Phyllis Wong and the Waking of the Wizard

by Geoffrey McSkimming

  Barry frowned at the card.

  ‘I reckon,’ Phyllis continued, ‘that when Sturdy jumped down from the rock, he landed on that card and it stuck to him from the impact. The ground was wet at Stonehenge. And he must’ve taken a muddy route back to the old farmhouse when he returned to the Pocket there. That farmhouse is surrounded by fields.’

  Barry reached across his desk and picked up an empty clear plastic forensics sleeve. He slid the card into the sleeve and placed it neatly on the desk beside him. ‘Why do you think Alexander Sturdy wants to kill Wallace Wong?’ he asked.

  ‘And now me,’ added Phyllis.

  Barry put up his hand, almost as if he didn’t want to hear her say that again.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Phyllis answered. ‘But he’s tried it more than once. He learnt about the whole Transiting business after spying on W.W., way back at the beginning of last century. And after they had their falling-out, Sturdy kept popping up, trying to wipe out my great-grandfather. W.W. told me Sturdy tried to push things into his path, or on top of him like he did at Stonehenge.’

  ‘We need to apprehend this “Sturdy”. Tell me: what does he look like?’ Barry picked up a notepad and pencil. ‘Give me a full description; all you can remember.’

  ‘He was tall. Wide-shouldered. And he had auburn hair. He might’ve had a beard. I think. That’s all I know.’

  Barry raised his eyebrows. Phyllis Wong was usually more observant than this.

  ‘Apart from that, I only saw his coat, really. A big overcoat with a fur collar. The evening was almost dark when he jumped down from the standing stone, and then he took off.’

  ‘Hmm. That’s not much help, is it? Someone can change their coat as quickly as they can change their mind. And a beard can easily come off.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Phyllis knew that from Clement, well and good.

  ‘We need more of a description. A photo would be the best thing.’

  ‘Huh? A photo? What, you expected me to whip out my phone and snap him while he was trying to crush W.W. to death?’

  ‘No, Miss Wong. No, I was just thinking out loud . . .’

  Phyllis frowned.

  ‘With a photo,’ Barry went on, ‘I could send it out to the whole Force, and not just here in the city, but interstate as well. Internationally, even. Heavens, the way this man goes, there are hardly any boundaries or checkpoints.’

  ‘I tried searching for him online, but nothing came up. Not a single image.’ Then a thought came into Phyllis’s mind. ‘Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Wong?’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  He studied her for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘All right, I shall leave it to you. In the meantime though, I’ll put out an alert, with the description you’ve given me.’ He tapped his notepad with the pencil. ‘It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.’

  Phyllis stood, picking up her bag. ‘I’m off; I have to see someone who might be able to help.’

  Barry raised an eyebrow in an and who might that be? fashion.

  ‘Wait and see,’ she responded.

  He slid off the desk and said, ‘Miss Wong, I want to arrange for someone to be watching out for you. Until we find Sturdy.’

  ‘What, like a shadow?’

  ‘They used to be called that, yes. I can get a couple of the detectives to keep a tail on you . . . don’t worry, you won’t even know they’re around. They can be almost invisible.’

  ‘They’re going to be trailing me?’

  ‘Like I said, you won’t even know—’

  ‘No,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Chief Inspector, what if one of them sees me disappear into a TimePocket? What if I get discovered Transiting?’

  Barry pulled a face akin to the sort of face he would have pulled if he had just sat in a very gooey puddle of treacle. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ repeated Phyllis. ‘Then the game would be up. That’s how Sturdy discovered Transiting, by spying on W.W. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I’ll just stay in busy places with plenty of people around me, or I’ll be at home with Daisy. I’ll keep a lookout for him wherever I am.’

  Barry asked, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’ll be extra alert,’ she assured him. ‘And if I come across him, I’ll text you.’

  He sighed. ‘Okay then.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Phyllis, heading for the door. ‘Bye!’

  Chief Inspector Inglis stayed where he was, staring at the closed door for a few minutes after Phyllis had left. He resolved, as firmly as a clenched fist, to track down the ventriloquist and apprehend him, before . . .

