“In Germany?”
“Yes.” Maugham started walking back towards Raffles, motioning for the Australian to follow. Rowland glanced back to see Edna arm in arm with Haxton at the window of some boutique. He fell into step beside the playwright.
“Peter Bothwell was staying with an old chum of his in Munich—Alois Richter. Of course, Richter has no idea what he was really doing in Germany.”
“I see.”
“All of Bothwell’s papers and whatnot are still at Richter’s villa…the address is on the envelope. The letter introduces a Mr. Robert Negus, a dear and trusted cousin of Bothwell’s widow. It gives you the authority to take charge of the poor fellow’s personal effects and chattels, and return them to her.”
Rowland slipped the envelope into his inner breast pocket. It didn’t seem unreasonable, but he was uneasy.
“Alois Richter has already received a telegram informing him to expect you,” Maugham said, stopping to light a cigarette.
Rowland frowned. “Why didn’t Wil give me the letter himself before I left Sydney?”
“I hadn’t written it then, I suppose. In any case, these instructions are from Senator Hardy, my boy.”
“Rowly, wait!” Edna caught up with them and unburdened a large parcel into Rowland’s arms. Haxton was just behind her and similarly laden with purchases.
The sculptress smiled triumphantly. “We found the most divine Indian fabric, Rowly…sari, I think they call it. Yards and yards of the most glorious, vibrant silk.”
Rowland glanced at his watch, charmed as he always was by Edna’s unbridled enthusiasm for small things. “We’d better hurry if we’re going to arrange for it to be sent back to Sydney.”
“Sydney? Oh, no—it’s not for me, Rowly.” She turned to Haxton, who beamed from beneath his dark moustache. “Gerry just had to have it.”
They took breakfast on the verandah at Raffles, sipping tea and enjoying a civilised repast in the cooling movement of a sea breeze from Indochina. Clyde sat between Edna and Rowland, where he was protected from Gerald Haxton. The American was either completely enchanted by Clyde or just amused by his discomfort, and continued to lavish the poor man with compliments and invitations that could be taken amiss. Maugham ignored his personal secretary’s eloquent zeal for the visibly mortified Australian, retreating into a kind of indulgent reserve.
Milton had enhanced his conservative suit with a black and gold cravat, which Rowland suspected had been fashioned from the cummerbund the poet had worn the evening before. One of the peacock feathers from Edna’s boa had also found its way into Milton’s hatband.
“It was a good idea to bring them,” Maugham said quietly to Rowland, while the rest of the party flirted and performed and chatted merrily.
“I do beg your pardon?” Rowland was a little startled.
“Your friends, my boy.” Maugham put down his tea and whispered again. “They’re eye-catching. You’re much less likely to be noticed among them.” He nodded approvingly. “That was well thought-out.”
Rowland smiled as Milton stood to steal poetry once again, and Edna bestowed a glance upon Haxton that would have enslaved most other men. Eye-catching was an apt description. Even Clyde was noticeable for the fact that he was trying so hard to escape notice. Indeed, Rowland suspected Edna was flirting with particular dedication in a vain, but loyal, attempt to distract Haxton’s attentions from Clyde. The whole scene was typical, ludicrous, and yes, eye-catching.
In time they shook hands and took their leave of William Somerset Maugham and Gerald Haxton. It was time to get on.
Kingsford Smith and his crew were already at the airport when they arrived. They looked as though they, too, may have enjoyed a gin-sling or several the evening before. Rowland thought it better not to enquire too closely, all things considered.
Singapore was to be their longest stopover. The Southern Cross would land a number of times before she crossed the Alps into Vienna. In Ceylon, they lay down for a few hours beneath mosquito nets at the Galle Face Hotel and left before dawn; in Karachi, they slept briefly in the Colonial splendour of the Killarney Hotel; and in Baghdad, Edna drowsed on Rowland’s shoulder as they waited for the Fokker to be refuelled.
