Give the Devil His Due Read Free Page B

him for another glass.
    For his part, White was pleased with the evening’s work. Sinclair was guarded and his friends rather protective, but still the shrewd reporter had managed to extract some interesting details. Of course some of them were not fit to print. The presence—or more accurately, the identity—of Elias Isaacs was a surprise. That Sinclair’s set included a flamboyant Communist poet was known, he’d just not made the connection with Elias before. Even so, it had been over a decade, and Isaacs had been civil if not friendly. And surely the matter was better left alone. It was possibly this sense of satisfaction, fortified by brandy, that prompted the newspaperman to fling caution aside and put his final questions to Rowland.
    â€œTell me, Sinclair, this business with Eric Campbell—”
    â€œWhat business with Mr. Campbell?” Rowland had assumed the subject would come up sooner or later. His infiltration of Campbell’s New Guard had ended badly, and while Wilfred Sinclair had used all his power to keep the incident out of the papers, and his younger brother out of gaol, the rumours had survived.
    â€œWord at the news desk is that you tried to assass… assass… kill the man,” White said, rummaging in his jacket for his notebook.
    â€œWell word is mistaken, I’m afraid.”
    â€œYou didn’t try to shoot him?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI like you, Sinclair,” the reporter slurred, patting Rowland’s shoulder vigorously. “I want to give you a chance to tell the world what really happened.”
    â€œThank you, but the incident is best forgotten.”
    White sighed. “Of course, of course, what was I thinking? You’re not going to admit to attempted murder.”
    â€œYou’ll find, Mr. White, that I was in fact the only person shot that night.”
    â€œThat’s right, that’s right… Was it Campbell then? Were you fighting over leadership of the New Guard?”
    Rowland’s laugh was scornful. “I was never a member of the New Guard.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œAside from the fact that the New Guard is made up of lunatics, my politics, such as they are, do not lie in that direction.”
    â€œReally?” White’s manner seemed to sober somewhat. “My sources tell me that you have the Fascist cross tattooed on your chest, Mr. Sinclair.”
    Rowland stiffened. “That’s incorrect,” he said coldly.
    â€œIt’s not a swastika then?”
    â€œThere is no tattoo.” Strictly speaking, it was the truth. The swastika had been burned into Rowland’s chest. The rumour, however inaccurate, took him by surprise. That it was being used to affiliate him with the Fascists mortified and infuriated him.
    White did not miss the change in his subject’s demeanour. Maybe Sinclair was not an admirer of the Nazis—there was the presence of Isaacs, after all. It was interesting, but the room was beginning to spin so perhaps the paradox of Rowland Sinclair would be more usefully pursued another day. Crispin White thanked Rowland for his time and his brandy—sincerely because he’d quite unexpectedly enjoyed the young man’s company.
    Realising that both he and his guest were compromised by their intemperance, Rowland suggested that White stay the night at
Woodlands
and drive home in the morning.
    â€œWhy that’s most handsome of you, Sinclair.”
    â€œAnd unnecessary.” Milton strode into the dining room. “I’ll drive Crispin home. He’ll be able to report that he rode in a Red Cross Invitational racecar, and it’ll give us a chance to catch up.”
    â€œBut my vehicle…” White began.
    â€œI’ll drop it back tomorrow, or you can pick it up… but there’s no need for you to stop tonight.”
    White seemed unsettled, but he agreed.
    Again Rowland noted the prevailing tension between them. It