Paving the New Road (8 page)

“I’m sure we can find you something more to your taste in Europe,” Rowland offered, as the poet complained that the dark grey three-piece suit made him look like an undertaker.

Clyde snorted. “Could always rob some gypsies, I suppose.”

“Stop grumbling, Milt,” Edna chided, as she adjusted his tie. “You’d hardly expect Wilfred to order cravats and velvet jackets.” She giggled. “How would he explain it?”

Rowland smiled. The thought amused him.

The airmen joined them for a drink or several before the next leg, which would take them on to Singapore. Kingsford Smith was in excellent spirits and Pethybridge an enthusiastic chorus. And so they drank gin and tonic water in a small bar near the airport and toasted the
Southern Cross
. McKinnon and Lambert flirted outrageously with
Edna, who enjoyed the game, while Kingsford Smith talked of his plan to develop a motor car based on his beloved aeroplane.

“I say, that’s not a bad idea,” Milton said, nodding thoughtfully over his glass. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for investors?”

Clyde groaned. “The suit’s gone to his head,” he muttered.

Kingsford Smith seemed to accept that Milton was a man of means, however, and regaled him with the potential of the venture.

“My capital’s tied up at the moment.” Milton sighed, as if he was in fact burdened with capital. “I do know some chaps who might be interested, though.”

“He means you, Rowly,” Clyde murmured. “The bloody fool’s going to commit your fortune to this bloody aero-car cross-breed.”

Rowland laughed. “I’ll have to squander it somehow … might as well have an aero-car to show for it. Will it have wings, do you suppose?”

When the
Southern Cross
left Darwin for Singapore, her passengers were slightly less than sober. Perhaps for this reason they were not unduly alarmed that their pilots were in a similar state. Even so, the leg was uneventful. The winds were with them and they made good time, arriving tired and crumpled into the tropical heat. They were duly met by the Australian High Commissioner to the island and made discreetly welcome.

Leaving the valiant Fokker to be refuelled, they checked into the colonial splendour of the Raffles Hotel under the false names on the passports that Hardy had requisitioned for them. Kingsford Smith and the pilots were, of course, recognisable, even in Singapore, and signed their own names with a flourish. They did not appear to notice the subterfuge beside them. Briefly Rowland did wonder what explanation Hardy had given for the fact that the
Southern Cross’
passengers were travelling incognito. But perhaps he had not given an explanation at all; perhaps he had just given money.

The suites, like the rest of the hotel, were lavish invocations of the British Raj—teak wood floors and hand-made carpets underfoot; majestic ornate plasterwork above; furniture that hinted at the East in a style that befitted the glory of the Empire. A barber was sent up as they bathed and dressed for the evening.

Rowland regarded his own reflection a little dubiously as he deftly manipulated a bow tie. He wasn’t really sure about the evening attire which had been left for them in the suite. White dinner jackets were not entirely new. They had become quite popular in Australia after some visiting duke had adopted the trend, but Rowland had never worn one before. He’d always considered the style unnecessarily loud, and whatever visiting Englishmen may have thought, Sydney was not the tropics. Still, they were in Singapore, and he was supposedly an art dealer.

Milton was much more pleased with his reflection, but then, he usually was. They had all been provided with the white-jacketed dinner suits with slight variations in style. Rowland did wonder who had made these particular selections—some expatriate Old Guardsmen no doubt. He was, if truth be told, rather impressed with the Old Guard’s efficient attention to detail.

Milton sported a black and gold cummerbund rather than the white waistcoat. Rowland found it somewhat garish, but Milton was obviously satisfied. Indeed, the poet fished a tropical flower from one of the suite’s many vases and fashioned a boutonnière to complete the florid ensemble.

Clyde cursed, perspiring already with the humidity as he fumbled with cufflinks. Feeling the heat himself, Rowland opened the doors that led out to the balcony, allowing the salted sea breeze to refresh the room. The sky churned and rumbled, dark with the promise
of a tropical storm. The air was heavy and tasted of rain. Rowland watched, glad that they were not still in the air.

