Browning Takes Off

  Browning Takes Off

  From tapes among the

  papers of Richard

  Browning

  Transcribed and edited by

  Peter Corris

  Copyright © 2014, Peter Corris

  First published by Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 1989

  FOR

  Patrick Cook

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  BROWNING TAKES OFF

  APPENDIX: The making of Hell's Angels

  NOTES

  INTRODUCTION

  The transcribing, copying and editing of the Browning tapes proceeds smoothly. The work has been facilitated by a generous grant from Mr Richard Kelly Featherstone of New York City who wrote to me after the publication of the second volume of the Browning memoirs. Mr Featherstone was born in Providence, Rhode Island in 1923 and was raised by a couple whom he believed to be his parents until their deaths in a motor car accident in 1965. By this time Mr Featherstone, who had been educated at an exclusive military school and Harvard University, was a prosperous attorney. His first letter to me reads in part:

  As I was sorting through my parents' effects I came upon evidence that I was not their child but some sort of changeling whose support had been handsomely subsidised by a person whose name was not recorded. I have to say that their performance of the role of parents was beyond reproach. I had love and respect from them and I gave it in return and still do. Nor was there any sign that they had profited personally from the task of bringing me up.

  My father, Mr Henry G. Featherstone . . . was an attorney and a successful one. I was proud to follow the same profession. The point, Mr Corris, is that I was a round peg in a round hole (although my children might think to substitute 'square' for round) and I had no reason ever to suspect that I was not a Featherstone born and bred.

  I have been unable to find out anything about the source of the funds that helped to educate and cultivate me, beyond two things. One, they ceased when I reached the age of twenty-six. I was a qualified lawyer by this time of course and no longer dependent on my parents, although this was only recently true as I had pursued postgraduate studies and had undertaken some improving travel abroad. Secondly, one paper among my father's effects carried the name 'Bonnie Dalton', written almost as a doodle or jotting.

  Mr Featherstone read 'Beverly Hills' Browning and became convinced that he was the offspring of Richard Browning and the woman referred to there as Bonnie Dalton. As readers of that book will know, my efforts to trace Bonnie Dalton, a bit part actress in the Hollywood of the 1920s, failed and Mr Featherstone's history may provide a clue to her later life. It seems possible that she was a kinswoman of the Featherstones and came to an arrangement with them about the child. She must have remained prosperous for twenty-six years to have contributed so handsomely to her son's upbringing. (According to Mr Featherstone, his benefactor met all school and college fees and a great many other expenses.) She also may have stayed in touch with the Featherstones and received reports on the boy's progress. Alternatively, the cessation of the allowance may have been occasioned by her own death rather than any awareness of Mr Featherstone's independence.

  Mr Featherstone is continuing research into the circumstances and documentation of his birth (he regards his given names as further proof) and following other scanty clues. Meantime, I have to express my deep gratitude to him for the support he has lent to the project. He has given generously and asked for nothing – certainly he wishes 'Box Office' Browning's memoirs to be published in full and without censorship of any kind.

  The usual problems have been encountered in preparing this portion of the record of Richard Browning's life. Unfortunately, he seems to have used some inferior cassettes and poor voice quality has sometimes resulted. As a consequence it is sometimes difficult to discern words and phrases, particularly when Indian and Eskimo names are involved. It seems likely that Browning, decades after these events in the 'frozen north' and working without the benefit of notes, was often simply guessing and many of the names he gives have been unlocatable in the ethnological literature. There are other quirks too: in tapes covering the early period Browning appears to shudder as if with the cold and leaves off taping apparently to get up and close a door or window. At later points, especially when affected by liquor, he imitates the sounds of aircraft, often to the detriment of clear recording and transcription.

  For help with aspects of aviation history in the period covered by Browning's memoir I am grateful to Trevor Thorn, an enthusiast.

  P.C.

