Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  Rowland answered the knock. He was a little surprised to see Delaney at the head of the small force on his doorstep. “Colin… what are you doing here?” He shook the detective’s hand.

  “I have the desk sergeant call me whenever you get into trouble. It saves time.”

  “I see.”

  Delaney winked as he signalled his constables to make a search of the grounds. “I’m no longer investigating the White case as you know, but there’s no reason to believe this is related. It’s not the first time someone’s tried to shoot you, after all.” Delaney removed his hat and stepped into the house. “We’d best have a look at where the bullet came in.”

  The decanter crashed onto the tiles as Bessie stood. She cried out in dismay before descending into frantic apologies.

  “Excuse me a moment.” Rowland diverted momentarily to the staircase to reassure the servant and suggest she make herself a cup of tea while he spoke to the detective.

  Bessie sobbed and apologised again about the decanter. “Miss Brown will take it out of my wages, sir,” she lamented.

  “It was my fault entirely for leaving it on the step,” Rowland said, handing her his handkerchief. “We’ll clean it up before Miss Brown gets back, and she need never know.”

  At this suggestion poor Bessie gasped, for fear Rowland intended to participate in the cleaning somehow. The horror shook her out of her anxiety. She made it clear that she would see to the broken decanter directly and under no circumstances must he touch a broom.

  So chastised, Rowland returned to Delaney, opening the door to the studio and observing the damage. The floor below the bay window was strewn with shattered glass. The easel hadn’t moved and the canvas he’d been painting was still clamped in place. The bullet had come through what should have been Ernst Röhm’s mouth. Rowland considered the result while Delaney searched for the bullet.

  “So, Rowly, did you see anyone… anything?” Delaney asked, as he delicately pried the bullet out of the wood panelling on the opposite wall.

  “No,” Rowland said, poking a finger through the hole in his canvas. “But I was painting. I wasn’t really watching anything else.”

  Delaney came round to peer at the canvas. He cursed. “How he missed you beggars belief.”

  “I suspect I turned away at an opportune time,” Rowland said uncertainly.

  “You might just be the luckiest man alive, Rowly.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “Who wants to kill you at the moment?”

  “No one, as far as I know.”

  “Where is everybody?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. Bessie might know.”

  Delaney sent a constable to fetch the maid. Bessie rattled off the whereabouts of the household as best she could. “Miss Higgins went with Mr. Watson Jones to deliver a painting, sir, and Mr. Isaacs has stepped out with Mr. Flynn.”

  “Milt left with Flynn?” Rowland asked, surprised.

  “I believe they went sailing, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Who’s this Flynn?” Delaney asked.

  “An actor, I’m told. He’s driving for my team in the Maroubra Invitational.”

  “It’s not been cancelled?” Delaney asked. “I thought with the crash and all…”

  Rowland shrugged. “Apparently not.”

  “Where was your mother this morning, Rowly?” Delaney tried to sound casual.

  “My mother did not try to shoot me,” Rowland said, bristling. “Whatever may have happened in the past… What happened to my father was…”

  “I have to ask.”

  “She’s out with my Aunt Mildred.”

  “Good.” Delaney looked out the now glassless window to the grounds.

  “What are you looking for?” Rowland asked.

  “Places where our mystery shooter might have stood so that he would have a clear line of sight and not be easily seen.”

  “As I said, I wouldn’t have noticed anyone.”

  Delaney held up a finger. “Yes, that’s right. But he would only have known that if he knew you.” He paced, pleased with the revelation. “If we can establish where the shooter actually stood, we’ll at least be able to ascertain whether he was likely to have known you well or not.”

  Rowland conceded. There was an undeniable logic to Delaney’s reasoning. “Will we be able to work out where he stood?”

  “Could you place your easel in the exact position in which it stood before the shooting?”

  Rowland gingerly cleared the shattered glass with his shoe and manoeuvred the H-frame easel so that it was parallel with the outer wall of the bay, using the paint splatters on the polished floorboards to guide him. “This would be about right,” he said, standing back for perspective. “So how will this help?”

