To Ride the Wind (41 page)

The appointment made, Sean put the phone down and reflected on the file before him. No doubt Firth had not destroyed the file to ensure George kept paying him to remain silent. But he had been careless in keeping it in his office, albeit hidden. Sean smiled. He wished he could be in the office when Firth finally got around to looking for his precious pile of papers.

But Jack Firth did not rage when he found the file missing. To do so would have brought attention to himself. Instead, he sat sweating at his desk, considering all the possibilities. He already knew from rumours around the station that the former police officer Harry Griffith had been asking a lot of questions about him. He had already confronted Harry and been perceptive enough to recognise Harry was indeed working for Sean Duffy. The file had to be in Duffy’s possession, he concluded, calmly realising that he would have to silence the lawyer or risk being charged with being an accessory to treason. The idea of swinging on the gallows held little appeal to a man now well-off, thanks to Macintosh’s payments. He cursed himself for being foolish in leaving the incriminating file at his office; he had never suspected that anyone would be brave enough to rifle through his things. Duffy must have paid one of his staff a lot of money to do that, Jack thought. He would find out soon enough who had betrayed him and deal with that person later. In the meantime, Jack had formulated how Major Sean Duffy, MC, would appear in the obituaries of the morning papers after his tragic accident. It would be a story of little interest, lost in the news from the war where hundreds of Australians were dying each week. Jack Firth knew Sean’s daily routine – and there was one time during the day that the solicitor who had to rely on his walking stick was extremely vulnerable.

*

It was Friday afternoon and the clerks watched the hands of the big clock in the main office tick towards 5pm. When it did, they would disappear to their homes, while the solicitors of the firm would gather for a beer at a hotel nearby and celebrate the end of the week. But this afternoon Sean excused himself from the company of his learned friends. He had an appointment with Colonel John Hughes. Sean placed the incriminating files into a leather satchel and bid a good weekend to his clerk, hobbling out onto the city streets smelling of horse dung and petrol fumes exacerbated by the heat of a Sydney summer. Sean looked up at the sky. From the dark clouds gathering, he suspected the city was about to be cooled by a southerly buster, a fierce storm that would bring relief to the sweltering conditions.

He made his way to an electric tram and was helped aboard by a sympathetic man who had the sad smile and faraway look of a former soldier. Sean took the tram to Central Station and made his way to the suburban train platform. As he was still suffering the effects of the previous evening, which he’d spent getting drunk in an attempt to avoid the nightmares of exploding artillery shells and bodies being torn to bloody pieces, he failed to notice the man following him. Sean paid his fare and walked stiffly to the platform, where he sat on a bench until he saw the smoke heralding his train’s approach.

Sean walked on unsteady legs to the edge of the concrete platform, crowded with workers eager to return to their homes in the suburbs. The train was braking to a stop when Sean felt the leather satchel being yanked from his hand. He attempted to swing around to defend himself and saw with horror the grim-faced image of Jack Firth snarling at him.

As the satchel was yanked clear, Sean felt himself toppling backwards onto the track. He was vaguely aware that someone had screamed but he knew nothing else until he slammed backwards across the steel tracks. Winded, he could not move and when he turned his head saw the great steam engine only a matter of yards away. Helpless, he braced himself and shut his eyes.

Jack Firth ducked his head and walked away through the crowd of horrified onlookers. He had guessed that few would have paid much attention to him. They would be more absorbed in watching the train approach. When Jack reached the end of the platform he glanced back. Satisfied that he had got away with murder, Jack strolled into the great foyer of Central Station, passing newsboys selling the papers proclaiming stalemate in the war that had no end. Only when he was on the street outside did he allow himself to open and inspect the contents of the satchel. As he had suspected, the incriminating evidence was inside. He would take steps to ensure that they never left his possession again. He knew just how close he had come to being revealed as a traitor.

Sean felt strong hands grip him under the arms and haul him from the track just as the steam engine ran over his legs. He screamed although he had felt no pain.

‘Bloody close, Major,’ the voice gasped in his ear. ‘The engine got your legs.’

