A Few Right Thinking Men (26 page)

Chapter Thirty

Poynton's Buick pulled up at the gates of Berrima's former gaol and, after a few knowing nose taps, they were waved through into the complex of imposing stone buildings. The site hadn't been used as a criminal prison for decades; so-called enemy aliens had been interned there during the war, but it had since fallen into disuse. As Poynton parked, two men walked out from one of the buildings to greet them. He introduced them as Gerald Clarke and John Winslow. The younger man, Winslow, was the current lessee of the facility, and both were stalwarts of the New Guard.

“We'd better let you gentlemen get on with it,” Winslow said, pulling a cigarette from a slim gold case. “I've already prepared a summary for you with the position of dark cells and suitable places for officers' quarters, cookhouses, latrines, and the like.” He opened an enamelled lighter, and held the flame to his cigarette.

Rowland studied Winslow's face. It was narrow, sculpted with high cheekbones. It might have been a cruel face if the man's eyelashes had not been ridiculously long, giving him a feminine and theatrical air. “I think we can more than accommodate the numbers the Commander has in mind,” Winslow concluded.

“And, once you're finished here, gentlemen, we shall expect you at Sunbury,” said the flame-haired and freckled Gerald Clarke. “It'll give you a chance to meet the Princess.” He beamed proudly.

Rowland was startled by this latest revelation. What princess? Was Campbell planning to install his own monarchy? Winslow rolled his eyes, almost imperceptibly.

Clarke and Winslow took them on a brief tour of the facility, showing them the general cell blocks and other accommodations. When they came back into the yard, Winslow pointed to the roof. “With a few minor modifications, you could mount machine guns there…there…and there.”

“Machine guns?” Rowland exclaimed, before he could check himself.

“The Commander's made it clear that escapees will be shot.” Winslow now regarded Rowland with suspicion. “You don't have any war service, do you, son? If you had, you'd know this was no time for half-measures…you'll learn that, if you're lucky.”

Rowland bit back a response, and decided that he did not like John Winslow. Their guides then left them to attend to some business of their own.

“I'll book a call through to Eric,” Clarke said over his shoulder. “Let him know you have the job in hand.”

“Right,” said Rowland once he was alone with Poynton. “What the hell are we doing here, Herb? Just who is the Colonel planning to imprison here?”

Poynton smiled in his broad, simple way. “Settle down, Jonesy…you're gonna love this.” Poynton spread out his arms. “This illustrious facility is soon where we'll be holding the very bastards who are destroying this great nation.”

“The Communists?” Rowland was incredulous.

“No, the Premier…the Big Fella himself.”

“You're going to imprison the Premier?”

“Not just the Premier, Jonesy, the entire State Cabinet—all Lang's partners in crime. The Colonel says they've had their chance; our hand has been forced. If we don't act soon, the Reds will take control. First it'll be this State, then the nation. A nation under the Reds…imagine it, Jonesy. It'd be the end of everything we know and love.”

Rowland stared at him, staggered.

“So we have to make sure that this place can be made absolutely secure.” Poynton flung a friendly arm about his shoulders. “That's where you come in. You're going to draw up plans, a layout, so we can do what's necessary to defend it.”

Rowland was at a loss. These people were truly insane. He thought quickly—he'd have to go to the police with more than the refurbishment of an old gaol. “So, exactly how long have we got before you, er, kidnap the Cabinet?” He kept his voice as even as he could, a struggle in the circumstances.

Oblivious to the tension in Rowland's voice, Poynton tapped the side of his nose. “All in good time, Jonesy. For now, we need to draw the plans of this place so the Colonel can make his decision.”

“Decision?”

“Whether this is the best place to hold the enemy. We have a couple of options, you know. The Colonel will choose after he's seen your drawings.”

Rowland took a deep breath and extracted his notebook. He began to make drawings, first sketching the buildings in elevation and then a rough plan of each. It was an involved and time-consuming process. Rowland had an artist's eye, trained for proportion and detail, but it was also necessary to work out the internal configuration of each cell block and the relative placement of each structure to the others. He didn't usually work with this level of precision. Poynton asked him to take special note of access routes, ventilation, and vantage points for guards. Rowland did this work meticulously. He'd thought of making intentional mistakes but knew he had to keep Poynton's trust.

Somehow—he had no idea how—he would have to make sure this plot to capture and incarcerate the New South Wales Cabinet failed, but simply producing a sloppy plan would not do that.

