Paving the New Road (10 page)

They took breakfast on the verandah at Raffles, sipping tea and enjoying a civilised repast in the cooling movement of a sea breeze from Indochina. Clyde sat between Edna and Rowland, where he was protected from Gerald Haxton. The American was either completely enchanted by Clyde or just amused by his discomfort, and
continued to lavish the poor man with compliments and invitations that could be taken amiss. Maugham ignored his personal secretary’s eloquent zeal for the visibly mortified Australian, retreating into a kind of indulgent reserve.

Milton had enhanced his conservative suit with a black and gold cravat, which Rowland suspected had been fashioned from the cummerbund the poet had worn the evening before. One of the peacock feathers from Edna’s boa had also found its way into Milton’s hatband.

“It was a good idea to bring them,” Maugham said quietly to Rowland, while the rest of the party flirted and performed and chatted merrily.

“I do beg your pardon.” Rowland was a little startled.

“Your friends, my boy.” Maugham put down his tea and whispered again. “They’re eye-catching. You’re much less likely to be noticed among them.” He nodded approvingly. “That was well thought out.”

Rowland smiled as Milton stood to steal poetry once again, and Edna bestowed a glance upon Haxton that would have enslaved most other men. Eye-catching was an apt description. Even Clyde was noticeable for the fact that he was trying so hard to escape notice. Indeed, Rowland suspected Edna was flirting with particular dedication in a vain, but loyal, attempt to distract Haxton’s attentions from Clyde. The whole scene was typical, ludicrous, and yes, eye-catching.

In time they shook hands and took their leave of William Somerset Maugham and Gerald Haxton. It was time to get on.

Kingsford Smith and his crew were already at the airport when they arrived. They looked as though they, too, may have enjoyed a gin-sling or several the evening before. Rowland thought it better not to enquire too closely, all things considered.

Singapore was to be their longest stopover. The
Southern Cross
would land a number of times before she crossed the Alps into Vienna. In Ceylon they lay down for a few hours beneath mosquito nets at the Galle Face Hotel and left before dawn; in Karachi they slept briefly in the colonial splendour of the Killarney Hotel; and in Baghdad, Edna drowsed on Rowland’s shoulder as they waited for the Fokker to be refuelled.

At each stop they had been met by men who were connected with either Charles Hardy or Wilfred Sinclair, who had advice, warnings and instructions.

In Bagdad they received the news that Bert Hinkler’s body had been found in the Italian Alps after he’d been missing for over three months. They paused to farewell him with some local brew that was both sweet and potent. To Rowland and his houseguests, who knew Hinkler as a hero, the passing was sad, but to the airmen he was a friend, a brother-in-arms. They mourned him truly. No one spoke of the fact that they were about to fly a route not unlike that which had brought Hinkler to his end.

7

HINKLER’S BODY FOUND

May 1

The body of Squadron-Leader Bert Hinkler, the Australian airman, was found on Friday on a desolate plateau in the Apennine Mountains between Florence and Arezzo, in Italy. Hinkler disappeared on January 7th, the first day of an attempted flight from England to Australia. Apparently the plane had run out of fuel, smashed itself against a mountain side, 4,600 feet above sea level, and burst into flames. The tanks were empty. Hinkler must have died instantly, for he had terrible head injuries.

Portland Guardian, 1933

T
he
Southern Cross
made an unremarkable landing just outside Vienna. Nothing failed mechanically and the airfield, although small, was even, and adequate for a pilot of Kingsford Smith’s skill. The company was to part here.

Kingsford Smith and his crew would take the Fokker F.VII on to London, where they would deliver several bags of mail, ostensibly proving the viability of a mail route between Britain and Australia.

“Well, Sinclair, good luck.” Kingsford Smith shook Rowland’s hand as the
Southern Cross
was being prepared to fly again. For
the first time Rowland sensed a curiosity in the airman as to their purpose in Europe. “I suppose you’ll be back in Sydney in a few months so we can teach you to fly that Gipsy of yours.”

Rowland sighed. There was a beautiful de Havilland Gipsy Moth stored in a shed on
Oaklea
, the Sinclairs’ property at Yass. Since the moment the Gipsy had come into his possession Rowland had been determined to pilot her himself. He had signed on months before, to the flying school that Kingsford Smith would soon open. Of course, now he would have to delay the lessons till his return, but nothing so far had dampened his enthusiasm for the sport. “You’ll see me,” he said. “You can count on it.”

“Senator Hardy didn’t really mention what you were doing here.” Kingsford Smith pressed a cigarette tightly between his lips.

“We’re buying art.”

“Art?”

Rowland tried to sound like he knew what he was talking about. “Yes … Good time to invest … the Depression, you see …”

Kingsford Smith nodded slowly. “So why the hurry?”

Rowland smiled. “A Rubens, actually … It’s been in a private collection for decades but the owner needs to liquidate quickly … debts or some such thing. We wanted to get here before other collectors got wind of it.”