Sean felt himself being lifted into a sitting position. The screaming he could hear was from members of the public on the other side of the engine who had witnessed him fall to what would surely be his inevitable death.

‘It got my legs,’ Sean echoed, looking down at his artificial limbs, now crushed to useless metal and wood.

‘Got your legs all right,’ Harry said and broke into a chuckle. ‘You will have to get some new ones.’

In the wonderful euphoria of still being alive, Sean smiled, then broke into laughter, no doubt confusing those on the platform who presumed that the man who had bravely flung himself onto the tracks in an attempt to rescue the disabled man had gone mad. Within a minute the two men were joined by a couple of railway porters who were shaking their heads at Sean’s luck.

Not until he was lifted onto the railway platform and sat down on the concrete, did Sean realise that he was trembling uncontrollably.

‘Firth got the file back,’ he said quietly to Harry, who had remained close at Sean’s side.

‘The bastard tried to kill you,’ Harry said. ‘We have him.’

Sean shook his head, ‘Unfortunately he will slip out of any accusation I make. I doubt that anyone here actually saw our struggle and, even if they did, Firth would make sure they did not give evidence. I know how he works and I am afraid that your word would not be good enough against him. This time he gets away with it but our fight has only started.’

Harry stood to allow two policemen who had appeared to speak with Sean. He informed them that he had slipped. They took notes and arranged for an ambulance to convey him to the nearest hospital for an examination although other than a sprained back and severe bruising, Sean had escaped serious injury.

‘I have to ask,’ he said, turning to Harry. ‘How is it that you were there to rescue me?’

‘I guess you can say that I was just keeping an eye out for you,’ Harry replied self-consciously. ‘Like we did for each other at the front.’

*

Sean extended his hand and clasped Harry’s. No words were needed. As he was carried away on a stretcher he reflected sadly that any real chance of bringing George and the corrupt policeman to justice had just been snatched from his hand. He could tell John Hughes what he had read in the file – but without the file itself, he had no evidence.

George Macintosh felt his bowels turn to mush and desperately fought not to void them. He had returned from a satisfying day at his office where a board meeting of directors had congratulated him on his undisputed leadership of the family enterprises, while at the same time commiserating on the death of his esteemed father. It was this acknowledgment by some of the city’s best known businessmen that established George as a ruler of a vast financial empire with tentacles that spread to almost every part of Asia and Europe.

But now he was standing in the foyer of his own home looking down the barrel of the old service pistol that his father had carried in his earlier days fighting the enemies of Queen Victoria. It was normally kept in his office, a gift from his father many years earlier to protect the house.

‘You tried to murder him,’ Louise said, holding the pistol with both hands and pointing it directly at George’s face. ‘You knew I loved him and even though I promised to never see Sean again you still tried to kill him.’

George was stunned. He had not had a chance to read the morning paper that day and was ignorant of the news.

‘Duffy,’ he blurted. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’ He hoped his voice would not crack. From the expression in his wife’s eyes she was ready to pull the trigger without considering the consequences of her actions. ‘I swear on the life of our son,’ he pleaded. ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’ For once he was telling the truth and it galled him that his wife did not believe him.

‘It was in the paper this morning,’ Louise spat. ‘Major Sean Duffy, hero of Gallipoli and the Western Front, fell under a train at Central Station yesterday afternoon. Sean would not have fallen under a train unless he was pushed.’

‘Firth,’ George said in a whisper, considering him to be the only man other than himself who would have a motive to kill Duffy. ‘You should put the gun down,’ he said. ‘Or you might accidentally pull the trigger, and what would our son do for a mother should you be hanged for murder?’

‘Our son,’ Louise repeated. ‘That is the first time I have ever heard you refer to Donald as our son.’

George attempted to take a step forward but Louise stiffened. He immediately resisted any urge to overpower her. ‘You must understand that all I have done is in the interests of you and our son,’ George said. ‘I may appear to be cold and calculating, but that is the way of business. My father and brother were weak men who did not understand the commercial world as I do, and if the companies had been left to them we would have been in the work house for the destitute before long. I have a dream that one day our son will take over from me and be seen as a man among men. You are his mother. Surely you have our son’s best interests at heart. I swear that I knew nothing of Major Duffy’s accident until now.’

