A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  As parliament was not due to resume for over a week, the Hotel Canberra, indeed the city itself, was relatively quiet. They settled in and set out to explore the capital before dinner, familiarising themselves with her concentric geography. They returned to the hotel feeling as though they’d been for a walk in the country more than in a city centre.

  It wasn’t till quite late that evening that Milton left his companions to make contact with the man he was relieving.

  Rowland tossed him the keys to the Airflow.

  Milton tossed them back. “The Chrysler might be a bit noticeable, comrade.”

  “Yes, of course. Sorry.”

  “No problems, Rowly.” Milton wrapped a deep red scarf around his neck against the plummeting evening temperature. “It’s not far. I’m going to take shanks’ pony.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Parliament House.”

  “Won’t it be closed to the public?”

  “I expect that will make it easy for him to show me around so I can get my bearings.”

  In Milton’s absence they played cards in the sitting room of Edna’s suite. Having no idea how long the meeting would take, they did not think to be concerned about the poet until about eleven o’clock. When he had still not returned at midnight, Rowland and Clyde decided a stroll to Parliament House was in order.

  “You stay here, Ed, in case he gets back.”

  “And if he does, don’t let him go looking for us,” Clyde murmured as he buttoned his coat. “Or else we could be chasing each other in circles all night.”

  Parliament House took on a new beauty at night. Her white walls seemed almost luminescent, monolithic. They could see the building from the Hotel Canberra, a white-iced wedding cake lit by lines of streetlights.

  It was not till they were much closer that they saw the Federal Police vehicles parked outside the House with their lights directed at the main stairs. The area around the stairs had been cordoned off and constables stood ready to move any passers-by on. A body lay crumpled near the base of the stairs, a man. A pool of dark blood stained the concrete. He had fallen facedown, up the stairs, a red scarf visible under the turned lapel of his overcoat.

  Clyde cursed under his breath and he and Rowland tried to get through the cordon.

  “Fellas! Over here.”

  Milton stood with a uniformed policeman.

  “What—” Rowland began, relieved to see the poet.

  “I was passing by on my evening stroll,” Milton emphasised the last two words, “when I spotted this poor chap. I tried to help, realised he was dead, and raised the alarm.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Me—I’m perfectly well. I’m afraid someone’s killed Mr…” He looked hopefully at the policeman with him.

  The officer shook his head silently.

  “Unfortunately,” Milton said, his eyes darting towards the men standing near the body, “nobody’s quite sure who’s in charge, so I can’t leave.”

  In the light, Rowland noticed the subtle differences in uniform.

  “The unfortunate gentleman’s demise is being attended by the Commonwealth Investigations Branch, the Commonwealth Police, and something called a Commonwealth Peace Officer.” Milton leant over and whispered loudly, “I’m not sure any of them are real coppers.”

  At this, the officer beside Milton seemed noticeably affronted.

  Rowland attempted to clarify the situation. “Can you tell me who’s in charge, sir?” he asked the officer.

  “That would be me.” The man who walked over to claim authority was military in his carriage. He was about fifty, his hair a distinguished grey, parted in the middle and cut close at the sides and back. “Major Harold Jones, Chief of Police. Can I ask your name, sir?”

  “Rowland Sinclair, Major Jones. This is Mr. Clyde Watson Jones and I presume you’ve met Mr. Isaacs.”

  “What brings you here at this time of night, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Mr. Watson Jones and I were looking for Mr. Isaacs. He’d stepped out for a stroll and hadn’t returned.”

  “Returned to where, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “We’re staying at the Hotel Canberra.”

  “Can I ask your business in the capital, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Mr. Watson Jones and I are artists—we plan to paint.”

  “And Mr. Isaacs?”

  “I’m a poet.”

  “I see.” Major Jones looked Milton up and down. “Is there any particular reason you chose to walk here, alone, at this hour, Mr. Isaacs?”

