A Few Right Thinking Men (20 page)

“He runs the Legion.”

Then, spotting Hodges heading toward them, Poynton put a finger to his lips. The show was over, and Rowland had no further opportunity to find out what this Legion actually was.

Because Campbell insisted on dropping him ‘home,' Rowland found himself again calling in on Edna's father. He waved Campbell and his men off from the front gate then drank tea with a surprised Selwin Higgins before catching a tram into the city and another out to Woollahra. By the time he finally opened the front door of Woodlands House, he was hot and irritable.

He fell into the wingback armchair in his ordinary fashion, and loosened his tie. Mary Brown appeared with a pitcher of cold lemonade as if she had read his mind.

“Thank you, Mary,” he said as he poured a glass.

“Master Rowly,” the housekeeper started, after a pointed sigh, “am I to understand that you wish that unkempt creature to continue having the run of your father's house?”

Rowland was amused. He knew Mary did not approve of Milton, but he had not heard her refer to him as a creature before.

“Milton…”

“Mr. Isaacs informs me that you wish to keep that animal as a pet.”

Rowland smiled. The dog. He'd forgotten about Lenin. “Yes, Mary,” he said pleasantly. “I seem to have acquired a dog.”

Mary Brown sighed again, but said no more. She saw the dog as scruffy and as improper as the rest of Rowland's friends. Why, when he could afford a well-bred hound, he would choose to take in a mongrel from the streets, she could not understand. To her mind, he chose his friends in the same way. But it was not her place to say and she returned wordlessly to her duties.

Lenin bounded in with Milton close behind. Rowland suspected they'd both been waiting for the housekeeper to go. The hound had been washed and groomed somewhat, but had not improved much for it. He jumped into Rowland's lap. Rowland patted the one-eared head, wondering how even Milton could have found a dog so completely ugly. Lenin circled and settled down on him.

“We're going to have to fatten you up, Lenin, old mate.” Rowland shifted so that the armchair could accommodate them both. “Those bones of yours are sticking into me.”

“I knew you'd like him,” Milton crowed.

“Rubbish—you just knew I wouldn't throw him out.”

“Same thing really.”

“Apparently.”

Milton poured himself a glass of lemonade and added a generous portion of Pimms. “So, don't be coy. What went on in Belmore?”

Rowland told him.

Milton let out one of his low whistles. “You're joking. How many men?”

“Bloody hundreds.” Rowland scowled. “I didn't really take them seriously before, but they looked like an army, Milt—they're organised, and armed. Campbell claims there are thousands more.”

“That could be a problem.”

“I feel like I should do something.”

Milton laughed. “Rowly, I know you have connections, but you can't stop the New Guard by yourself.”

“I was thinking more about going to the police.” Rowland scratched Lenin's single ear.

Milton shook his head. “You wouldn't be telling them anything they don't already know. You can bet that Campbell's making sure that he's not doing anything technically illegal—otherwise the cops would have put a stop to it. He's a lawyer, remember.”

Rowland knew Milton was right. The New Guard drill had been on private property. Gun licenses were not hard to obtain, and they probably all had one. Campbell would be particular about things like that.

“Anyway,” the poet continued, “you can't blow your cover now.”

Rowland apprised Milton of his conversation with Poynton. “He called it the Legion.”

Milton was excited. “Look, Rowly, this man Poynton obviously knows a bit about this Legion. You just have to find out who's in it and then you'll have something to take to the police.”

“Don't worry, Milt, I'm not going to back out now.” He rubbed his brow. “I still can't imagine why these people would have a problem with Uncle Rowland. If he was a Communist, he was bloody quiet about it.”

“Communists don't normally wander about announcing the fact—that's just me.”

“I know,” Rowland brooded. “But I was close to him, Milt. Why wouldn't he tell me? He told me far more shocking things….”

“I don't know, mate.” Milton studied his friend. It had been only a couple of months since the elder Rowland Sinclair had been murdered—it seemed a very long time ago now. “Maybe he assumed you knew…maybe something other than his political beliefs got him killed or maybe it wasn't the New Guard after all.”

“Terrific! I've joined a band of lunatics for nothing.” Rowland checked the time. “I say, where are Clyde and Ed?”

“Clyde's upstairs fixing something. You know what he's like. Some bloke came by and got Ed.”

“Ken Hall?”

“No—apparently Ken really did think she could act. This one's someone new. Don't worry, she promised not to go anywhere public…the two of you being engaged and all.”