Louise watched her husband’s face very closely and listened carefully to the tone in his voice. She knew him well enough to know when he was lying, and for once she suspected that he was telling the truth.

‘Do you know who might have wanted to kill Sean?’ she asked.

‘No,’ George lied, careful to mask his expression. After all, he had considered disposing of the Sydney solicitor. ‘I am sorry that you think I might have tried to kill Major Duffy,’ George added.

‘I know that you are lying about being sorry,’ Louise said, letting the revolver swing at her side. ‘But, strangely, I do believe that you did not know of the attempt on his life.’

The sudden release from the threat of death brought a wave of euphoria over George. He stepped forward to put his arms around his wife. Louise stiffened, but did not fight him.

‘You are an absolute bastard,’ Louise said. ‘But you are the father of my son.’

‘Our son,’ George corrected. ‘We could have a good life together if you try.’

Louise felt spent. She no longer had the will to resist her husband. All she had to do was pretend that she was a loyal and loving wife in front of his friends and colleagues and, in turn, she would have Donald to herself.

Angus, Giselle and David had first travelled by steam train north and then taken a Cobb & Co coach to a depot in central Queensland, before being picked up by an employee of the Glen View station in a buggy. The last leg of the journey took a full dusty day before they finally reached the property at sunset.

Giselle had heard much about the station from Alex, who had once told her that when he was a boy he had spent a short time living there with his mysterious grandfather Michael Duffy. Alex had always spoken fondly about Glen View and Giselle thought it would be a good place for her son to grow up, considering his father had loved this land so much.

As Angus helped Giselle and her son from the buggy, a short, stocky, balding man in his middle years strode out from the house and introduced himself as the manager, Hector MacManus. He welcomed his three new residents and gruffly explained that they would live in the house with him. He was a widower and said that he looked forward to a future of good European-style cooking as his Aboriginal cook, a young girl, was having problems serving up much more than boiled beef. From his handshake Angus sized up the station manager as a good but gruff man, and was quick to notice the trace of his Scottish accent.

‘You would be from Glasgow way,’ Angus said, releasing his grip as he towered over the shorter man.

‘That I would be, sergeant major,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘I have already heard about you from Mr Patrick Duffy and of how you and he soldiered together against the heathen fuzzy wuzzies. I was once a member of the Black Watch regiment.’

Immediately the two old soldiers found common ground and chatted about campaigns they had fought and exotic places they had taken leave, careful in the company of Giselle and her son not to allude to the brothels they had visited.

‘But I must get you all settled. We can talk about your jobs here over a haunch of boiled beef – the last I hope to see in a long time,’ Hector said, leading the way.

The house was made of mud brick, with a corrugated iron roof, wide verandahs and a simple, wire-fenced yard to keep out the kangaroos and wallabies of the surrounding plains. Suddenly Giselle felt the full weight of just how isolated her life was to become, living on the central plains of Queensland where she would be the only European female for many hundreds of miles, in a world of tough stockmen and nomadic Aboriginals who drifted to the station from other parts of the vast lands. She was given a relatively large room to share with her son, and the employee who had picked them up from the depot placed her large suitcase in a corner of the room.

‘Welcome to Glen View, Mrs,’ he said. ‘The boys and I are looking forward to some good home cooking for a change.’

Giselle thanked him and he departed, leaving her with David in the silence of her new world. Despite all that Alex had said about the wonders of living in the country, Giselle found that she was sitting on the rickety bed and sobbing. She missed her mother and few friends in Sydney. But mostly she missed Alex. David clung to her hand, frightened. Giselle saw that her emotional state had caused her son to be fearful. Wiping away the tears with the back of her hand, she attempted to smile. ‘Come, my little man,’ she said in German. ‘We must eat and learn to accept this place as our new home.’