Red Herring (20 page)

V.G. Parker sat at his kitchen table, hands wrapped round a mug of tea, one foot jiggling, rollie buried in his nicotined fingers, eyes fixed on the postcard of Lenin pinned to the wall. There was something about the jut of the Chairman of People’s Commissars’ goateed chin that always reminded Vince of Frank Sargeson. A comparison he kept to himself, obviously.

He thought of the arch-revisionist Tyrkova’s description of Lenin, which he knew by heart: “From his youth his revolutionary work was characterised by the spirit of cold intrigue and by the cruel arrogance of a man convinced that he was the bearer of absolute truth, and, therefore, absolved from all moral obligations.” It was intended as a denunciation, but to Parker it was an ethos. “What is to be done, Vladimir?” he asked the postcard. “What is to be done?”

Parker was one of the eighteen men and women who attended the foundation meeting of the Communist Party of New Zealand at the Wellington Socialist Hall in April 1921. Pat Tuohy, recently returned from America with a new name, F.P. Walsh, and full of bluster about his role in the underground world, was another. Parker drew up the Party manifesto, based on the 1903 Bolshevik programme — the organising of a socialist revolution, the overthrow of capitalism, and the establishment of the dictatorship of the proletariat. Walsh seduced a delegate from the Christchurch
Tailoresses and Pressers Union on the first night of the gathering, and the wife of an English academic on the second. A miner, James Dyer, was elected first Party Secretary. Branches were established on the West Coast and in the four main centres. The Party was riddled with factionalism and undermined by Impossibilists from the beginning. Members were shadowed by policemen looking for evidence of seditious behaviour under the War Regulations Continuance Act, and subject to constant harassment and arrest.

In 1927, Parker was tapped by the powerful Australian Communist Party apparatchik L.L. Sharkey to attend a one-year course of study at the Lenin School, the Comintern training centre in Moscow, the so-called “Sorbonne of the Revolution”, whose aim was to develop disciplined and reliable political cadres for assignment to Communism’s front lines, and whose students were considered the
crème de la crème.
They studied Marxist theory, physical education and the clandestine arts. Travelling under the pseudonym “Fred Evans”, after the Waihi martyr, Parker went to Japan and then to Vladivostock, and from there, in the company of two Party members from Montreal and one from Chicago, on the Trans-Siberian Railway to Moscow.

They arrived in time to hear of Trotsky’s expulsion from the Central Committee and found themselves caught up in the turmoil that followed. When the United Opposition organised a demonstration in Red Square to be addressed by Lenin’s widow, Krupskaya — ostensibly to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the events of October, 1917, but clearly a provocation, the beginning of an attempt to rewrite history to the detriment of the Party and the glorification of Trotsky — the two Canadians urged their fellow students to attend as a show of revolutionary solidarity. The Chicago comrade caught Parker’s eye and gave him the slightest shake of the
head. Not that Parker needed guidance. It was obvious to him that Trotsky and his hirelings were promoting the very left opportunism that had so undermined the CPNZ in its founding years. The following day the Canadians were missing from the classroom and were not seen again, nor was their absence noted, except that their seats were kept empty for three weeks, books in place. Then one day the books were gone too. It was a valuable lesson to Parker and the rest of the cadre. Keep your eyes on the road to socialism and ignore the seductive provocations of traitors, spies and saboteurs.

Vince looked at his watch. Five minutes past. Making me wait, eh? A tactical move. Two can play at that game, cobber. He undid the strap and put it in his pocket. Not wearing a watch would suggest an indifference to appointments of any kind. Late for our meeting? Don’t apologise, Comrade. I’d forgotten we were even having one!

A car door slammed. Parker waited. Heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, in no particular hurry. All right, thought Parker. He stubbed out his rollie and stood. He got his tobacco pouch from the mantelpiece. There was a loud insolent knock on the door. He shaped a paper in one hand, loosened some leaf with the other, spread it evenly, rolled the smoke between thumb and fingers, ran his tongue along the edge, tidied the overhang, pinched the ends, struck a match, inhaled, exhaled, left it hanging off his bottom lip.

A louder knock. “Come on, Parker, you little prick,” said Walsh. “Open up.”

Parker opened the door.

Walsh’s suit coat was slung over his shoulder, his hat set back on his head.

