The Holiday Murders

by Robert Gott

  Clarry understood that, in coming back to the café, the man was offering him a simple choice — was Clarry for him, or against him? Was he a friend, or an enemy? Clarry didn’t even know the man’s name, but he imagined that being his enemy would be unsafe. So much for choice.

  Jones took out of its brown-paper packaging the book that Mitchell Magill had given him. If it did turn out to be a copy of Mein Kampf, perhaps it would be an English translation, which would be welcome. Jones’s copy was in German, and although he was reasonably proficient in that language, he was by no means fluent in it.

  But the book was something altogether different, called Nakenkultur. There was a black-and-white photograph on the cover of two men and two women, naked, with their arms in the air, their fingers touching at the apex of a human teepee. Jones was puzzled by it. Was Magill some kind of pornographer, and did he imagine that Jones would be interested in having this stuff peddled to him? He opened the book to find photographs of Aryan youth frolicking in alpine meadows, stretching, standing gymnastically on their comrades’ shoulders, or rolling hoops at each other. The photographs were broken up by pages and pages of tedious text, which Jones understood to be a lengthy defence of the joys and benefits of naturism. He had no interest at all in doing this, let alone in reading about it, and if Magill and his friends thought any different, they’d better watch out. The idea of Arthur and Margaret naked made him sick. They resembled the people in this book the way a swan resembled a buffalo.

  At the back of the book, Magill had slipped in a postcard of a painting, or perhaps he’d forgotten it was there and hadn’t meant to give it to him. Jones saw its presence as a sign. It was a painting of Hitler, in civilian clothes, addressing a small group of men in a room. Jones turned it over. It was called In the Beginning Was the Word, by Hermann Otto Hoyer. He felt a thrill run through him. The nakenkultur stuff was crap, and unworkable in a disciplined society. He would stamp it out. Herr Goering was imposing when dressed by Hugo Boss; naked, he would be ludicrous. Good tailoring was fundamental to the exercise of power — even the Americans understood this. Jones tried his best. He was certainly never shabby, but he had neither the coupons nor the cash to dress really well.

  This was yet another reason for him to tolerate the soft politics of Magill and Australia First. Jones would sharpen the focus of that organisation soon enough, and the first thing to go would be the name. National Socialism, not Australia, came first. Jones would call his party Our Nation, and if Mitchell Magill didn’t like it, that’d be too bad for him. Magill’s fortune was merely seed money. Once Our Nation got going, anyone who held it back would be pruned, and by then there’d be plenty of people happy and willing to use the secateurs. Jones looked over towards the counter. Like that little cowering ferret, he thought.

  ‘My name’s Ptolemy Jones,’ he called out. ‘What’s yours?’

  Clarry indicated the filthy window. ‘Clarry. That’s me — Clarry Brown.’

  ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Slow.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the prostitutes. Getting your cock sucked doesn’t pay the bills.’

  Jones noticed that Clarry Brown bridled, but he wasn’t sufficiently sure of himself to act on it. He was afraid of Jones, and Jones smelt his fear.

  ‘I’ve got some mates,’ Jones said. ‘We’ll be here tonight at nine o’clock. Any problem with being open?’

  ‘No problems at all.’

  ‘Good. Business is looking up already.’

  Although the Liberty Bell café in Collins Street hadn’t been open for very long, its name was helping it reap rewards. It was crowded with American servicemen who walked through the doors thinking it would offer them food they were familiar with. It didn’t, of course. Enforced austerity menus meant that the Americans could get better fare, and more of it, in their own canteens. What they couldn’t get there, though, were girls. They were a menu item that was worth coming back for.

  Mitchell Magill, who’d been waiting in the Liberty Bell for Peggy Montford to finish her shift at the Glaciarium, was thinking about Ptolemy Jones. He didn’t like him. Margaret had said that there was something brutish about him, and she was right. Jones could manage a modicum of charm and good manners, so at least he hadn’t been raised by wolves. Magill was beginning to think of him, instead, as a well-trained attack dog, and he was even more convinced than he had been the previous day that Jones would be good for Australia First, or the Australian Patriots as they were now called. He had no aesthetic sense, no taste, and no sensitivity to the creative energy that was re-establishing the primacy of Aryan culture. He was a thug. Magill could use him the way a sculptor used a chisel. He was pleased with that metaphor, and jotted it down for later refinement.

