Free The Holiday Murders by Robert Gott Page A

say it often enough,’ Jones said — unable, despite his intention, to fully excise a faint nastiness from his tone. Peggy, who was clearly too solipsistic to bother with other people’s tones of voice, laughed heartily. The others chortled politely, and Jones relaxed into his feeling of utter contempt for these soft, decadent frauds who didn’t in the least resemble the sort of people who could lead Australia into the security and certitude of a National Socialist future. He’d show them soon enough what that meant.
    The food on the table spoke eloquently of Magill’s wealth. A lot of it had probably been bought from American servicemen who’d pilfered it from their well-supplied canteen. Jones sat down, and they began to eat — or, rather, Jones began to eat, and the others resumed their meal. They hadn’t been completely taken in by Jones’s unconvincing tilt at educated speech; but even if they had been, the manner in which he handled his fork would have betrayed him as having been raised outside the civilising milieu of the middle class. Each of them noticed, with silent condescension, that Jones held his fork as if it were a spoon, with the tines pointing upward; and that was how he used it, too, as a kind of scoop. It made them feel comfortably superior to their visitor, and went some way towards taking the edge off the unease he elicited. Jones ate in silence, aware that he ought to say something, yet enjoying the growing awkwardness. Magill relieved him of the need to find a way to bring up the purpose of his visit.
    ‘I understand from our mutual acquaintance that you’re keen to work with us.’
    ‘As I mentioned on the telephone’, Jones said, ‘I saw you … heard you, at the Savoy Theatre, back in March. I thought that what you had to say made sense. Since then I’ve read back-issues of The Publicist , and I think we have a lot in common, politically.’
    The emphasis he put on this last word made it clear that Jones was perfectly aware of how these people saw him. More importantly, it let them know what he thought of them.
    ‘Unfortunately, our government thinks we’re the enemy. We’re sadly depleted in terms of membership.’
    ‘Our government is the real enemy, Mitchell.’
    Jones glanced quickly from face to face to gauge the effect of these words. Arthur smiled nervously, and scratched behind his shirt as if troubled by a flea. Margaret stared at him blankly, having reassessed him as being vicious as well as gauche. Peggy didn’t catch his eye, but it was from lack of interest more than anything else. Mitchell managed to maintain a neutral expression, and went on chewing. Finally, he said quietly, ‘You’re absolutely right, Ptolemy. Not many people have the courage to say that out loud. May I quote Herr Goebbels without alarming you?’
    ‘I have nothing against Herr Goebbels. I hope we all see the sense in much of what is said in Germany.’
    Margaret and Arthur nodded, and Magill said, ‘It’s my belief that art is more important than politics. Indeed, Herr Goebbels has pointed out that art is a fine way, the best way, to lift the hearts and spirits of people in times of great sorrow and duress. Art is the measure of a culture’s strength. Do you know about the Great German Art Exhibitions, Ptolemy?’
    Jones shook his head. He wasn’t sure how the conversation had taken this turn, and what it might mean.
    ‘They continue in spite of the war, and they continue because the creative force of the brush and chisel is as important to the German leadership as the destructive force of its weapons. It’s really what the weapons are for — to protect the integrity of a great culture.’
    Jones looked at the paintings on Magill’s walls, and wondered what the hell Magill was talking about. Magill stood up, his face flushed with alcohol, and his enthusiasm unleashed.
    ‘All these pictures,’ he said, ‘are mine. I mean, I painted them. They’re copies, of course, but I’m rather