Paving the New Road (45 page)

“I shouldn’t be too long,” Rowland replied. “There is a gentleman I must see.”

“You young people and your appointments,” Richter said, shaking his head. “Always meeting this one and that one …”

Rowland stood. “I’d better get on.”

Richter sighed. “I was going to take you all to luncheon … Is this meeting absolutely necessary?”

“I’m afraid it is rather important,” Rowland apologised, as he signalled a waiter for his hat. “And it’s well overdue.”

“That’s it, Mr. Negus!” Alastair Blanshard was businesslike. “The Graziers’ Association is no longer willing to fund your shenanigans. I have been instructed to inform you that you should consider your association with the Old Guard finished. What you choose to do forthwith will be on your own account and therefore at your own expense.”

“I beg your pardon?” Rowland said, astounded.

“I warned you, Mr. Negus. The organisation will not allow the funds of members to be squandered in this way. The excesses of you and your friends will no longer be met.”

“What do you expect us to do?” Rowland demanded furiously.

“Return to Sydney. Go home.”

“I can’t,” Rowland said angrily. “I’ve given Robert Negus’ passport away.”

“Well, that was a damn fool thing to do, Mr. Negus, but I am afraid I cannot help you. This is our last meeting.”

Rowland tried to keep his temper. He had expected to confront Blanshard today, but over Anna Niemann, not bookkeeping. The money was in any case not an issue: Wilfred had pre-empted this and they still had a small fortune secreted in Richter’s Mercedes. He didn’t even really care about the loss of Robert Negus’ papers. On Wilfred’s advice, they had brought their actual passports and papers with them. He would just have to leave as Rowland Sinclair, somehow. What did incense him, though, was the timing of this renunciation by the Old Guard, and he had to wonder if it was anything to do with his discovery of Alastair Blanshard’s claim to be Anna Niemann’s brother. He said as much.

“You would do well to forget your tin-pot investigation into Peter Bothwell’s death!” Blanshard hissed. “This is not a game, boy! Leave the matter to men who know what they’re doing and take your friends and run along.”

Rowland longed to punch Blanshard in the nose, but he resisted. They were standing in a museum and without Robert Negus’ identification papers, arrest could be very awkward.

Blanshard glared at him, and then seemed to relent a little. “Where is this chap to whom you gave your papers?”

“Vienna … he’s in Vienna.” Rowland had received a telegram that morning which informed him not only that von Eidelsohn and Sasha had reached Vienna, but that his “gift” had proved invaluable.

“Get him to send it back to you. You’ll receive the passport in a day or two, I expect … and once you get it, don’t delay. Leave. At the moment nobody suspects Robert Negus and his entourage of anything. It’s time to go.”

“And Campbell?”

“I’ll just have to deal with him myself.”

Rowland stiffened. What did Blanshard mean to do? What had he already done? “What happened to Anna Niemann?” he asked.

Blanshard sighed. “I expect she’s dead.”

“Why?”

“Because if she were in trouble and alive she would have contacted us.”

“Then it’s true she was a spy?”

Blanshard ignored the question. He grabbed Rowland by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks.

Rowland was too startled to pull away. The Continental way of greeting was not new to him, but it was not something he expected from Blanshard.

“I have slipped a parting gift into the pocket of your coat,” Blanshard said tightly. “You may need it at some point. Now, walk away, Mr. Negus. I shall neither see nor acknowledge you again.”

Rowland put his hands into his pockets. His right hand closed upon the hard barrel of a revolver.

Blanshard nodded and turned away.

Mrs. Schuler opened the door to Rowland and admitted him sullenly.

“Herr Richter is in the drawing room,” she said, showing him her back.

Preoccupied, Rowland barely noticed the housekeeper’s hostility. He followed Mrs. Schuler into the drawing room.

His friends were there as well. Clyde and Milton were playing cards while Richter made some final adjustments to the gown he’d made for Edna. The sculptress stood on a stool as he fussed about the hem and fitted the soft fabric to the curves of her figure. She smiled as Rowland walked in and for the briefest moment he forgot everything else. Unconsciously, he reached for his notebook, moved by a sudden impulse to draw her, to capture the delight in her face as she shimmied, showing off the dress.

“
Leibchen
, you must hold still,” Richter chided, laughing. “There will be enough time for dancing tonight, when you dance with the King.”

“Tonight?” Rowland said, leaning against the mantel. “That’s tonight?”

Edna laughed, knowing he had not forgotten. Alois Richter had spoken of little else since the evening before.

“I suppose we should go up and check that our tails are in order,” Rowland said, glancing at Milton and Clyde.

Milton picked the signal immediately. “You could be right. I recall my waistcoat’s missing a button.”

“A fallen button!” Richter’s head snapped around. “Investigate gentlemen! I will not have you stepping out looking as though you had been dressed by that scoundrel Hugo Boss!”

“We’ll look into it at once,” Milton assured him, as they made their exit.

In the privacy of his bedroom, Rowland told them everything … von Eidelsohn’s rather perplexing recognition of Richter’s wife, that he had given the artist his papers and about the final meeting with Blanshard.

