Chapter Four
They had left The Esplanade as soon as it could reasonably be arranged, but by the time the Inspector and Miss Fisher arrived at Dorcas Street, darkness had already fallen. While Phryne poked around the alleyway with her torch, Jack bearded the young constable from his team who was still stopping passers-by, asking if they'd been in the area earlier in the afternoon.
"Anything, Dixon?"
The young man shook his head. "No sir. We've not found anyone who was here at around the time Collins disappeared." He was tense, and his voice higher-pitched than usual.
"Dixon, the best we can do is the job we always do," said Jack, feigning a calmness he didn't feel. "We'll find him, and do it with solid police work. You're doing well – keep going."
Dixon's shoulders relaxed slightly and he was emboldened to ask a further question. "Sir, would it be better if I came back tomorrow at about the time we think Collins was here? It's a busy place, but maybe if someone comes past at the same time every day, they might remember seeing him."
"Excellent idea, Constable," came the enthusiastic response from behind Jack's shoulder. Miss Fisher had drawn a blank and joined the rest of the investigative team under the street light. "And I've had another thought, Inspector." She looked at him, waiting to be invited to share.
"Please, Miss Fisher, any suggestions are welcome," he said unhesitatingly – and didn't even pause to think how times had changed since he used to do his best to keep her at arm's length from his investigations.
"Why not see if Vernon Bushby will let you ask his listeners?"
Jack whistled silently.
"It's not Vern I'd have to ask – it's the Chief Commissioner," he muttered half to himself, mulling the idea.
"If that's the only hurdle, leave it to me, Jack!" she offered.
Vernon Bushby worked for the local radio station, 3SK; Jack had had a brief spell of putting his microphone voice to use for the benefit of the populace of Melbourne, but after he inadvertently discovered that it was apparently an incentive for crime to sound attractive on the radio, it was deemed an Inappropriate Activity by the Higher Powers in Russell Street, and his crime-fighting guest slots came to an abrupt halt.
"Let me help," Phryne urged. "If I call Bill Cooper and tell him you don't want to do it, you'll be on air within the hour."
All it took was a wry smile from him, and she was off to his car, waiting impatiently to be driven to City South's telephone. In the event, it was barely more than half an hour and two telephone calls later, and Jack was sitting in his familiar guest chair, watching Bushby simultaneously end a music track and cue a sponsor's message.
"Is your baby a Bartholomew Baby?" asked a young man with acne, spectacles and an improbably matinee-idol tone of voice. "Always ask for Bartholomew's Patent Gripe Water – it's a Happy Home that Holds a Bartholomew Baby!"
"Welcome back," said Bushby smoothly. "Tonight, we're recalling, for one night only, the Lowdown on the Lowdowns – yes, we've got Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of Melbourne's finest with us, and he's asking for our help. Inspector, tell me more?"
The nerves disappeared, and Jack slipped naturally into his radio persona. The appeal for witnesses was brief, but heartfelt, and Phryne watched approvingly through the studio glass.
Bushby cued up more jazz, and sat back. "One of your own, Jack," he remarked.
Jack nodded. "One of my best men. Young family." He stood, and reached for hat and coat. "If you want to repeat any of those messages later in the show, Vern, I'll be grateful. I want him back."
"We all do," concurred Phryne, opening the studio door to let him out. "'Night, Vernon dear," she called, and blew the broadcaster a kiss which was cheerfully and nimbly caught.
They said little on the short drive back to The Esplanade; both sleuths were casting about in their minds for any other avenues they could try.
As they got out of the police car and walked hand in hand to the front door, Phryne stopped for a moment, and spoke quietly enough that no-one in the house would be able to hear.
"Could it be a kidnapping for ransom?"
Jack shook his head. "It could be anything – but I doubt it's a ransom attempt. What kind of ransom would you get for a police constable?"
They faced one another for a moment, and Phryne chewed her lip. The answer, of course, was Very Little – even if that meant everything Dot had. Neither of them wanted to think about what the response would be from the authorities to a ransom demand for one of their men.
Jack squeezed her hand, and led her to the door. There were already signs of new occupants – pint-size galoshes were lined up alongside the adult versions, and a forgotten wooden train was sitting under the telephone table. As they hung up their coats and turned to the parlour, a familiar voice greeted them acerbically.
"What time do you call this? My goddaughter went to bed ages ago."
Phryne smiled despite herself, and walked ahead of Jack into the room.
"Hello, Mac. Helped yourself to the Scotch, I see!"
Mac, however, looked drained and didn't smile back.
"I needed to see you both. About a death."
Jack froze on his way to the drinks table and Phryne's heart caught in her throat. "Mac, not …"
The doctor stood and grasped her friend's hands. "Don't be an idiot. I heard Jack on the radio talking about Hugh's disappearance – Phryne, if I'd found him on a slab, I'd have told you before now."
Phryne slumped into a chair, and then looked up with thanks as Jack thrust a whisky into her hand.
"Then what, Mac? Who's died?"
Mac sat again, and looked into the fire. Phryne knew that look; it was the one that spoke of professional detachment. It hadn't been wheeled out all that often since 1918.
"A baby. Actually, three babies." She looked at them blankly. "I need your help."