  Sydney, 1989

  1

  If your idea of a Mountie1 is a guy in a scarlet coat on horseback tracking renegade Indians and Eskimos, rescuing girls from avalanches and crooning 'Rosemarie' to them, you're way off beam. For one thing, a lot of the work of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was done by motorised transport – cars, boats and even planes. There was a good deal of walking in snow as I was to find out to my discomfort, and in one particular respect the real Mounties differed completely from the movie version – I never met one who could sing.

  I'd fetched up in British Columbia in a stolen ketch named the Darwin. Stealing the boat was no big problem as I'd stolen it from some bootleggers who'd coerced me into helping them land booze in California. And Canada was the right place to be – a thousand miles from LA where a misunderstanding over a woman (what else?) had caused the local leader of the International Workers of the World to hate me worse than capitalism. The real problem was that my servant Pedro Cortez and I had dropped off a Latin bootlegger on the American side of the border. So what? Well, he happened to have a Thompson submachine gun with him and my middle name happened to be Kelly. The Mounties were on the look out for gun runners, illegal immigrants and drug smugglers so Inspector Ambrose Chester had nabbed me for a gun-running, seditious Fenian. I guess they hoped they'd find some drugs aboard the Darwin to complete the package.

  Nabbed is the right word because, after I'd taken in the situation and stumbled up onto the dock from the Darwin, I followed my natural instinct in tight spots, which is to run. A well polished and smartly stuck-out boot put an end to that. I sprawled on the wet, greasy planks and looked up at the knife-edge crease in Chester's pants.

  'Sorry,' I said, 'must've slipped.'

  Chester and his underling bundled us into a car and we drove through the city to the police lockup. I didn't see much of Vancouver on that trip – the day was fine but the air was cold and seemed foggy. I learned later that the place is famous for its fogs. There was a sort of arraignment room in a basement under the police building and Chester took us there practically on the run and raced through some mumbo-jumbo in front of a scribbling clerk and another official who nodded and tapped his desk with a pencil.

  Tap, tap, he went. 'To be held for committal.'

  'Wait on,' I said. 'This doesn't sound like British law to me.'

  'Know a bit about it, do you?' Chester said. 'I'll just bet you do. Well, this is Mountie law for now, mister. You'll see some of the other kind soon enough.' He barked an order and Pedro and I found ourselves marching between two stalwart Mounties out of the room and down some steps to the cells.

  It was cold down there and pretty dark. There were three or four cells, all empty, and we were put together in the biggest one which had four bunks and two buckets. One of the Mounties looked at me oddly as they closed the door and I thought to take advantage of it. 'What about a smoke?' I said.

  He looked at me again, shrugged and felt in his pockets. He tossed a packet through the barred upper half of the steel door to the cell and placed a couple of matches on top of the heavy lock.

  'Thanks,' I said.

  Pedro hadn't said a word the whole time, limiting himse
lf to nods and shakes of the head when asked things like, 'Are you a British subject?' Now he pulled a blanket off a bunk, wrapped it around himself and glowered.

  'A cigarette, por favor,' he said.

  I lit the cigarettes and Pedro blew a stream of smoke at some bugs clustered on the cell wall.

  'We're in a bad fix,' I said.

  He nodded. 'Different fixes but bad for both. I don't think they will charge me with the gun running.'

  'Oh, why d'you say that?'

  He smiled; his teeth were white against his dark, bearded face and he brushed his hair forward. 'No speak English,' he said.

  I had to laugh. 'You're a cunning bastard, Pedro.'

  'Not so cunning perhaps. I suppose they could send me back to Mexico?'

  'Probably.'

  'That means I'll be shot. What do they do to gun runners and seditionists here?'

  'Shoot them, I imagine.'

  I used the bucket and sat on a bunk smoking and wondering if the place provided meals. I was starving and also feeling badly in need of a strong drink. I could stave off the hunger and the craving with cigarettes but then I'd run out of them and be left with another craving. I mulled this over and sneaked another cigarette while Pedro had a nap. We must both have looked pretty villainous – shaggy haired, bearded and dirty. I was wearing only two thin shirts and a light jacket, so I followed Pedro's example by wrapping a blanket around me. It was a miserable hour, sitting hunched in the cold cell like an Indian waiting to be sent back to the reservation, or worse.