  Peggy came into the café accompanied by a good-looking man in an inexpensive suit. They were laughing, and Magill felt a little rush of jealousy. He was prone to these feelings, which Peggy didn’t discourage. She was flattered by them. When they reached the table where Magill was sitting, Peggy leaned down and kissed him, quickly pushing her tongue between his lips, just to reassure him that he had nothing to worry about.

  ‘This is Joe Sable,’ she said. ‘I’m teaching him to skate. Joe, this is the man you wanted to meet — Mitchell Magill.’

  Magill stood up and extended his hand. Joe shook it.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Magill.’

  ‘Mitchell, please. You wanted to meet me?’

  ‘I’ve wanted to meet you for quite a while.’

  If Joe hadn’t spent hours reading Intelligence reports he’d have been puzzled by Magill. He appeared to be so civilised. The fine tailoring of his clothes — a pale-blue silk shirt that would have cost Joe a month’s pay — and the careful grooming of his hair, moustache, and nails, did not now disguise what he really was: a vicious anti-Semite. Remembering Hardy Wilson, who’d been passed over for the directorship of the National Gallery of Victoria, and who’d declared the slight to have been the result of Jewish influence in the government, Joe felt he knew how to play out the conversation. He managed to weave Wilson’s name into their chatter about the state of the world, and Magill had been obligingly quick to agree that the failure to appoint him, a man of exquisite refinement and judgement, had been a travesty.

  Over afternoon tea, which Magill paid for, Joe found himself an early recruit into a new political party, called Australian Patriots. Mitchell’s initial reticence had been all but swept away by Joe’s easy engagement with questions of culture. Nevertheless, he sounded Joe out, testing where he stood on key political issues. Joe was for king and country, but he was opposed to the war. Trading with Japan had always been a more sensible option than going to war against her; that was a failure of leadership and intelligent thinking. A lot of what Herr Hitler had to say made sense, especially his racial theories. All he was doing was stating the obvious. Joe lowered his voice when he said this, although there were no black American soldiers in the Liberty Bell. In fact, there’d been very few black faces among the Yanks in Melbourne. They’d all been sent to the outback in order to reassure people in the cities that the government hadn’t gone soft on the White Australia policy just because there was a war on. Joe said that this at least was reassuring.

  ‘What’s less reassuring,’ he said, ‘is the number of Jewish refugees coming into this country. They’re not right for Australia. They’re a parasitical influence.’

  He’d read this expression in an excerpt from Hardy Wilson’s book, Collapse of Civilisation, and it felt like poison in his mouth. He immediately took a sip of water.

  ‘You’d be surprised how many people agree with you, Joe. You know the ALP pulled the Victorian branch into line at their conference a few days ago?’

  Joe said he didn’t read the papers much, and he’d missed that.

  ‘The Victorian branch of the party put forward a wet resolution conde
mning the treatment of the Jews in Europe, and supporting a homeland in Palestine. They were told to pull their heads in, that this was no concern of ours. One of the delegates even had the balls to say that rich Jews didn’t want to live in Palestine — they just wanted a place to dump surplus Jews.’

  ‘Surplus Jews. That’s a fine expression.’

  Magill liked the cut of Sable’s jib. Joe explained that he was ineligible for military service on account of his heart, and that he was looking for something to put his energies into — and his money, although there wasn’t too much of that. Nevertheless, this last sentiment pleased Magill mightily. He preferred dealing with people who were prepared to put their money where their mouths were.

  ‘Sable is an interesting name,’ Magill said.

  ‘Sounds a bit Jewish, doesn’t it?’ Joe laughed. ‘Serves me right for not liking them much. It’s French, I think. Way back. Sablé, or something like that. I’ve never taken much interest.’

