by Peter Corris
'I think that will be quite enough, Dick.'
The man speaking and holding the Thompson was 'Oily Feathers'.
25
It was Douglas Erskine, of course, who had sold us out. Featherstonhaugh's team had Robin Barwick and the drivers wrapped up in a matter of seconds and he told me all about it as we were sitting in the otherwise empty officers' mess. That might sound chummy, but I was wearing handcuffs, which detracts from the chumminess.
'Erskine has been on our books for years. Got into trouble initially for talking to the wrong people.'
It seemed a long time since I'd met any right people. 'What kind of wrong people?'
'Russians, back when they weren't our allies. They won't be once the war is over, you'll see. Can't pal up with Communists, not when you've got friends in high places. Well, Douglas agreed to work for us instead, or, rather, as well. Follow?'
I grunted and lifted my coffee cup in my manacled hands.
Featherstonhaugh was enjoying himself. 'Ordinarily, this petrol business would have been a police matter and I suppose Douglas would have done business with them. But then your name cropped up and he put in an enquiry to us.'
'And you were delighted, Oliver. Promised him a knighthood.'
'He'll probably get one anyway, in the fullness of time. That sort of chap. But don't flatter yourself, Dick. You were just small beer. Put my interest down to the old school spirit.'
'Revenge, you mean.'
'Precisely.'
'Wouldn't have a drop to put in this coffee, would you? I've been dry all day and I could do with a shot.'
He took a hip flask from his pocket, unscrewed the silver top and poured a modest measure of what turned out to be whisky into our cups. I took a reviving sip and, the way it often does, the mere taste of liquor stimulated my brain.
'Hang on,' I said. 'You said I was small beer—past tense.'
'That's right. Until you harboured an escaped Japanese POW.' He shook his head. The plastered-down hair stayed perfectly in place. 'Consorting with the enemy. Tch, tch. Serious matter.'
I took a gulp of the spiked coffee. 'How did you find out about Harry? Have you got him?'
'Matter of watching and waiting. Too right we've got him, though I have to admit he damaged a couple of our men in the process.'
'Good.'
'I wouldn't take that tone if I were you. Your neck's about two inches out of a noose.'
'Bullshit.'
'Depends what we make of it, old son. Now, suppose Kaminaga's an enemy agent and you're his contact . . .'
'You're joking. He was on a plane that crashed in Queensland.'
'So you say. Sounds a bit thin, don't you think? A Jap who speaks perfect English. Hiding out with you in a thieves' den and masquerading as an American while you steal a huge cache of petrol, possibly for sabotage purposes.'
I was speechless. I gulped down the coffee and held out my cup for more whisky. Featherstonhaugh added a few drops. 'What was it you used to call me at school? You and the other big fellows? I seem to forget.'
I said nothing.
'Come on, Dick. Let's hear it.'
'Oily Feathers.'
He laughed. 'That's it. Oily Feathers. Well, look at us now. You're on your way to gaol, and do you know where I'm going?'
'I don't give a shit.'
'No, because that's the kind of bastard you are. But I'll tell you anyway. I'm off to see that whore girlfriend of yours. I think I might be able to come to some kind of an agreement with her.' He stood and signalled to a beefy character leaning against the door. 'Take this man away!'
It was a low point. Being in gaol always is, whether it be in Australia, the United States, Britain or Ceylon. I should know, having experienced them all. Ceylon, I'll have to admit, was worse than average. Still, Parramatta gaol was bad enough. Just the look of the massive stone walls sent a chill through me, which is what the architecture was designed to do, no doubt. To my relief, I was put in a single cell. There's nothing worse than having to fight off some hairy brute who's spent so long admiring his own dick he thinks it only natural that others should admire it too.
Truth to tell, I was exhausted after the events of the past few hours. It's not every day you go on a big heist, get caught, run into an old school chum who hates your guts and get threatened with execution as a spy. Very taxing. I pissed in the smelly, seatless toilet bowl and washed my hands and face at the enamel sink. I stripped off most of the smart uniform, lay down on the hard cot, pulled the thin blanket up around my shoulders and drew my knees up towards my chest. In my experience, you can sleep any way you like in a soft bed with satin sheets when you've got an amiable companion and a skinful of good booze. On your belly, back, either side, makes no difference. But in gaol, tired, frightened by what had happened and fearful about what might happen next, the foetal position comes naturally.
