‘No wonder you’re in a different mood!’ She kissed him quickly, then snuggled up to him, whispering, ‘Put your arm around me . . . I’m cold.’
III
Every politician should have some gift of prescience, even if only enough to fake what he had predicted. Undoubtedly he known variously as Silver Tongue and the Spieler was so gifted considerably, but could have been nothing less than clairvoyant to know that Jeremy would come to grief through meddling with politics as quickly as he did. On arrival back in Sydney, Jeremy found on his doorstep duns from whom he learnt that owing to his political activities he was deeply in debt. It wasn’t that those promised Party Funds hadn’t materialised. They had, even lavishly. Perhaps it was the lavishness that tempted the Treasurer to do a bunk with them. Jeremy was the only one really shocked. Shamefacedly his Committee, among them Alfie, confessed that they had known the Economist had been in trouble over mishandling of trust-funds before. Their excuse for not speaking out about it in time was that the man seemed so truly dedicated to the cause.
Anyway, no one offered to replace the Treasurer, or the money. Perhaps it was generally felt that Jeremy’s early statement that he was anything but a wealthy man himself had sounded rather like crying poor, coming from one reputed to hold broad acres, breed racehorses, and employ black servants. There was no emulating the Treasurer. The debts were in Jeremy’s name, and the duns armed with writs of attachment. Nothing for it but that he should go to the Commonwealth Bank and turn the Government Bonds that constituted his life-savings into cash.
What price National Dignity in such trying circumstances? Jeremy in his preoccupation with the economics the Economist had left him with as a taste of reality, had nothing to say about it during those first few grey days, while those close to him evidently were mostly silenced by their shame. Only Alfie expressed fear that he might not go through with the program. He assured her, somewhat grimly, that he would, there being no point in not doing so, since by reason of the Economist’s efficient management, the advertising must go on to the bitter end, that is to the date of the Inaugural Meetings and the hall, the most expensive in the city, be paid for, used or not. Alfie and Frank were the most concerned, knowing something of the facts of his financial condition, which he was too proud to speak of to others, but could not help beyond suggesting that he give up his flat and come live with them. Frank was working in some unimportant position in the city’s health service. Alfie’s book, although quite famous, measured in financial success only up to the mean standards governing Australian literature. Jeremy declined with thanks, using that somewhat dubious expression: ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’
Then suddenly there was Alfie, the Enchanted One, coming running to dispel the gloom with her little girl’s excited brightness, crying, ‘Wonderful news . . . a mining agent’s looking for you to buy your Tantalite . . . to give you a large advance on the assurance of a large supply of it.’
Jeremy promptly asked, ‘Krupp’s?’
‘No . . . a Frenchman . . . Félix Beaucoup, quite well known in the city. You see, Terra Australis herself has come to our aid. She’s giving her substance to our Cause. Koonapippi, the Earth Mother, at work for Free Australia . . . Hooray!’
A hard thing to pooh-pooh by one so recently the inspiration of such sentiments, no matter how changed his attitude to the value of the Cause in practical terms.
Jeremy made contact with Monsieur Beaucoup and met him at the Hotel Australia. He proved to be a very pleasant fellow. He said he was buying for an international company, which he wouldn’t name, but hinted at the French concern of Schneiders, which also owned the great Skoda Works in Czechoslovakia, now controlled by the Germans. Suffice it to say that he was buying large quantities of the ores of Tantalium and Nickel from the French Islands of New Caledonia. He shrugged widely: ‘You are man of ze vorld, Mr Delacy. You know zat in armaments manufacture zere is no nationalité.’ He went on to say he had heard that Jeremy was in financial difficulties. If Jeremy would permit his principals to mine his ore in a big way, he could promise him a big advance in cash.
Jeremy replied, ‘We’ll see.’