  ‘I think it’s a lovely name,’ Peggy said.

  ‘I’d like you to meet a few of our friends,’ Magill said. ‘They’re people I think you’ll have a lot in common with. They’re civilised, erudite, like yourself. There aren’t many of us yet. As you know, Australia First was pretty much filleted by the internments of our key people. I think people are getting sick of the bloody war, and I think they’re looking for an alternative that stands for something, that calls a spade a spade.’

  ‘And a kike a kike,’ Joe offered. ‘You’re right about there being others who are fed up. I talk about this stuff with friends. We bang on about the bloody Bolsheviks and Jews, but nobody listens.’

  Peggy smiled, and Magill said, ‘Precisely. Meeting you couldn’t have come at a better time, Joe. I have a place near Daylesford — a few acres called Candlebark Hill. It was my father’s. There’s a good house there, and it’s private. Peggy and I are going up tomorrow, early, so no nosey coppers get a chance to stop us to ask the purpose of the trip. I hate those bastards. I can afford the fuel, so why don’t they mind their own damn business? It’s a bugbear of mine — interfering functionaries. Anyway, there’ll be half-a-dozen people up there by Tuesday, depending on whether or not they can get a train ticket. If you can make it the day after that — that’d be the 29th — and stay the night, if you can, you’d be most welcome.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Daylesford. The 29th? Yes, I can manage that, and I know how to organise a priority rail pass — it’s called money.’

  Magill nodded. ‘The war makes black marketeers out of all of us, doesn’t it?’

  Magill said that he’d meet Joe at the railway station in Daylesford, and that they’d walk to Sailor’s Hill. He didn’t like to drive around the town. Most people wouldn’t give it a second thought, but there was always one busybody who’d tut-tut about the petrol ration.

  ‘And we don’t want bored country coppers sniffing around Candlebark Hill.’ He narrowed his eyes at Joe. ‘There is one thing you need to know about our little group, and I hope it doesn’t put you off.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what a naturist is, Joe?’

  Peggy Montford giggled.

  ‘I believe it’s someone who likes to walk around naked,’ Joe said.

  ‘It’s more than that, Joe — much more. When you come to Candlebark Hill, you’ll understand. You’re under no obligation to join us. Not everyone is comfortable taking their clothes off; but once you understand the philosophy, you might dip your toe in the water, as it were.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that, Mitchell.’

  Magill moved quickly to reassure him.

  ‘Like I said, no obligation. We don’t want to scare you off before you’ve got to know us.’

  ‘Everyone gets about in the nude, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not about that. I think I’ve startled you. Can I try to explain it to you?’

  ‘You can try. I can’t promise you’ll succeed.’

  ‘Our culture is hopelessly muddled about the body. The churches have made us all ashamed of what are, in fact, the greatest expressions of Nature’s genius — our bodies. The Germans were onto this way back in the Twenties. The body is an expression of national consciousness. It’s an expression of health and purity. Nudism is therapeutic, Joe, not erotic, and our response to it is never prurient.’

  Joe didn’t have to try hard to look sceptical.

  ‘This stuff doesn’t go on in Germany now, surely.’

  Magill looked annoyed.

  ‘It’s not “stuff”, Joe, and I say again, it’s not compulsory. As for Germany, Goering put an end to the movement — but he would, wouldn’t he? He doesn’t like thin people. It’s different there, anyway. The movement was infiltrated by communists and degenerates who wanted to commercialise it. I know for a fact that Hitler isn’t against our movement in principle. He’s said, and I quote, Joe, “If German consciousness wants nudism, it shall have it again, but on the clean foundation on which it was started.” What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think I’ll keep my clothes on, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Perfectly fine.’ Magill smiled. ‘We have that clean foundation at Candlebark Hill, Joe, and I think we can change your mind.’

  Joe shrugged gently.

  ‘I’m intrigued, Mitchell. I’ll give you that.’

