A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  Rowland moved quickly, speaking to the crew officer who stood at the bottom of the gangplank. He asked to be allowed on board to speak with Egon Kisch.

  “I regret to inform you that Herr Kisch has been detained by Customs, sir. He won’t be speaking to anyone for a while. And I’m afraid I can only allow passengers on board.”

  Undeterred, Rowland pressed on. “The three gentlemen who just boarded, I’m absolutely certain we’re acquainted. I don’t suppose you recall their names?”

  The crewman checked through the passenger list attached to his clipboard. “Messrs Smith, Brown and Lamb. Shall I give them your card, sir? They’ll be travelling with us to Melbourne.”

  “No need,” Rowland replied. “I’ll be joining the ship for the leg to Melbourne myself.”

  “Very good, sir. We look forward to welcoming you aboard the Strathaird.”

  “What now, Rowly?” Clyde asked as Rowland strode away from the dock.

  “We’re going for a cruise,” Rowland replied. “Those jokers weren’t after me in particular. This is about stopping Egon from speaking.”

  Clyde sighed. “What about the Grosvenor House?”

  “I’ll see if Miller or one of his pilots can fly it back for us. It has to be in Sydney by the tenth for some exhibition or other.”

  They went straight to the hotel to collect their luggage. “We didn’t bring dinner suits,” Rowland murmured as they hastily repacked the bags.

  Clyde laughed at him. “I don’t think they dress for dinner in Tourist Class, Rowly, and if we’re going to keep an eye on Egon we can’t be travelling First Class, old mate.”

  Rowland grimaced. “Capital.”

  He telephoned through to Maylands aerodrome and spoke to Miller, explaining that they were unexpectedly delayed. “I’m afraid I’ll need someone to fly the Comet back to Sydney for me.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have trouble finding volunteers, Sinclair.” Miller chuckled. “We might have to draw straws… bugger it, I’m the boss. I’ll take her—one of the other blokes can cover me.”

  “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Miller.” Rowland spent a few moments telling Miller about the issue with the port engine, but it seemed the pilot was well aware of the problem.

  “I’ve taken her up,” he confessed. “My blokes have resolved the problem, and if it recurs, I know what to do. I don’t know what’s delaying you, Sinclair, but I reckon it must be mighty important if you’re willing to give up a chance to fly that bird again.”

  “I’m afraid it is, Mr. Miller.”

  As they were checking out, Rowland arranged for a telegram to be sent to Howells, outlining the sudden change of plans, and another to Edwards, informing him that Miller would be flying the Grosvenor House to Sydney. The concierge assisted them in the purchase of two tickets for the Strathaird, and though he sniffed in his way, he said nothing about the Tourist Class fares Rowland purchased. Finally, they called in at the Gentlemen’s Outfitter in High Street to purchase extra shirts, undergarments and ties to see them through the additional days on board the ship. Rowland assumed that even Tourist Class would have dress standards of some sort.

  They made their way back to the dock and boarded. Many of the continuing passengers, who had disembarked for a day in Fremantle or Perth, were returning now. The purser in charge of allocating cabins in Tourist Class was in a bit of a flap. It seemed the men who were sharing Herr Kisch’s four-berth cabin had seen the evening paper and were now demanding alternative accommodations.

  “You cannot expect me to live with a spy?” A gentlemen in shirtsleeves showered the harried crewman with projectile spittle as he shouted. The purser wiped his face with a handkerchief.

  “This man might cut our throats as we sleep!” The second irate passenger sounded like an Englishman. “This is an outrage!”

  Rowland saw his opportunity. “I say, if it would help, Mr. Watson Jones and I would be happy to share digs with this Herr Kisch fellow.” He smiled at the spitter and the Englishman. “We could arrange an exchange. You gentlemen could have our berths.”

  “Why that’s tremendously kind of you!” The Englishman addressed the purser. “I believe that solves the problem, my good man. These gentlemen have no objection to sleeping with a spy.”

  “Are you sure, sir?” the purser asked.

  “Indeed we are,” Rowland replied. “We’re quite happy to share a cabin with Herr Kisch.”