By the end of the day, Rowland's head throbbed and he had to force his eyes to focus. He must have made a hundred drawings and as many pages of scribbled notes, but had no idea what he was going to do. “I'll have to draw these up onto larger sheets,” he said, as he flicked through the pages.

“You can do all that at Sunbury—Clarke will make sure you have everything you need,” Poynton replied. “He's one of the movement's finest.”

Sunbury, the Clarke estate, was a sprawling homestead a few miles out of Berrima on lush irrigated lawns. Poynton turned the blue Buick into the sweeping driveway.

Gerald Clarke met them as they crossed the tiled verandah. “I say, good of you to come,” he effused as if they were making a social call. He clapped them both on the back, clearly excited. “Come along, gentlemen. You'll be wanting to meet the Princess.”

Rowland caught Poynton's eye, but the Colonel's bodyguard gave no sign he was perturbed in any way by the proposed audience. Clarke led them on a long walk…around the back of the house, through the gardens, and toward a cluster of barns and sheds. When they reached the largest, he opened the doors.

“Here she is, gentlemen, a bonny lass, is she not?”

Rowland gazed at the gleaming Tiger Moth. He laughed. This was darn sight better than an audience with the bunyip aristocracy. Rowland walked past Poynton to inspect the aircraft more closely.

“You'll not see a more beautiful thing in the sky,” Clarke said, stroking the plane.

Rowland was inclined to agree. She was, to his eyes, a magnificent machine.

“Gentlemen, the Princess is at your disposal…she'll be perfect for the Bunnerong mission.”

Rowland's attention sharpened at the mention of Bunnerong. South of the city centre, it was the site of the power station supplying Sydney with its electricity.

Poynton nodded. “She could be bloody useful, Mr. Clarke.”

“Let us use the modern technologies of the Empire to safeguard her, gentlemen.” The grazier's voice was solemn.

“Do you pilot her yourself, sir?” Rowland made no attempt to hide his envy.

“Indeed, I do, young man…Served with the Royal Air Force last year of the war, you know. Of course the Princess is a ways ahead of the old crates we flew back then…but still, once a man has flown, it's hard to ground him again.”

Rowland nodded. He'd never flown, but standing beside the Princess he was stirred by the very idea.

“You wouldn't get me up there, I'm afraid,” said Poynton, as he lit a cigarette. “Too fond of solid ground, I am.”

“It's not for everyone.” Clarke was sympathetic. “Take Charles Hardy…I took him up a couple of times, when he was marshalling the country against the Reds. Poor chap never took to it, either…white knuckles the entire way and had a jolly job cleaning her out afterwards.”

Clarke could see the glint in Rowland's eyes and the old airman was gratified. “Would you like to go up?” he asked. “I could take you out in the morning.”

“I'm afraid Jonesy still has work to do,” Poynton said before Rowland could respond. “And the Colonel wants those plans as soon as possible. We can't be holding up the mission for joyrides, can we Jonesy?”

“I suppose not.” Rowland would have been perfectly happy to hold up Campbell's plans for a ride, or for anything else, if truth be told.

Clarke gave them the run of the guesthouse, situated directly behind the homestead. Rowland commandeered a small oak table and began to draft his notes onto detailed layouts and plans, working solidly until they were summoned for dinner at the main house.

Gerald Clarke and his wife had three daughters, all unmarried. Attractive girls, well-schooled in the social arts, they brought a certain civilised frivolity to the meal. Rowland found himself having to be cautious in how he responded to their conversation. While Clyde Watson Jones was from a good family, his background and means were far more humble than either their hosts' or his own. Consequently, he chose to remain a little subdued, feigning a sense of polite awe. The Clarke girls interpreted his reserve as a charming shyness, and redoubled their attentions in an effort to draw him out of it. It wasn't every day they had a famous artist in their very dining room. They'd never heard of him, of course, but their father had told them he was going to win the Archibald Prize, and the whole world knew about that.

The subject of Berrima Gaol didn't come up until the ladies had retired and the men retreated to Clarke's study for brandy. Poynton and Clarke did most of the talking. Rowland listened, now aware that as mad as kidnapping the State Cabinet sounded, it was only half of the New Guard's crazy plans. Secure he was one of them, his companions spoke without reservation in his presence. Clarke, like Poynton, had the utmost admiration for Campbell and saw the Guardsmen as defenders of the faith, the King and the Empire—in Australia at least. They spoke eagerly of the “Bunnerong mission.”