I woke up early. Gaols are like hospitals in that respect, which is one of the reasons I hate both institutions. The hawking, coughing and spitting, the banging of metal on metal and the groaning, grunting and cursing marked the morning in Parramatta prison the way it probably does in Vladivostock and Addis Ababa where, thank God, I haven't had the pleasure. An orderly brought around a bucket of stewed tea and a bowl of something that looked like grey soup.
'What's this?' I said, accepting the bowl through the cell bars.
'Weeties, Yank.'
'I'm not a Yank.'
'Then ya should know what Weeties is.'
It was a kind of cereal—flakes, presumably, at some earlier time. The addition of powdered milk and a long wait between preparation and serving had turned it into a tasteless mess that had to be prised off the spoon with the teeth. I was hungry so I ate as much of it as I could. I also slurped up the tea, a drink I loathe.
They're getting to you, Dick, I thought. Already you're doing things you don't want to do.
Exercise time came and went and I wasn't invited to join in. This was puzzling—was I being treated as a special privileged case, or being denied my rights? I was climbing the wall with tobacco craving and shouted and raved, having nothing to bang against the bars after the breakfast things had been removed. No response. I used one of my smart officer's shoes, but it had a rubber heel and the noise it made barely carried beyond my cell. Remember, I wasn't exactly a young man and I'd been subjected to a good deal of pressure. As the morning wore on I became desperate. A couple of prisoners in the section were returned to their cells. One of them told me to shut up and lie down.
'What d'you mean lie down? Where are all the others?'
'Workin'.'
'Why aren't you working?'
He chuckled. 'It's Saturday, mate. I'm a Seventh Day Adventist.'
I slumped down on my cot and made a silent vow that, if I ever got out of this, I'd go back to the Church of England.
I was there for three days, only being released from the cell once, to have a shower. My uniform was taken away and I was issued with prison clothes that itched. I was given some tobacco on the second day and it felt like Christmas. I made polite enquiries about being charged with something or the possibility of seeing a lawyer, but I received impolite replies. I'd seen enough movies to know what you're supposed to do in prison—stay tough and silent, do push-ups and sit-ups, meditate, keep a diary. Not one man in a hundred can do these things. I certainly couldn't, I sat on my bed, smoked and fretted.
'Prisoner! Out!'
The door swung open and I stepped tentatively from the cell. It's surprising how quickly the cell becomes like a home, a place where at least you're safe and things are predictable—it'll be the same spider today as yesterday, the water will drip into the sink in the same way. I'd heard a few quick bashings being administered at odd times and I was reluctant to leave the safety of the four close walls. I was also desperate to get out, of course. The guards escorted me down a couple of passageways into an office that oddly resembled my headmaster's study at Dudleigh—same panelled walls and heavy fur
niture, books in glass cases. Featherstonhaugh was there, wearing his smart suit but not the accustomed smirk. He was sporting a nasty black eye.
What-ho, I thought, something's gone your way, Dick. I dropped into an armchair, the first soft thing I'd had my bum on in three days, and looked at him.
'There have been developments,' he said.
'I'm glad to hear it. I've been held illegally, denied my rights—'
'Shut up!'
He was edgy and I searched for a way to exploit that. There was a cigarette box on the desk and a heavy lighter. I leaned over, flipped the box lid, took out a smoke and lit it. Featherstonhaugh opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. He lit a cigarette of his own and paced. He scratched at the crown of his head and the carefully oiled hair stood up in spikes. I smoked and said nothing; when someone's doing such a good job of working himself over, there's no need. Eventually, he stopped and took a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. He slapped it down on the desk and thrust a fountain pen at me. From the look on his face he was wishing it was a bayonet.
'Sign this!'
'What is it?'
'You can read, can't you? It's the Official Secrets Act.'