Parker bowed mockingly and doffed his black beret. “‘The bloody assassin of the workers, I presume’,” he said.

Walsh’s lips peeled back in what might have been a smile. “‘The scum of the earth, I believe’,” he said.

“Come in, Comrade. It’s been too long,” said Parker.

“Not long enough, if you ask me,” said Walsh. “But anyway.”

“Too right,” said Parker. He pointed to the table. “Pull up a chair,” he said. “There’s plonk, or I could put on another brew.”

“Nothing,” said Walsh, taking off his hat. “I won’t be here long.” He looked around. “Nice bivvie. You’re a man of simple tastes, obviously.”

“I don’t need much,” said Parker, topping up his tea from the pot. “Just enough to fit in a
veshmeshok
and be out the back door one step ahead of the
Okhrana,
that’s what they taught us.”

“The romantic life of the revolutionist,” said Walsh.

“All right, Pat,” said Parker, sitting down. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“First off, this is a matter of mutual interest,” said Walsh. “There’s something in it for you and something in it for me.”

“Jeez, where’s me money-clip?”

“I want to stop this nonsense on the wharves from going any further. I want you to tell the unions you control, I want you to say to them,
enough!”
said Walsh.

“The Party doesn’t control anything. The Party reflects the will—”

Walsh raised his hand. “Yes yes, yackety-yack. Jesus. Listen. It’s you and me talking turkey in your kitchen. Two old comrades sharing difficult truths, not some extraordinary session of the Central Committee.”

“Talking turkey?”

“Gloves off. Cards on the table. Doesn’t leave this room.”

“So what are we talking about here exactly?” said Parker. “You know. This hypothetical turkey.”

Walsh looked at him for a moment.

“I was thinking you might be interested in taking over Timber Workers and Related Trades for four years,” he said.

“Chicken feed,” said Parker, waving the suggestion away.

“Round figures, eight hundred members? Threepence a week per member? Some chicken.”

“The word I heard was turkey.”

Walsh twisted his neck as though jamming a cork into an explosion. “Hamilton and New Plymouth Clerical Workers. Brings it up to a thousand, give or take. Final offer.”

“Keep your shirt on, Comrade, jeez. We’re bargaining here. How?”

“I can make sure you’re elected Secretary. You take responsibility for the bookkeeping. Allocation of subs would be your decision. You might feel some of it should go into a, I dunno, a
special fund,
for example.”

“And after four years? Theoretically, I mean. In the unlikely event that the Party—”

“Up to the members. If they feel their interests are being handled in a constructive manner, well . . .” He raised his hands. It was in the lap of the Gods. “I can certainly assist them in reaching that decision closer to the time.”

Parker thought it over. “They need measured direction, that’s for sure,” he said. “We have to combat this Butlerite tendency wherever it rears its contemptible head. Timber workers could be particularly vulnerable.”

“You’d be doing them a favour.”

“Well, that’s right.” A pause. “And in return?”

“The Drivers.”

Parker laughed. “You’re joking.”

“And the Storemen & Packers.”

“Them, possibly. The rank and file won’t like it but the delegates aren’t mugs, so that’s not out of the question. But the Drivers? Never. They think they’re the Red Cavalry.”

“Get them talking about it, that might be enough,” said Walsh. “Get someone to propose a resolution.”

“Undermine the appearance of solidarity?” said Parker. “I could give that a go.”

“Good.”

“Anything else?”

“It’s a matter of extreme urgency.”

“Of course it is.” Parker shifted in his chair. “I’m not going to lie to you, Walsh, there’s a distasteful element to this conversation.” He took a thoughtful sip. “On the other hand, the Party’s most unhappy about the adventurist direction the wharfies are taking. And funding is an ongoing headache, it hardly needs saying.”

Walsh pointed to the postcard on the wall. “Remember Ulyanov’s observation, ‘There are periods in the life of the proletariat when conscience turns out to be obsolete and we have to put it to one side.’”

“Stalin’s observation actually but it’s a fair point,” said Parker. “If it’s good enough for Josif Vissarionovich then who am I to quibble?” He turned his cup slowly. He sighed. “It’s a long way from 1921, eh, Pat?” He clenched a mocking fist. “You know? The dictatorship of the proletariat?”

“The revolutionary road is a long and winding one, Comrade,” said Walsh. “This is not the time for introspection.”