Edna waltzed into the suite after a perfunctory knock. She wore an evening gown of green Chinese brocade, which deepened the colour of her eyes. The dress hugged her figure and the straight, tight skirt was split on one side almost to the hip. A boa fashioned entirely from peacock feathers draped over her bare arms. For a moment Rowland forgot to breathe. Clyde whistled. “You couldn’t wear that in Sydney.”

Edna turned for effect. “Isn’t it exotic? I’ve never had anything quite like it. It’s such a shame we’ll have to leave it behind.”

Rowland swallowed. “I’ll have it sent back to Sydney if you like, Ed.”

Edna beamed at him. “Yes, please. I wonder who chose it for me? It doesn’t look like something Wilfred would select.”

Rowland smiled. “It is a little risqué for Wil.”

“Aren’t you boys ready yet?” Edna pushed him away to help Clyde with his cufflinks. “I’m famished. What time are we booked for dinner?”

“Not till eight, I’m afraid,” Rowland said apologetically. “We could have a drink at the bar in the meantime … I’m sure they’ll have some sort of hors d’oeuvres to keep you from expiring.”

The Long Bar at Raffles was as elegantly extravagant as the rest of the hotel. Decorated in the style of a Malayan plantation, it had an air of intrepid refinement. It was all but empty when they arrived—a few couples enjoying drinks before dinner and two gentlemen sitting at the bar. The first was quite elderly, distinguished and distinctly British, the second, younger and handsome, his smile very wide. He raised his glass as they walked in and signalled the barman. Both men stood, obviously expecting the party of Australians to join them.

Clyde looked enquiringly at Rowland. “Friends of yours?”

Rowland shook his head. “Never laid eyes on them before.”

The younger gentleman spoke to Edna first, betraying an American origin to his accent. “You look simply gorgeous, my dear. I just couldn’t resist that gown … I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you are equal to it.”

Edna extended her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced …”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Forgive me, darling. Gerald Haxton at your service.” He put his arm around the other man and drew him forward. “And this excellent gentleman is William Somerset Maugham. You must be Miss Millicent Greenway, an exquisite, blushing pearl from the Antipodes.”

Edna was flustered. She was not yet accustomed to her new name, and she was very familiar with the one he introduced.

“Somerset Maugham? The playwright?”

Maugham bowed. He spoke quietly, stammering. “The same.”

Edna glanced at Rowland. Why had William Somerset Maugham and his American friend chosen her gown?

“Perhaps we should all have a drink,” Haxton suggested.

“At least one,” Milton agreed.

On cue the barman placed a tray of cocktails before them.

“Singapore Slings,” Haxton announced, handing a glass to Edna. “Gin, cherry heering, benedictine and fresh pineapple juice—quite possibly this country’s greatest contribution to civilisation.”

“Gentlemen …” Rowland began.

“Mr. Negus, can’t tell you how pleased we are to make your acquaintance.” Haxton, then Maugham, shook his hand. “How is your dear brother?”

“Wilfred?” Rowland said uncertainly.

“Indeed. He wired us that you’d be coming. Asked us to look out for you … see that you had everything you needed.”

Still a little bewildered, Rowland introduced Milton and Clyde as Albert Greenway and Joseph Ryan, though it became clear that the introductions were unnecessary. Haxton and Maugham clearly knew of both their pseudonyms and actual names.

“How is it that you gentlemen are acquainted with my brother?” Rowland asked finally.

“Willy met him during the Great War. Fine officer by all accounts. They’ve kept in touch on and off since … and collaborated occasionally.”

“Wilfred writes plays?” Rowland felt the conversation taking a somewhat surreal turn.

“Good Lord, no!” Maugham spat out despite his stammer.

Haxton surveyed the room before he went on. “Perhaps you are familiar with a collection of stories Willy wrote some years ago—
Ashenden
?”

“I’m afraid not,” Rowland replied awkwardly.

