A Dangerous Language Read online

  A Dangerous Language

  A Dangerous Language

  Book 8 in the Award-Winning Rowland Sinclair Mysteries

  SULARI GENTILL

  First published in 2017 by Pantera Press Pty Limited

  www.PanteraPress.com

  This book is copyright, and all rights are reserved.

  Text copyright © Sulari Gentill, 2017

  Sulari Gentill has asserted her moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

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  This is a work of fiction, though it may refer to some real events or people. Names, characters, organisations, dialogue and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, firms, events or locales is coincidental or used for fictional purposes.

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  ISBN 978-1-921997-66-2 (Paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-921997-92-1 (eBook)

  Cover Design: Sofya Karmazina

  Typesetting by Kirby Jones

  Printed and bound in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Author Photo by Erica Murray Photography

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  CONTENTS

  1 Previews of show Exhibits

  2 War and Fascism

  3 “Missing Persons”

  4 Girl’s body in Culvert

  5 Political False Alarm

  6 Albury Crime

  7 Tragedy of Young Love

  8 Peace Force

  9 Secret

  10 Canberra

  11 Queer Collectors and Collections

  12 The Liquor Problem at Canberra

  13 Personal

  14 Here to see Finish

  15 Federal Ministry

  16 Bruce-Page Again? No Thanks

  17 Vogue of the “Thriller”

  18 Police Force

  19 Canberra Hospital

  20 Canberra

  21 Baby’s First Tooth

  22 Centenary Air Race

  23 Shock for Wife

  24 Backer of Comet Plane Lost Money, but is Satisfied

  25 Wounds

  26 Cramp

  27 Betting in Hotel

  28 Herr Kisch

  29 Girl’s £10,000 Claim Against Septuagenarian

  30 Tourist Class Opportunity

  31 Nation-Wide Commemoration

  32 Banned Novelist

  33 Egon Kisch

  34 A new “New Guard”

  35 Australia’s way with Undesirables

  36 Murderous attack on Woman Lawyer in her Office

  Epilogue: Kisch English

  Acknowledgments

  Sulari Gentill

  I am not a teacher:

  only a fellow traveller of whom you asked the way.

  I pointed ahead—ahead of myself as well as you.

  George Bernard Shaw

  BOOKS BY SULARI GENTILL

  The Rowland Sinclair Series

  A Few Right Thinking Men

  A Decline in Prophets

  Miles off Course

  Paving the New Road

  Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

  A Murder Unmentioned

  Give the Devil His Due

  A Dangerous Language

  The Hero Trilogy

  Chasing Odysseus

  Trying War

  The Blood of Wolves

  1

  PREVIEWS OF SHOW EXHIBITS

  Outstanding features of the Motor Show described by Table Talk’s Motoring Correspondent

  CHRYSLER SHOWS AIRFLOW

  INTRODUCED to Melbourne by Lanes Motors and with Miss Judy Price and Mary Guy Smith as official hostesses, Chrysler for 1934 springs one of the most complete Show surprises by co-ordinating aeroplane and car design and construction in the production of a truly amazing car.

  Claimed to be two years ahead in design and performance, the Airflow Chrysler Eight is being featured at the Show in a way that makes impossible a display of the Morris and M.G. cars, also marketed by this firm.

  The Airflows shown are the model CU Eight—a 33.8 h.p. car developing 122 h.p., and the larger Imperial Eight, of the same rating but at 128 h.p. development. Both cars possess a speed of 90 m.p.h. and a completeness and originality of streamlining and body-plus-chassis unit engineering that leaves one gasping.

  Fundamentally, Chrysler in these cars has set out to remedy inherent defects in normal cars by new methods. He has built body and chassis on the plan of a cantilever truss—an amazingly strong yet light structure—then has dispositioned the weight and placings of engine, luggage, and passengers in such a way, relative to the axles, that an ideal of suspension is provided. By adding an improved springing and new type steering, a car has been produced in which it is possible to “read, write, and sleep” in comfort on any road at 60 m.p.h.

  The astonishing interior carries three passengers with comfort on each seat, the seats in turn being of a new armchair type, wholly isolated from the body walls and made very modern by the provision of chromium-plated arm rests, which incorporate ash trays and match the predominating body motif.

  Perfected draftless ventilation and floating power engine mountings, to eliminate the transmission of vibrations to passengers or body, are other comfort features and added control is provided by the novel steering, improved hydraulic braking, coincidental starting, all silent transmission, cam and roller free wheeling and extra large low pressure tyres.

  A remarkable innovation, an automatic over drive transmission is optional on the C-U- and standard or the Imperial model and reduces engine speed by 30 per cent at speeds above 45 m.p.h.