At each stop they had been met by men who were connected with either Charles Hardy or Wilfred Sinclair, who had advice, warnings, and instructions.
In Bagdad they received the news that Bert Hinkler’s body had been found in the Italian Alps after he’d been missing for over three months. They paused to farewell him with some local brew that was both sweet and potent. To Rowland and his houseguests, who knew Hinkler as a hero, the passing was sad, but to the airmen, he was a friend, a brother-in-arms. They mourned him truly. No one spoke of the fact that they were about to fly a route not unlike that which had brought Hinkler to his end.
Chapter Seven
HINKLER’S BODY FOUND
May 1: The body of Squadron-Leader Bert Hinkler, the Australian airman, was found on Friday on a desolate plateau in the Apennine Mountains between Florence and Arezzo, in Italy. Hinkler disappeared on January 7th, the first day of an attempted flight from England to Australia. Apparently, the plane had run out of fuel, smashed itself against a mountainside 4,600 feet above sea level, and burst into flames. The tanks were empty. Hinkler must have died instantly, for he had terrible head injuries.
—Portland Guardian, 1933
The Southern Cross made an unremarkable landing just outside Vienna. Nothing failed mechanically and the airfield, although small, was even, and adequate for a pilot of Kingsford Smith’s skill. The company was to part here.
Kingsford Smith and his crew would take the Fokker F.VII on to London, where they would deliver several bags of mail, ostensibly proving the viability of a mail route between Britain and Australia.
“Well, Sinclair, good luck.” Kingsford Smith shook Rowland’s hand as the Southern Cross was being prepared to fly again. For the first time Rowland sensed a curiosity in the airman as to their purpose in Europe. “I suppose you’ll be back in Sydney in a few months so we can teach you to fly that Gipsy of yours.”
Rowland sighed. There was a beautiful de Havilland Gipsy Moth stored in a shed on Oaklea, the Sinclairs’ property at Yass. Since the moment the Gipsy had come into his possession Rowland had been determined to pilot her himself. He had signed on months before to the flying school that Kingsford Smith would soon open. Of course, now he would have to delay the lessons till his return, but nothing so far had dampened his enthusiasm for the sport. “You’ll see me,” he said. “You can count on it.”
“Senator Hardy didn’t really mention what you were doing here.” Kingsford Smith pressed a cigarette tightly between his lips.
“We’re buying art.”
“Art?”
Rowland tried to sound like he knew what he was talking about. “Yes…Good time to invest…the Depression, you see…”
Kingsford Smith nodded slowly. “So, why the hurry?”
Rowland smiled. “A Rubens, actually…It’s been in a private collection for decades but the owner needs to liquidate quickly…debts, or some such thing. We wanted to get here before other collectors got wind of it.”
“What has the good Senator Hardy got to do with it? I wouldn’t have thought he was an art collector.”
Rowland searched quickly for a plausible response. Kingsford Smith knew full well that the Senator had smoothed their way with passports and papers. The airman might also have noticed that his passengers were travelling, on record, under assumed names. Rowland decided to take a punt that Kingsford Smith was not himself a saint. “We are making purchases for a number of powerful investors while we’re here,” he said carefully. “Senator Hardy is one of them. Sometimes there can be issues with Customs, foreign laws, that sort of thing.”
Kingsford Smith grinned suddenly. He winked at Rowland and slapped him on th
e back. “I see. Well, never let it be said that Smithy hasn’t helped out the Australian entrepreneur. Had the odd stoush with Customs myself.”
Rowland laughed, relieved. “You understand that our purpose here is something that needs to be treated with…discretion.”
“Yes, of course…mum’s the word.”
And so, with Kingsford Smith convinced that they were involved in some sort of minor smuggling operation, they said farewell. Edna kissed each airman for luck and Kingsford Smith added her scarf to the collection of charms in the cockpit. And the Southern Cross and the men who flew her soared once again into the sky.