“Why didn’t you say anything, Rowly?” Clyde demanded, clearly unhappy that Rowland had kept von Eidelsohn’s revelation to himself.

Rowland shook his head. “I’m sorry. It seemed so terribly ungrateful to doubt Richter, and I had already begun to have serious concerns about Blanshard’s involvement …”

“Doubt Richter?” Clyde asked.

“The man said his wife died in the Great War, and yet von Eidelsohn saw her perform in Vienna in the twenties.”

“Perhaps von Eidelsohn is mistaken.” Milton was also reluctant to think ill of their host.

“Perhaps,” Rowland conceded, “But the photo of Richter’s wife and child is no longer on the mantel. Why would he suddenly remove it after noticing von Eidelsohn looking at it?”

“There are many men who won’t admit their wives left them, Rowly. It’s probably just pride.”

“I showed Richter the photograph of Anna Niemann—he acted as though she was a stranger.”

“Again, Rowly, that may not be anything but wounded feelings,” Milton insisted. “The old guy has done nothing but help us since we arrived.”

Clyde stood with Rowland. “No, Rowly’s right. You’re not seeing it straight, Milt, because you like the man.” He rubbed his brow. “Perhaps Richter discovered his wife was a spy?”

Milton folded his arms and looked hard at them both. He did like Richter. But it was not in Rowland’s nature to jump to conclusions …
If anything, Milton considered his friend naive. “Ed’s not going to like this,” he said finally.

Rowland nodded. Telling Edna of his suspicions was going to be awkward.

“So what do we do, Rowly?”

“We leave as soon as possible.”

Clyde agreed. “Your papers should be here with the morning mail if von Eidelsohn got them away on time. We can concoct some family emergency and leave.”

“And Campbell?” Milton asked.

Rowland glanced at his watch. “Nancy’s interviewing him as we speak. With any luck, he’ll be leaving soon too.”

“We’ll tell Ed after the ball,” Milton decided. He shrugged. “We could still be wrong, you know.”

Rowland frowned, aware that they still knew nothing definitive about how and why Bothwell died.

“Look,” he said, “I’m going to fabricate a reason not to go to this royal reception, or at least to hang back and join you chaps later.”

“Why?”

“With you all out of the house I might be able to look around. There are no papers in Bothwell’s trunk. Perhaps Richter has them.”

“I don’t know, Rowly.” Milton was doubtful.

Rowland put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the revolver Blanshard had given him. He pressed it into Clyde’s hand. “An insurance policy, just in case Richter turns out to be dangerous.”

“What about you?”

“Most of the servants don’t live in … there’s only Mrs. Schuler.” Rowland smiled. “I’m sure I can handle her … I used to box, remember?”

36

NEW RECORDS

(BY L. DE NOSKOWSKI.)

The British Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Bruno Walter, plays “Siegfried’s Journey to the Rhine,” one of the few cheerful pages from the otherwise gloomy atmosphere of Wagner’s “Twilight of the Gods.” Walter, one of Germany’s most prominent conductors, has been excluded from Germany, because of his Jewish origin. His great work and fame do not preclude him from being on the “verboten” list, which, incidentally, makes one wonder whether the performance of Mendelssohn’s works in Germany will also be prohibited? Siegfried’s “Journey to the Rhine” opens with the “Fate” motive, followed by several of the most important motives of the “Ring” cycle, including that of the “horn”, the “Twilight of the Gods”, “Rhinegold”, “Woe”, and Brunhilde’s beautiful love motive, introduced by the wood winds. As Siegfried proceeds down the Rhine in search of new adventures, the music becomes brighter, but towards the end the “Rhinegold” and the “Woe” motives recall the sinister curse of the fatal ring which will eventually spell death to the hero. “Siegfried’s Journey” is one of the few Wagnerian orchestral excerpts which could have well done with an up-to-date modern recording, and in this respect Bruno Walter’s new version is splendidly recorded and should become very popular. (Columbia.)

The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933

R
owland left it until the last possible second, when they were all just about to walk out of the door.

Edna was enchanting in Richter’s gown, and the tailor was clearly looking forward to displaying both his creation and its wearer to Munich’s social elite. The gentlemen were immaculate in white tie. Even Clyde, whose brawny build was not suited to formality, looked particularly elegant.

It was a disaster, then, when Rowland spilled a glass of sherry on his waistcoat and shirt.

Richter stared at the spreading stain in horror.

“Good Lord!” Rowland said, mopping at it with his handkerchief. “What a mess.” He looked up. “I’ll have to change … see if I can clean this up … You chaps go on without me. I’ll join you later if I can manage to look respectable again.”

Richter was clearly upset, but he agreed. “I shall have Mrs. Schuler look at your waistcoat, Mr. Negus … She has rescued many garments for me over the years with the judicious application of lemon juice and soda water.”

Edna regarded Rowland a little strangely, but she said nothing.

“Mr. Greenway, please take your sister and Mr. Ryan to the car. I’ll just find Mrs. Schuler and telephone the palace that one in our party may be a little late—protocol, you see … I shall only be a minute.”