“The British Agent,” Milton said, as he made quick work of his gin cocktail. He raised one brow and spoke with theatrical gravity. “‘There’s just one thing I think you ought to know before you take on this job. And don’t forget it. If you do well you’ll get no thanks and if you get into trouble you’ll get no help. Does that suit you?’”

“By George, you know it!” Haxton exclaimed, beaming at the poet.

“A collection of stories about a well-groomed spy, I believe.”

“Yes, exactly.” Haxton nodded emphatically. He slurped his sling, wiped the froth from his upper lip and sighed in satisfaction before continuing. “Willy has quite the reputation for using personal experience in his work, if you get my meaning. Shall we indulge in another round?”

Rowland had not yet tried his own drink, but another tray of gin-slings appeared almost immediately.

Rowland turned to Maugham, who had, he noticed, said very little. “Are you saying you were a spy, Mr. Maugham, or that Wilfred was a spy?”

Haxton moved in. He threw his arm around Rowland’s shoulders, lowering his voice. “Willy doesn’t say much,” he said. “The darned stammer, you know.”

Maugham stood watching them, quietly sipping his drink.

Haxton overheard Edna talking to the barman about food, and became immediately distracted, ordering mooncakes and other eastern delicacies with a gin-sling in each hand.

Rowland shook his head, more than a little bemused by the whole exchange.

A tap on the shoulder caught his attention, and William Somerset Maugham motioned him away from the bar. “Shall we walk?” he said carefully.

Glancing just momentarily at his friends, who were now engrossed in tasting canapés and sweetmeats under Haxton’s guidance, Rowland accompanied the renowned playwright onto the wide verandah. Maugham took a slim gold case from his breast pocket and offered Rowland a cigarette. He lit one himself when Rowland declined.

“I had expected to see Wilfred here, but then he wired me a few days ago that you would be coming instead. I understand that you intend to conduct some sort of intelligence operation in Germany. He’s concerned that you may be out of your depth.” Maugham spoke slowly but smoothly. The stammer was now barely noticeable. “Your brother hoped that I might talk some sense into you, or at least give you some advice.”

Rowland smiled. He was intrigued by Maugham and his sudden wish—and ability—to converse.

It had started to rain. On the verandah the air smelled sweet and the breeze breathed cool relief.

Maugham drew on his cigarette. “You are wondering about my stammer, I expect … it has not for some time been as debilitating as commonly believed.”

“Clearly.”

“I have always found the ability to observe quietly very useful,” Maugham reflected. “An impediment such as mine is an interesting thing … often mistaken for an impediment of the mind rather than the voice. I find it leads men to be less inhibited and circumspect in my presence. Perhaps they believe I cannot understand, or that if I could, I would not in any case be able to repeat it.”

Rowland nodded. “I can see how that would be useful for an intelligence agent.”

Maugham smiled slightly. “No less useful for a writer, my boy. We are first and foremost observers of the world. I believe you are something of an artist?”

Rowland was surprised that Maugham would be aware of such a thing. Wilfred still treated his brother’s determination to paint like some unfortunate habit that would hopefully be outgrown. “Something of one.”

“Well, then, you know what I mean. You will learn a lot more if you wait for something to be revealed rather than if you actively try to uncover it. It’s also a much safer way to proceed.”

Rowland leaned on the balustrade, watching as lightning lit the sky and flashed the hotel’s wet courtyard into colourless clarity. “Are you working with the Old Guard, Mr. Maugham?”

“No. But there are certain courtesies extended between gentlemen of the Empire.”

“Gentlemen?”

Maugham smiled, exhaling perfect rings of smoke. “In 1917 I was sent to Russia to prevent the Bolshevik Revolution … though regrettably my efforts didn’t meet with success. Regardless, this sort of work is best done by gentlemen.”

“Because spying ought to be done politely?” Rowland ventured, amused.

“Because it ought to be done dispassionately … and there is nothing as devoid of passion as the English gentleman.”