The Wien-Bahnhof, Vienna’s major railway station, was crowded, bustling with travellers and merchants. Bakers with baskets passed warm pastries to passengers through carriage windows, as smartly dressed travellers promenaded on the platform. Beggars lurked in the shadowed spaces of the station and brown-shirted members of the Sturmabteilung, otherwise known as the SA, wandered in loud, arrogant groups. Rowland watched as they strutted, bullying railway workers. He shook his head. Common thugs cloaked in the dubious legitimacy of the SA uniform.
Rowland organised their passages upon the Orient Express to Munich. Trunks of clothing and necessities had already been loaded onto the train. The trunks had, of course, been stocked and packed by someone else. They were now conscious of appearing like art collectors on a purchasing tour of Europe and boarding without luggage would have seemed odd to anyone who noticed. In a small guesthouse near the station, they had washed and changed. One did not travel and dine on the Orient Express without being appropriately attired.
Though the journey to Munich would be one of hours rather than days, Rowland booked sleeping cabins in the first-class carriage. They were tired, having only snatched sleep for several days now, and they would need privacy. Each of them would have to become accustomed to new names—their own and each other’s. They would have to ensure they told a consistent story of their recent history, their association, their business.
“Oi!” Milton reached out and grabbed a small boy by the shoulder. The child was swarthy and ragged, with eyes that glittered resentfully as Milton restrained him. “Little blighter had his hand in your pocket…Robbie,” he said, hesitating slightly as he used Rowland’s alias. “Hand it over, you thieving scamp.”
The boy kept his fist tightly closed and berated Milton bitterly in some foreign language.
“Not so tight, you’ll hurt him,” Edna said, looking sympathetically at the thin, dirty pickpocket. “What did he say, Robbie?”
Rowland shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it’s Romany…I’m pretty sure it wasn’t ‘Welcome to Vienna,’ though.”
The child spoke again, but this time in Bavarian, addressing Rowland directly and finishing with what seemed like a hiss.
Rowland paused for a moment, mildly astounded, and grinned despite himself. “That, I understood…but I can’t repeat it in the presence of Ed.”
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Edna asked, bending down.
“Schlampen.” The boy glared at her.
“Schlampen,” Edna said smiling. “How do you do, Schlampen?”
Rowland tried hard not to laugh. “I don’t think that’s his name, Ed. In fact, I wouldn’t repeat it.”
Clyde chuckled. “Belligerent little blighter, isn’t he?”
Edna took the boy’s clenched fist, but gently. “What did you take, little boy?”
He opened his hand. Coins. Australian coins.
A whistle warned that the Orient Express was preparing to pull away.
Rowland glanced back at the train. “Let him go. It’s just a couple of shillings.”
Reluctantly, Milton released the boy, who did not linger, fleeing with the coins still clutched in his hand.
“We’d better get moving—the train leaves in…” Milton stared at his bare wrist, where a watch should have been. Cursing, he looked around for the young pickpocket, who was by then well and truly gone. “Damn it. If I get my hands on that—”
Rowland checked his own watch as the final whistle sounded and the air became moist with squealing steam. “We don’t have time to hunt the boy down. We’ll have to get you another in Munich.”
For a moment Milton resisted but the theft had been well timed, and they had little option. They ran for the train now and boarded, breathless, just seconds before it pulled out.
Their assigned compartment had been converted for the day into a carpeted sitting room; the seats upholstered in burgundy velvet on either side of a central table. Luggage racks and other fittings were brass and the walls, panelled cedar. It was a cosy fit with the four of them, but, although Rowland had booked three double sleeping cabins to accommodate them, they did have many matters they needed to discuss.
Edna and Milton squabbled briefly for a place beside the window. Milton won, and Rowland gave up the facing seat to Edna.
The window framed a passing vista of snow-capped mountains, swathed in hills of radiant yellow and deep green. Rowland watched, almost mesmerised. The colours were more intense here than at home. Perhaps it was the broadness of the Australian continent that muted its shades, faded them somehow. Here the colours seemed to be thicker, undiluted. A landscape made for the brush of Van Gogh. “Would you look at that,” he murmured, as the band of yellow widened into a golden sea.