  He shuddered and tried to shake the thought from his mind.

  * See Phyllis Wong and the Forgotten Secrets of Mr Okyto and Phyllis Wong and the Return of the Conjuror.

  Picture me . . .

  The small silver bell above the door of Lowerblast’s Antiques & Collectables Emporium, on the ground floor of the Wallace Wong Building, tinkled brightly as Phyllis came into the shop.

  From behind the counter at the back of the long, narrow shop, Mrs Hildegard Lowerblast looked up from her magazine. ‘Ach! Phyllis! Guten Tag, my dear girl!’

  ‘Hi, Mrs L.’ Phyllis shut the door and hurried in. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Ah, things are quiet today, my dear. But no complaints I have.’ Mrs Lowerblast smoothed down her purple blouse and then popped her reading glasses off, letting them hang down on their gold chain. They rested on her ample bosom and stuck out at such an angle that it seemed that, like Mrs Lowerblast, they were also looking at Phyllis. ‘And what can I be doing for you this afternoon?’

  ‘I was wondering: do you have any old photos for sale?’ Phyllis asked.

  ‘Hmm.’ Mrs Lowerblast ran a plump finger across her lips as she thought. ‘I sometimes have old snaps . . . occasionally I buy albums of photos, mostly for the beautiful albums—they were made so finely in the old days—but good gracious me, I don’t think I’ve had any for ages. Nein. You could browse through those shelves near the door, with all the books and magazines . . . there may be something tucked away amongst all that.’ She gave Phyllis a smile.

  Phyllis turned and regarded the shelves. They were crammed with old books, piles of forgotten magazines with yellowing pages, and other printed literature: travel brochures, folded and dog-eared antique maps, museum guidebooks, theatre programs and movie lobby cards. At first glance, she couldn’t detect any old photographs or albums.

  ‘I’m after something in particular,’ she told Mrs Lowerblast.

  ‘Ja? And what might that thing in particular be?’ asked her friend.

  ‘A picture of a ventriloquist. A man from a long time ago. He used to work in some of the same theatres as my great-grandfather.’

  ‘Ah! A colleague of the Conjuror of Wonder!?’

  ‘Once upon a time. His name was Alexander Sturdy.’

  ‘Alexander Sturdy.’ Mrs Lowerblast repeated the name slowly, as if she was tasting a new cake for the first time and savouring the experience.

  ‘He used to have a dummy called Narky Norman,’ Phyllis added.

  ‘Ooh.’ Mrs Lowerblast gave a slight shudder at the sound of the name. ‘I must tell you, my dear, I have always been a little . . . how shall I say this . . . unsettled . . . by those dolls that chatter away on ventriloquists’ laps. Oh, ja indeed. I find them most . . . squirmacious.’

  Phyllis smiled. ‘They’re just lumps of wood with moveable parts, that’s all.’

  ‘Ja, but they seem so . . . naughty. Some of them seem even wicked. Yergh.’ She shuddered again, and her glasses jiggled about as if they were giving Phyllis a thorough inspection. ‘I would not desire to be alone in a deserted room with one of those dummies, nein siree!’

  ‘A lot of people feel that way,’ Phyllis said. ‘I know a girl at school who cries if anyone shows her a picture of a strange-looking doll, even.’

  ‘Ach, I am not having the pro
blems with mere dolls,’ snorted Mrs Lowerblast. She looked across to a display cabinet in which sat a dozen antique porcelain dolls, all with bright eyes and rosy cheeks and dressed in lacy frocks, their hair neatly curled in tight, dangling ringlets. Each doll stared vacantly and silently back at Mrs Lowerblast. ‘Nein, if I found dolls to be perturberacious, then I would not stock them in my shop.’

  Phyllis looked at the dolls and wondered what people found attractive about them—she’d never been into them, even when she was younger.

