Paving the New Road

by Sulari Gentill

  “What is Colonel Campbell up to, then?”

  “Abroad…he’s abroad,” Hardy replied, “on an educational tour of Europe. Right now he’s in Britain consorting with Sir Oswald Mosley. In a couple of weeks he’ll be in Germany meeting members of the Reichstag—perhaps even Hitler himself—making contacts and allegiances with, we believe, the intent of bringing European fascism to Australia.”

  Rowland laughed. “Last year you were all sure Stalin had his eye on New South Wales—now it’s Hitler and Mussolini?”

  Hardy waited until Rowland’s grin subsided. “This is not a matter for jest, Sinclair. Surely you are aware of the changes Hitler has already brought about in Germany. She is no longer a democracy. Hitler’s latest manifesto speaks of Lebensraum…room to live. His agenda has become expansionist.”

  Rowland frowned. Germany did indeed disturb him. Only the previous year he had taken his friends there in search of the avant-garde, bohemian Berlin which had nurtured and inspired so many artists. But things had changed. Many of the painters and sculptors he had known and admired were under attack, their work labelled as degenerate. Rowland had called on his old friend, Jankel Adler at the Art Academy, to find the revered painter persecuted and in fear of his life. Adler had since fled to Paris. It was hard to believe that such things could happen in the modern world. Clyde and Milton kept him apprised of what they learned through their links in the Communist Party.

  “And what has this got to do with me?”

  “I’d like you to go to Germany.”

  Rowland choked on his drink. “You what?”

  Hardy opened a leather briefcase and took from it a cardboard file of documents. “You are a scholar of languages, I believe—you speak German like a native.”

  “The natives might disagree.”

  “You also speak French, Spanish, and Italian.”

  “I’ve not had call to do so recently,” Rowland said carefully, wondering what exactly the file held.

  Hardy sat back in his chair. He frowned. “I wonder if you might have read about Peter Bothwell?”

  Slowly, Rowland nodded. The Sydney papers had reported the death of Bothwell, a grazier from Cootamundra. He had drowned, though the reported details had been noticeably vague. Bothwell had been in Germany at the time of his death. “Yes, I did read something. Did you know him?”

  “I’m godfather to his boys.” Hardy sighed. “Indeed, Peter and I have…had been friends for many years. We served together. You couldn’t find a better chap or a more loyal Australian.”

  “My commiserations.” Rowland wondered where the Senator was leading.

  “The fact is, Rowly, Peter wasn’t in Germany on holiday. We’d placed him there to wait for Campbell’s arrival. He was a vital part of our operation to keep an eye on Campbell.”

  Now Rowland was intrigued. “The Federal Government sent this chap Bothwell to Germany?”

  Hardy shook his head. “No, this was never official.” He dropped the file onto the occasional table beside him as he tried to explain. “Let’s just say Peter Bothwell was sent to Germany by men who have our country’s, and arguably the Empire’s, interests at heart…who are concerned to ensure that Eric Campbell’s star does not rise the way Hitler’s has in recent years.”

  “I see…but what has this got to do with me?”

  “We have another man in Campbell’s party…travelling with him—a little like a spy.”

  “A lot like a spy, I’d say.”

  “Blanshard is Campbell’s interpreter. He speaks both Italian and German—and a couple of other languages besides. He will be assisted by other operatives in Italy, but Peter was to be his contact once Campbell arrived in Germany. With Peter’s passing, Blanshard is isolated.”

  “So bring him back.”

  “That would be suspicious and he is the last man we have left within the New Guard. If we lose him, we’ll have no idea what Campbell’s up to.”

  “And you want me to go to Germany to do what, exactly?”

  “We would like you to assist Blanshard, see what you can find out about Campbell’s connections to the Nazi government.” Hardy paused before adding, “I would like you to look into Peter Bothwell’s death.”

  Rowland put down his drink. “I’m not a detective, Senator Hardy.”

