Chapter Nine
Jack turned back to look at Clark. "I'm sorry, I have to go. You can take it from here? When's the next train to Melbourne?"
"Yes, of course," replied his counterpart, "but the next train's not until tonight. It's the overnight service."
Jack swallowed, and glanced away to think. Then he straightened, decision made, and sprinted outside to flag down a taxi.
It took a precious half hour to reach Mascot, and he tried hard to participate in the driver's rudimentary attempts at conversation on the way.
When he'd paid off the fare, he looked around, and strode over to the nearest group of likely-looking individuals. They looked at him enquiringly as he approached, and he cleared his throat before announcing, loud and clear,
"My wife is in Melbourne and is about to give birth to our first child. I need someone to fly me there, and I don't very much care what it's going to cost me."
He received a collectively assessing glance. Then they all looked to one member of the group, whose weatherbeaten face and sharp eyes bespoke the seasoned veteran. He looked up at the sky, and at his watch, and then spoke up.
"I'll do it for the fuel and a bottle of scotch to wet the baby's head. Name's Kingsford Smith. And you are?"
Jack's jaw dropped.
The most famous aviator in Australia grinned, and tossed a couple of instructions to his colleagues, who jogged off to drag out and fuel the Southern Cross. "So, we'll just call you Father, shall we?"
"Robinson. Sorry. Jack Robinson."
The hours in the air were cold, and, despite a borrowed extra layer, Jack was struggling to restore circulation as he climbed stiffly out of the aeroplane less than five hours later. His legs buckled slightly as he landed on the ground, and Kingsford Smith ("Call me Smithy") chuckled as he leaped nimbly down. Hoarsely, Jack tried to thank his heroic benefactor.
"No worries. I'll put up at the Windsor tonight, so let me know how it goes, all right?"
"I will. Of course. I'll telephone. Thank you. Thank you very much. Thank you." Jack was conscious that he was starting to gabble as he started to walk, then run away on his gradually-less-cotton-wool legs, waving a careless hand over his shoulder. A telephone call to City South saw him unashamedly commandeering a police car and driver, and within the hour, they roared to a halt outside 221B The Esplanade.
As he burst in through the front door, Dorothy was crossing the hall, a bale of towels in her arms. She stopped and stared.
"Inspector! How on earth … We've been trying to reach you. We thought you were in Sydney. Miss Fisher went into labour about an hour ago. How did you hear?"
An hour ago. But it was almost seven hours since he'd had the urgent message to come home. He looked at Dot matter-of-factly.
"Mrs Bolkonsky told me."
Leaving Dot with a "But …" dying on her lips, he took the stairs two at a time.