  “No, not really.” Milton shrugged. “I could see Parliament House from the hotel… I like to walk at night—it clears the mind, puts me in the frame of mind to write. There’s something about starlight that unleashes the muse, don’t you think?”

  Quite admirably, neither Rowland nor Clyde scoffed.

  “And you’ve never met the deceased before?” the major pressed.

  “No, sir.” There was no deceit in Milton’s voice. “I thought the poor bloke was just drunk at first… then I saw the blood.”

  Major Jones nodded. “Very well. If you’d just give the constable your details, I’ll let you gentlemen get on.” He turned to the body and then back. “For the moment I’d be grateful if you gentlemen say nothing about this.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s in the interests of the investigation that the details and indeed the fact of this incident are not made public.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, Major Jones.” Rowland glanced sideways at Clyde and Milton. It seemed an unusual request.

  “What about his family?” Milton asked.

  “What family?” Jones asked sharply. “Didn’t you just state that you did not know the deceased, Mr. Isaacs?”

  “I don’t… but everybody has a family of some sort.”

  “The deceased’s next-of-kin will be contacted, in due course. We only ask that you say nothing to the newspapers until the relevant facts have been established.”

  “Yes, of course,” Clyde replied for all of them. “We were just passing by.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll say goodnight then.” He shook their hands in turn. “You’d best get in from the cold.”

  They said little on the walk home, aware they were being followed. By this, Rowland was not alarmed—a routine verification of their whereabouts he assumed. Despite the hour, they went directly to Edna’s suite. The sculptress was much relieved to see them.

  “I was just beginning to think I should go after you,” she said. “Whatever were you all doing?”

  Clyde and Rowland looked to Milton.

  Though they were alone in the suite, Milton kept his voice low. As he had told the police, he’d noticed the body as he passed, but he added, “I suspect the poor bloke is Jim Kelly.”

  “You knew him?” Clyde frowned though he had suspected as much.

  “Not really. I was supposed to meet Comrade Kelly outside Parliament House. We were to identify ourselves by wearing red scarves.”

  It was only then that Rowland noticed Milton was no longer wearing the red scarf he’d put on when he left. The poet pulled it from the large pocket of his overcoat. “I took it off before the police arrived… in case Kelly’s killer was still hanging around looking for Communists to murder.”

  “But why didn’t you tell the police who the poor man was?” Edna demanded, horrified.

  “They’ll find out soon enough… if they didn’t know already. I couldn’t tell them his name without revealing that I was meeting him and why I was meeting him.”

  “You lied to the police!” Clyde shook his head in disbelief.

  “Depends how you look at it. I don’t know for sure that the dead man was Comrade Kelly… it might have just been some unfortunate bloke in a red scarf.”

  “You really should let them know who he was, Milt,” Rowland said quietly, an image of the nameless girl in the Albury morgue flashing upon his inner eye. “He deserves that dignity.”


  Milton exhaled. “You’re right. If they haven’t worked it out by tomorrow, I’ll tell them, or at least get Bluey Howells to report him missing.”

  “Had he been shot?” Rowland asked, deciding to leave the veracity of Milton’s police statement alone.

  Milton closed his eyes. “No, we would all have heard a shot. His throat had been slit—I saw it when I checked to see if he was breathing. The blood was still warm… it was steaming in the cold…” He looked down at his hands, the browning blood on the white cuffs of his shirt. “I tried to help him, but he was dead.”

  “Oh, Milt, how horrible.” Edna took his hand. “Are you all right?”

  He embraced her fondly. “I could use a drink.”

  On that score Clyde obliged from the contents of the drinks cabinet. They could all use something to warm the blood a little.

  “So what now?” Rowland asked, loosening his tie.

  Milton groaned. “I don’t know. Kelly was supposed to brief me and hand over whatever he’d found.”

  Edna regarded Milton carefully. “You’re only here to raise the alarm in case the government attempts to legislate against Mr. Kisch aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And nothing else?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Why would someone kill Mr. Kelly over a visiting speaker?”