  The aerodynamically streamlined body cannot be described. It must be seen to be appreciated, and for its advantages to be understood.

  Table Talk, 24 May 1934

  She never knew that she was found by a man leading a footsore bull. She didn’t see him tether the beast and clamber down to where she lay, and so she felt no embarrassment for the nakedness of her body where the clothes had been burnt away. It was not the burlap sack covering her face that kept her in darkness. The world would always be dark now. And she would keep the secret of how she came to lie alone in a country ditch.

  The 1934 Melbou
rne International Motor Show was in its final day. Several thousand people had passed through its doors to view the latest in engineering and innovation and marvel at advances in technology. The great British names of Austin, Vauxhall and Hillman vied for attention with the brash American houses of Studebaker, Pontiac, Oldsmobile and Chevrolet. The Rolls Royce Phantom II stood with as much decorum and dignity as possible, among the miles of bunting, balloons and roving brass bands. The show sensation was, however, undisputed. Elevated on a rotating stage it seemed to reign over the other displays. Even surrounded by the world’s best machines its revolutionary shape caught the eye. Motoring enthusiasts jostled the popular press for the best vantage from which to view the ultramodern lines and avant-garde design of the Chrysler Airflow.

  The gentlemen from Sydney stood back from the main crowd, observing the Chrysler exhibit at a distance. They stood shoulder to shoulder: a flamboyantly dressed Bohemian with a Leninist goatee; a solid, sturdy man whose weathered face aged him beyond his thirty-two years; and between them, the tallest of the three, whose immaculately tailored suit was offset by dark hair that refused to stay in place.

  “What do you think?” Rowland Sinclair pushed his hair back, trying to ignore an absurd feeling of disloyalty.

  His companions showed no such reluctance.

  “She might just be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Clyde Watson Jones was determined to encourage Rowland to finally bury the 1927 S-Class Mercedes he’d lost in the racing accident that had nearly taken his life. To Clyde’s mind it was time Rowland got over his first love and allowed another to take her place.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Rowland murmured, distracted for a moment by a thought of Edna. She’d refused to come to Melbourne with them on the grounds that she preferred not to witness “grown men reduced to simpering lovesick boys by shiny machines”. Edna was ever direct. He missed her.

  “Aesthetically she’s a little unusual,” Rowland offered as both praise and concession. The automobile was yellow, as the Mercedes had been, but the similarities stopped there. The Chrysler was sleek and low with a chrome grille that cascaded over its curved hood like a waterfall. The rear wheels were encased in fender skirts and the full metal body rested between the wheels rather than upon them. She was like no other car on the road. Rowland thought her a work of art.

  “There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion.” Milton Isaacs nudged Rowland companionably.

  Rowland smiled. “Poe,” he said, acknowledging the author whom Milton had clearly no intention of crediting. Some years before, Milton Isaacs had been introduced to Rowland as a poet, a title he embraced in every way but by actually writing verse. Instead he maintained his erudite literary reputation by randomly quoting the work of the great romantic bards without the tedious formality of attribution.

  “She’d cost a small fortune, I expect,” Clyde said half-heartedly. What did small fortunes matter to a man who had such a large one? The Sinclairs’ holdings had begun as pastoral enterprises but under the astute control of Rowland’s elder brother they had become an empire that seemed to Clyde to know no bounds.

  “Johnston’s getting old,” Rowland replied.

  Clyde nodded. Johnston, Rowland’s chauffeur, had begun in the service of the Sinclairs in the days of horse and carriage. He had come with Woodlands House, the Sinclairs’ grand home in exclusive Woollahra of which Rowland was now master. Use of the Rolls Royce which also came with Woodlands necessitated the use of Johnston, who took any attempt to use the vehicle without him very personally. It was the nature of Rowland Sinclair that he would buy a new motorcar rather than risk offending his chauffeur.

  “Are you going to buy her then, Rowly?”

  “Yes. Actually, I already have. I thought we could drive her back up to Sydney.”

  “Well that’s cause for celebration. Good show, comrade!” Milton responded as though Rowland was a new father, clapping his shoulder and shaking his hand in congratulations. “This calls for a drink. Bloody oath, won’t Ed be surprised when we pick her up in that jalopy?”

  “If she even notices,” Rowland said, laughing. Edna was determinedly disinterested in automobiles. Particularly since his accident. They were to meet her train in Albury early the following day then travel together to a house party at the Yackandandah abode of a fellow artist.

  “Mr. Sinclair, sir! I trust you’re enjoying the show.” The gentleman who approached was almost as tall as Rowland. Sporting a luxuriant waxed moustache and top hat, he looked rather like a ringmaster.

  Rowland shook his hand. “I am indeed, Mr. Carter.” He introduced his companions to the automobile dealer. “I was just informing Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Watson Jones that we will be driving the Airflow back to Sydney.”