From what they said, Rowland pieced together that the New Guard planned to lay siege to Bunnerong Power Station in order to plunge the city into darkness. Under the cover of this orchestrated blackout, they'd take Parliament House, and imprison the State's highest-ranking elected representatives at Berrima. It occurred to Rowland that, given the time of year, and the fact that it was light till late, Parliament was unlikely to still be sitting after dark. The outcome of the mission could well be the abduction of Parliament House's cleaning staff. He said nothing, however. The last thing he wanted to do was help the New Guard improve their plans for revolution.

“When exactly, will we be moving on the Cabinet?” Rowland asked tentatively.

“We haven't decided.” Clarke was pleased to let the others know he was one of the inner core. “We can't let Lang open the new bridge…given Eric's public pledge that he won't, it would be humiliating if we didn't deliver, so I think you'll have your chance to fight within the month, my boy.”

Rowland tried to look pleased.

“Houghton will be relieved,” Clarke added. “Poor chap has been stationed outside Lang's farm for the last six weeks, keeping an eye on the Lenin-loving blaggard. He's heartily sick of living rough.”

“We've dressed Mr. Houghton as a swaggie,” Poynton explained to Rowland, “so he can keep an eye on the Premier without arousing suspicion.”

“Actually, he enjoyed it at first,” Clarke laughed. “But after a month of flies and being charged by Lang's bloody bull, I think he'll be rather happy to get back to his practice.”

“He's an accountant,” Poynton added helpfully.

Rowland elected to say nothing. What could he say to people who would dress as hoboes and oust a democratically elected government in the dead of night?

Gerald Clarke filled their glasses and stood. “To Eric Campbell, gentlemen, and the right-thinking men who follow him. With a little luck, we will soon be running this State.”

Chapter Thirty-one

At an End

Lyons-Lang Letters
STATE PREMIER'S BROKEN PROMISE

CANBERRA, Wednesday

After repeated efforts to obtain the amount of £958,763 representing interest payments to overseas bond holders which the Government of New South Wales failed to meet when it fell due between February 1 and 4, the Commonwealth has decided to cease negotiations with the Premier of New South Wales (Mr. Lang) in regard, to the matter.

Action under the new Financial Agreement Enforce-
ment Bill will probably be the next step.

The Daily Telegraph
, March 3, 1932

Clyde came out of the sunroom he used as a studio. “Rowly! You're back…What's wrong?” he asked as Rowland threw his notebook at the wall in disgust.

“Those idiots are planning to kidnap the State Cabinet!” Rowland walked to the phone in the hallway and rang through to Sydney Police Headquarters. He asked for Detective Constable Delaney.

Clyde picked up Rowland's notebook and started flicking through it.

“Delaney, it's Rowland Sinclair. I need to speak with you….It's rather urgent. Could you come here? An hour, then.”

As he hung up, Milton emerged from the conservatory and Edna came down the staircase. Rowland motioned them all into the drawing room.

“Since when did you become an architect…?” Clyde started. He'd never known Rowland to have any interest in buildings.

“You're not going to believe what those clowns are up to.” Rowland rubbed his temple becoming aware that he had a headache. He told them the whole story.

Milton exploded, and stormed toward the door. Rowland grabbed his arm. “Where the hell are you going?”

“To tell Ryan and the boys,” Milton spat angrily. “Those bloody Fascists'll get a fight before we let them take over.”

Rowland held his arm. “No. We're not going to start a flaming war.”

“We wouldn't be starting it.”

“Milt, sit down! Listen to me. If you tell them, they'll go after the Guard…it'll give Campbell the very excuse he needs to justify his revolution, and the Fascists just might win.”

“Rowly's right,” Clyde agreed. “This could get really ugly.”

“So what do you plan to do?” Milton demanded.

“I've just called Delaney. He'll be here within the hour. The police might be able stop this quietly.…”

“That's it? That's all? Leave it to the bloody useless coppers?”

Rowland held his gaze. “I'll call Wil.”

“For God's sake, Rowly—you're planning to stop one Fascist army with another?”

Rowland stood. He was tall, but it was a fact that was not always noticed. “Milt, sit down,” he said calmly. “We may well be the only people in this State who are not completely mad. We are going to be careful.”

Milton stared at him, mutinously at first, and then he seemed to realise: this was Rowland Sinclair…he was not the enemy—perhaps he was wrong, but he was not the enemy. He sat down. “I hope you know what you're doing, Rowly.”

