There was some discussion about John Dedman, the minister for the wartime organisation of industry. He was held in general contempt, but this was hardly a subversive opinion to hold — Dedman being a frequent object of ridicule in the press. Joe came close a couple of times to weaving John Quinn’s name into the discussion, but no opportunity presented itself convincingly, and simply bringing up his name would almost certainly have exposed Joe and Tom to suspicion. After lunch, he reminded his hosts that he and Tom had a train to catch.
‘No, no, not me,’ said Tom. ‘I’m staying the night — if that’s all right with Mitchell.’
Joe shrugged, apparently unconcerned. He was, though, very concerned. This hadn’t been a part of their plan.
Magill felt obliged to extend his hospitality to Tom. In truth, he’d be glad when Jones, Fred, and now Tom, left as planned the following day. He and the Australian Patriots would quietly drop them.
‘Before you go,’ he said to Joe, ‘I want to show you a painting.’
Joe followed him into the master bedroom, leaving the rest of the party at the lunch table. Above the bed was a painting of
Leda and the Swan
that seemed at once obscene and oddly anodyne — a peculiar paradox that drifted out of so much approved German art. The swan arched its neck, its beak open in an ecstatic trumpet as it thrust itself between the legs of a naked woman, the glimpse of dark, pubic hair accentuating both her nakedness and the transgressiveness of the image. One arm was flung over her face in a gesture of modest anonymity — although it was clear that the model had again been Peggy — but also suggesting her wanton pleasure in the rape.
‘It caused a scandal in Berlin,’ Magill said.
‘I can see why. Who’s it by?’
‘Paul Matthias Padua.’
‘What did the authorities have to say about it? I can’t imagine they approved.’
‘Some of them made a few noises. They all shut up when Hitler bought it for himself, though. What do you think?’
‘I think you’ve done a great job of copying it. You’re very good.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I like it.’
‘I don’t think your friend, Tom, or those other two would like it. Do you?’
‘No. I don’t suppose they would. Not everyone is as sophisticated as Herr Hitler.’
‘I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, Joe, but I think you and I are on the same wavelength. Can I show you something I wrote for
The Publicist
?’
‘You write as well as paint?’
‘When I’ve got something to say.’
He took a copy of
The Publicist
from a bedside drawer, opened it to the page he wanted, and handed it to Joe.
‘It’s not long. It’ll only take a minute to read. It’s the bit under
Contemporary Art
.’
Joe took the magazine and read:
During the month of September, an exhibition in Sydney of paintings by members of the ‘Contemporary’ Art Society attracted some public attention among persons interested in freakishness-for-freakishness’ sake; but it was intrinsically no more interesting or important than somewhat similar exhibitions of abnormality in the ‘side-show’ section of the Royal Easter Show, where dwarfs, giants, fat women and other distortions of nature are annually on view. A noticeable proportion of the exhibitors were refugee Jews. The exhibition fell flat, as only credulous persons, with more money than gumption, would want to buy pictures of merely ‘contemporary’ value.
The Publicist
is very glad that such exhibitions are held, as they give emphasis to our warnings against the influences of decadence now operating in the Australian community.
‘That’s excellent, Mitchell. Really excellent. You nailed it.’
‘I thought you’d be sympathetic.’
‘I’m all for the Australian Patriots, Mitchell.’
‘Good man.’
They returned to the dining room, and Tom walked with Joe to the outhouse. Once inside, Joe let fly.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Something useful, I hope.’
‘You can’t stay here. That wasn’t part of the plan. We’ve got good information that Intelligence will be happy with. That’s why we came, and that’s the only reason we came.’
‘We can get much more. These blokes are proper fucking Nazis.’
‘Peggy Montford was quite happy to tell me that Mitchell is a fan of National Socialism, and he’s quite happy to say it himself.’
