To Ride the Wind (17 page)

‘I am sure that if he is not you will know how to take care of him,’ Matthew said without thinking. He noticed a cloud come over Joanne’s face. ‘Sorry,’ he hastened to apologise. ‘You know what I mean. You are not only beautiful but one of the most remarkable women I have ever met, Miss Barrington. Please be careful.’

‘Duffy, old chap,’ one of Matthew’s pilot friends called to him across the throng in the mess. ‘It’s your shout. You have a few days to catch up.’

‘I should leave you to your friends,’ Joanne said. ‘But I hope that we meet again under better circumstances.’

Before Matthew could think of anything to say she was gone, leaving him with a multitude of swirling thoughts. A glass was thrust in his hand and Matthew let the company of his fellow officers lead him in a night of hard drinking.

When he finally rose the next morning for breakfast Joanne and her Packard were gone. Matthew gazed south across the arid landscape but saw no sign of her. All he knew for the moment was that he had to survive the war and find her again.

9

I
n early December Randolph Gates stepped onto Australian soil at Circular Quay in Sydney. Hefting his swag, he strode away from the ship that had brought him from San Francisco and set about finding a cheap hotel. He said little to those who attempted to engage him in idle chatter, but brooded on what he must do next. He had returned to enlist in the Australian armed forces but Fenella’s death only days before he was booked to return to Sydney had changed his plans. The papers had run accounts of the killing and even provided a good description of the man suspected of the murder. The American newspapers also published that the weapon had been left behind – and that it was a cutthroat razor with the letters MOR scratched into the bone handle. The newspaper reports also pointed out that the particular brand of blade was only made in Australia, suggesting that her murder may have links to the death of an Australian actor two years back.

Randolph, however, did not accept that Fenella’s murder had anything to do with the death of Guy Wilkes. In his gut he felt it did have a link to Australia but it was difficult to accept what his instincts told him – that George Macintosh was behind his own sister’s murder. How could it be possible that a man could have his sister murdered so brutally? It had to be the work of some deranged Australian with a morbid fascination for the actress he knew as Fiona Owens. Still, the nagging doubt persisted.

Randolph only had Alexander Macintosh to turn to as he knew from the occasional letters that reached him from Matthew Duffy that Alex was still in Australia. After cleaning up, Randolph telephoned Alex’s home and a delighted Giselle answered. He was immediately invited to have supper with them that day and Randolph dressed in his finest suit of clothes for the visit.

That evening he knocked on the door and was met by the valet, Angus MacDonald, who greeted him with a broad grin and crushing handshake. The tough, solidly built Scot in his mid-fifties was a very fit former British NCO who had served with Patrick Duffy in Africa.

‘The colonel’s gonna get me over with him as soon as he is settled,’ Angus said hopefully. ‘I heard that you will be joining up,’ he continued.

‘That’s right, Angus,’ Randolph replied just as the Scot led him into a spacious sitting room where Giselle stood, holding her son in her arms. She passed the baby to their nanny so that she could greet Randolph.

‘Mr Gates, it is good to see you after such a long time away,’ Giselle said with a sweet smile. ‘I have the pleasure of introducing you to Master David Macintosh.’ She pulled back the blanket wrapped around the infant, who screwed up his eyes and balled his fists at being disturbed from his sleep.

‘He is beautiful,’ Randolph dutifully observed, poking gently at the little boy’s tummy with his finger.

‘You may take him away, Lizzie,’ Giselle said to the nanny. ‘Alex should be home very soon and I know that you will have much to talk about,’ she continued. ‘Angus, could you be a dear and serve up a drink for our guest?’

‘What will it be, Mr Gates?’ Angus asked.

‘Whisky will be fine,’ Randolph replied just as Alex entered the room in his army uniform. He kissed Giselle on the cheek and thrust out his hand to Randolph.

‘Welcome back, old chap,’ Alex said with a broad smile. ‘It has been a long time since we stood on the wharf together when you left us to find Nellie.’

At the mention of Fenella’s name Randolph paled. He had trouble coming to grips with her death. ‘A lot has happened to us both since then,’ he replied. ‘But it is good to be back in Australia.’

Angus quickly had a glass of Scotch in both men’s hands and discreetly left the room, as did Giselle with an excuse to oversee their dinner for the night. When they were alone Alex raised his glass in a toast.