I leaned back in my chair, took a last drag on the cigarette and butted it. I picked up the paper and scanned it. Mumbo jumbo, but the gist was clear. Sign that paper and everything you'd done from the age of ten on became a state secret which, if divulged, got you locked away forever. I put the paper on the desk and shook my head.
'You bloody well sign it. I already have, you idiot.'
I looked at him. He was white around the mouth but the rest of his face was bright red, and with the shiner and the hair sticking up he looked for all the world like a Rosella parrot. 'Do you mean, Oliver, that you're recruiting me to work for your outfit? I'm flattered, but I think I'll have to refuse. No good at that sort of thing.'
'What on earth are you talking about? This is just a way of keeping your miserable carcass out of prison and I'm a very reluctant messenger, believe me.'
That was abundantly clear, but old Ollie also liked the sound of his own voice, so he went on to tell me how the Americans had found a use for Harry Kaminaga—something to do with their operation in the Philippines—and Harry's price for cooperation had been a clean bill of health for yours truly. I was touched.
'You won't believe this,' Featherstonhaugh said, 'but that miserable little Jap said of you, "He's a white man." The nerve of some of these bloody people.'
I laughed until the tears came, then I laughed some more. Good old Harry, he'd know better how to get up the noses of stuffed shirts like Featherstonhaugh than any man alive. The fountain pen was sitting on the desk. I picked it up and unscrewed the cap.
'If I sign this, what then?'
Oily Feathers sniffed. 'No charges against you over this incredibly stupid petrol business, and you never breathe a word to a living soul about it, me, Douglas Erskine or Kaminaga.'
'Is that it? No compensation for wrongful arrest and imprisonment?'
'Don't press your luck. I've got a suit of clothes for you and a rail ticket from Parramatta to Sydney.'
I held the pen poised over the paper. 'How'd you get the black eye, Ollie? Ushi give it to you?'
He touched the bruise and winced. 'No, that redheaded bitch she lives with!'
You can draw and quarter someone for just so long. I signed with a flourish.
26
I've broken that agreement now by setting this down. But it was nearly forty years ago on the other side of the world and I don't believe anybody is still watching. If they are, good luck to them. Extradite me. I've often wondered what became of Harry Kaminaga. My guess is that he made a hell of a lot of money during Marcos' time in the Philippines, and got out while the going was good. Sydney wasn't Manila, but it wasn't hard to find good-paying work there in 1945 and I tried my hand at a number of things at which I'd had some experience—my old trade of wine and liquor selling, the used-car game, hotel security. I didn't stick at any of them for very long.
Nothing much was happening in the movie business. Eric Porter abandoned his plans to make another feature when A Son is Born failed to make money.38 I had the occasional drink with Peter Finch, but his head was full of plans to move up and on and he had no need to take anyone with him.
I earned money, rented a flat in Elizabeth Bay, found women and didn't try to get in touch with Ushi. None of my intentions towards her had been honourable and she was better off without me. But I happened to be having a drink one night in March with a reporter who was attending the trial of the men who had shot Reggie Stuart-Jones. Out of curiosity and with nothing better to do, I went to the court the next day. The trial was a showcase of Sydney's criminal class and I saw Ushi from a distance—one of the many women dancing attendance on the doctor and his associates. Her clothes managed to suggest the nurse as well as the mistress. With crims, in those gun-happy days, the two roles weren't so far apart.
A hand touched my shoulder. I turned to find Pam, resplendent in a white fox fur, glaring at me.
'What the hell are you doing here, Dick?'
'I don't know. Just part of the show, I guess. How's Ushi?'
'A lot you care. She cried over you.'
'I'm sorry. I broke all those promises. But I got into a sticky situation . . .'
'Fuck you. You sicked that nasty little spook on to us.'
'I didn't! I was glad that you bopped him!'
She grinned and a corner of the tough mask peeled away. 'You heard about that?'
'I saw the shiner.'
She blew on her knuckles. Light danced on the surfaces of her rings. 'The best punch I ever threw. Piss off, Dick. If Reggie lasts another couple of years, Ushi and me'll be fine. If he doesn't, look for us up the Cross. We'll show you a good time if you've got the brass.'