‘He’s a fan, but he’s not the real deal, Joe. This Ptolemy and his furry friend are crackers. They’re synagogue-burning, vicious, fanatical Nazis. Magill’s got nothing on them. It’s unbelievable. It’s mind-boggling. They actually, truly, believe that people are champing at the bit to get behind them and form a National Socialist government.’
‘That’s why you can’t stay. We can pass all this on to Chafer and Goad, and let them take it from there.’
‘What are you going to pass on — that Magill and his friends wander about in the nude sometimes and fantasise about a brand-new day? Ptolemy and Fred have plans, and there are probably a handful of others like them. They don’t believe in democracy. They won’t engage with opposition, except to remove it. I’ll bet London to a brick that they’ve got an assassination list.’
‘I think you might be giving them more credit than they deserve. They’re thugs, I grant you, but a person who can’t spell “argument” isn’t destined to lead a revolution.’
‘It’s the tattooist who can’t spell.’
‘That tattoo is recent, isn’t it?’
‘I’d say so. Why?’
‘No reason. Maybe it was a Christmas present.’
Joe sat on the edge of one of the bunks.
‘I can find out so much more, Joe. I’ve got them hoodwinked. I can tell that Magill and Arthur are going to bail. Ptolemy and Fred scare the shit out of them. I think I can get in close to the ones who really matter.’
‘Titus doesn’t know you’re here. If something happens to you, my life won’t be worth living.’
‘I’m a big boy, Joe, and I’m sick of doing a job that a chimpanzee could do. Ptolemy and Fred might lead us to a nest of traitors. If we leave here together, we leave with a small amount of information, but we miss a golden opportunity to get to the heart of the matter. Anyway, you’re not my superior officer; you’re not even an officer. The decision here is mine — and I’m staying.’
‘All right. If you’re staying, I’m staying, too.’
‘Out of the question. The important thing here is that we’re seen as two very different people when it comes to National Socialism. We’ve established that you’re a dilettante flirting with politics. I’m contemptuous of that. You have to leave, and I have to let them know that I’m bloody glad to be rid of you because you’re a nice fellow, but a bit, well, feminine. I’m pitching my performance exclusively to Ptolemy now. Magill’s out of the picture, as far as I’m concerned.’
Joe was torn. Involving Tom Mackenzie had been a monumental mistake. At the same time, what Tom said made sense. They shouldn’t miss the opportunity to expose this cabal of Nazis — especially given what Joe had come to understand about where their thinking led. On top of that, he wanted very much to stun the odious Chafer with his efficiency, professionalism and, yes, talent for this line of work. Wiping the smirk off his face would be a very great pleasure indeed.
‘Be careful, Tom.’
‘They’re not going to do anything today, or tonight. We’ll just be talking. I’ll be fine.’
‘See if you can find out what “Argument 7” means, and contact me at home as soon as you can. You have the number. Oh, and his name is Jones. Ptolemy Jones. Can you believe that?’
-16-
Even though it
was after nine o’clock by the time Joe returned to his flat, he rang Inspector Lambert at home immediately, and wasn’t surprised to have Titus ask him to come up to Brunswick straightaway to brief him over a cold glass of beer. Joe promptly caught a crowded tram up Sydney Road, got off at Albion Street, and walked the few blocks east to Bishop Street. He’d never been to the Lambert house before, and felt inexplicably nervous as he knocked on the door of number 17. It was a modest house, single-fronted, built around 1890. Titus answered the door and led him down a corridor into the living room. The interior was more spacious than the exterior suggested. Somebody, possibly the Lamberts, had modified the house extensively so that little trace of its nineteenth-century pokiness remained.
Maude Lambert was seated under a standard lamp, reading. She got up when Joe came in, smiled at him — he wondered how warm that smile would have been if she knew where her brother was at that moment — and said that she’d leave them to it. She’d read her book in bed. Joe suspected that everything he said would be reported to her later anyway.
‘I haven’t reported to Intelligence yet,’ Joe said. ‘They’ll be very interested in some of the people I met at Candlebark Hill.’
‘Are we interested in these people?’