It was what Jeremy did not see to begin with that caused the trouble. Whisked in a taxi to the place for meeting M. Beaucoup’s principals, out of his element when cast amongst the hurrying herd of cityites upon alighting, observant though he mostly was he missed what the biggest of the many brass plates on either side of the wide doorway of the office block proclaimed. A uniformed commissionaire saluted them, escorted them to the elevator, where they joined another shoving throng. They were whisked to the seventh floor, debouched with a mob into a mob, and hence again missed, on the directory-plate on the wall of the corridor, what, had he seen it, surely would have stopped Jeremy from being ushered along it by his companion. They turned through an open door, to be received by a pretty smiling receptionist, and at once shown into a large luxurious room with great windows looking out over the city. Behind a shiny desk sat a smiling handsome man wearing rimless spectacles, who rose at once with hand extended to Jeremy. He was a stranger, foreign, obviously, by his looks. Behind him, on the wall, was a face only too well known, foreign to pretty well everything though it might be — a large picture of the Führer of all Führers. Gaping at the picture, while M. Beaucoup introduced the man as Herr Konsul-Generale, Jeremy, quite at a loss, sank into the leather chair indicated to him.
Herr Konsul-Generale asked, ‘You vill haf visky and cigar, yes?’
Jeremy shook his head. Then, coming to himself, he turned quickly to Beaucoup standing over him, demanding, ‘What’s this?’
M. Beaucoup smiled and bowed. ‘I vill leave you.’ As he turned, a side door opened, and there entered a big stiff-moving man bearing a tray with bottle, siphon, glasses. Jeremy looked back at the Consul, now seated. As the man with the tray set it down, the Consul spoke in German. The man bowed and withdrew, leaving the side door open.
The Consul, smiling, twinkling amiably through his glasses, remarked, ‘You do not drink, Mr Delacy?’
Jeremy shot another glance at Uncle Adolf, then met the spectacles, asking shortly ‘What business have I got with you?’
‘Some gentlemen vish to meet you here.’
‘Who are they?’
But there they were, marching stiffly through the door, the two big Kruppsers, last seen Heiling Hitler beside the Beatrice River. Jeremy stared at them. The Consul-General said, ‘Zese gentlemen already you haf met, I zink, yes?’
‘Yes,’ grunted Jeremy, rising. ‘And I’ve no wish to meet them again, thank you.’
He was turning towards the exit, when the Consul, rising quickly, said, ‘Vait, Mr Delacy . . . be reasonable!’
Jeremy paused, half-turned. ‘I told these two I’d have no dealings with them under any circumstances . . . and I resent the trick to involve me with them.’
‘It is no trick. It is to help you. Ve know you are short of money for your political campaign . . . and ve approve of your politics . . .’
Jeremy growled, ‘Are you Krupp’s, too?’
‘I am representative of my country. I only vont to bring you together.’ The Kruppsers were standing, wooden, by the Consul’s desk.
Jeremy snapped, ‘You haven’t a hope in hell!’
‘Explain your reason. You haf change your vay of life. You are fighting Communism and British Imperialism. You are close to bankrupt. Ve offer you mooch money . . .’
‘I don’t want your dirty money.’
‘Vy do you say dirty?’
‘Because you stole it from Jews . . . and from people whose countries you’ve invaded like wolves.’
The handsome face flushed deeply. It took a moment for the Consul to find his voice: ‘Your friends ze Jews first stole from us.’
Jeremy snapped, ‘Judenhasse . . . go to hell!’ He swung away again.
But the Consul came leaping to head him off. Jeremy cried angrily, ‘I told you I won’t do business with you.’
‘Because of Jews?’
‘Because of Jews.’
‘You know nuzzing of ze trut’ of ze Jewish situation in my country.’
‘The whole world knows . . . that cares to know.’ Jeremy’s voice rose: ‘Out of my way . . .’ Evidently he was struggling for words to express the anger flashing in those grey eyes, words learnt in recent times. As he got them, he brought them out with all the harshness and contempt that can be expressed in German, making a single expression of it as Germans do: ‘Judenmurdervolk!’
The Consul stiffened. ‘Be careful vot you say!’
‘Why should I? I’m in my own country. You Germans . . . you’re . . . you’re . . .’ Again the struggle for a moment — then: ‘Ihre nation!’
The Consul’s face was flaming now, his voice harsh: ‘You insult my Nation by calling it Lunatic?’
‘I do. That’s your trouble. Intelligent people though you seem to be, some madman only has to yell Achtung, and you all go mad. There’s your latest madman!’ Jeremy flung a finger at the scowling picture.
Smack! The Consul’s palm smote Jeremy’s cheek. His voice came grating with fury: ‘Pig-dog . . . you vill not insult Unsen Führer!’
For a moment Jeremy blinked on the tears the sound smack had started. Then he, too, grated, ‘Hun bastard!’ and shot out his left in his usual style.