  “We don’t know that it was anything to do with him being a Communist.” Rowland stifled a yawn. “It’s possible that he was killed for an entirely unrelated reason.”

  “Or not,” Clyde added. “If it was discovered that Kelly was keeping an eye on parliament for the Party, there are many people who would consider execution justified.”

  “Poor blighter couldn’t have been doing much,” Milton murmured. “Parliament hasn’t sat for a while. God knows how he’s kept himself occupied.”

  “Perhaps we should go home,” said Edna. “Milt could be next.”

  “You’re assuming there’s no one who wants to kill him in Sydney,” Clyde muttered.

  “What do you suppose Major Jones’ ‘say nothing of this’ edict was all about?” Milton pondered aloud.

  “Blood on the steps of parliament is probably not ideal, especially with the Duke of Gloucester about to visit,” Clyde replied.

  Rowland yawned. “Surely the newspapers will get hold of it…”

  “I didn’t see any reporters, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Rowland did wonder why not. Perhaps it was because parliament was not sitting. Or because it was so late.

  Edna looked at him and smiled. “We should call it a night,” she said. “Rowly’s falling asleep.”

  Clyde stretched. “Not just him. This may all make more sense in the light of morning.”

  9

  Major Harold Jones appraised the four young people sitting in his office with an air of indulgent patience. They were an interesting group to say the least. Sinclair was clearly a man of means, well-dressed and groomed with just enough carelessness to give him a slightly rakish air. The intelligence man noted the smear of green paint on Sinclair’s sleeve, and that his dark hair had been combed without the benefit of styling cream to keep it in place. It spoke of confidence as much as indifference. There was a sharp observance in the deep blue of the artist’s eyes. Jones knew that his scrutiny was being returned. Sinclair was sizing him up and it was probably not for a painting.

  The woman was intriguing. Beautiful—unusually so—she was clearly not intimidated in any way by his official capacity. The files revealed she lived with Sinclair and the other gentlemen in what might have been called a morally questionable artistic commune if it wasn’t in Woollahra. The precise nature of her relationship with Sinclair, Isaacs and Watson Jones was the subject of speculation and, as yet, unestablished. According to the officer who had been assigned to their most recent surveillance, they had all gone directly to her suite when they’d returned to the hotel the previous night. It seemed ludicrous, but perhaps this slip of a girl was the cunning mastermind… perhaps the men reported to her.

  Watson Jones’ person belied the ostentatious double-barrel of his name. He had the weathered face and strong hands of a labourer and was indeed a unionist and a Communist. His accent was quite broad—of rural origin perhaps. He seemed the most uncomfortable.

  And then there was Isaacs, in his purple velvet jacket, gold-spotted cravat, and a beret, for pity’s sake. A Leninist goatee more than hinted at his politics. The good major shook his head. Isaacs’ surveillance file was extensive.

  “Mr. Sinclair, suppose you tell me what you and your companions are really doing in Canberra,” Jones said, not unpleasantly.

  “I believe I’ve already told you, Major Jones. Clyde and I are painting and Milton is doing whatever it is that poets do.”

  “And Miss Higgins?”

  “I’m a sculptor, Major Jones,” Edna answered for herself. “I’m rather interested in the way the capital is being carved out of the countryside. I think I may base a piece on it when I get back home. In the meantime I plan to take photographs from which to work.”

  Jones seemed impressed. “Photography, you say?” He tapped his forehead trying to shake loose a name. “There’s a chap in the Federal Capital Commission you should meet… what’s his name… he’s been taking snaps of Canberra for the last decade… Mildenhall! That’s him. You should have a chat with him.”

  “I’d be delighted, if he has the time.”

  “I’ll tell him to get in touch.”

  “Why thank you, Major Jones. That’s so very kind of you.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Higgins. Now, Mr. Isaacs, are you trying to tell me that it is a coincidence that both you and the deceased are members of the same political Party?”

  Wrong-footed by the abrupt change in subject and tone, Milton faltered briefly. “So you know who the dead man is?”