Clyde prodded him. “Don’t tell me you want to paint it.”
Rowland laughed. He had long given up trying to paint landscapes. Both his talent and his interest had always been in portrait work, and not even the magnificence through the window could intrigue him as more than a backdrop.
“What’s making the fields appear so yellow?” Edna asked.
“Dandelions,” Rowland replied, remembering from previous visits, when he had walked in those fields. “Rather a lot of them.”
Milton was unable to refrain. “Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.”
“I think you’ll find that Wordsworth was talking about daffodils, not dandelions.”
As the train churned through the Austrian countryside towards the German border, they decided brief personal histories consistent with their new identities. Edna was prone to embroider the story, and for a while they debated the efficacy of the elaborate lie over the simple one. The sculptress and Milton were adamant that plausibility lay in detail, while Clyde demanded something he could remember. In the end it was decided that they could be creative with those aspects that did not require Clyde to remember them, and a satisfactory agreement was reached.
Edna rested her head on Rowland’s shoulder as the gentle rhythmic lurch of the moving train rocked her towards sleep.
“How are we going to find Campbell?” Clyde asked.
“We don’t want to find him,” Rowland yawned. “He’d quite probably recognise us all. And he’ll most certainly recognise me.”
“So what are we supposed to do?”
“Apparently, this chap Blanshard, Campbell’s interpreter, will get in touch with us at the Vier Jahreszeiten.”
“The fear of what?” Clyde murmured.
Rowland smiled. “The Vier Jahreszeiten—The Four Seasons. It’s a hotel. Until then, we visit galleries, talk to artists, generally carry on like art collectors and see if we can’t find out more about what happened to Peter Bothwell.”
“And Campbell has no idea that Blanshard is an Old Guard spy?” Milton asked, playing with the dark moustache he had kept when he sacrificed his goatee for their time in Germany. It was now just long enough to twist.
Rowland shrugged. “We have no way of knowing. I can only presume that if Blanshard is still with him, then Campbell is still in the dark.”
“And if not?”
“Things will get a bit awkward, I expect.”
It was early in the evening when the Orient Express st
opped in Munich before continuing on to Strasbourg and Paris. It was cold, the sky dark with cloud, and the day misted with a light but steady drizzle.
Rowland offered Edna his hand as she alighted. The sculptress was still not completely awake, having roused only moments before. Indeed, they had all slept through most of the journey, forgoing their turn in the dining carriage in the interests of rest. Rowland’s last memory was of the simple lines and rural colour. The ornate, architectural grandeur of the Munich bahnhof was disorienting in contrast.
The railway platform buzzed and whistled with celebration. A band played folk tunes and the brown-shirted men of the SA were present in force. The general noise was punctuated with shouts of “Heil Hitler!”
Edna started. “Is he here?” she asked, casting her eyes around.
“Who?”
“Mr. Hitler…they keep ‘heiling’ him.”
“No…I think they use his name to greet anybody,” Rowland explained.
“Really? Well, that’s a bit silly,” Edna said, as she looked out into the crowd to observe that he spoke the truth.
“It is, a bit,” Rowland agreed. He glanced around at the banners and posters which festooned the station. “But you probably shouldn’t say so too loudly.”
When another train pulled in, the jubilation rose into a roar of approbation and the Brownshirts began to chant “Heil!” in a pounding rhythm. It was focussed upon a small group alighting the train on the opposite platform. Fleetingly, Rowland wondered if it was, in fact, the Chancellor, and then his ear, having become attuned, picked up snippets of excited conversation.
“Who is it?” Milton asked, as Rowland now strained to see the party from the other train.
Rowland motioned towards a large, stocky man who emerged from the carriage with his chest thrust out at the world. The Brownshirts exploded into applause. Rowland glanced uneasily at Milton. “Apparently that’s Röhm. He’s head of the SA…the Brownshirts.”
Paving the New Road Page 7