“I have no idea, actually.” Rowland was truthful. “I'm just making it up as I go.”

Edna giggled. “Did you really just say we were the only people who weren't mad?”

Rowland smiled at her. “It's all relative, Ed.”

True to his promise, Detective Constable Delaney arrived within the hour. Mary Brown answered the door and took him straight to the drawing room as she had been instructed, where he found them all waiting for him. Lenin jumped from the couch to greet him. Delaney leant back from the mangy, one-eared creature and its excessive tail. “What's that?” he asked, surprised to see something so ill-bred in Woollahra.

“That's my dog…Lenin.”

Delaney patted the dog, carefully. “Sure is ugly.”

“Afraid so,” Rowland replied, “but he grows on you.”

“Unlike the real Lenin,” Delaney wagged his finger at Milton. Rowland was startled—he'd not known that Delaney was acquainted with the poet. “Have you met…?”

“Oh, Mr. Isaacs is well known to the Force.” The detective smiled quite congenially at Milton. “Haven't seen you in a while, though.”

“I've been busy.”

Rowland decided to leave it. “Right, Delaney, you might need to sit down….” He unloaded all the details of his trip to Berrima, to Clark's property, and what he had learned of the New Guard's audacious plans. He described the old Berrima Gaol and how it could be fortified with men and guns to make it a very defendable prison.

He ran his hand through his hair, almost embarrassed by his own tale. “Look, Delaney, I know all this sounds ridiculous, but I rather think they're serious.”

Delaney tapped his fingers on the arm of the couch as he thought. “It fits. We know Campbell has called for the Guardsmen to be ready for mobilisation within the month. He's issued instructions for street fighting and told his men to pack a day's provisions when they're called.”

Milton swore. He was taking this latest plan of the New Guard very personally.

“Do they have any idea that you're not really one of them?” Delaney asked Rowland.

“I doubt it. They wouldn't have told me…”

Delaney nodded. “True. Perhaps this is the time for you to call it quits. The stakes are getting much higher now.”

Rowland shook his head. “No…not yet. Not till I find out if it was these traitorous idiots who killed my uncle.”

Delaney didn't look surprised. “Fair enough. I'll take your information to the Superintendent.”

“That's all you're going to do?” Milton was unable to keep quiet any longer. “Someone's got to stop those morons, and if you won't…”

“Rest assured, Mr. Isaacs, they will be stopped—but we've got to tread carefully.”

“So I've been told,” Milton glanced at Rowland.

“There are rather a lot of Guardsmen,” Delaney tapped his fingers again. “We're better sabotaging the plan, undermining it, rather than opposing it openly.”

“And how will you do that?” Clyde asked.

Delaney beamed. “MacKay's infiltrated a few men into the Guard, and the intelligence Mr. Sinclair's just given us will give us a good start. We'll stop Campbell and make him think it's his idea.”

“They couldn't really…they can't just…” Edna sounded unnerved.

“The New South Wales Government has many enemies, Miss Higgins—more than just Campbell and his cronies. To tell you the truth, anything could happen right now. We're in uncharted territory. ”

“What enemies…who else?”

“The Commonwealth government, for one,” replied Delaney. “This latest wrangle over funds is getting bloody nasty. There are some who think that Canberra will move on Lang before Campbell does.”

Depending on the publisher, the newspapers had either decried or applauded Lang's repudiation of foreign loans, and the Commonwealth's consequent attempts to garnishee the State Treasury in its determination that New South Wales would not damage the entire country's financial position.

“Move? How? With the military?”

“Some say Canberra will use the Old Guard.”

Rowland looked up sharply.

Delaney raised his brows. So, Rowland Sinclair was aware of the Old Guard—the Detective Constable had thought as much. “Unfortunately, we don't know a lot about them.” Delaney played his cards close to his chest. “They're secretive, unlike Campbell's show ponies, but we believe their numbers dwarf Campbell's and that they, too, are amassing.”

Rowland chewed his lower lip. So the Old Guard was mobilising; Wilfred had said nothing of this. He brought his mind back to the matters at hand. “Your turn, Delaney…have you heard anything from Dynon…about my uncle?”

Delaney looked warily at Rowland's houseguests, and nodded slightly. Rowland saw his hesitancy. “I've already told them,” he admitted. “You'll have to trust them.”

