Paving the New Road (5 page)

Edna smiled. “Good. So are we still flying to Germany?”

“I expect we are. Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind, Ed? Aside from anything else, flying is not the safest way to travel … they still haven’t found Bert Hinkler.”

“He was trying to break some silly record,” she said, pouring tea for both of them. “He’ll probably walk out of the African jungle sometime soon …” She handed Rowland an excessively sugared cup of tea. “A single man travelling alone will make people wonder, Rowly. Together, we are just tourists.”

At this juncture Charles Hardy strode briskly into the room. “Good afternoon, Miss Higgins.”

“Senator Hardy.” Edna looked up. “How nice to see you again. How is Mrs. Hardy?”

“Alice is well, thank you Miss Higgins … I don’t mind if I do,” he added, as she offered him tea.

“Where’s Wil?” Rowland asked, as Hardy became visibly distracted by Edna’s vase.

“He’s making telephone calls. Wilfred has some reservations about your involvement … but I’m sure he’ll come to see that I’m right.”

Rowland gave his attention to the sandwiches. “I really wouldn’t count on it.”

“He mentioned that you have some notion about taking Miss Higgins and two other gentlemen with you.”

“You could call it a notion.”

“It’s not possible, Sinclair.”

“It is if you want him to go and us to keep quiet,” Milton announced, as he and Clyde walked into the conservatory.

Hardy turned stiffly, casting disdainful eyes over the poet’s deep purple jacket and spotted cravat. They had, of course, met only a month before, but then Hardy had believed Milton to be a business associate of Rowland’s. He had since been made aware of the petty criminality of the poet’s past and the Communist allegiance of his present. “If you don’t mind my saying, Mr. Isaacs, that’s a very reckless threat.”

“Not a threat,” Milton replied blithely. “It’s a statement of fact.”

“We will hardly agree to send known Communists on a mission of such importance.”

“Why not? We Communists are just as disturbed by Campbell’s ambitions as you are. If Campbell models himself on Europe, believe me, Senator, life will be more difficult for us than you.”

Hardy stared at him, stunned by both the man’s front and his logic.

“He’s right, Charles,” Rowland said calmly.

“You want me to send a Communist, particularly one of Mr. Isaac’s heritage, to Germany … Don’t you see how ludicrous that is?

“Call him Smith and he could pass as a Protestant,” Clyde snorted. “And we’re hardly going to announce our party memberships—we’re not fools.”

“No! It’s out of the question!”

“Senator Hardy, sir,” Clyde said, helping himself to tea. “If Rowly were to suddenly disappear, leaving us in charge of his home, you can imagine that questions would be asked. There’d be rumours. We’d be forced to tell people where they could find him, lest it be concluded we’d done him in.”

Rowland smiled faintly.

Hardy’s contemplation was sullen. “And why do you gentlemen wish to go to Germany?” The question was accusatory.

Milton took a seat and looked directly at Hardy. “The thing is, old mate, our Rowly’s not a Communist. If he was, we wouldn’t need to keep an eye on him.”

“You see, we don’t completely trust you, Senator Hardy,” Edna said sweetly.

“What’s more, the housekeeper, although one of the proletarian classes, is a bit of an old dragon when Rowly’s not here,” Milton continued gravely. “She scares us.”

“Why, that’s outrageous!” the Senator declared, affronted.

“I’m afraid she can be rather set in her ways,” Rowland said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Mary Brown wasn’t within earshot.

“I
was
referring to the implication that I am not to be trusted,” Hardy snapped. “I’m a Senator, for God’s sake—I will not stand here and be insulted.”

“Then sit down,” Milton muttered.

“We don’t mean to offend you, Senator Hardy.” Edna took a seat beside Rowland on the wicker settee. “But you must understand that we simply will not allow Rowly to go on his own. We’ll make a terrible fuss.”

Hardy turned to Rowland in exasperation. “Sinclair, surely you’re not—”

“It might seem more natural if I travel with a party,” Rowland said, as he handed the plate of scones to Clyde.

Hardy eyed them all intently. He walked over to the window and gazed out onto the remains of the firepit in the otherwise immaculate gardens of
Woodlands House
. He sighed loudly and returned to place his teacup on the table.

“Desperate times, strange bedfellows,” he said, offering Milton his hand.

Milton accepted the handshake. “I trust you sleep soundly, Senator Hardy.”

The dance floor was lively: a rhythmic kaleidoscope of couples moving to the slick tempo of a twenty-piece orchestra. To the blast of brass and bounce of strings, they swung. The night spot was stylish,
risqué but not quite scandalous. The affluence of its patrons gave it a de facto respectability that eluded less opulent sly groggeries.

Elaborate chandeliers hung from the ceiling roses. The round tables which surrounded the parquet dance floor were draped with crisp white linen. Waiters delivered trays of drinks from one of several bars within the club, to both dancers at pause and committed drinkers.

Edna laughed in Rowland’s arms as the number finished.

“Shall we have a drink, Rowly? Poor Clyde looks a bit lonely … Perhaps I should dance with him.”

“I think he might prefer to drink,” Rowland said, as he allowed her to lead him back to their table. Clyde was neither a proficient nor an eager dancer. Indeed, Rowland suspected that Clyde had not invited Rosalina Martinelli to accompany them that night so that he would not feel obliged to dance with her.

“Where’s Milt got to?” Edna asked, as Rowland called for drinks.

“He’s performing,” Clyde muttered tossing his head towards the crowded floor.

They noticed the poet now, taking far more than his fair share of space with flamboyant moves that invited applause. He danced with a glittering and noticeably intemperate blonde.

“Who’s that?” Rowland asked.