‘To friends and family who cannot be with us at this moment,’ he said and Randolph also raised his glass in silent salute.

‘Your brother had her murdered,’ Randolph said without any polite chitchat. ‘Don’t ask me how I know. It is just a strong hunch. I have no evidence at all.’

Alex frowned. ‘That is a very serious accusation,’ he replied. ‘My brother is a man with little expression of feeling but conspiring to murder Nellie . . .’

‘I know that you are his brother and must defend him but I feel in my soul that, somehow, George was behind Nellie’s death. Call it a gut feeling but he has a lot to gain from you and Nellie not being around to share the family fortune if anything should happen to the colonel, your father.’

Alex took a long swig on his drink and stared for a moment at a portrait of his long-dead great-grandfather Sir Donald Macintosh, speared to death in central Queensland on the family property of Glen View. The eyes had been faithfully painted to show the tough, determined soul of the Scot who had ordered the killing of the peaceful Aboriginal tribe on his land so many years earlier. In those eyes he could see a family disposition to ruthlessness. But for his brother, George, to order the murder of his own sister . . . Was it possible?

‘If what you suspect is true,’ Alex said in a considered way, ‘I would need evidence.’

‘You must also know that you stand in your brother’s way as well,’ Randolph said. ‘Who is to say that he is not already plotting your demise?’

‘A bit hard to get rid of me when even the army will not send me on active service,’ Alex answered with a short, bitter laugh. ‘He would be doing me a favour if he could wrangle a posting to France.’

‘Don’t put anything past him,’ Randolph cautioned. ‘Even getting you posted to the front.’

‘If I may ask,’ Alex said, ‘what makes you suspect my brother of being behind Nellie’s murder?’

It was Randolph’s turn to frown. ‘I can’t put my finger on it,’ he replied, ‘but something deep down in my belly tells me he has been able to reach even across the Pacific.’

‘My father has good friends in the American community here,’ Alex said, finishing his glass of Scotch. ‘I will prevail upon his contacts to have everything the American police have on the murder sent to me. It may help you one way or the other.’

‘I was hoping that I might be able to depend on you,’ Randolph said, also finishing his drink.

‘I heard that you came back to enlist in our army,’ Alex queried.

‘I will,’ Randolph said. ‘As soon as I get to the bottom of who was behind Nellie’s death. To that means I was hoping that you would authorise my expenses – as your father did to originally find her.’

‘You know that will be done,’ Alex answered. ‘Anything to see justice is done, one way or the other.’

‘Dinner is ready,’ Giselle said, poking her head into the sitting room. Both men exchanged looks that said their conversation remained in the room.

Randolph wasted no time in initiating his own discreet inquiries. As he sat on the edge of his bed, he reflected on how George Macintosh might have organised the murder of his sister, and concluded that George would most probably recruit his killer in Sydney. If so, it would have to be from the side of the city where the criminal gangs roamed. At least he had somewhere to start his search.

Randolph stood up and wiped the sweat from his brow with a clean handkerchief. He had formulated a plan of action and knew that he would have to call on the considerable resources of Alex Macintosh. A telephone call to Alex with a special request was completed earlier in the day and now it was only a matter of waiting for his order to be filled. Because of its sensitive contents he could not afford to have it delivered to the hotel so Alex informed him he could pick it up from his residence.

Outside in the corridor he could hear a woman’s raucous laughter and the muffled sounds of a man speaking soft words to her. The hotel’s bar downstairs was packed with soldiers and sailors in uniform, standing shoulder to shoulder, drinking as much as they could as quickly as they could. Most were on a short leave before steaming for England and then onto the battlefields of Europe. Randolph had endured a few snide remarks passing through the bar to the stairs that led to his stuffy room in the living quarters; that he was in civilian clothes and not a uniform had brought scorn on him from the armed forces men.

The woman’s laughter stopped and Randolph heard a door open just down from his room. Alcohol was not the only thing on a soldier or sailor’s mind before he steamed away to war.

The thumping of the bed down the passageway and the intensity of the woman’s cries told him that the act was not going to be very long.

Randolph decided to indulge himself with a cold beer in the hotel’s bar. The barmaid was a busty young woman with red hair and a loud voice. But she softened to Randolph’s accent and asked him what it was.

‘Canadian,’ Randolph answered.

