by Peter Watt
The door to the bedroom opened behind him and Lenny turned nervously to see who it was. He breathed a sigh of relief – it was only Maude.
‘You want a swig?’ he asked her as she sat down on a chair in the corner of the room.
‘No, but you can’t stay here tonight,’ she replied, crossing her legs under the filmy material of her nightdress. ‘I may be expecting a guest.’
‘You call them guests in your business?’ Lenny said with a twisted smile. ‘I thought they had another name.’
‘I am now a woman of means,’ Maude replied haughtily. ‘I am the mistress of a very powerful man and he looks after me.’
‘Mr George Macintosh, I heard on the streets,’ Lenny said, sitting himself on the edge of the unmade bed.
‘How come you never went to court?’ Maude asked, changing the subject. ‘I thought everyone was scared of Mr Firth.’
Lenny took another swig from the whisky bottle and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘He might be a bad bastard, but I knew he would never get a case against Griffiths,’ he replied. ‘Besides, I’d rather face Jack Firth on the street than an angry Harry Griffiths, any day. Old Harry had a reputation for killing Huns with his bare hands. He can be a dangerous bastard. All I got to do is keep my head down until Firth cools off. Maybe make a deal with him about Mary Jackson.’
‘Did you kill her?’ Maude asked bluntly.
‘Don’t ask me questions like that,’ Lenny snapped. ‘Not if you want to keep your pretty looks and make your next birthday.’
Maude rose from the chair and walked over to the bed to sit beside Lenny. ‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ she said, touching him on the arm. ‘If you help me out, I’ll get you enough money so that you can leave Sydney, maybe go down to Melbourne, get away from Firth.’
‘You? With a lot of money, don’t make me laugh,’ Lenny chuckled. ‘Where would you get money enough to help me?’
Maude stood up and walked to the window. ‘I have a way of getting enough money to pay you to top someone,’ she said without looking at him.
‘Do what!’ Lenny exclaimed. ‘For a moment I thought you said you wanted someone dead.’
Maude turned from the window. ‘That is exactly what I want you to do, and I will pay you well for it.’
‘Jesus, you’re a cold one,’ Lenny said, surprised at how calm she was. It must be in the blood, he thought.
‘Who do you want topped?’ he asked.
‘A woman,’ Maude replied. ‘You seem good at that. Her husband will pay a lot of money to rid himself of her,’ Maude continued, lying. She had yet to convince George to give her a large enough sum of money to pay for the death of his wife – unwittingly, of course.
‘Who’s the husband?’ Lenny asked, curious now.
‘I can’t tell you that until you agree to do the job, can I,’ Maude said.
Lenny shrugged, took another swig of whisky and burped. ‘It’ll cost you a heap,’ he replied. ‘But I’ll do it.’
Maude sat down next to him on the bed once again. ‘You must swear on your life that you will never tell anyone of our deal,’ she said, running her hand up the inside of his trouser leg, causing Lenny to stiffen in surprise.
‘I swear,’ he said. ‘Who do you want me to do in?’
‘George Macintosh’s missus,’ Maude said and Lenny looked at her in shock.
‘What on earth do you plan to get out of this?’ he asked.
‘Everything she has,’ Maude answered with an enigmatic smile. ‘And more.’
‘Bloody hell, Maude,’ Lenny said. ‘This will cost you an arm and a leg.’
‘I can give you more than that, Lenny. I can give you my whole body if you promise to do the job,’ Maude purred.
Lenny could feel her hand tightening on the inside of his thigh. Her invitation had the thrill of the forbidden, and the Sydney criminal had never really lived by conventional morality. He reached for Maude and pulled her down onto the bed, forgetting the rest of the whisky. At least here he was safe from Jack Firth for the moment. Killing a toff’s wife was a little different to killing a working girl, but he reckoned he was up for it.
In a hotel not far from the courthouse two men sat in a corner of the bar drinking quietly.
‘Who did the beating you got?’ Sean asked as Harry brought over another couple of frothy ales to their table.