  I was thinking about another smoke when the Mountie who'd given me the cigarettes appeared at the bars with a steaming enamel mug. I jumped up and he lifted his finger to his lips to indicate silence. He passed the mug through the bars and I sipped strong, hot, sweet coffee for the first time in weeks. He peered in at me and stroked his smooth, clean-shaven face.

  'My name's Connybear,' he said.

  'You're a gentleman, Constable. I'm pleased to meet you.' I was willing enough to suck up to him for a few more cigarettes and another mug of coffee even though I knew what was coming – some God-bothering sermon unless I missed my guess.

  'I was up in the Yukon2 one time, prospecting.' He was a softly spoken man and I had to lean closer to listen, not that I was very interested.

  'Yes?' I drank more coffee.

  'Yeah. Grew a wild beard and hair like yours; just like yours. Dang me if we wouldn't look like twins if'n I was like that now.'

  I looked more closely at him. He was a few years younger than me and it had been a long time since I was clean-shaven but I could see a strong resemblance in eyes, shape of face, hair and so on. 'Yes,' I said. 'You're a handsome devil, we're much alike.'

  I thought I heard a grunt from Pedro but it might have been a snore.

  'Thing is,' Connybear said, 'have you got any scars under all that hair? Got any pock marks or anything?'

  'Certainly not!'

  He gripped the bars and practically thrust his face into mine. 'I want to get outa the Mounties,' he whispered. 'I hate it.'

  'Well, can't you resign?'

  'I'm signed on for another six months an' I don't think I can take it that long.'

  'I'm sorry. Any more coffee?'

  He poured from a metal pot and offered his cigarettes. I took a deep drag and a long swallow of the coffee. 'You wouldn't have a drop of something, would you, Constable?'

  He nodded, took a silver flask from his jacket pocket and poured a solid slug into my mug. I drank again and felt the warmth of the brandy running down my throat and into my stomach and through the length of me. Wonderful. Maybe he had a woman tucked away behind the nearest door. I felt relaxed and vaguely interested in his plight. 'What's the matter with the job? Too hard?'

  'No, too boring. Just a bit of this and a bit of that. No real work. It's no work for a man at all.'

  'That's too bad. Well, six months isn't long.'

  'It's too long for me! How would you like to get out of here tonight?'

  Careful, Dick, I thought, he has a fanatical look to him. 'Well, I suppose . . .'

  'Tonight!' he said fiercely. 'You and your friend.'

  'How?'

  'By turnin' yourself into me. See, I let you, that is, me, escape. You take a knock on the head or somethin', an'. . .'

  'Hold on. You mean I impersonate you?'

  'That's right. See, I haven't been posted here all that long. No one knows me that well. I could fill you in real quick on what goes on around here. You could do it. Ever done any actin'?'

  'Si, señor,' Pedro said from the darkness. 'He is a movie star.'

  Connybear jumped at the sound but recovered quickly and grinned. It was uncanny; the slow smile spreading across his face was like the one I'd seen in photographs of myself a hundred times. Pedro came forward and accepted a cigarette. He took the mug from my hand and held it out for Connybear to wield the flask.

  'It'd be a piece of pie to you, then,' the Mountie said. 'You can ride, can't you? Shoot a bit?'

  'I thought you said it was all dull work, mooching around this place?'

  'Sure. Mostly.'

  I was tempted but deeply suspicious. Would someone trade places with a man likely to be convicted of capital offences all because of six months unpalatable duty? Not likely. Some other motive then. What? Money.

  'You mentioned the Yukon, Connybear. Are you sure you don't want to rush up there for some reason? Are you sure you don't need to get out of the police for some reason?'

  His eyes went cunning and narrow. If I was going to impersonate him I'd have to work on that – a wide-eyed, disingenuous look is more my style.

  Connybear scratched his smooth chin. 'Well . . .'