“Very decent of her,” Rowland replied. The thought did not help unsour his mood.

Milton refilled their glasses with something stronger than lemonade. Lenin watched, occasionally shifting position but otherwise happy to simply languish in the opulent circumstances in which he now found himself. It was hard to know whether the dog fully appreciated his good fortune, but he did seem content. Rowland, feeling under pressure far more than normal, didn't refuse when Milton repeatedly refilled his glass through the evening. While their conversation was initially inconsequential, anything but what was really on their minds, it became progressively less inhibited. Rowland could tell he'd had too much to drink. He was aware he was talking about Edna far too much.

“This thing you have for Ed,” Milton said finally, “you're cutting a switch to flog yourself with, mate.”

Rowland groaned. He knew. “What else can I do, Milt?”

“Look, Rowly,” Milton leant forward and spoke directly, not caring that his tie landed in Rowland's glass, and Rowland not noticing. “I've known Ed since we were little tackers. There's no one like her, but she's single-minded about her work. With that French mother of hers—you should've met her…brilliant but too crazy for just about anybody but Selwin—Ed's trying to succeed for the both of them. Consider it a compliment that she won't give you a go. She only takes on men she's happy to walk away from.”

“Great.” Rowland took Milton's tie with two fingers and removed it from his glass.

“She ain't going to change, mate…and you can't keep waiting for her.”

“I'm not waiting, Milt. I'm not stupid. But as you said, there's no one like her.”

“There are other girls, though. You could have your pick.” The poet raised his glass. “You're Rowland Sinclair—you've got money, position, handsome friends.” He swung his hands out, spilling gin in a wide arc. “Mate, you could choose from either side of the tracks.”

Rowland laughed. “It's as easy as that.”

Milton shrugged. “You're a hopeless romantic, Rowly. God, you'll be writing poetry next.”

“One of us has to.”

“You slander me, my friend.” Milton smiled, unabashed, but added with gravitas, “The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence, but in the mastery of his passions.”

“I'm not completely sozzled, Milt. That's…”

“Yeah, all right…Tennyson.”

Chapter Twenty-four

“Jock Garden”

Honour From Moscow

SYDNEY, Sunday

In the current issue of
The Worker's Weekly
, under the heading, “Moscow Correspondence”, is a paragraph which states that the secretary of the New South Wales Labor Council, Mr. J.S. Garden, has been elected to the Fourth World Congress of the Red Internationale of Labor Unions and to the executive of the R.I.L.U.

The Argus
, February 15, 1932

“Rowly! Rowly!”

Rowland shrugged on a dressing gown over his pyjamas. He was still half asleep. He would have been entirely asleep if Edna hadn't been shouting the house down. He opened his curtains and groaned. The sun was blinding. “I'm coming!” he called, wondering what could be so urgent. He and Milton had spent most of the night playing cards and drinking. He was a little hungover.

Edna was in the dining room with Clyde and Milton when Rowland came down. “What?” he demanded.

The three of them were huddled over a newspaper. “Have you seen this?” Edna said, holding up a copy of
The World
.

“How could I have seen it?” Rowland grumbled. “I was asleep.”

“Look!” Edna thrust the paper at him.

Rowland scanned the front page. The headline read, “New Guard Assaults Reporters.” A half-page photo showed Eric Campbell, his arm raised imperiously as he ordered the photographers off the property.

Rowland blinked, mildly surprised. He had thought that all the cameras were smashed. Apparently not. Still, he didn't think it warranted waking him.

“Is there any coffee left?” He looked hopefully at the silver pot on the sideboard.

“Look at the picture again, mate.” Clyde pushed the paper back toward him.

Rowland did…and then he saw it. Behind Campbell, a number of men, Rowland Sinclair among them. “Oh.” He poured the last of the coffee into a cup. “This could be embarrassing.”

Clyde took the paper from him and looked hard at the picture. “It mightn't be so bad…It's not that clear and Rowly's just one of the chaps in the background.”

“Does it matter?” asked Milton.

“Well, what if someone recognises Rowland Sinclair standing behind the Commander of the New Guard?” Edna looked over Clyde's shoulder at the image.

“Unless they know him well, they're unlikely to be surprised.” Milton remained confident. “It's what you'd expect from the established classes. Besides, who ever notices the men standing in the background of a picture?”

“And if they do know him well?” Edna persisted. “Rowly does have one or two friends, apart from us.”

“The people who know him well are hardly likely to talk to Campbell, are they?”