  “Thank you.” The purser made the necessary changes to his allocation chart. “I’ll speak to the captain about refunding part of your fare,” he whispered once the spitter and the Englishman had set off to find their new cabin.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Rowland said. “Mr. Watson Jones and I consider it quite an honour to share a cabin with a journalist of international renown.”

  The purser hesitated. “You have seen the newspaper, haven’t you, sir? Herr Kisch has been banned from setting foot on Australian soil.”

  “Probably an administrative error,” Rowland said. “I’m sure it’ll all be cleared up before we reach Melbourne.”

  The purser directed them to the Tourist cabins on the lower decks. They proceeded down four levels below the main deck.

  “Good Lord! We must be below the jolly waterline.” Rowland ran a finger around his collar. With each floor they descended it became noticeably warmer.

  Clyde grinned. “Welcome to the world of the proletariat, old mate.”

  They made their way down what seemed a never-ending corridor of identical doors. A young crewman with a cleaning trolley emerged out of the cabin which would be theirs.

  “Oh hello,” Rowland said. “Could you possibly tell us if we have the right cabin? We’re sharing with Herr Kisch I believe.”

  The boy nodded. “Yes, sir. I was just cleaning up after the Customs officers. They made rather a mess.”

  “Why?”

  “They were searching the cabin, sir.”

  “For what?”

  The boy shrugged. “Herr Kisch has the bottom bunk on the right. Mr. Quinlan sleeps on the bunk above him,” he informed them helpfully.

  The cabin was compact to say the very least: a set of bunks along each of two opposite walls, between them a dresser, a sink and a single chair. It was oppressively warm. There was no window through which to glimpse the outside world, let alone catch a breeze. But then, Rowland recalled, they were below the waterline. Rowland noted the large boots at the end of the bed. If the rest of Mr. Quinlan was commensurate with the size of his boots, the cabin would be cosy indeed.

  “You take the lower bunk, Rowly,” Clyde said in deference to Rowland’s recent injury. They unpacked hastily into the bottom two drawers of the dresser, which it appeared the previous residents had cleared earlier in their determination to not share a cabin with a spy.

  “We’d best find Egon,” Rowland said.

  “What about the clowns calling themselves Smith, Brown and Lamb?”

  “Perhaps I should have a word to the captain about them.” Rowland’s eyes darkened. “Have him notify the police.”

  “I wouldn’t do that just yet, Rowly. If the captain doesn’t believe you, he’ll have us thrown off the ship and Egon will be at their mercy. Wait till we’ve left port at least.”

  “You could be right,” Rowland agreed. He looked about the small cabin. It was certainly a change from the staterooms to which he was accustomed.

  “Come on, mate,” Clyde said opening the door. “You’ll find the lower classes spend as much time out of their cabins as possible.”

  They made their way back up four flights of stairs to the lower deck. Rowland caught sight of the purser who had assigned their rooms. “Mr. Watson Jones and I were wondering if we should introduce ourselves to our new cabin-mates. I don’t suppose you know where Mr. Kisch is, Mr…?”

  “Tonkin, sir. I believe Mr. Kisch was in the Customs processing area, Mr. Sinclair. But I’m afraid you can’t go up there.”

  “Why not?”

&nb
sp; “It’s the First Class saloon, sir. Tourist passengers are only permitted for the presentation of passports and the like.”

  “I see.”

  “The second class smoking room is just through the doors, sir. I can send a message to Mr. Kisch that you’ll meet him there, if you’d like.”

  “That won’t be necessary, thank you, Mr. Tonkin. I’m sure we’ll become acquainted with him in due course.”

  Clyde grinned as they watched the purser set off about his business. “Never thought I’d see the day a Sinclair was refused entry to First Class. I feel for you, mate.”

  Rowland rolled his eyes. “Come on. I have a fairly good idea where the First Class saloon is.”

  “You heard what he said.”

  “I’m sure passengers get lost all the time. You’re not going to give in to a bit of social segregation are you? What kind of self-respecting Commie are you?”

  Clyde laughed. “Lead on, then, mate.”