‘That’s difficult to say. I didn’t come away with anything specific. No one mentioned John Quinn, or gave any indication that they were aware of the killings. It didn’t even come up in conversation as an item that someone had read in the paper. However, we know that John Quinn had been keeping an eye on Australia First, and Magill must have had some contact with him — so if they’d seen his name in the paper, you’d think somebody would have said something.’
‘Unless they knew he was dead because they had him killed. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Well, either that or they genuinely don’t yet know. What is interesting, and the thing that might have got Quinn killed, is that Mitchell Magill calls himself a National Socialist in private. If Quinn knew that, and if Magill found out somehow that he was an Intelligence man, that would make Quinn a liability.’
‘You think Magill is capable of murder? Three murders?’
‘No. His National Socialism is an accessory; it’s not a driving passion. There were two men there, however, who belong in a very different category. They’re the real thing. One of them is a bloke named Ptolemy Jones. The other I only know as Fred. Jones is the talker, and the talk wouldn’t be out of place in the Reichstag. I think Intelligence is going to be very interested in him.’
‘How old?’
‘About twenty-five or twenty-six, I’d say; Fred, a year older, maybe. Jones has firm ideas on how to deal with people who oppose him — stomp on them. Curiously, he has a tattoo across his abdomen, “Argument 7”, only “argument” has an extra “e” — and it’s a recent tattoo. He would’ve had it done in the last few days. It’s a long shot, but …’
‘The dead tattooist? All we’ve got is long shots, Sergeant. With a name like Ptolemy Jones, he shouldn’t be hard to track down, and it shouldn’t be hard to find out where he got that tattoo. We’ll canvass every tattooist in the city tomorrow. What does it mean, “Argument 7”?’
‘He didn’t say. Chafer or Goad might know.’
‘So, Magill — is he a threat?’
‘Not personally, no, but he has enough money to pay someone to do his dirty work for him. I got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t keen on Ptolemy or Fred. I think Magill is a drawing-room Nazi. Those other two are field Nazis. Magill is wary of them. I can’t see them working together.’
‘You said, though, that Magill could afford to pay someone like Ptolemy Jones.’
‘True, but that’s not the impression I got. Jones didn’t strike me as an employee. If he’s going to take money from you, it’ll be theft, not wages. Jones met Magill for the first time on Christmas Day, so he certainly didn’t pay him to hit the Quinns. They’re discovering that they don’t have much in common.’
‘Is Jones all talk, or is he capable of violence?’
‘I think I can say with absolute confidence that the sooner Ptolemy and Fred, whoever he is, are taken off the streets, the better.’
Clarry Brown stood
opposite the Grand Synagogue in St Kilda Road. He was agitated. Inside the pocket of his trousers he fingered a short length of lead pipe. He was here because it was the only place he knew of where he might find a Jew, follow him, and beat him senseless. His attack on that old person in Arnold Street had been clumsy, and he hadn’t followed through. When he thought about it, he felt as if Fred hadn’t been very impressed, and he’d have told Jones that, for sure. He couldn’t bear the idea that Jones thought he was a laughing stock. He’d show Jones that he could be relied on, that he was fearless, that he was ruthless.
Right now, though, he was agitated. People were passing in front of the building, but walking past a synagogue didn’t make you a Jew. He crossed St Kilda Road and ambled slowly along the footpath. There was no one near the synagogue now. His nervousness began to recede, and along with it his desire to punish a stranger. He would have jumped on a tram if one had come along just then, and gone home.
Clarry Brown stepped into St Kilda Road to look south into the distance for the faint, dulled light of an approaching tram. There was nothing, so he began to walk towards the city. Two men passed him, and he heard a snatch of their conversation. It wasn’t English. It had the phlegminess of what he thought of as Jew talk, and that was enough for his purposes. He hadn’t got a good look at either man, so he couldn’t assess his chances against both of them. But their sudden appearance convinced Clarry that he was meant to mount his attack on them. The idea of destiny appealed to him mightily; this was a test.