  “Yes—a Mr. James Kelly, previously of St. Kilda, Melbourne. A known Communist… like yourself.”

  Milton shrugged. “A small coincidence. Mr. Kelly and I possibly have other coincidental matters in common.”

  “Like the fact that you were both wearing a red scarf last night?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The peace officer who was first on the scene recalls you were wearing a red scarf.”

  “It’s hardly an unusual fashion choice, Major Jones.” Milton had found his step once more. “It was a cold night. I’d warrant most sensible people out were wearing scarves. Some of them, surely, would have been red.”

  Jones considered him silently for a while. “Can you tell me, Mr. Isaacs, how exactly you plan to spend your time in Canberra?”

  “I’m composing a poem in the epic style, Major Jones, using the journey of a new nation as it searches for its political home in a world where the gods of right and left are at war and the winds of change push the ships of government into daunting and uncharted waters.”

  “And where precisely will you compose this epic poem, Mr. Isaacs?” Jones looked as hard at the poet’s friends as he did at Milton himself. Rowland and Clyde maintained faces trained by poker marathons at Woodlands House. Edna laughed.

  “Have you ever heard of such a dull poem, Major Jones? For pity’s sake, forbid him to write it!”

  “I’m afraid poetry, whatever the subject, is not a crime, Miss Higgins.” Jones smiled faintly.

  Milton scowled at Edna. “When the people’s elected representatives eventually return to work, I plan to sit in the public gallery of Parliament House and absorb inspiration from democracy at play. Until then I might call on my local member, apprise him of my concerns as a constituent.”

  Rowland made an attempt to redirect the conversation. “Do you have any idea who killed Mr. Kelly, sir?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Mr. Sinclair. But we have not made any arrests.” Jones stood. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen, Miss Higgins.”

  And so they were dismissed.

  T
hey decided to walk back to the Hotel Canberra, stopping to take tea at the Kingston Tea and Supper Rooms. Milton took a copy of the Canberra Times from under his arm and dropped it onto the table.

  Clyde unfolded the broadsheet, scanning the front page. Stories of the young woman’s body found near Albury still dominated. “Does it say anything about Jim Kelly?” he asked.

  “Yes, there’s a small article.” Milton directed him to the third page. “Says James Kelly died of a wound inflicted by an unknown assailant, in Canberra.”

  “In Canberra? They weren’t more specific?”

  “Absolutely no mention of Parliament House.”

  “This is rather a strange place,” Edna said, pouring tea from the china pot that had been delivered to their table.

  “What did Bluey Howells say?” Rowland asked, knowing Milton had telephoned him that morning.

  “Not much I feel comfortable repeating in front of Ed.”

  “Does he have any idea who might have…?”

  “Bluey believes that Kelly might have stumbled onto something the Fascists wanted to keep under wraps.” Milton sweetened his tea with honey.

  “What exactly?”

  “No idea.”

  “Do you think it’s likely?” Clyde was sceptical. “All poor Kelly was doing was keeping an eye out for an attempt to legislate against Egon’s visit. It’s not even illegal. Surely no one would kill him for that.”

  “That’s all I’ll be doing,” Milton said slowly. “We can’t be sure that’s all Kelly was doing.”

  “That’s true,” Rowland conceded. Parliament had not even resumed. Kelly may well have been keeping himself busy with something else for the Party. Something that would get him killed.

  “Still,” Clyde said, “we’re talking about a bunch of Australian polo and tiddlywinks types, not the Brownshirts. Kelly’s throat was cut.”

  “Do you remember when Rowly’s uncle was killed by the Fascist Legion?” Edna reached for Rowland’s hand—an unspoken apology for raising the tragedy. “They hadn’t meant to kill him… someone just went too far. Perhaps that happened here too.”

  Rowland pressed her hand gently to let her know he was not offended. His beloved uncle had been killed nearly three years before. It was that which had first set Rowland in opposition to the Fascist militias which until then he’d treated as a joke. His perspective had changed a great deal since then.