  Delaney pointed to the oak panelling from which he had just dug out the bullet. “Bullets fly in a straight line, more or less. We know where it ended up and where it went through your painting. If we simply follow that trajectory, it should give us an idea of where the bullet originated.”

  “Good Lord, you’ve been reading Conan Doyle.”

  “Hand me your longest paintbrush, Rowly,” Delaney said, ignoring the jibe.

  Rowland did so. Delaney poked the brush through the hole in the painting from behind, lining the wooden end up with where the bullet had embedded. He signalled Rowland to grab the brush from the other side of the canvas and hold it absolutely motionless, before he stepped away. “Right, it’s a bit rough and ready, but the brush should point to the general area from where the bullet came.”

  The paintbrush directed them towards the shaded driveway, lined with claret ash.

  “Perhaps he used the trees as cover,” Delaney mused. “I’ll have the area searched in case he left anything behind.”

  DAY COURSING AND NEW CONTROL

  NIGHT tin hare coursing is to be changed to day coursing. And the dogs will race under different and clean nonproprietary control, or else a strict and impartial board of control.

  That is the Intention of the majority of the Cabinet, which has deputed the Chief Secretary (Mr. Chaffey) to inquire into all the factors and interests involved in the “poor man’s sport.”…

  EXPERIENCED PATRON

  One of the syndicates which wishes to race at Wentworth Park on nonproprietary lines is headed by Dr. R. Stuart Jones, of Canterbury, who claims a considerable experience of tin-hare racing in England, where it has been established on a much more desirable basis than here. His organisation is called the Australian Greyhound Club, and it includes Ald. A. C. Samuels, ex-Mayor of Manly; Dr. Roy Croft, of Balmain, a follower of Plumpton coursing: Mr. L. J. Lager, a chemist of Balmain; Mr. Gordon McKay, a well-known courser and one-time owner of the champion, Fearless Buttons; Dr. Caleb Goode, of Vaucluse; Mr. J. J. Salkeld, master butcher of Darling Point; Mr. G. Harvison, a dentist of Campsie: Mr. W. C. B. Fahey, retired grazier of Waverton; and Mr. J. Collier, an executive member of the National Coursing Association and secretary of the Greyhound Owners and Trainers’ Association.

  Dr. Stuart Jones states that an option has been obtained over Wentworth Park oval, and plans and specifications and also an application for a licence has been in the hands of the Government since July. Increased prize money, better accommodation, and catering on a large scale for the social side of the sport, to elevate the game to the high plane it at present enjoys in other countries, are objects.

  Truth, 1932

  ____________________________________

  The absent members of the Woodlands household all seemed to return within the same fifteen minute period. The result was somewhat chaotic. Without actually lying, Rowland somehow managed to leave his mother with the impression that he’d not been in the studio when the shot was fired. He was careful to tell Mary Brown that Bessie had responded to the crisis in an admirable manner which reflected well on the thorough training she’d received under the housekeeper. Between them, Delaney and Rowland managed to tell the others what little the
y knew. Edna volunteered to walk Errol Flynn to his car.

  “Oh, I couldn’t leave now.” He put his arm around Edna. “Don’t worry sailor, you’re safe with me.”

  “That’s very sweet, Errol.” Edna squeezed the actor’s hand warmly. “But I’m perfectly well protected. And the police are here now. We really just have to clean up, so unless you’re proficient with a broom?”

  Flynn laughed, throwing his head back as he did. “I’ve scrubbed more decks than I care to remember, so I might leave you to it!”

  Rowland noticed the fleeting upward movement of Edna’s bright eyes. Was it relief? He hoped it was.

  The broken glass had been swept up and the services of a glazier engaged by the time Delaney’s men had finished their search.

  “Any luck?” Clyde asked the detective.

  Delaney shook his head. “Nothing.” He turned to Milton and Clyde. “I don’t suppose you blokes saw anyone loitering about the place this morning?”

  “Only reporters,” Milton replied.

  “Reporters?” Delaney took out his notebook. “I thought that they arrived after the gunshot.”