  “No, but you do speak German and you are familiar with the country.” He handed the cardboard file over to Rowland. “I’d like you to read this. It contains all the communication received on the matter of Peter’s death, as well as newspaper clippings, letters from Peter himself…that sort of thing. You read it and tell me if you think his sudden demise isn’t suspicious.”

  “You want me to swoop in like some Colonial Sherlock Holmes and solve the case?” Rowland didn’t bother to hide that he thought the proposition ridiculous.

  “I want you to find out what you can while you’re assisting Blanshard in making sure Campbell doesn’t bring Nazism back here.”

  “I wonder why you think I’d be interested in—let alone humanly capable of—doing what you want?”

  “Because you more than anyone know how dangerous Campbell can be…the fanaticism he is able to incite. I believe the New Guard nearly killed you once.”

  “If I recall, Senator Hardy, the good men of your Riverina Movement seemed keen to shoot me too.”

  Hardy looked at him blankly and Rowland wondered if it were possible that the man was unaware of the excesses of the mobs he had incited to violence.

  Hardy sat forward. “Look Sinclair, do me the indulgence of hearing me out.”

  Rowland raised his glass. “Be my guest.”

  “I assume you are aware of the organisations of patriotic men who have the defence of democracy and our way of life as their purpose.”

  “I am aware of a number of organisations who claim that is their purpose,” Rowland said carefully.

  “And you are aware of your brother’s involvement with the Old Guard?”

  Rowland stiffened. The Old Guard was the vehicle of the establishment, a clandestine conservative militia, the leadership of which included Wilfred Sinclair. Beyond that, he knew little about the movement. “What has Wil got to do with this?”

  “The Old Guard is becoming increasingly uneasy with Campbell’s attempts to forge allegiances with the European fascists. Our information is that he proposes to float a political party…to work within the democratic system to wrest power from it.”

  Rowland nodded. The parallels to the German Chancellor’s recent rise to power were unmistakable. He frowned. “Our? You’ve been recruited to the Old Guard?”

  “In times of need, like-minded men will join forces,” Hardy replied. “The underlying tenets of the Riverina Movement were never at odds with those of the Old Guard.”

  Rowland shrugged. So Hardy was now with the Old Guard…it was inevitable, he supposed. He was a Senator.

  “The Old Guard is concerned enough about recent developments to have installed a man within Campbell’s inner circle and to have sent Peter Bothwell to Germany to ensure that he didn’t receive too warm a welcome.” Hardy spoke slowly now, ensuring his next words had maximum effect. “Now that Peter is dead, Wilfred himself will go to Germany in his place.”

  Rowland sat up. “Wil?”

  Hardy sat back, noting with satisfaction Rowland’s alarm. “Of course I was struck by the similarities between Wilfred and Peter—both good men with loving wives and fine young sons. Wilfred has two boys, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  Hardy spoke urgently now. “Wilfred is prepared to go to Germany, Rowland. In fact, he’ll leave within the week. Your brother is a capable man, but he does not have your flair for languages and he does have a family.”

  “Why hasn’t Wilfred mentioned this to me?” Rowland said, his eyes moving to the framed photograph of his young nephews which stood am
ong the others on the mantel.

  “Perhaps he doesn’t trust you.”

  Rowland knew full well that Charles Hardy was playing him, but he couldn’t prevent his response. “I doubt that’s the case,” he said coldly.

  “You must understand, Rowly, Wilfred’s in a difficult position. This is a matter of national import. The Old Guard are necessarily cautious men. If you’d seen service, they would have proof of your loyalty, but unfortunately…”

  Rowland glared furiously at Hardy.

  “Perhaps if you were to assume this task for your brother, for your country and fellow countrymen…well, your loyalty would be beyond question, regardless of your associations.”

  “I’m not a fool, Hardy,” Rowland said, his eyes flashing dangerously. “And I’m not interested in proving myself to the Old Guard.”

  “Of course, if you went, Wilfred would not need to.” Hardy looked over at the picture of Wilfred’s sons, leading Rowland’s eyes and mind to the same.