As the Consul reeled, gasping, grasping his flabby midriff, two big men, one of them the waiter who’d brought the tray, leapt from nowhere, laid hands on Jeremy. He flung them off. As they came at him again, the Consul, supported by a Kruppser, gasped out, ‘Verprugelt ihn . . . die . . . polizei . . . rufen . . .’
The two men got hold of Jeremy, forced him to the wall, beat him down. The other Kruppser snatched up the telephone, spoke rapidly, then dropped it, to go leaping to join those dealing with Jeremy. Soon they had him overpowered, sat on him, spat in his face. The Consul-General, lolling gasping in an armchair, while his attendant Kruppser massaged his middle, watched with evident satisfaction.
Within a few minutes, led by the receptionist now looking like an angry whore, the police arrived, a sergeant and a constable. The sergeant took a quick look around, demanded, ‘What’s going on?’
The Consul, mopping his face now, exaggerating his breathlessness, panted, ‘Zat man . . . he assault me . . . insult my Nation . . . I gif him in charge.’
The sergeant looked at the pinioned Jeremy, who gasped up at him, ‘The bastard cracked me. I cracked him back. Then they all piled on me. It’s them did the assaulting.’
The Consul puffed, ‘He lie. He come insulting my country, my Leader. He call me Hun Bastard. He hit me . . . so zat nearly I am knock-out. My men moost overpower him. Zis . . . zis is violation of Diplomatic Protocol. Moost serious. To your Prime Minister I vill complain. I charge him, Sergeant . . . arrest him.’
The sergeant glanced at the hard square faces of those holding Jeremy. He grunted, ‘Let him up.’
The Kruppser said, ‘He is violent man. Look at my face . . . my clothes.’
The sergeant said to the constable, ‘Handcuff him.’
Jeremy fought as the constable bent over him. ‘Don’t you put those things on me!’
The sergeant’s face became like the others. He snapped, ‘D’you want me to bring the squad to deal with you? Give him your hands!’
Jeremy obeyed, struggled up. The sergeant turned to take notes from the Consul, who said he didn’t know Jeremy, hadn’t seen him before. Jeremy tried to get into it, to say he had been brought there. The constable shut him up. All the sergeant asked of him was his name and address, told him he could tell his story at the Station. ‘Come on,’ he said.
As they went through the door, the Consul-General called after them, ‘Er hat Deutsch von seiner Judische Hure gelernt!’ It caused the others to chuckle.
The sergeant asked Jeremy, ‘What’d he say?’
‘I don’t know . . . something about Jews.’
Out in the corridor, the sergeant looked at Jeremy. ‘You ain’t a Jew?’
‘No.’
‘Commo, eh?’
‘No.’
‘Well, whatever you are, you’re in strife. Don’t you know these people have special privileges? There’ve been several cases of assault like this. If you’re not Aussie born you’re likely to get deported.’
They fell silent as they approached the group awaiting the elevator and were all eyes at sight of the handcuffs. They went down in silence. There was more staring in the street while they awaited a taxi. Then, within a few minutes, they were at the Central Police Station, where the prisoner roused so little interest he might not have existed except as a name written down in the charge book. The desk-sergeant gave him a single glance. No questions were asked of him. He was searched, certain things taken from him. Then a policeman who didn’t seem to see him ushered him to a tiny empty cell.
The afternoon wore into evening — with the only relief the comings and goings outside the barred door of men in uniforms and out of them, of men in handcuffs, bowed and snivelling or erect and giving cheek. He called to a couple of uniformed men, who ignored him. The lights came on, one high in the ceiling that glared like a watchful eye. Then uniformed men came with a trolley loaded with sliced bread and pannikins of tea. As he was given his portion, Jeremy asked, ‘How do I get in touch with someone outside?’
The man who stood with key in lock grunted, ‘You don’t.’
‘But you can’t just keep me locked up here!’
‘Watch me!’ The key clicked in the lock. The trolley went on its way.
Later the pair came back, tossed in a blanket and a piece of towelling too small to throttle oneself with. No more visits. Only the tramping up and down the corridor, with the snivelling and the snarling. Jeremy, rolled in the blanket on the bench that served as bed, watched by the unwinking eye above, slept in snatches.