  ‘So,’ said Mrs Lowerblast. ‘Alexander Sturdy. I’m afraid I cannot be helping you, Phyllis. The only old sort of photographs I would have, if I did have any in here, would be of the holiday variety, or weddings from long ago. Those are the sorts of albums I usually purchase at sales.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘But’—she gave Phyllis a half-smile, her plump cheeks puckering up like fleshy ping pong balls—‘I may be able to point you in a direction which might be valuable.’

  Phyllis said, ‘Point me, Mrs L.’

  ‘Well. There is another antiques dealer over in Ottwell Street . . . do you know where that is?’

  Phyllis’s face lit up. ‘Sure. That’s where Thundermallow’s is.’

  ‘Gut. This fellow specialises in old photographic equipment and antique photography—cameras, magic lanterns, early lenses, that sort of thing. In fact, it’s all he deals in. He has a huge collection of old photographs and advertising slides which he has been collecting for many years. I know for a fact that many of the pictures in his collection have come from old theatres that have closed down, or been demolished . . . photos of the theatres themselves, mostly, but he also has portraits of many of the performers who worked in those disappeared places.’

  At the sound of that, Phyllis felt a tingle of anticipation zithering around her elbows.

  ‘It is possible that he may have a theatrical photo of this Alexander Sturdy you are looking for. Even perhaps with his Norky Norman.’

  ‘Narky Norman.’

  ‘Ja.’ Mrs Lowerblast’s nose crinkled up at the thought of the dummy. ‘Narky, Norky, Nerky, whatever.’

  ‘That’s some lead, all right,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘His name is Quilrose, this dealer. Orson Quilrose. He is a very private person—he only allows people into his shop with a prior appointment—but I am sure I could arrange for you to be admitted. Orson and I go way back.’

  ‘Would you mind, Mrs L.? I can go there straightaway if he’s open!’

  ‘Ha! He’s always open, if you arrange your visit in advance. He has nothing else in his life, just his photographic odds and bobs. He is most enthusiacious about vintage photography! I shall telephone him now and tell him to expect you, ja?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘It’s number 17 Ottwell Street. Off you go, then,’ said Mrs Lowerblast, picking up her phone. ‘He’ll be expecting you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs L. I’ll let you know how I go!’

  ‘Ja, my dear, you do that. Auf Wiedersehen!’

  And the silver bell above the door tinkled again as Phyllis vanished into the outside world.

  Phyllis almost ducked upstairs into the Wallace Wong Building to collect Daisy, but then she thought better of it; she didn’t know if Orson Quilrose would let dogs into his shop, and she didn’t want to have to tie Daisy up on the sidewalk outside if he didn’t. So she sailed straight past the front doors of her building and headed south, to 17 Ottwell Street.

  On the way, she remembered that she’d promised to text Clem, so she stopped outside a delicatessen where plenty of people were coming and going, and sent him a message:

  Hey-ho. Going over to Ottwell Street. Meet me outside Thundermallow’s in an hour?

  Twenty seconds later, he texted back:

  Yup. Finished here almost. The queues went round the block!!!!!!! Miss Hipwinkle didn’t show ☹

  Phyllis sent:

  That’s because it’s daylight and too bright for her!

  And Clement responded:

  Ha a vampire she is NOT!!!!!!!!!!

  Phyllis rolled her eyes and put her phone away. She looked warily around the street, at the people passing by with their shopping and their kids. When she felt sure there was no one lurking in the vicinity who looked even a little like Alexander Sturdy, she set off towards Ottwell Street.

  Ottwell Street was one of a few streets near the river where the creeping shadow of skyscrapers and multi-storey parking lots hadn’t yet reached. It was lined with old, quaint shops and, when Phyllis and Clement went there, they often wouldn’t see anyone else around. Today, as she got closer, the crowds of shoppers and walkers thinned out, and Phyllis was very soon unsurrounded by the bustling throngs.

  She passed Thundermallow’s, with its dusty window display of cups and balls, jumbo playing cards, classic magic wands and grinning rubber skulls staring vacantly out through the pale green glass of the window. The display hadn’t been changed for as long as Phyllis could remember.