  Rowland adjusted the knot of his tie as they stepped onto the upper deck. Unlike most of the passengers on the warm lower decks, he and Clyde still wore their jackets. Rowland’s waistcoat was buttoned, and there was a certain accustomed confidence to the manner in which he strode among the First Class passengers, tipping his hat at the ladies. Clyde was less at ease but not obviously so. With any luck, no one would think to ask about the actual status of their tickets.

  The First Class saloon was on F Deck, amidships. Although the Tourist Class saloon was on the same deck, but aft with the galley between, direct transgress by passengers between the two saloons was prohibited. Crew members politely redirected Tourist passengers who transgressed towards the First Class saloon. Movement in the other direction rarely occurred.

  Consequently Clyde and Rowland found it necessary to take a somewhat convoluted route to the exclusive saloon. Still, they did find their way eventually via corridors and staircases hidden from public view.

  The dining saloon itself was modern and elegantly appointed. There were fewer tables fitted into the space and the flower arrangement on each table was more elaborate, but otherwise, it was not all that different from its Tourist Class equivalent.

  “You’re paying for a better class of people, not facility,” Clyde whispered, laughing.

  “Not in my experience,” Rowland muttered.

  A diminutive man in a boxy double-breasted suit was sitting at a table by himself, smoking. His face was kind despite the bristling black moustache that seemed to dominate his features. This was Egon Kisch. All the tables around him were conspicuously empty but for one, at which sat two police officers. Passengers at far-flung tables cast dark glances in the Czechoslovakian journalist’s direction and conversed in whispers behind upheld menus.

  When he saw Rowland and Clyde making their way towards him, Kisch jumped to his feet so exuberantly that the policemen rose from their seats too. “Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Jones!” He shook their hands and kissed their cheeks, so great was his joy to find friends in the First Class saloon. “What are you doing here, my mates?”

  “We’re escorting you to Melbourne,” Rowland said quietly.

  “You blokes will accompany me as far as Melbourne,” Kisch corrected. “Your Mr. Menzies has refused me entry. It’s a fair cow. I am a bloody dangerous émigré! See how the good people keep their distance. Bloody oath!”

  Rowland glanced at Clyde, wondering why on earth the journalist was speaking like a Czechoslovakian jackaroo.

  “Your friends at MAWF will challenge the exclusion, Herr Kisch,” Clyde said, raising his brows in response. “In the meantime, we will make sure you’re safe.”

  Kisch smiled broadly. “Good-oh!”

  Rowland laughed now. He couldn’t help it. Clyde too hung his head and chuckled.

  Kisch was not offended. “I have been learning Australian,” he said proudly. “Mr. Quinlan has been a bloody wonderful tutor in this… he is what you call a dinky-di Aussie. He has schooled me in the use of the great Australian adjective. Too right.”

  Watchful passengers tutted disapprovingly at the sight of two men rendered helpless with laughter as they sat companionably and openly with the dangerous Communist spy. In time, the policemen prepared to disembark before the Strathaird put to sea. They reminded Kisch once again that “Any attempt to set foot on the soil of the Australian Commonwealth would involve very serious consequences,” before moving to escort him back to his cabin, where he was to remain until the ship had left port.

  Rowland spoke to a waiter and, after slipping the boy a note, procured a bottle of Scotch and another of brandy. “I noticed there was no drinks cabinet in the cabin,” he explained when Kisch enquired. “We have rather a lot to talk about.”

  29

  GIRL’S £10,000 CLAIM AGAINST SEPTUAGENARIAN

  ALLEGED BREACH OF PROMISE

  MET ANOTHER ON LINER STRATHAIRD

  (From “Truth’s” Melbourne Office)

  One of the most sensational breach of promise actions ever launched in court is at the present moment attended by an “if” for if Mrs. Stewart Dawson, one of Sydney’s best-known matrons, at present on a pleasure trip abroad, can be found, she is to have material evidence taken from her on commission.

  The action is being brought by Miss Ethel Wynne Roberts, until recently Mrs. Stewart Dawson’s lady companion, against “Small Arms” Emanuel Abrahams, one of the richest Jews in Australia, and who, a few years ago was involved in the greatest taxation sensation of the age.

  SHE IS CLAIMING £10,000 DAMAGES FOR ALLEGED BREACH OF PROMISE OF MARRIAGE.