Delaney sighed, studied Milton for a moment and then continued. “All I've got so far is that Dynon wants to induct me into the Legion…it's some kind of special force within the New Guard itself. He hasn't told me much at this stage. I know the Legion's entire membership is kept tight, under fifty, but I haven't been to a meeting yet. I think this Legion might be the key to your ‘dark ghosts.'”

“You'll tell me if you find out anything?” Rowland looked for Delaney's word.

After a moment's pause, the detective nodded. “Yes, I'll tell you…but this particular arrangement stays between us, right?” He looked pointedly at Milton again. “I'll be lining up for the Susso myself if MacKay ever finds out.”

Rowland nodded. “Done. Thank you.”

Delaney stood, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think you should come with me, Sinclair. MacKay may have some questions for you. What do you say?”

“I can't be seen wandering into Police Headquarters.”

“I'll take you in through the back—no one will see us. Anyway, if they did, there's no reason at all why Clyde Watson Jones and Jack Harris shouldn't be seen together.”

Rowland stood. “Good enough.”

Delaney turned to the others. “And you lot watch yourselves—someone's bound to figure this out soon. As I said, the stakes are getting higher.”

“You be careful, too, Detective Constable,” said Edna earnestly. Delaney smiled at the beautiful sculptress who thought to be concerned for his safety. Milton rolled his eyes. Rowland looked amused.

“I'll do that, Miss Higgins.”

He and Rowland made their way out. Delaney paused outside the front door. “You know you're being watched don't you?”

“By whom?” Rowland was genuinely surprised.

“Them.” Delaney pointed his hat toward a black Oldsmobile parked across the road. “You haven't noticed…? They're not exactly subtle.”

Rowland hadn't noticed. “Who are they?”

“Federal agents, I'd say—if they were us, I'd know.” He smiled, “They're not dressed up as hoboes, so they can't be Guardsmen.”

Rowland squinted until he made out the men, all in suits, sitting in the Oldsmobile. “A swaggie might stand out in Woollahra,” he said dryly. “Should I be worried?”

Delaney shrugged. “Depends what you've been up to.”

Rowland's mind flew back to the 50–50 Club. “Do you think they know about my links to the New Guard?” He kept his eyes on the surveillance vehicle.

“You're assuming it's you they're watching, Sinclair.”

“Aren't they?”

“Maybe,” Delaney glanced over his shoulder back into the house. “But you keep some interesting company. The Feds are out watching Communists, Guardsmen, and a few lots in between at the moment. Got their hands pretty full.”

Suddenly Rowland remembered the Oldsmobile that had been parked outside Oaklea. It was black, too. He had vague recollections of seeing black Oldsmobiles on several occasions since. Was it something to do with Wil? Could it be that the car was waiting in case his brother returned to Woodlands House? He said nothing.

***

The young officer manning the desk outside MacKay's office looked up in alarm as they passed. “Detective Delaney, the Superintendent is—”

“Expecting me.” Delaney strode past and pushed MacKay's door.

Rowland came in behind him. The office was large and functional; no mementos, photographs, or personal touches at all. Bill MacKay stood as they entered.

“Delaney! What the blazes…?”

Delaney stopped. Rowland heard him swear under his breath. “I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realise…”

MacKay was not alone. A second man, in one of the visitors' chairs, sat with his legs stretched out halfway across the office. Rowland needed no introduction. The jutting lower jaw and the drooping moustache had been caricatured for years by countless cartoonists and poster artists.

Delaney was mortified. “Premier Lang, I'm sorry to disturb you, sir.”

“Not at all, Delaney…” Lang smiled. “You're one of Bill's men inside the New Guard, aren't you?'

MacKay was not so easily placated. Rowland could almost feel the rush of air as he roared, “Sinclair, what the hell are you doing here? Delaney, have you lost your mind, boy?”

“Mr. Sinclair has some valuable information on the New Guard's latest plot, sir. Very significant information,” Delaney replied. “But we can come back…”

“Another plot!” Lang interrupted. “What on earth is Campbell up to now? I've only just hunted out the bloody Guardsman they had under my sister-in-law's floorboards. I thought she had rats!” He slammed his hat down on the desk in frustration. “They're more trouble than the flaming Communists!”

An awkward silence followed as Delaney waited for MacKay's direction.

The Superintendent spat, “You heard the Premier—get on with it!”

Delaney introduced Rowland Sinclair. Premier Lang stood and shook his hand. “You're not a member of the force then, Sinclair?”