To Ride the Wind (22 page)

‘It’s just that my brother has his heart set on seeing active service,’ George replied.

‘From what I have heard,’ Sir Hubert said, dropping his voice, ‘your brother is married to a German woman and that makes him somewhat doubtful – if you know what I mean.’

‘My brother is a lot of things, but he is a true patriot to his country,’ George said. ‘It would mean everything to both of us if you could use your influence to have him released for active service in Europe.’

‘I will do all I can,’ Sir Hubert shrugged, taking a large cigar from a bulky silver case as they entered the spacious foyer. ‘I am sure that we can get him his posting. Maybe even to your father’s unit.’

‘That would be wonderful, Sir Hubert,’ George said with a broad smile of appreciation.

In a matter of minutes they had parted leaving George with a pending honour in the civil list as well as the prospect of a future knighthood. But, more importantly, an opportunity had been created to have red tape cut to release his foolish brother for service in the front lines. George was sure that Alex would get himself killed. He was the kind of stupid man who was likely to put his own life second to others’. People like his brother tended to win medals – but posthumously. In all, it had been worth the cost of the best bottle of claret in the hotel.

Detective Inspector Jack Firth sat in his cramped, untidy office of paper-filled crates and overflowing timber filing cabinets. In his role as the coordinator of police counter-intelligence services he received a daily mountain of reports on enemy alien activities. The vast majority of the reports were nothing more than false claims against innocent men and women who had the unfortunate circumstance of having German or Austrian blood in their family.

It was early autumn in the Southern Hemisphere and the day outside was mild. Jack preferred winter – a time the burly policeman welcomed as a chance to get back on the rugby field and mix it with other tough men. He glanced at the big clock on the wall opposite his desk and could see that it was almost midday, which meant he would have to prepare his notes for a combined police military intelligence meeting at Victoria Barracks in a few hours. Jack groaned. He hated sitting through the meetings. If he had his way he would be back doing real police work. He missed mixing with the colourful elements of the city’s dark side where he was treated as a king by both those he worked with and the criminals he hunted. Counterintelligence work was mainly boring but he had no choice in his posting.

Jack leaned back in his chair that was hardly strong enough to bear his weight, placed his booted feet on the table and stared up at the fly-specked, soot-stained ceiling. His mind was not on the forthcoming meeting but on the report he had read down in the criminal section of the office complex months earlier. It had occupied his thoughts because of the investigation he had led into the death of a famous Australian actor, Guy Wilkes, just before the outbreak of war. At the time his prime suspect was the man’s lover, Fenella Macintosh, but in retrospect he blamed himself for not looking at others associated with her. Especially the Yank Randolph Gates, who he had since come to learn was also a lover of the now murdered actress.

As Jack had persuaded Mick O’Rourke to work for Mr George Macintosh, he knew in his gut that Macintosh had used the infamous Sydney criminal to murder his sister, although Macintosh would not admit it to him. That O’Rourke himself had been killed by a man described as being identical to Gates was no coincidence. It was most likely the Sydney criminal had been killed as an act of revenge.

Jack placed his feet on the floor, leaned forward, retrieved his new pipe, filled it with a plug of tobacco and lit it. The thick smoke filled his office as the policeman contemplated a variety of leads. Was it possible that the American had actually killed Wilkes? Randolph Gates’ alibi had been supplied by a drunken old night porter at the pub Gates had been staying in. But Gates had motive – the elimination of a rival in the affections of the beautiful young actress. Had Fenella Macintosh helped her American lover kill Wilkes?

Only one person could answer his questions now and according to Jack’s enquiries he had disappeared. If only he had been able to put someone in the dock for the murder of the well-known actor, he would have taken front page on every newspaper in Australia, Jack thought wistfully. He wanted to be remembered as the copper who had the reputation for solving the high-profile murders. Working in the shadowy world of counterintelligence had little appeal for a man who loved the adulation of the press.

Jack puffed on his pipe and sighed. If only he could track down the Yank he would have the case solved. It was interesting, he mused, how the whole Macintosh family seemed to be riddled with dark secrets which extended to all they came in contact with – including himself.