‘The screws,’ Harry said. ‘They had orders from Firth to do me over.’
‘The bastard.’ Sean took a swig of his beer. ‘One day he’ll get his.’
‘Not much more the screws could do to mess up my handsome looks,’ Harry said lightly. ‘Being inside, though, you get to hear things.’
‘You shouldn’t have been there in the first place,’ Sean replied, gazing around at the almost empty bar. The lunchtime rush was over and most of the pub’s clients had returned to work.
‘Well, put it down to experience,’ Harry said, drinking his ale with obvious relish. ‘Besides, my missus felt so sorry for you she gave me a leave pass to get pissed and fall over on the front doorstep this evening.’
Sean smiled. He knew that Harry’s wife had once been an active member of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, and the pressure they brought to bear with politicians had seen the introduction of six o’clock closing of hotel bars. He knew that around five o’clock this bar would be packed and towards 6 o’clock closing time the swill would start as men drank as much as they could before the doors closed and they were forced out onto the street. In some ways the decision had given Sean’s law firm extra business as sly grog shops opened up to cater to desperate men seeking alcohol and police nabbed the owners to bring them before the courts.
‘I heard on the prison grapevine that Lenny wouldn’t be turning up to give evidence,’ Harry said. ‘Word is he’s more scared of me than of Firth.’
‘I don’t blame him,’ Sean grinned, raising his glass in a salute. ‘Did you hear anything else of worth?’
Harry thought for a moment before speaking. ‘A bloke inside I did a favour for said that Lenny was going to hide out at his half-sister’s place in the city. The funny part about that is Lenny’s half-sister is none other than Maude Urqhart, George Macintosh’s mistress. He keeps her in one of his houses in the inner city. I knew her when she was working on the streets. She must be about sixteen now, so it seems Mr Macintosh likes his women young.’
At the mention of George Macintosh’s young mistress Sean experienced a strange feeling of satisfaction. It confirmed to him that Louise was being neglected by the man who had married her. Louise had been much in his thoughts since the meeting at the ball.
The two men continued drinking until the first of the workers spilled into the bar and they left to avoid the crush. Harry and Sean had to help each other along the street as they were both worse the wear for beer.
Harry could not help but think that it had been like this on the battlefields of France and Belgium – the more able-bodied helping the wounded back from the trenches. And it did not escape Harry’s thoughts that they were far from out of danger even now they were back in civvie street. It started to rain, but at least there was no artillery shelling to follow the two men back to their homes.
*
George Macintosh was a worried man as he sat in his office, gazing out at the buildings adjacent to the company’s headquarters. His bookkeeper had just left after discussing irregular entries in the company books. These concerned a bank draft for a considerable amount of money transferred from a Swedish bank account to the Sydney account. The transfer was not supposed to have happened yet, and besides being worried, George was angry. Maybe there had been a misreading of the codes he used in dealing with his German industrial partners who were producing the chlorine and sulphuric acid for the deadly mustard gas used on the Western Front against the Allies. But the stupid bookkeeper had taken it upon himself to query the transfer of funds with telegrams to Sweden, before raising the matter with George, and the bank had res
ponded with a clear message that the profit was his share in German chemicals.
A shocked bookkeeper had produced the telegram to George and it now lay on his desk. At least the bookkeeper had not mentioned the matter to anyone else yet. George had explained that there must have been some kind of mix-up in communications and that he would sort it out immediately; then, without much subtlety, he’d mentioned that he would increase his bookkeeper’s salary to thank him for his discretion as such a telegram could easily be misconstrued. What he’d seen in the man’s eyes did not reassure George that the bookkeeper would keep his mouth shut. George was beginning to regret investing in the German chemical company. Originally he had done so because he had faith in German scientists to develop profitable pharmaceuticals for the future. That his hefty investment was producing the deadly gases used in the war was not an outcome he had foreseen, and although it did not concern him from an ethical or moral point of view, he certainly did not want anyone to know about it.
