Edna went up to the hotel suite to ensure the porters brought down the correct bags, which Rowland and Milton then packed into the trunk themselves, much to the disapproval of the concierge. The biggest bag was stuffed with canvasses, paints and brushes.

“Where did these come from?” Rowland rummaged eagerly through the painting supplies.

“Von Eidelsohn,” Milton replied. “Thought you and Clyde might like to dip a brush while we’re here. He was rather grateful that we purchased his work … Apparently he hasn’t been selling much since the Nazis took over.”

Rowland still hadn’t seen von Eidelsohn’s work. “These pieces you bought,” he asked, “what are they like?”

Clyde snorted. “Mona Lisa with her hair bobbed, painted on the wrong side of a stretched canvas,” he said tersely.

“The boy’s a genius,” Milton grinned. “He’s created an insightful and laconic challenge to artistic traditionalism and idolatry. We also bought his sculpture of drought.”

“Drought?”

“It’s an empty bucket, Rowly,” Clyde sighed. “A very expensive tin bucket.”

Milton chuckled. “I’m sure Hardy and the Old Guard will be delighted with their new acquisitions.”

The expenses of Robert Negus, and his party of art dealers were being met by an expense account funded by the New South Wales Graziers’ Association.

“Von Eidelsohn also paints some quite sane landscapes,” Clyde muttered, “but Milt thought Hardy would relate to backwards-Mona Lisa.”

The poet was unrepentant. “Just what the Australian Club needs to brighten up its panelled walls … I imagine. Never been in there of course.”

Rowland looked at Milton, laughing now. “You’re trying to bankrupt the Graziers’ Association with ridiculous artwork?”

“Bankrupt? No, Rowly, that’s too ambitious. I’m just striking a blow for the worker.”

Rowland leaned back on the Mercedes. “So where are they … von Eidelsohn’s pieces?”

“We shipped them directly to Hardy.”

Rowland was still laughing when the doorman came out to advise that there was a telephone call for Robert Negus. He took the call in the foyer rather than return to his suite. It was, as he expected, Eva. He told her what had been planned and arranged to collect her on their way through. Although she had phoned much earlier than expected, Eva seemed anxious that they depart as soon as possible.