  “Is Wilfred aware you’re here?” Rowland asked.

  Hardy shook his head. “Rescuing you has become something of a habit for your brother. I expect he will object most strenuously to your going anywhere outside the bounds of his protection.”

  Rowland’s eyes darkened. Hardy watched closely, clearly gauging the effect of his words.

  Rowland rubbed his face, aware that he was reacting just as Hardy intended, and irritated that he could be so easily and obviously manipulated. He stood and walked over to the mantelpiece.

  “Peter Bothwell’s younger son is barely two years old. He won’t even remember his father.” Hardy pressed his advantage. “Our only chance to prevent Wilfred from doing this is for you to go in his place. Surely, man, you’re aware of Campbell’s extremism, his ambition…”

  Rowland picked up the picture of Wilfred’s boys. “Fine,” he said quietly. “I’ll go.”

  Chapter Two

  “A DEMOCRAT”

  NO FASCISM OR RULE BY

  COMMISSION

  PREMIER’S DECLARATION

  (FROM OUR SPECIAL REPORTER.)

  WELLINGTON, Friday

  Mr. Stevens declared that he was not an extremist. “I claim to be a democrat,” he said. “I would like to see our democratic institutions preserved. There are some who want to wreck our democratic institutions. On the one hand, there are those who want to socialise them by political domination by the Trades Hall bosses. There are a few people who talk about Fascism, and who want to govern this country by a commission.”

  A voice: Such as Eric Campbell.

  The Premier: I do not know Eric Campbell, but if he or anybody else talks about ruling this country by Fascism or commission I will deal with him. (Cheers.)

  —The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933

  It was dark by the time Charles Hardy left Woodlands House.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said as he shook Rowland’s hand. “There are several matters we need to organize, and of course I’ll need to introduce you to Smithy. I’m so glad to have you on board, Rowly.”

  Rowland walked him to the car and chauffeur who had waited all this time in the sweeping drive of the Woollahra mansion.

  He checked his watch, noting that the smoke had cleared. His houseguests had obviously managed to get the fire under control without him.

  Returning through the house he found them sitting about the glowing pit. The fuel had burned down to a large mound of radiant charcoal. It was pleasant in the cool of the early April evening. Edna made room for him beside her on the garden chair. “You’ve been a while, Rowly…What did the Senator say?”

  “Did you get the fire up to the heat you wanted?” he asked, looking towards the pit.

  Edna nodded. “A couple of smaller pieces exploded a while ago, but I think we’ve got the temperature right, finally. We just have to wait and watch now.”

  “Which gives you plenty of time to tell us what Hardy wanted with you,” Milton said. “What’s going on, Rowly?”

  Clyde agreed. “You look a bit worried, mate.”

  So Rowland told them what Charles Hardy had asked of him, and why he had reluctantly agreed. For the most part they listened in silence.

  “I can at the very least speak German. I can’t imagine why they would consider sending spies over there who can’t speak the language.”

  Clyde shook his head. “I always thought that the Old Guard and Campbell were essentially on the same side.”

  “It seems that even with Lang’s demise, Campbell’s not willing to leave things to democracy,” Rowland replied. “This chap Hitler’s sudden rise has the Old Guard worried that Campbell may try to emulate him here.”

  “So what exactly do they want you to do over there?”

  “Apparently, the Old Guard has some chap called Blanshard travelling with Campbell. He’s been working to undermine Campbell’s attempts to make real alliances with the British and European Blackshirts.”

  “How?”

  “As far as I can tell, he’s been creating quiet obstacles…making sure that Campbell doesn’t get to meetings, or that he makes some kind of social faux pas. Campbell doesn’t seem to speak anything but English, and a bit of grammar school Latin and French, so they’re expecting it to become easier once the good Colonel is relying on Blanshard to translate.”

  “So why do they need you?”