With the matter weighing on his mind, George made his way to his club to meet with a knighted member of the civil service. Sir Hubert had long filtered money into his favourite political party from George in return for government contracts, and he had taken a commission on those contracts. Ironically, Sir Hubert had promised George a knighthood for his charitable causes in support of the war effort. George did not like the man and knew the feeling was mutual, but the club gave them an opportunity to discuss business at what from the outside looked like a casual meeting.
George found Sir Hubert, a greying, nondescript man in his fifties, sitting back in a comfortable leather chair, reading the newspaper while armed with a gin and tonic.
George took a chair adjacent and ordered a Scotch from the waiter hovering nearby.
‘I see that damned German Jew, Monash, has been promoted to command the boys in France,’ Sir Hubert said with a snort of disgust. ‘It was bad enough that the King saw fit to knight him earlier this year. Sir John Monash, what will be next? At least he has a good second in command with Blamey.’
‘Speaking of knighthoods,’ George said quietly, ‘is there any word about my being on the list to be submitted to the King?’
Sir Hubert put down the paper and looked at George. ‘Old boy, you know that is a confidential matter.’
‘How much?’ George countered bluntly and the senior public servant scribbled a figure on a cardboard coaster, handing it to George, who read the sum and frowned. ‘That bloody much,’ he said.
George was silent for a while, then he sighed. ‘I’ll find the money. The Macintoshes have a family tradition of knighthoods. My great-grandfather was the first knight in the family, and I think it’s only right that I re-establish that tradition for the sake of the Macintosh name.’
Sir Hubert nodded. ‘Your great-grandfather was a man with an enviable reputation in the colonies. Knew how to deal with darkies and forge an empire in this country.’ Sir Hubert did not elaborate as he might upset the moment by mentioning the scandals he had heard concerning the parentage of Michael Duffy, a Papist who had tainted the Macintosh blood line. But that was in the distant past and the Macintosh family was once again a pillar of Protestant virtues. Any taint of Irish heritage had been washed out by strong Macintosh blood.
‘The money will be transferred to the usual account,’ George said. ‘It will be done before the end of next week.’
‘Good,’ Sir Hubert said. ‘I’m sure your money will see to it that the family tradition is maintained.’
George felt a touch of exhilaration. Sir Hubert was virtually saying that the deal had been done and the announcement would be made at the next gazetting of the honours awards.
‘Well, Hubert, old chap,’ George said, throwing back the fine Scotch in the crystal glass, ‘I must leave you.’ With that, George rose and made his way out of the club. As he stepped onto the street a cold wind gusted rain into his face. He lowered his head and pulled up the collar of his expensive overcoat, making his way to the waiting car.
If only everything could be bought as easily, he thought as the chauffeur held open the rear door for him. Yes, he could pay for his nephew’s murder, but purchasing that killing was a very risky business indeed.
15
Although the pitch-black night was warm for late summer, the ground was sodden from recent rain. Sergeant Tom Duffy was shivering uncontrollably as he gripped his rifle at the battalion jump-off line. He knew his nerves were stretched almost beyond the point of sanity, and he waited in dread with the rest of the battalion for the order to attack. He was thankful that in the dark no one could see how his body trembled and the sweat clung to him. The nagging thought that he would die this day had gone from a whisper to a roar, but there was no one he could tell of his fear for he was the man they all looked to for courage.
Tom was truly alone. For weeks he had pleaded for emergency leave, but with the big push coming his request had been denied. Juliet’s fate had occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else, and a letter he’d received from her parents had confirmed she was missing. They had accused him of being responsible for their daughter’s disappearance and he’d received no more letters from the Joubert family.
The drone of Allied aircraft overhead helped suppress the noise of the big lumbering metal tanks moving into position, and only the occasional enemy flare swooshed up to illuminate the battlefield. Machine-gun fire came across in return but fortunately without inflicting any casualties on the men crouching with their weapons, awaiting the order to advance.