Dawn, and breakfast of tea and bread, served by hard blank voiceless faces. Tramp, tramp, tramp — till suddenly, in mid-morning, there was a uniformed man unlocking the door to someone whose face, if no less hard and blank, was familiar. Inspector Ballywick, in neat grey suit and pork-pie hat, stepped in, saying coldly, ‘We meet again, Mr Delacy.’
Jeremy stared at him, growled, ‘What’s the idea of this?’
‘You’re charged with an offence under Federal Law. You’re my prisoner.’
‘I want to see a lawyer.’
‘I understand that one’s been engaged for you. Meanwhile, you must accompany me to a special place of detention. Your wrist, please.’
‘For chrissake . . . what’s all this handcuffing for?’
‘You’re considered a violent man. I know you for a tricky one. Your wrist!’
Back to the desk-sergeant, to be signed out and have the things taken from him given to Inspector Ballywick. Then out to a courtyard, where a big black car waited with a uniformed driver, and a red C on its number-plate. C for Commonwealth — Commonwealth of Australia — Southern Land of the Common Good. Inspector Ballywick got into the back, perforce with his reluctant companion.
A swift silent journey, past towering buildings, dirty little shops, mansions, slums, factories, sandy wastes. Out in the wastes there was even a string of ragged blacks, walking built-up tram tracks, as if denied ordinary thoroughfare. Thus to a great grey jail that might have been Dartmoor or Broadmoor or some such prototype of transplanted inhumanity. A door opened to swallow them. At another desk the Inspector surrendered his prisoner, with a last glance at him that plainly told of a devil’s cave in the northern wilderness, a sheeted corpse, a lonely grave, never to be forgotten. Then march to another cell-block, and other tiny empty cell.
Solitude till mid-afternoon, when a tiny carroty man of uncertain age was ushered in. He gave a hot little hand and introduced himself as Sorbee, Solicitor, appointed by Alfie Candlemas, who sent her love. Alfie had tried to arrange bail. ‘But Commonwealth Law is peculiar,’ Mr Sorbee said. ‘They seem to be able to get away with just about
anything by simply invoking the right to it. Now, tell me what happened.’
When Jeremy was finished, Mr Sorbee shook his head. ‘Only your word against theirs. Your association with Jews is known. Jews have been in trouble for the same thing. Only in their case, of course, they were intruders. The Germans admit you went there on business, are able to prove that you had done business with Krupp’s previously, so that it looks as if you went there of your own free will and simply became abusive, for reasons they claim they don’t understand. Unfortunately we can’t plead that you were tricked into going there, because this Beaucoup fellow has vanished . . . is in New Caledonia, according to his staff.’
‘What’s at the back of it?’ asked Jeremy. ‘Conspiracy of some sort?’
‘Since you’ve entered politics you can expect political chicanery, of course. No, I don’t know what’s at the back of it . . . unless it’s that you happen to be in bad with Commonwealth Security and by a stroke of bad luck fell into their hands. Anyway, don’t worry. You’ve a lot of influential friends behind you. By their efforts they’ll make you too hot to hold for long. We’ll have you out in time for this meeting of yours.’
‘Damn the meeting!’ growled Jeremy. ‘All I want is to get out of here and back to where everything doesn’t stink of phenyl, gas, and dishonesty.’
‘You must come from a nice place, Mr Delacy. Now, don’t despair. I’ll be in every afternoon . . . anything you want . . .’
It lasted five days, which must have seemed like as many weeks to Jeremy, pacing his little cell, or running it sometimes, pacing the small exercise yard where he was permitted a glimpse of the sky for a short period each morning, but not running there, because his fellow prisoners wouldn’t have it. These fellows of his were no ordinary prisoners, but like himself all victims of the seemingly all-powerful Common Weal. There were usually about a score of them, their numbers varying as some went out and others came in. Those who went out, it seemed, did not simply depart the prison walls, but the shores of this Land of Liberty. Most were Jews. However, there were others, with all sorts of accents, including some of those of the British Isles, who called each other Comrade and spoke savagely of what they were going to do when they got back here after the inevitable fall of Capitalism in the great war that was imminent. Jeremy got to know a lot about them during the first brief session. They wanted to know all about him, too. However, he merely shook his head at everything asked of him, till they gave him up with shrugs and the nickname Shtumer.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 184