  It is alleged that, while they were both passengers on the steamer Strathaird on her trip out from England in September, 1933, the elderly Jew whispered fatal words into her ear and then repudiated them.

  Truth, 18 November 1934

  Being too tall to sit on one of the lower bunks without hitting his head on the bed above, Rowland was allowed the cabin’s only chair. Clyde and Kisch sat on the beds. Clyde dispensed Scotch for himself and the journalist, but for Rowland, who detested all forms of whisky, he poured a generous tumbler of brandy. They toasted, first, their reacquaintance. They had last met in the most dire of circumstances, and so the fact that they were alive to drink together was reason enough for celebration.

  The Australians told the reporter of their escape from Germany to France and then England, of their attempts to inform the British Government of the atrocities that the Nazis were committing against their own people, and of their efforts to warn anyone in authority who’d listen of the serious danger the Fascists posed. Few had listened, fewer had heeded. They’d come home to find Eric Campbell, Commander of the New Guard, launching a political Party, inspired by Hitler’s Nazi Party, to legitimise and promote Fascism in Australia.

  “And has he succeeded, this Herr Campbell?” Kisch asked.

  “He hasn’t faced an election as yet,” Rowland replied.

  “Then we cannot be complacent. Bloody oath we cannot!”

  Rowland smiled as he loosened his tie in the warmth of the windowless cabin. Egon Kisch had, it seemed, embraced the Australian vernacular with almost religious zeal. “Well we’re glad you’re here, Egon.”

  “But I am not here! I am currently just some bloody bloke observing the Australian coastline from a ship!” Kisch sighed. “I have come all this way to not set foot on Australian soil.”

  “I expect your friends in Australia have already briefed King’s Counsel to issue a writ of habeas corpus,” Rowland assured him.

  “I am sure your Mr. Menzies would prefer Kisch’s bloody corpus to Kisch that lives.”

  “Perhaps not only Mr. Menzies,” Clyde added. They told the journalist then of Smith, Brown and Lamb, recounting their experiences in Melbourne as well as the encounter in Fremantle.

  Egon was aghast. “These men, they have already stabbed you, Rowland?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Is that not frowned upon in your country?”

  Rowland laughed. “Yes, g
enerally. But regrettably, these gentlemen have avoided apprehension by the police.”

  “And now the bloody bastards are on board the Strathaird.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you not have the ship’s captain arrest them?”

  “It may be difficult,” Clyde admitted. “We have no proof that they stabbed Rowly or that they intend you any harm.”

  “But Clyde and I will be here to protect you,” Rowland promised.

  “They’ve already stabbed you once,” Kisch said glumly. “That does not make me confident.”

  “Nonsense.” Rowland topped up the Czechoslovak’s glass. “The fact that I am not dead should assure you that they are not particularly competent assassins.” He thought it best not to mention the fate of Jim Kelly at this point.

  Kisch drank. “Enough. Enough of my troubles,” he said. “Tell me, my mate, how is the bloody beautiful Miss Higgins? I hope you will inform me she is no more Miss Higgins, but Mrs. Bloody Sinclair.”

  Rowland coughed as the brandy caught in his throat. “Ed?”

  “Yes. I remember clearly that you were in love with her.”

  Clyde stifled a guffaw.

  “Miss Higgins is still very much Miss Higgins,” Rowland said carefully.

  “My commiserations, cobber. Perhaps if you had brought her with you. Lovemaking is a popular pastime on the ship.” He slapped Rowland on the back as he confided, “One simply has to say ‘Let’s go have a look at the Southern Cross’.” He shook his head. “One grieves for the lonely men of the northern hemisphere who must find love without the erotic power of these five stars. It is no wonder you put them so proudly on your flag!”

  Chuckling, Clyde proposed a toast to the Southern Cross. Rowland wasn’t sure if romantic utilitarianism was in fact behind the constellation’s presence on the flag, but it seemed as good a reason as any. He wondered fleetingly what Edna was doing. With Smith, Brown and Lamb on board, perhaps she and Milton were safe.

  The cabin door opened and a very large gentleman in shirtsleeves and no tie loped into the room. “G’day, Eegone,” he boomed with a voice as large and relaxed as his person. “Who the hell are these blokes then?”