“You probably won't be welcome at Trades Hall for a while,” Clyde said grimly.

Rowland drank his coffee. That was the worst of it, as far as he could see. The left-leaning art world, which had finally accepted him, would now regard him with suspicion once again.

“Rowly, are you going to say anything?” Edna demanded.

“Is there any more coffee?”

Edna considered the less-than-immaculate state of him. “You really shouldn't drink with Milt.”

Rowland rubbed his face. “That's stating the flaming obvious.”

Milton laughed, completely unaffected by the previous evening's consumption. But then, he was a far more accomplished drinker than Rowland.

“So, what are we going to do?” Edna tried to drain a few last drops of coffee from the pot.

Rowland stood. “I'm going to get dressed. What time is it?”

“Half past twelve.”

Rowland cursed and then apologised to Edna, who couldn't have cared less.

“Are you late for something?” she asked.

“A meeting with Inspector Bicuit. At one.” He swigged the half cup of coffee that Edna had managed to procure. “The incompetent fool told Mrs. Donelly not to ‘leave town,' and as far as I can tell, that's the extent of his bleeding investigation.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I thought it might be time to throw some Sinclair weight around.”

“This I gotta see.” Milton's eyes brightened. “I'll come with you…There's no reason not to take the Rolls, is there?”

“I think we're pretty safe. It's the only way I'll make it on time, anyway. Have Johnston bring it around.” Rowland departed to shower and dress.

It was just after one. Milton watched, entertained, as Rowland became a Sinclair. It was not so much what he said, but the way he said it—as if the entire police force worked for him personally. Milton was fascinated by the manner in which the officers responded, showing Rowland into the inspector's office as a matter of urgency.

Rowland Sinclair spoke to Inspector Bicuit behind closed doors. Milton waited outside. The voices were definite, but not raised. When Rowland reemerged, it was Bicuit who held the door open for him. To Milton, the inspector looked flustered, and distinctly unhappy.

“So?” Milton asked, once they were out of Bicuit's earshot.

“He hasn't got a shred of evidence on Mrs. Donelly. He's finally agreed to leave her alone…and maybe do a spot of actual police work.”

Milton was impressed. “How did you manage that?”

Rowland smiled. “I told him I'd get Wilfred to call the Commissioner. Essentially, it's a variation on the ‘my father will thump your father' approach.”

“Traditional,” Milton nodded, “but clearly effective. Did you mention Campbell and his black-hooded men?”

“No. I didn't want to push my luck. I've already told him about Paddy Ryan, but that got me nowhere; I'll wait till I have some names.”

They were just about to leave the building when Milton saw a familiar face, “Garden! What are you doing here?”

Harcourt Garden was a tall, solid man. Though barely out of his teens, he cut an imposing figure. It was hard to know precisely what he did for a living, but they knew he worked for the “Left.” His father was Jock Garden, a Scottish immigrant and former Baptist preacher who had founded the Australian Communist Party, and who was now one of the fiercest supporters of Lang's faction in the Australian Labor Party, despite having been expelled from it at one time for his extremist views.

Rowland had come to know both Gardens through Milton. While he thought Jock was as mad as Eric Campbell, he did like his son.

Harcourt strode over to them. He wasn't smiling.

“How are you, Harry?”

Garden glowered at them before looking carefully about the room. The station was busy, despite it being a Sunday. “Outside,” he said.

They followed him out of the station, to a small alleyway at its side. Rowland was uneasy. Harcourt Garden was, in his experience, a fairly upfront sort of chap. What business could he have with them in an alleyway?

Garden turned, his face clenched in a way that seemed to make speaking a strain. Still, he managed. “Well, Sinclair!” he spat. “Finally, you show your true colours!” Despite having been born in Melbourne, Garden's speech had a faint Scottish brogue—his father's influence—and it came out even more so when he was angry.

Rowland said nothing, realising that Garden had seen the photograph.

“I should've known it was too good to be true—the gentlemen socialist! What have you been doing all this time, Sinclair—amusing yourself by slumming with the lower classes? Or are you worse, some kind of Fascist spy?”

“Steady on.” Milton stepped forward.

“I just stood behind him in a photo, Harry,” Rowland said evenly. “That's all.”

Garden swore at him. Rowland waited. On the face of it, Garden had a right to be angry. While Rowland had never joined either the Communist or the Labor parties, the people he'd met had trusted him, as a friend of Milton's. He'd been to their rallies and even a few party meetings. His appearance with Campbell must have seemed a betrayal. He regretted that, but he knew its purpose, and they didn't.