  Milton shrugged. “Some may have, but there were some here this morning. To interview Rowly about the crash at Maroubra, I expect.”

  “We’ll follow that up,” Delaney assured them. “Perhaps the shooter entered the grounds under the guise of a reporter, or perhaps one of them saw something.” He pointed at Rowland. “There’s no point having gates if they’re not secured, Rowly. Do something about it!”

  Rowland grimaced. The gates at Woodlands House were rarely locked, but given recent events, it was probably time to improve security—at least for the moment.

  “I’ll station some constables here for the moment,” Delaney went on, “but I’ll need them back in a day or two. Until we find out why the shot was fired, we must assume someone is trying to kill you.”

  Rowland protested. The assumption seemed to him somewhat hysterical.

  Delaney pulled him aside to press his point.

  “Rowly, your mother lives here now, not to mention your less genteel companions. You don’t want to be too cavalier about danger.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Rowland said, chastened. “I’ll see to it, Colin. You have my word.”

  “Good man.” Delaney offered him something in return. “White’s tiepin might have been stolen,” he said.

  “Yes, I gathered that from the fact it wasn’t on the body.”

  “No, I mean it was stolen before it fell into White’s hands.” Delaney flipped back a page or two in his notebook. “A twenty-four carat gold tiepin, a bar with two interlocking horseshoes in the middle and set with a half carat diamond was reported stolen by a Mr. Lesley Bocquet, from his premises in Lindfield a couple of weeks ago.”

  “That does sound like it,” Rowland replied thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose there might have been two?”

  “Possible… but unlikely, I would think. My instincts tell me it’s too much of a coincidence that the first is stolen just before the second turns up on the soon-to-be victim of murder.”

  “Have you spoken to Mr. Bocquet?”

  “Yes, briefly. He’s never heard of White.” Delaney shook his head. “To be honest, I’m not sure the tiepin will lead anywhere. A flashy piece like that would probably have been difficult for any murderer to resist.”

  “I suppose. But one does wonder how the tiepin came to be on White’s tie. He was rather too portly to be a cat burglar.”

  “We’re making enquiries at all the local pawn shops,” Delaney said. “My guess is that he, or perhaps this unknown woman that Miss Higgins is convinced he’s been seeing, came by it after it had been fenced. Of course, getting a pawnbroker to admit he’d accepted stolen goods might be a trifle challenging.”

  “No doubt.” Rowland hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’d consider allowing me to have a chat with Bocquet?”

  “Out of the question!” Delaney said as he wrote a note and then tore the page from his notebook. “You are not a policeman, Rowly. You cannot go about questioning suspects!” He slipped the folded page into Rowland’s hand. “It would be highly improper!”

  Rowland opened the page: an address in Lindfield in Delaney’s loose scrawl.

  “So, did you leave the painting?” Milton whispered to Edna once Delaney had departed.

  Edna nodded. “Rosalina was out, so we left it with her aunt. I think it was easier for Clyde that way, and hopefully she’ll appreciate the gesture.”

  “What charm can soothe her melancholy?” Milton said shaking his head. “What art can wash her guilt away?”

  “Goldsmith,” Rowland made the attribution reflexively. The verse was apt. He hoped possession of the evidence that she had modelled nude would assuage whatever shame Rosalina Martinelli felt. “How is Clyde, do you think, Ed?” Rowland asked quietly.

  Edna wrinkled her nose as she contemplated the question. “He’s sad, but I sense some part of him is relieved it’s over.”

  “As are we all,” Milton muttered.

  “Milt!” Edna said, appalled.

  Rowland did not wholly disagree with Milton, though it was not a sentiment he was willing to voice. As a sweetheart, Rosalina Martinelli had required an extraordinary amount of maintenance. She had made no secret of the fact that she did not like Clyde’s friends in general and Rowland Sinclair in particular. It seemed the reformed model had never forgiven him for the manner in which he’d painted her.

  Rowland decided to take Lenin for another walk around the grounds. However, having already been taken for his customary constitutional, the hound was noticeably reluctant.