  “It seems there are some things Blanshard can’t do alone. He needs another operative on hand to make sure that things go wrong whenever it looks like important contacts are being made.”

  “And they want you to be that operative in Germany, to replace this dead chap, Bothwell?”

  Rowland nodded. “Bothwell was supposed to assist Blanshard. He’d been in Germany for a few weeks establishing contacts and so on, when he died. Fortunately, the fascist sightseeing tour isn’t due to reach Germany until May, so they want to replace Bothwell as soon as possible. Of course, Hardy seems to think there was something suspicious about Bothwell’s death, so he wants me to look into that as well…”

  “And try not to get killed yourself, I presume,” Clyde muttered.

  Rowland smiled. “That’s not his priority, but it’d be helpful, I should think.”

  “So when do we sail?” Edna asked sweetly.

  “We? No…”

  “We’re coming, Rowly,” Clyde said in a way that made Rowland realise that the matter had been discussed. He should have known that at least one of them would have been eavesdropping.

  “But don’t tell Rosie,” Clyde added sheepishly. “She won’t understand.”

  “She won’t need to,” Rowland said firmly. Rosalina Martinelli was Clyde’s sweetheart. “I’m not dragging you all with me. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Exactly.” Milton flicked a cinder off his lapel. “You’re walking into God-knows-what and you can’t trust Hardy or his fascist cronies. Us, you can trust. We’re not letting you go alone, mate.”

  “Look, I appreciate…” Rowland started.

  “Tell Hardy that we know all about his little plan.” Milton fished a pewter flask from his jacket. “Sending us with you is the only way to ensure we keep quiet.”

  “It’ll be dangerous…”

  “More so if there’s no one watching your back, Rowly.”

  Rowland met Milton’s eye. “Germany is hostile to people like you right now, Milt.”

  Milton smiled. “The Germans have never liked poets, you know…it’s not really a poetic language—too many slurping noises.”

  Despite himself, Rowland laughed. “Goethe might disagree.”

  Edna put her hand on his knee. “You can’t go on your own, Rowly.”

  “I’m not a child, Ed.”

  “Neither was Mr. Bothwell, I expect. He might be alive if he’d taken someone with him.” Edna stood suddenly and poked at
her firepit with a stick. “When do we sail?”

  Rowland sighed. “Not sailing. As it turns out, Hardy wants me in Germany as soon as possible. A boat is too slow…I’m flying.”

  “You’re what?”

  Rowland grinned, unable to disguise his enthusiasm for that part of Hardy’s plan. Obviously his friends had stopped eavesdropping before Hardy gave him these particular details. “Hardy’s managed to convince Kingsford Smith to take a passenger to Europe.”

  “Kingsford Smith! You can’t be serious.”

  Clyde laughed. “No wonder you agreed to go. Well, Smithy will just have to take four passengers.”

  “I don’t know…”

  Clyde pressed his shoulder. “Look, Rowly, we understand why you have to go. We’re not going to try to talk you out of it…but face it, mate, Hardy’s using you.” He moved to take the place Edna had vacated. He spoke calmly, sensibly, in a way that was very typical of Clyde. “You tell the good Senator that you’re not going without insurance, without us. If he wants you to go, he’ll make it work.”

  Rowland dressed hastily, checking his watch as he knotted his tie. It was nearly three in the afternoon. He might have time for breakfast before Hardy arrived.

  He had slept late. The residents of Woodlands House had spent most of the previous night keeping watch over Edna’s pit fire and continuing to argue over who exactly would be going to Germany. In the early hours of the morning Rowland had been worn down by either cogent argument or fatigue…he wasn’t sure which. He wondered how Hardy would take the news that Rowland Sinclair was taking a Communist painter, a Jewish poet, and an unpredictable sculptress to Germany. Admittedly, he was rather looking forward to the Senator’s reaction.

  Mary Brown was answering the door just as he hurtled down the staircase. Inwardly, Rowland cursed—Hardy was early.

  But it wasn’t Charles Hardy.