“Said her name was Dulcie.” Clyde grinned. “She and Milt seem … acquainted.”

Rowland watched Dulcie entwine herself about Milton as the music slowed into a sultry foxtrot. “We’ve got a few minutes—he may as well make the most of them.”

They had all been a little surprised when Sir Charles Kingsford Smith had suggested they meet at The 400 Club. The man was, after all, a national hero—they had expected to be summoned to some utterly respectable establishment that would admit only Rowland.

The past days had been consumed by the Old Guard, by suspicion and conspiracy, plans and warnings, and so they had jumped at the opportunity to relax and enjoy the hedonistic pleasures of the exclusive club, arriving well before the appointed time.

“Sinclair! Blimey … fancy runnin’ into you ’ere.”

Rowland turned sharply.

A sallow man approached their table smiling broadly. He was dressed in a dinner suit like all the gentlemen present, but on him it seemed a disguise. His face was angular, shrewd; his eyes twitched constantly around the crowd. Several men followed him.

Inwardly, Rowland groaned. It was Jeffs.
The Jew
. A gangster, a violent ruffian who specialised in sly groggeries and extortion, who may or may not have been Semitic. He owned and ran Darlinghurst’s 50-50 Club, an establishment, which like The 400, plied sly grog and promised wanton pleasure, but did so without any pretence of refinement or basic hygiene. Rowland had once inherited a half-share in the 50-50 from a beloved but disreputable uncle, and though he had managed to extricate himself from the partnership, Jeffs seemed intent on maintaining some sort of familiarity.

“Mr. Jeffs,” he said as
The Jew
extended his hand.

Quietly, Clyde took Edna onto the dance floor, so that Rowland would not be forced to introduce her. Jeffs was not someone any of them wanted to know, but it would be dangerous to snub him.

“Enjoyin’ yerself, Sinclair? Top joint, don’t yer think?”

“Indeed.”

“I’m thinkin’ of acquirin’ the place. Cater to a better class of criminal …” He laughed loudly, slapping Rowland on the back in acknowledgement of a shared joke.

“It certainly looks as though it could be a good investment, Mr. Jeffs.”

Jeffs waved at a table on the other end of the room. A stout woman wearing a fur and enough jewels to be noticeable from across the dance floor waved back. She sat beside a barrel-chested man in a dark suit. “I met Tilly and Jim ’ere for a drink to check the place out,” Jeffs said. “Come on, Sinclair, I’ll introduce yer … never met a gentlemen who didn’t have need of Tilly’s services from time t’ time.”

“I’m afraid I have a meeting myself,” Rowland said hastily. He already knew more underworld figures than he cared to without adding Tilly Devine, the notorious madam, and her thug of a husband to the list.

“Come on, Sinclair,” Jeffs cajoled. “I’m certain Tilly’ll take a real shine to yer.”

Rowland glanced at his watch. “Regrettably, Mr. Jeffs, I really must leave it till another time.”

Jeffs’ tone hardened. “Tilly might be offended … She’s a lady, yer know …”

“Rowly!” Milton strode up to stand beside him. “We’re going to be late.” He nodded at Jeffs. “Hello, Phil. You don’t mind if I drag Rowly off, do you? We’ve got a prior.”

Jeffs considered them both icily. Rowland kept his eyes on the gangster’s hands. He’d had personal experience of how suddenly Jeffs’ hands could move for a concealed razor, how quickly that razor could end up pressed against your face.

Then Jeffs seemed to accept that he was not being slighted. His face relaxed. “Another time, Sinclair … Next time yer come, tell the blokes at the door that yer a friend of
The Jew
… I’ll own the joint by then.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Jeffs.”

The 400 Club offered discreet dining rooms for patrons who required privacy. It was in one of these opulently decorated rooms that the residents of
Woodlands House
first met Sir Charles Kingsford Smith.

It was difficult to tell whether it was the airman’s person or reputation which cut such a dashing figure. Both were larger than life. Even his voice seemed loud.

“Sir Charles,” Rowland offered his hand as Hardy introduced them. “It’s an honour, sir.”

“You can drop the ‘sir’ … it’s Smithy.” Kingsford Smith looked piercingly at Rowland. His expression was not necessarily warm.

Rowland had been prepared for this. Eric Campbell was Kingsford Smith’s solicitor, perhaps his friend. The airman was a member of Campbell’s New Guard and rumour had it that Rowland Sinclair had attempted to assassinate its Commander. Of course, that was not quite true, but then the truth would probably not endear him to Kingsford Smith either.

Indeed, if it had not been for the fact that Kingsford Smith was once again on the verge of bankruptcy, that he was desperate to prove the viability of an aerial mail route between England and Australia, he almost certainly would not have considered Hardy’s proposition. Even so, it was essential that they keep the true reason for the journey from him.

Kingsford Smith led with a jibe, an undisguised challenge. “You have a rather interesting reputation, Sinclair.”

Rowland’s face was unreadable, but there was nothing in his voice that sounded like any sort of retreat. “I might. I don’t pay a lot of attention.”

“Why not?”

Hardy muttered something about drinks, keen to diffuse the tension.

Rowland shrugged. “Reputations are easily lost—there’s not a lot one can do about what people choose to believe. I take a man as I find him.”

Kingsford Smith stared as the words hit their mark. The airman’s own reputation had been all but destroyed for a time—probably quite unjustly—by what had become known as the Coffee Royal Affair. Rescuers had died in what the media had labelled a publicity stunt staged by Smithy and his co-pilot. The public had turned against the pair almost overnight and Kingsford Smith had gone from Australian hero to the worst kind of scoundrel.

“Fair enough, Sinclair.” The airman nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s you and me start with a clean slate, then.”