He picked up his hat and spun it round his index finger. “One other thing. There’s been a private detective floating around poking his nose.”

“A hooligan named Molloy,” said Parker. “He was a Party member before the war. Lost his way so we booted him out.”

“And the girl? Little flit of a thing?”

“Isn’t she, though? A petty-bourgeois. Could have her uses. She’s a cadet on the
Star.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t in these times. Get rid of her.”

Parker hesitated. “Get rid of her? What—?”

“Jesus H. Christ!” said Walsh. “You too?”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Molloy parked in front of the Hotel Auckland and went up to Furst’s room to check he’d survived his evening with Walsh. The door was open and there was a linen trolley outside. A maid was making the bed. The windows were wide open and the curtains pulled. The room smelt of perfume and sweat. There was no sign of Furst’s luggage or, for that matter, Furst.

“Excuse me? Where’s this guest gone?” Molloy asked the maid.

“Left, I suppose,” she said, shaking a pillow into a fresh slip. “They’ll know downstairs.”

In the foyer, a short middle-aged man in a navy blue reefer jacket with lawn bowling regalia on the lapels was double-checking his room service bill, denying he had ordered whisky to be sent to his room.

“What’s your name, young lady?”

“Esme.”

“Now listen to me, Esme, I don’t drink whisky.”

“I’ll have to get the manager,” said Esme.

“You can get the Pope if you like,” said the guest. “I don’t drink whisky. I didn’t order whisky. I’m not paying for whisky. And that’s that.”

Esme tapped on the manager’s door and went in.

The lawn bowler turned to Molloy and shook his head in wonder. Get away with murder if you let them, these beggars, his
look said, one man of the world to another. The flush on his nose suggested to Molloy that he was no stranger to plonk of some sort.

Esme came out of the manager’s office. “He’ll be right there,” she said. She pointed to Molloy. “Would you mind waiting while I attend to this gentleman?”

The man pushed back his sleeve and looked at his watch. “Go ahead,” he said. “Haven’t got all day though.”

Esme moved along the counter to Molloy. “Gosh,” she said, pointing at Molloy’s nose. “What happened to your conk?”

“Walked into a door. Has Furst gone?”

“Paid his account and skedaddled this morning.” She took an envelope from a pigeon-hole. “He left this for you.”

Inside were ten fifty-pound notes and a message.
Molloy
, he had written,
Have gone to Sydney at short notice. Will explain by telegram soonest. Bonus as mentioned. Yours etc., Furst
.

“How did he get to the aerodrome?” asked Molloy.

“Big Maori boy picked him up. The size of a bus.”

Molloy frowned. “May I use the telephone?”

He rang the
Auckland Star
and asked for Miss O’Carolan. He waited for some time and began to think he had been disconnected. The telephonist came back on the line.

“Who’s there, please?” she said.

“My name’s Molloy.”

“Just a minute.”

More silence.

“Are you there?” said a male voice, eventually.

“Yeah,” said Molloy. “Who’s this?”

“Tom O’Driscoll.”

“Tom, it’s Johnny Molloy.”

O’Driscoll lowered his voice. “You’re looking for Caitlin?”

“I am.”

“She’s been given the heave-ho,” said O’Driscoll. “Plain-clothes blokes took her away. She’s a Commo. Red-hot one, apparently. Someone turned her in. Bloody hell, Johnny, it’s like Moscow round here all of a sudden.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Molloy drove fast to Herne Bay. Morning sun lit up the front of the bungalow, and the creeper, a bougainvillea, was a brilliant red against the white plaster. A uniformed policeman was sitting in the shade of the huge tree, a puriri, his white summer helmet on the bench next to him.

“Hold it,” said the policeman, flicking a cigarette away and moving towards Molloy, one hand up, squinting into the sun. “You can’t come in here.”

“Who’s going to stop me, Rat?” said Molloy. “You?”

“Who’s that? Molloy! Bloody hell. Couldn’t see your rotten mug. Sun was in me eyes.”

“Isn’t it against the law to imitate a policeman?” said Molloy. Russell Baillie had been in the same class at St Joe’s.

“I am a policeman,” said Baillie.

“Yeah? How did that happen?”

“They changed the height minimum during the war,” said Baillie.
“Carpe diem,
as the nuns used to tell us.”