  Carter addressed Milton and Clyde. “Your friend is a man of singular good taste, gentlemen. There are few men in this room who are worthy of a vehicle as fine and progressive as the Chrysler Airflow.”

  “I don’t know, old boy…” Milton airily adopted what he called the inflection of the capitalist establishment. “I rather liked the look of the Rolls Royce, myself. Mother would approve, I think. Tell me, my good man, has the one on display been spoken for yet?”

  Clyde groaned audibly but Carter was already baited. “Not at all, Mr. Isaacs. I had no idea you were looking to… Why don’t I personally show you the motorcar? It would be a truly excellent and discerning choice, I assure you.”

  Clyde and Rowland watched as Carter escorted Milton towards the Rolls Royce display.

  “Poor bloke’s salivating,” Clyde observed. “Perhaps we should tell him.”

  Though he so easily adopted the airs and graces of a well-heeled aristocrat, Milton was as penniless as Clyde, a status only belied by their association with Rowland Sinclair, who kept his friends in the same manner to which he was accustomed.

  “I wouldn’t worry about Carter,” Rowland replied. “He’s already made at least one very healthy commission today.”

  “Then perhaps we should leave him to it and go find that drink Milt suggested.”

  “Capital idea.”

  The Mitre in Bank Place was a comfortable stroll from the Royal Exhibition Building in which the International Motor Show was being held. En route Rowland and Clyde discussed the engine specifications, shock absorbers and capacity of the Chrysler Airflow. Clyde muttered about oil and valves and pressure. Rowland’s Mercedes had not often been welcome in the mechanics’ garages of post-war Sydney, and so Clyde had taken to servicing and repairing her himself. At first by necessity, and then because he’d come to see it as one small way in which he could repay his friend’s generosity in all things. Naturally he assumed the maintenance of the new Airflow would also fall to him.

  Rowland had never expected anything from the beneficiaries of his largesse beyond their company, but it was easier to allow Clyde to tinker with his car if that was what he needed to do.

  They found a table by the window of the small gothic drinking house and Rowland signalled the publican. Having already patronised the tavern a number of times in the week they’d been in Melbourne, they were welcomed with the kind of friendly presumption reserved for locals—a pint of beer and a tall glass of gin and tonic duly placed before them. Rowland and Clyde were still removing their coats when they were joined by a contingent of the many artists who frequented the Mitre. The conversation turned to painting—a robust discussion of technique and motif.

  Justus Jörgensen sat at their table and invited them once again to join his scheme to found an artistic community. Rowland had known the Victorian artist for years and painted with him on occasion. Earlier that week, he had taken Rowland out to view the acreage he’d purchased in Eltham, outlining his plans for a grand hall constructed of mud brick and stone to be built by his students and fellow artists. Rowland liked Jörgensen but he thought him a little mad.

  “Creative communities inspire creative lives, gentlemen.” Jörgensen pounded the
table, making the glasses jump. Rowland’s hand shot out to save his gin. “We will build a lifestyle surrounded by art, break bread each day with men and women who are like us in passion and vision, unfettered by the constraints of middle-class monogamy and social convention.”

  Clyde laughed. Their lives at Woodlands were not far removed from the utopia Jörgensen envisaged. Over the years many artists, writers and actors had lived for a time in the Woollahra mansion. Three had never moved out.

  “We’re not bricklayers, Jorgie.” Rowland downed his drink before the artist decided to pound the table again.

  But Jörgensen would not have it. “Affluence stagnates the creative spirit.” He pointed at Clyde. “You cannot compare a community of artists, working for a common good with Rowland’s domestic arrangements. Middle-class comfort makes for fat commercial artists whose creative life is dictated by the profit-driven, critic-enslaved demands of exhibitionism!”

  “Just who are you calling fat?” Clyde demanded.

  “You! You are fat! Fat and complacent!”

  And so the debate warmed. Jörgensen waxed lyrical and loud, Clyde stood his ground. After all, he exhibited, so did Rowland. The publican, and a number of other patrons at varying degrees of sobriety contributed from time to time, but Rowland refused to be drawn. He liked Justus Jörgensen but the man seemed to take his daily exercise by shouting, and Rowland had learned long ago that anything remotely resembling a defence of the wealth for which he’d done nothing beyond being born, was a fool’s errand. Instead, he extracted a notebook from his breast pocket and sketched the battle in the tavern—capturing the movement and urgency of men at philosophical combat, in what he considered a more worthwhile use of the time.

  The afternoon was passed, not unpleasantly, in this way. It was dark when Milton Isaacs walked into the fray.

  “What are they arguing about?” he asked Rowland, glancing towards Clyde and Jörgensen.