  When Joe returned to Homicide, the office was empty, but he’d only been there a few minutes when Inspector Lambert and Constable Lord returned from the Windsor Hotel.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Sergeant,’ Titus said. ‘I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to get hold of you. There’s no easy way to say this: Sheila Draper has been murdered, and probably raped. I’m supposing that to be the case — we won’t know for sure until the autopsy.’

  Joe sat down heavily. Helen Lord knew genuine shock when she saw it, and Joe Sable’s ashen face was evidence of it. He must have got close to Sheila Draper to react like this. Titus hadn’t expected this response, which was why he’d announced Draper’s death so baldly.

  Joe was suddenly aware that he was being stared at.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Sheila Draper was just such a decent person.’

  ‘Whoever killed her wasn’t impressed by her decency, although destroying it probably gave him pleasure.’

  Titus told Joe all that he knew about Draper’s death. He did so with Constable Lord present; she had been briefed on the Quinn murders, and was now, as far as Titus was concerned, a part of his investigative team. It was clear to Joe that she’d been made privy to the line of investigation involving Military Intelligence, and to his own role in it. She could not, of course, be effective without this knowledge, but Joe was surprised by what he took to be Inspector Lambert’s lack of discretion. Chafer and Goad would be livid if they knew that Titus had trusted someone not vetted by them with highly sensitive information. Joe knew that Titus would do whatever he needed to do to solve these crimes, and he would do it without checking with Intelligence first.

  Titus opened the drawer of a filing cabinet and took out a file. It contained his notes, photographs, and interview transcripts. He handed the file to Constable Lord.

  ‘Read these carefully,’ he said. ‘Use Sergeant Sable’s desk. You might find something we’ve missed. Sergeant, I need to talk to you in my office.’

  When Titus closed the door, he expressed his surprise at the intensity of Joe’s reaction to the news of Sheila Draper’s murder. Joe reassured him that there’d been nothing inappropriate in his dealings with her. He admired her approach to life, that was all, and she’d struck him as a nice person. But he couldn’t keep the rising anger out of his voice in response to Titus’s suspicions that he’d allowed personal feelings to interfere with his judgement.

  Titus addressed him coolly.

  ‘I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I’m concerned
about your reaction to Miss Draper’s death, and you can be offended by that all you like. I can see that this murder has rattled you, but I don’t expect you to be petulant when I ask you about your state of mind. What I expect is honesty. I need to know that you’re self-aware enough to recognise danger signs.’

  Joe felt himself calming down, his anger quickly replaced by mortification.

  ‘Well?’ Titus’s voice was sharp with impatience now.

  ‘Yes, sir. I understand what you’re saying, and you’re right.’

  ‘If I seem a bit short, Sergeant, it’s because I’m frustrated by Intelligence snaffling you on the back of these killings. I don’t believe that Sheila Draper’s murder was politically motivated, but I do believe that the person who killed the Quinns killed her. It follows that I’m not at all convinced that the Quinn murders were politically motivated, either. Meanwhile, I’m one member down, and Intelligence is one up.’

  Joe realised he needed to bring Titus up to date on his progress.

  ‘I met Mitchell Magill this afternoon,’ he said, ‘and he doesn’t strike me as the murderous type — although his politics might leave room for people who are.’

  ‘That was quick work.’

  ‘Constable Lord was a great help.’

  ‘Constable Lord is wasted doing paperwork for officers who are far less capable than she is. She’s got great instincts, and she’s sharp.’

  ‘I think it would take a lot to rattle her.’

  ‘I hope that wasn’t self-pity, Sergeant.’

  ‘You don’t let much through to the keeper, do you, sir?’

  ‘You’re inexperienced, not naïve. You’re a good policeman and you’ll get better, and my wife likes you. She’s never wrong.’

  The tension between them eased, and Joe’s confidence ebbed back.

  ‘I can see why Intelligence is investigating Magill and his cronies,’ he said. ‘And I agree that their connection to the killings is tenuous. The fact that John Quinn was tracking them has to be coincidental. I’ll have a better idea on that the day after tomorrow. Magill’s got a place near Daylesford, and they’re having a Party gathering there. They’re calling themselves Australian Patriots now.’