‘Sir?’ a female voice questioned from the door to his office. Jack looked up to see a uniformed policewoman holding a ribbon-tied folder in her hand. ‘I have the collated report on Mrs Karolina Schumann.’

‘Just drop it my desk, love,’ he grunted. What would be next in the police force? Dogs? The recruitment of females to the male world of policing was the last straw.

His colleague stepped forward, unafraid of the famous detective’s reputation for savaging junior police and placed the folder on his desk, where it was immediately buried among the other unopened folders. She turned on her heel and left his office without another word.

Karolina Schumann – another in the Macintosh web, Jack thought, pushing the folder with the stem of his pipe. He would look at it later. Now it was time to grab his hat and head down to the local for a beer and pie before catching the tram to Victoria Barracks for the meeting.

As Jack stood to retrieve his hat from the stand, a thought occurred to him. Maybe the best way for a man to disappear after a killing would be to join the armed forces. After all, one or two of the crims he had chased in the past had done the patriotic thing and enlisted to fight rather than face him on the street.

A wide grin split the tough policeman’s face. He remembered that there was a Pommy colonel who attended the meetings in his capacity as a liaison officer for British intelligence. He was also known to be a close friend of the Macintosh family – or rather a close friend of Patrick Duffy. Colonel John Hughes, Jack remembered. If the Yank had enlisted for service surely Hughes would be able to track him down and supply his whereabouts. After all, as a commissioned officer of His Majesty he was bound by his office to be truthful.

The young police officers working in the HQ noticed that their superior had a strange smile on his face when he departed the building. It could only mean that he was close to arresting some well-known crim.

The meeting at Victoria Barracks was over in a couple of hours and to cement police–military relationships, tea and scones were served, courtesy of the army, in the spacious conference room.

Jack was quick to sidle across to the tall, grey-haired British colonel wearing his uniform adorned with campaign ribands. ‘Colonel Hughes, isn’t it?’

John Hughes turned to the man whose height brought them eye to eye and saw a cold steeliness behind the gaze. ‘I am, Inspector Firth,’ John Hughes replied.

‘I was hoping that you would be at today’s meeting,’ Jack continued. ‘There is a matter that you may be able to help me with.’

John Hughes frowned. ‘Do you mean outside the items we covered at the meeting?’

‘Well, yes,’ Jack replied. ‘It’s a matter of confirming that police and army have a good working relationship.’

‘If you feel that I can be of some assistance to ensure that, Inspector Firth,’ John said, taking a sip of his tea, ‘please feel free to discuss the subject.’

‘It’s about one Randolph Gates, an American citizen whom I have an urgent need to contact,’ Jack said, staring the British colonel directly in the eyes.

‘Why would you ask me?’ John questioned, without blinking.

‘Because I suspect that he has enlisted – most probably in the army – considering his past skills. And I also know that you have met him in the past in reference to the Macintosh family.’

‘I do know the man,’ John replied. ‘But I do not know of him enlisting in the army.’

‘You realise that if you are not telling the truth I could have you,’ Jack said bluntly, dropping any semblance of politeness.

‘I don’t take threats kindly, Inspector,’ John said in a low, menacing voice, easily overheard by those around them. ‘On my honour as an officer of His Majesty’s army, I do not know of any Randolph Gates enlisting in the army.’

‘Please excuse my manner, Colonel,’ Jack relented. ‘I’ve been too used to dealing with society’s dregs, and old habits die hard.’

‘Your apology is accepted,’ John said stiffly, placing his cup of tea on the end of the conference table. ‘If there is nothing else I must excuse myself but promise to inform you if I learn that Gates has enlisted.’

Jack watched the British colonel stride away, his swagger stick under his arm. He sensed that the man had lied to him but also knew he could not bully a soldier of John Hughes’ stature. Being a member of the bloody toffs’ class meant he had privileges beyond those of the criminals he was used to standing over.