“What has the good Senator Hardy got to do with it? I wouldn’t have thought he was an art collector.”

Rowland searched quickly for a plausible response. Kingsford Smith knew full well that the Senator had smoothed their way with passports and papers. The airman might also have noticed that his passengers were travelling, on record, under assumed names. Rowland decided to take a punt that Kingsford Smith was not himself a saint. “We are making purchases for a number of powerful
investors while we’re here,” he said carefully. “Senator Hardy is one of them. Sometimes there can be issues with Customs, foreign laws, that sort of thing.”

Kingsford Smith grinned suddenly. He winked at Rowland and slapped him on the back. “I see. Well, never let it be said that Smithy hasn’t helped out the Australian entrepreneur. Had the odd stoush with Customs myself.”

Rowland laughed, relieved. “You understand that our purpose here is something that needs to be treated with … discretion.”

“Yes, of course … mum’s the word.”

And so, with Kingsford Smith convinced that they were involved in some sort of minor smuggling operation, they said farewell. Edna kissed each airman for luck and Kingsford Smith added her scarf to the collection of charms in the cockpit. And the
Southern Cross
and the men who flew her soared once again into the sky.

The Wien-Bahnhof, Vienna’s major railway station, was crowded, bustling with travellers and merchants. Bakers with baskets passed warm pastries to passengers through carriage windows, as smartly dressed travellers promenaded on the platform. Beggars lurked in the shadowed spaces of the station and brown-shirted members of the Sturmabteilung, otherwise known as the SA, wandered in loud, arrogant groups. Rowland watched as they strutted, bullying railway workers. He shook his head. Common thugs cloaked in the dubious legitimacy of the SA uniform.

Rowland organised their passages upon the Orient Express to Munich. Trunks of clothing and necessities had already been loaded onto the train. The trunks had, of course, been stocked and
packed by someone else. They were now conscious of appearing like art collectors on a purchasing tour of Europe and boarding without luggage would have seemed odd to anyone who noticed. In a small guesthouse near the station, they had washed and changed. One did not travel and dine on the Orient Express without being appropriately attired.

Though the journey to Munich would be one of hours rather than days, Rowland booked sleeping cabins in the first-class carriage. They were tired, having only snatched sleep for several days now, and they would need privacy. Each of them would have to become accustomed to new names—their own and each other’s. They would have to ensure they told a consistent story of their recent history, their association, their business.

“Oi!” Milton reached out and grabbed a small boy by the shoulder. The child was swarthy and ragged, with eyes that glittered resentfully as Milton restrained him. “Little blighter had his hand in your pocket … Robbie,” he said, hesitating slightly as he used Rowland’s alias. “Hand it over, you thieving scamp.”

The boy kept his fist tightly closed and berated Milton bitterly in some foreign language.

“Not so tight, you’ll hurt him,” Edna said, looking sympathetically at the thin, dirty pickpocket. “What did he say, Robbie?”

Rowland shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it’s Romany … I’m pretty sure it wasn’t ‘Welcome to Vienna’, though.”

The child spoke again, but this time in Bavarian, addressing Rowland directly and finishing with what seemed like a hiss.

Rowland paused for a moment, mildly astounded, and grinned despite himself. “That I understood … but I can’t repeat it in the presence of Ed.”

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Edna asked, bending down.

“Schlampen.” The boy glared at her.

“Schlampen,” Edna said smiling. “How do you do, Schlampen?”

Rowland tried hard not to laugh. “I don’t think that’s his name, Ed. In fact, I wouldn’t repeat it.”

Clyde chuckled. “Belligerent little blighter, isn’t he?”

Edna took the boy’s clenched fist, but gently. “What did you take, little boy?”

He opened his hand. Coins. Australian coins.

A whistle warned that the Orient Express was preparing to pull away.

Rowland glanced back at the train. “Let him go. It’s just a couple of shillings.”

Reluctantly, Milton released the boy, who did not linger, fleeing with the coins still clutched in his hand.

“We’d better get moving—the train leaves in …” Milton stared at his bare wrist, where a watch should have been. Cursing, he looked around for the young pickpocket, who was by then well and truly gone. “Damn it … if I get my hands on that—”

Rowland checked his own watch as the final whistle sounded and the air became moist with squealing steam. “We don’t have time to hunt the boy down … We’ll have to get you another in Munich.”

For a moment Milton resisted but the theft had been well timed, and they had little option. They ran for the train now and boarded breathless, just seconds before it pulled out.

Their assigned compartment had been converted for the day into a carpeted sitting room; the seats upholstered in burgundy velvet on either side of a central table. Luggage racks and other fittings were brass and the walls, panelled cedar. It was a cosy fit with the four of them, but though Rowland had booked three double sleeping cabins
to accommodate them, they did have many matters they needed to discuss.

Edna and Milton squabbled briefly for a place beside the window. Milton won, and Rowland gave up the facing seat to Edna.