‘What’s your name, love?’ she asked, wiping down the top of the bar with a rag. ‘I see that you are one of our residents.’

‘Joshua Smith,’ he answered, using the name he had signed in under. It paid to leave no tracks when you were targeting one of Sydney’s most powerful men.

‘What you doin’ here?’ she continued.

‘Come to get away from the war,’ he replied.

‘I thought you Canadians were fighting with us,’ she said with a frosty edge.

‘So I heard,’ Randolph answered, raising his glass to swallow the refreshing cold ale, as the barmaid tossed her head and moved away to serve a customer in a khaki uniform.

The following morning, Randolph caught a taxi to Alex’s house and was once again met by Angus.

‘Mrs Macintosh and the captain are not here,’ Angus said. ‘But you came at the right time because there is a package that Captain Macintosh told me to give to you delivered a few minutes ago.’

Randolph accepted the thick envelope from Angus, thanked him and left.

Back in his room, Randolph opened the envelope. Sheets of paper and a revolver spilled onto the springy bed. The papers were lists of names of Macintosh crew members covering the last three months of employment. For the next few hours he pored through the names, sifting out those he was able to cross-reference against permanent positions, and those who had only been employed for one trip with the Macintosh ships.

Randolph then went further to see if any of the names on the crew lists had made a journey back to Australia about the same time that he had. He found only one name. That of a Michael O’Rourke whose home address was listed in Surry Hills, Sydney. Randolph sat up . . . MOR . . . the initials on the murder weapon . . . Michael O’Rourke! He read a description of the man in a column down one side of the sheet . . . thin build with a scar to the face. It had to be him!

*

No-one took much notice of the tall civilian who quietly slipped out of the hotel and commenced walking towards the infamous suburb. The first hotel he came across was filled with rowdy patrons. But this time there were very few uniformed men to be seen holding up the bar. Instead, the hotel was filled with sweat-stained working men. A few men who knew little of hard manual labour had propped themselves against a wall opposite the bar, and were smoking cigarettes with the air of those who feared very little from others around them.

Randolph was closely watched as he entered and he suspected that the hotel was the place that a local gang used as their own meeting place. He hoped so. Buying a drink, he made his way unobtrusively to the back wall to stand by one of the flashily dressed men, who was chewing on a toothpick and holding a beer.

‘I’m looking for a buddy I met when he was in the States a few weeks back,’ Randolph said. ‘His name is Michael O’Rourke. I owe him a drink.’

The man turned towards Randolph, slipping his hand into the pocket of his trousers. Randolph tensed.

‘You mean Mick,’ the man said, looking Randolph up and down while twirling the toothpick around between his lips. He was young and had the hard look of a man used to violence. ‘I ’eard Mick had done a trip to America. ’Ow do you know him?’

The question had a chilling edge to it and Randolph could see the man’s eyes narrow. But he had hit pay dirt. ‘I met him in LA,’ Randolph parried. ‘In a bar.’

‘I can see that you are a Yank,’ the man said, looking Randolph up and down. ‘’Eard the same accent before aroun’ the docks when we was down that way doin’ jobs.’ He turned to the man next to him who Randolph could see was cut from the same cloth. ‘You ’ear if Mick is aroun’?’

The man shook his head.

‘Maybe if you buy me Mick’s beer I might be able to tell you where you might find ’im,’ the toothpick-chewing tough said, leaning slightly towards Randolph.

‘Yeah, I could do that,’ Randolph agreed and made his way through the crowd to purchase a large beer.

‘Mick usually drinks up the road with his cobbers,’ the man said, grasping the fresh glass of beer. ‘You might find ’im there.’

Randolph knocked back his beer, nodded to the tough and left the bar to step onto the dimly lit street. He was walking deeper into the dangerous suburb but did so with the certainty he would find the killer of the only woman he had truly loved.

Randolph found the second pub and was not surprised to see that it was very similar to the one he had just left. It was the same kind of working-class hotel catering to shady, relatively well-dressed young men avoiding military service to their country. Randolph did not even have to ask if Mick O’Rourke was there that night. Entering the public bar his eyes fell on a thin man with a long scar down his face, sitting at a table drinking with men much like himself. Randolph felt his blood chill and instinctively felt in his pocket for both the small calibre revolver and bowie knife he had armed himself with. He heard the man called by his name by one of the men he was drinking with.