  “Leave Len be.” Edna tucked her hair under her hat. “I’ll come for a stroll with you.”

  “Where are you going?” Milton asked.

  “To see if the police missed anything,” Edna replied.

  “You’re searching for clues?” Milton rose from the armchair.

  “Well, not exactly.” Rowland tried to moderate the poet’s enthusiasm.

  “I’d better assist. Come on then Sherlock and Watson.”

  “Where?” Clyde asked striding into the conservatory wiping the grease from his hands with a towel. He’d been working on Rowland’s car, practising timely wheel changes, windscreen cleaning and the like.

  “To search for clues of the bloke who tried to shoot Rowly.” Milton grabbed a magnifying glass from the secretaire and held it to his eye.

  “Haven’t the police already searched the grounds?”

  “I suspect the constables were paying more attention to Ed’s statues,” Milton replied, slipping the magnifying glass into his pocket. “I heard Delaney bellowing at them to keep their eyes on the ground and off the garden ornaments. I’m afraid Colin has the sensual understanding of a Methodist preacher.”

  “Why don’t we all go, then?” Clyde suggested. “It’s a shame Len is a greyhound rather than a bloodhound.”

  “I think the jury’s still out on greyhound,” Milton muttered, bending to pat the ugly misshapen dog.

  “Len’s all right,” Rowland laughed. He liked dogs. He loved Lenin in spite of, or perhaps because of, the hound’s obvious lack of breeding.

  Delaney had stationed two hard-chested constables at the gate to the property, who watched the four as they strolled through the trees and over the expansive lawns in search of anything out of place. It was more a ramble in the gentle warmth of the autumn sun, not quite a lark, but not an earnest investigation either.

  Rowland stood behind the claret ash which grew closest to the house and surveyed the bay windows of his studio. A glazier and his young apprentice were already at work installing a new pane of glass, but Rowland could see easily into the room. Still, the shooter must have been a reasonable marksman. The ground at the base of the tree was hard enough to preclude footprints.

  He found himself becoming increasingly angry as he contemplated the attempt on his life. While it was not the first time someone had tr
ied to kill him, this attack had taken place at his studio, his sanctuary. From where he stood, he could also see the wing-backed armchair in which Edna often posed for him. The possibilities did nothing to placate him.

  “And watching with eternal lids apart, like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite. You’re reckon he stood here?” Milton stopped beside him.

  Rowland nodded. “Keats. It seems likely.” He looked back towards the gate. “I’m just not sure how he could have slipped in without one of the reporters seeing him.”

  “Perhaps one did,” Milton mused. “Delaney hasn’t questioned them yet.”

  “Or perhaps he slipped in before the reporters arrived, and waited.” Clyde shaded his eyes as he followed Rowland’s line of vision.

  “The reporters were here at dawn.” Edna pushed back an auburn tress which had escaped the confines of her hat.

  “How do you know that?” Milton asked.

  “I’m working on a sculpture of Eos, the goddess of dawn, so I got up to watch daybreak from the verandah. I saw the reporters arrive.”

  Clyde scratched his head. “He may have waited all night for all we know.”

  Milton pulled at his goatee as he walked around the claret ash. “He must have come after Rowly went to bed last night, or he could have shot him then. When did you finish in the studio last night, comrade?”

  “About one in the morning,” Rowland replied.

  “So, maybe he slipped in between one o’clock and dawn and waited.” Milton sighed. “It’s not much but it’s something.”

  Edna rubbed her bare arms. “It’s a little unnerving to think of him out here, just waiting.”

  Rowland removed his jacket and placed it around her shoulders. “Yes, it is,” he said, his face darkening as he thought of Edna alone on the verandah with a gunman in the garden.

  “Where did you take Lenin for a walk this morning?” Clyde asked, wondering why Rowland had not spotted the intruder.

  “I didn’t walk him on the grounds,” Rowland replied. “I had Johnston drive us to Watson’s Bay in the Rolls Royce and walked him there. The reporters were watching for the Mercedes, they didn’t pay a great deal of attention to the Rolls Royce. I expect they assumed it was Mother, off somewhere.”