Jack swilled down the last of his sweet tea and exited the conference room. If he could not get information from the damned Pommy he had one other he could approach. As far as he knew, George Macintosh was not aware of where the Yank was but his brother, Alexander, most probably knew. They’d been linked as friends when Jack first became involved in investigating the Wilkes murder.

12

M
ajor Alexander Macintosh had his request for a transfer to an active service battalion overseas approved and when he returned to his house to announce the news he was met by his wife. Standing behind her was Colonel John Hughes, a grim expression on his face.

‘Oh, how could it happen?’ Giselle sobbed, throwing herself into her husband’s arms.

‘It is what I have trained for all my life,’ Alex said softly, holding his wife as if he would never let go. Only now were the full ramifications of his leaving dawning on him. The chance that he may never return had always been something he dared not confront. Looking over his wife’s shoulder, he could see John Hughes still standing in the hallway.

‘Sir, your presence is rather a surprise,’ he said, disengaging from his embrace of Giselle and straightening his uniform.

‘I know my visit is a waste of time, but as soon as I saw your transfer order for England cross my desk I knew I had to see you and explain a few things you are not aware of. I would prefer do so in private.’

‘I have already spoken with John,’ Giselle said, excusing herself from their conversation. ‘When you two are finished, I will have tea brought to the living room.’

Alex watched as his wife disappeared with Angus into the kitchen, leaving him and the colonel alone in the hallway.

‘We should go to the library,’ Alex said, leading the way and closing the door behind them. He walked over to a liquor cabinet and selected a whisky he knew the colonel liked.

John stood at a window overlooking the driveway and stared out, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. ‘You know that your brother is behind you being posted overseas, despite all my efforts to ensure you remain at home.’

‘The best thing he has ever done for me,’ Alex said, raising his glass in a salute. ‘You don’t know how hard it has been training men, watching them steam away and hearing of their deaths when I am safely tucked up at home. I have always felt like a coward skulking behind the safety of a home posting, when men like my father and cousin are posted to the front. But I am dismayed to hear that you have been using your influence to keep me here.’

‘I am sure that George wants you dead,’ John said, sipping his whisky. ‘Your father made me swear an oath that I would do all within my power to keep you here.’

‘Father!’ Alex gasped. ‘I have always thought that he wanted me to follow in his footsteps.’

‘He does,’ John said gently. ‘But alive. I was able to use Giselle as an excuse not to let you go by reminding the transfer board that you had a German wife. But some damned politician has stuck his beak in and over-ridden my protests. Your father knows the terrible risk you take by going on active service,’ John continued. ‘You know that I suspect your brother of traitorous acts but I cannot prove anything without evidence. But I have suspected him of treachery since the mission you undertook to Rabaul a couple of years ago. I have brought the subject up with your father, but he prefers not to accept that his eldest son is a traitor – not only to his country but also to his family. If anything ever happened to you I am afraid that George would control everything. You have lost dear Nellie and that only leaves two of you to control your brother’s lust for sole power over the family companies. You may be a commissioned officer of the King, but you are also a man with a family and all the responsibilities that entails.’

Chastened, Alex slumped into a big leather armchair. ‘Many men with families have volunteered and given their lives,’ he sighed. ‘I am no different.’

‘You are,’ John said forcefully. ‘If anything happens to Patrick then it must be you who takes control of the family enterprises, not George.’

‘He is in a better position to manage the companies,’ Alex conceded.

‘But not completely control them,’ John retorted. ‘Dear God, your family companies are among some of the most powerful in our former colonies and we rely on the products you deliver to help us win the war. George has no sense of loyalty to the Empire – although I hear at cocktail time he is in for a gong from the King for his so-called assistance to the Empire’s war effort.’

‘I have to go. I understand that my father has been well meaning but he also has to accept I am a soldier who must do his duty for country and King.’

John shook his head sadly. ‘When you get over there, all noble thoughts of fighting for King and country will be shot away with your first time on the front, believe me. All you will be fighting for is the men around you and the hope that you will come home in one piece. It has always been that way for soldiers from the dawn of time, ever since men began fighting each other for some stupid political reason or other.’