Milton started to argue with Garden.

“Leave it, Milt,” Rowland placed his hand on the poet's shoulder. What was the point? They couldn't tell Garden the truth.

Harcourt Garden looked at them both with an air of disgust. He leant in to Rowland, his breath hot. “Just you watch your back, Sinclair. Just you watch your back!” Turning, he stalked out of the alley and into the station.

“Come on,” said Milton. “Let's go, before he returns with some mates.”

The Rolls-Royce was waiting and they climbed in before Johnston could get out to open the doors. Rowland let his head fall back against the leather seat. Milton opened the drinks cabinet.

“Well, this is going to be awkward,” Rowland said, declining the glass Milton offered him. He was still feeling a bit seedy from the evening before.

Milton poured himself a whisky. “Awkward's not the half of it, Rowly. Garden's mates don't mess around.”

“Don't tell me you're worried, Milt?” Rowland replied a little amused. To date it had been Clyde who was the voice of caution, with Milton the provocateur.

“Rowly, we're not talking about Campbell's poncy bloody band of fairies. These guys know how to throw a punch, and now they think you're some kind of New Guard spy!”

Rowland sighed. “So it seems.”

Milton downed his whisky.

Rowland spoke frankly. “Look, Milt, this is probably going rub off on you…maybe Clyde as well. You may need to keep your own heads down for a while.”

Milton snorted. “Don't change the subject, Rowly. You heard what Garden said. They'll be looking for you.”

Rowland shrugged. “Maybe. Not a lot we can do about it now—but I'll try to stay out of the paper in the future.”

“That's not all you're going to have to stay out of.” Milton refilled his glass. “Harry will put out the word that you can't be trusted…I could try telling them that you just happened to be standing in the background….”

Rowland laughed. “Good luck.”

Johnston pulled the Rolls into the drive of Woodlands House and Mary Brown came out to tell them that Edna and Clyde were taking tea in the gazebo that overlooked the tennis courts at the back. It was a large octagonal structure, embellished with fretwork. A trumpet vine, now heavy with its orange conical blooms, insinuated itself through the frame of the roof. Lenin was tearing about the garden, chasing something that was visible only to him.

“How was Inspector Biscuit?” Edna asked as they walked up the stairs.

“As it turns out, he's the least of our problems.” Rowland took a seat on the bench next to her. He poured himself a cup of tea and told them the latest.

“I knew this was a bloody stupid plan!” Clyde clipped Milton on the side of the head. “See what you've gotten Rowly into.”

“It's not Milt's fault.” Rowland came to the poet's defence. “I'm the one who got himself in the paper.”

“That's right. It's all Rowly's fault,” Milton agreed.

“It'll blow over,” Rowland said. “Once I have the names I need, we can just tell Garden the truth, and hopefully he'll call his dogs off.”

“And until then?” asked Clyde.

“I'll stay out of his way. You probably should too.”

Clyde sighed. “There's nothing else we can do, I suppose.”

“Have you started Campbell's portrait yet, Rowly?” Edna asked.

Rowland shook his head. “De Groot's insisting I attend the New Guard's Town Hall Rally before I decide on the composition…he rather likes to keep control of things, I think. I feel like he's commissioned me to paint the movement's next recruitment poster.”

“If only he knew.” Milton helped himself from the plate of Mary Brown's scones and the pot of her famous strawberry jam.

“Just be glad he doesn't,” Clyde muttered.

“I have a piece to finish for the Life Exhibition first, anyway.” Rowland decided to change the subject. The exhibition at the Fine Arts Gallery was to feature the nude in contemporary art. He had been gratified when he was asked to submit a piece; but of course he'd since been distracted by Fascists. He wondered, fleetingly, when his priorities would return to normal.

“Oh, yes, I forgot.” Edna finished her cup of tea. “Do you want to start now?” She had promised to be his model.

“I probably should. I've left it a bit late.”

Clyde looked at the sky. “You've lost the best light, Rowly.”

“I know.”

“Why don't we start tomorrow, early?” Edna suggested. “I'm free all day.”

Milton lifted the lid of one of the box seats in the gazebo and took out several croquet mallets. The socialist poet rather enjoyed the civilised pleasures of the ruling classes.

Rowland glanced at the position of the sun. It was not like him to procrastinate with his work but the best light had indeed gone.