Tom had carried out his duties to ensure the men of his platoon were properly equipped for the attack on the German lines, and now he had a brief moment to reflect on what lay ahead of them all. On his inspection before midnight he noticed how many fresh faces were in the ranks, watching him eagerly for some sign that they would survive their first encounter with the horrors of an assault across open ground. These were the same fresh young men who had expressed their fears when they’d arrived two weeks earlier that they might miss out on any action as the rumour was that the Kaiser’s army was on the run. Well, this day they would learn the hard way that the German soldier was second to none, and that every inch of ground taken would come at a high cost to the Australians.
Tom glanced at his watch and noticed that it was near 4am. A thick fog was rising all around them, cutting visibility to around twenty yards. Tom fought to stop the trembling. How much more could he take? He knew that to the men under his command he was some kind of legend, and it was said that if you stuck close to the sarge you would get through the war alive. How wrong that had been, Tom thought bitterly. So many faces had come and gone, and he had not got off scot-free himself. He had been wounded but not badly enough to be sent back to Blighty.
Sound was muffled in the fog but Tom heard the rustle in the wet grass behind him. He turned to see Lieutenant Sullivan crawling up to him.
‘That you, Tom?’ Sullivan asked, groping along the ground.
‘Yeah, boss,’ Tom replied and Sullivan was beside him.
‘Are you ready?’ Sullivan asked.
‘As ready as I can be,’ Tom said. ‘Maybe this fog will help hide us when we hop the bags.’
‘I bloody well pray so.’ The platoon commander slipped his water canteen from his belt and took a swig, and then offered it to Tom, who shook his head. ‘Orders came through that I’m to be sent back to a training battalion in England after this push,’ Sullivan said, tucking the water canteen into his belt. ‘The good news is that the company commander has nominated you to go with me. They need experienced senior NCOs to help train the new troops waiting to come over. I thought you might like to know.’
For a moment Tom digested the wonderful news – an opportunity to leave this hell behind for a training camp with good food, soft beds and no whiz-bangs howling overhead. Only a fool would say no to that.
‘I wish I could accept,’ Tom said. ‘But maybe Sergeant Paddy Bourke might be a better bet than me.’ Tom kne
w that by going to England he would be too far away to search for Juliet when the time came for him to be due extended leave.
‘God almighty, man,’ Sullivan exclaimed, ‘why in hell would you decline an offer like that?’
‘Personal reasons, boss,’ Tom answered, leaning on his rifle and staring ahead.
‘Well, I’m not going to ask but I suspect it has something to do with a matter of the heart. At least the members of the platoon will be pleased to have you stay on, and God knows they need you.’
‘Thanks, boss,’ Tom said and Sullivan reached over to grip Tom’s shoulder. ‘Good luck, old chap.’
‘You, too, boss,’ Tom replied and Sullivan slithered back to the main body of the platoon. A few minutes later Tom was able to calm himself enough to join the platoon waiting anxiously. It was a quiet time among them, a time to think about their own mortality. Some prayed silently, while others just sat on the grass and waited.
Then, around 4.20am, the big artillery guns opened up behind them, signalling that the battalion was to advance with fixed bayonets through the thick fog towards the enemy. Tom rose from the wet grass and the others followed.
‘Follow me, boys,’ Sullivan said, and they moved out in an extended line. Behind them they could vaguely make out the creaking sound of the tanks following, as shells poured overhead to soften up the waiting German soldiers.
So thick was the fog that the outermost sections of the platoon were out of sight, swallowed by the thick damp air within seconds of leaving the line of departure.
Their artillery rounds were landing to their front in a creeping barrage which helped shield them from enemy retaliation, and Tom was surprised to see that the machine-gun and rifle fire from the enemy was sporadic and unfocused.
The grass squelched under his boots as he walked, staying close to his platoon commander and keeping his eye on those soldiers nearby so that they did not get lost in the fog.
The ground shook and Tom felt the heat of an enemy artillery round exploding not far away. He sensed that the Germans were merely firing haphazardly as they could not see them advancing.