  'What does it matter?' Pedro said. 'It sounds like a wonderful plan.'

  'Shut up. Well, Constable Connybear?'

  'You got me,' he said. 'I could throw in a hundred dollars. It's true I've got a reason. It's not gold, mind you, more chancy. But still, I have to get out of the service.'

  'You're not facing some trouble yourself?' I took the mug from Pedro and finished the laced coffee.

  'No, no. D'you think they'd trust me to be turnkey like this if I wasn't in good standing?'

  'Take his offer,' Pedro hissed. 'You owe it to me!'

  'What's the plan?' I said.

  Connybear suddenly became very excited. 'I bring in hair cutting tackle an' shavin' gear and we get you all cleaned up. Then we change clothes, we're so close in size as to make no difference. I saw that in the court. I let you out an' wallop you on the head. Not too hard. But we make it look like you got careless an' I hit you an' got the keys. Then your friend . . .'

  'Pedro Cortez,' Pedro said.

  'Pedro and me skedaddle. We get the boat an' take off.'

  'Leaving me to face the music.'

  Connybear emptied the flask into the mug and gave it to me. 'You'll have nothin' to worry about. You can be dazed an' confused for a few hours while you get your bearin's and see what's goin' on.'

  'What if someone shows up in the middle of all this?'

  'No chance of that. They're all over in the barracks where it's warm. Only prisoners and poor ol' guards have to hang around in this cold crib.'

  'Foolproof,' Pedro said.

  'It's all right for you,' I said. 'You're taking off in the boat, no doubt with more brandy and a head start.'

  'Few hours,' Connybear said. 'What choice've you got? You're facin' twenty years in Manitoba prison, that's if you're lucky.'

  'Make sure you bring the money,' I said.

  Connybear came back an hour later and he and Pedro cut my hair and shaved me. Connybear took the clippings and said he'd get rid of them. The resemblance was amazing. I was a little paler where the beard had been but otherwise we were like twins. I fancied my teeth were a fraction straighter and whiter. Connybear's uniform fitted perfectly. He shrugged into my clothes and scratched himself.

  'When'd you last wash these duds?' he said.

  'I forget. Wh
ere's the money?'

  'In your pocket.'

  I took out the roll of notes and counted them. The cell door was open and Pedro was standing there with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. 'Well, good luck, Dick,' he said. 'I'm sure we'll meet up again.'

  'Hope so, Pedro.' We shook hands and then something landed on the back of my head. It felt like the steel door of the cell; the strange-feeling boots slipped from under me and the steel door hit me again.

  2

  When I came around it seemed as if I was lying in the middle of a dense, cold patch of Vancouver fog. Faces came swimming towards me through the vapours – my wife, Elizabeth, Pedro, Inspector Chester, Connybear – it was hard to tell what was real and what was not. Eventually two faces assumed solid and believable form – Chester's and that of another Mountie.

  'Connybear, are you all right, man?' Chester rapped.

  'Er . . . oh, I think . . .'

  'He sounds funny,' the other one said.

  I had wit enough to realise that he was talking about my accent which, I suppose, was Australian overlaid with some Californian by now. I opened my eyes, blinked and let my head roll to one side. Better do some listening before I do any more talking, I thought.

  'Plain enough what happened here, Connors,' Chester said. 'This damn fool got drunk and got careless. That Browning is a desperate fellow and no mistake. And it's a wonder the Mexican didn't knife him into the bargain.'

  'It looks that way, sir,' Connors said.

  Apart from the drunkenness accusation, grossly unjust that, this analysis didn't sound too bad. If I kept my wits about me perhaps I could pull this mad stunt off. I groaned and twitched, drawing my legs up and letting them flop down again.

  'D'you think he's got a brain injury, sir?'

  'Never had any brains that I ever heard of,' Chester said. 'What's the time?'

  'Six o'clock, sir.'

  'Damn them! They must have five or six hours start at least. Well, telephone the dock and secure that boat of theirs. Send someone to the railway and put a few men on the trucking yards.'