Stuart-Jones was still prospering ten years later. I never saw Ushi or Pam again.
The Americans dropped the bomb and the war ended. Like everyone else who wasn't bedridden, I was out on the street in Kings Cross dancing and drinking and hugging everyone in sight. One of the people I hugged was a tall blonde woman clutching a champagne bottle. War's really over, I thought as I abandoned the neck of the bottle and reached for a soft part of her anatomy.
'Dick! Dick Browning!'
I hadn't noticed that the blonde was attached to a fat little guy wearing a dinner suit and holding an even bigger bottle of champagne. He slopped wine into a few cups being held out towards him, but then he thrust the bottle at me.
'Harvey Beaumont!' he yelled above the singing, horn honking and glass breaking. 'Don't you remember? At Eric Porter's party.'
'Oh, yes.'
The blonde's attention seemed to be equally divided between me, Harvey and the champagne.
'What happened to Chow?'
A quick swig on the bottle and squeeze of the blonde. 'Who?'
'Your Chinese mate. At the party. I had to put off my cruise.'
It all came back to me. Harry, Rushcutters Bay, the MacQuarie Belle . . . Harvey Beaumont handed the champagne bottle to someone and a space cleared on the pavement. He gripped my arm harder and pulled me down so I could hear him shouting.
'I'm leaving in a couple of days for LA. Conference on whole-body nuclear radiation. A cruise. Penny's coming, aren't you, Penny?'
The blonde flashed a smile.
'Want to come along, Dick? We need another hand.'
Fireworks burst overhead. A fire-engine siren sounded. There were cheers as a man and a woman broke into a wild dance in the middle of the street, bringing cars to a shrieking halt.
I leaned down and bellowed, 'I'm your man, Harvey. When do we sail?'
NOTES
1.See Browning PI, pp. 137–9.
2.Browning's memory is astray. On 18 June 1941, world heavyweight champion Joe Louis fought light heavyweight Billy Conn in New York City. Conn surprised the experts by out-boxing the champion. Conn was leading on points when Lo
uis knocked him out in the thirteenth round. Louis' remark was made prior to the rematch in 1946, two years after the events Browning describes here. Louis won the second fight convincingly, stopping Conn in the sixth round.
3.Flynn delivers the line in the movie Desperate Journey (1942), in which he played an airman operating behind German lines in Europe. For Browning's lifelong antagonism towards Errol Flynn, see Browning PI, pp. 1–4.
4.See 'Box Office' Browning, pp. 84–108.
5.See 'Beverly Hills' Browning, pp. 39–96 and Browning Takes Off, pp. 9–93.
6.See Browning Takes Off, pp. 93–111.
7.The lines are from A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson's Australian bush ballad, Clancy of the Overflow. Unusually for Browning, they are quoted accurately, suggesting that he looked them up when he was recording this part of his memoirs.
8.For Browning's career in the 1st AIF, including name changes, see 'Box Office' Browning, pp. 61–83. John Herbert Dillinger, 1903–?, was a bank robber who became public enemy number one in the United States in the mid-1930s. Dillinger may have committed dozens of robberies as well as engineering prison escapes and other crimes. The claim that FBI agents shot and killed him in 1934 outside the Biograph Theatre in Chicago is doubted by historians.
9.For Browning's hatred of William Morris 'Billy' Hughes, see 'Box Office' Browning, pp. 117. Robert Gordon Menzies, conservative Prime Minister of Australia from 1939–41, had favoured the export of Australian iron to militarist Japan, some of which was returned in the form of bombs and bullets. 'Pig Iron Bob' was chalked and painted on Australian walls and bridges by left-wingers.
10.A hand-rolled cigarette.
11.Soldiers' slang meaning easy or comfortable. The word entered military vocabulary in India from the Hindi khush, meaning pleasant.
12.See Browning Takes Off, pp. 168–90.
13.A schoolyard game in which players contended for the possession of an object, usually a ball. Rules are few and the game usually ended in a wrestling match.
14.See Browning PI, pp. 3–4.