  In the sunniest corner of the window, Madame Ergins, the shop’s permanently cranky cat, was curled up in a drowsy, furry ball. As it was Saturday, Thundermallow’s was closed for the afternoon. Phyllis was a little glad about that, otherwise she knew she would have gone inside, and the hours would have vanished quicker than a palming coin in her hand.

  Five doors up from Thundermallow’s, Phyllis saw a narrow shopfront with a glass door and a tall, thin window next to it. Above the door hung a weathered, faded sign. The once bold red lettering was now a dull, ghostly pink:

  Quilrose’s Photographica

  Phyllis went and looked in the window. Three antique cameras, all with heavy brass lenses and dark wood cases, were arranged on a low shelf that was covered with a dusty black velvet cloth. Behind them, a low half-curtain of the same black velvet was hanging from hooks on a brass rail. Like the window display of Thundermallow’s, this display appeared not to have been changed in decades, if ever at all.

  Phyllis read a sign hanging on the door: Entry by prior arrangement only. She was glad Mrs Lowerblast had rung ahead on her behalf.

  She pulled her long hair back and tucked it behind her ears. Then she pressed the tarnished doorbell beside the door. And waited.

  A chill wind gusted up the street behind her, whipping a cluster of leaves around her ankles. She kicked them away and shivered.

  A few seconds passed, and there was no sign of life through the glass door. She put her nose to it, and her hand above her eyes, and peered inside.

  Suddenly there was a sharp rapping on the window, coming from the inside. Phyllis jumped away from the door and saw a face above the half-curtain at the back of the window display, and a long, thin arm pulling back from the window.

  The face belonged to an old man—an ancient man, Phyllis thought. It was skinny and pinched, almost as if someone had caught his chin and pulled it down hard, and squeezed it in, causing his whole head to look like it had been compressed tightly. The nose on this aged countenance was hawk-shaped, and above it, like the precipice of a bristly cliff top, two thick silver eyebrows converged.

  The old man was wearing a black coat, and a grey-and-red striped scarf was wrapped around his neck. He mouthed some words through the window. Phyllis lip-read what he was saying: ‘Are you Phyllis Wong?’

  She nodded, smiling.

  He held up a bony finger to say Just wait, then disappeared. A moment later there was a loud intercom buzz at the door, and Phyllis pushed it open and went in.

  The door closed slowly behind her, silently, until it came to the jamb. The lock clicked shut again with a loud clunk, breaking the stillness like a gunshot. Phyllis jumped, and clutched the strap of her shoulder bag tightly.

  She peered around the dim shop. It was crammed with old cameras, slide and movie projectors, magic lanterns, boxes of big square glass photographic plates, trays full of yellowing photographs (Phyllis’s heart beat faster when she saw these), heavy brass lenses, long-out-of-date boxes of
film and many other things which all looked archaic and strange to Phyllis.

  ‘Well?’ came a voice. The old man was now sitting on a high stool behind the counter.

  ‘Mr Quilrose?’ she asked.

  ‘I am.’ His voice, like his face, was pinched and thin.

  ‘Thanks for letting me in,’ Phyllis said. ‘I was wondering whether—’

  ‘Hildegard Lowerblast tells me you’re a magician?’ he interrupted sharply.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘Do me a trick. Astound me. Dazzle me so that I forget who I am!’

  The challenge was reflected in his steady grey eyes, which blazed defiantly at her. She had seen this sort of look before; it was the sort of look that people like Leizel Cunbrus usually gave her when Phyllis was about to perform a trick.

  Phyllis always rose to the challenge.

  ‘All righty,’ she said. She rummaged about in her shoulder bag for a moment. She frowned.

  ‘Well, come on,’ said Orson Quilrose. ‘I don’t have all day. I am of an age when all of a day may be all of the rest of my days! Have you got a trick for me or not?’

  The frown left Phyllis’s face and she took her hand out of her bag. She opened her palm and showed it empty, holding it out towards the old gentleman. ‘Do you have a card?’ she asked. ‘A business card, or something like that?’

  His bristly eyebrows lowered, so that his eyes became two small pinpricks of hardness. ‘Just a moment,’ he muttered. He bent down—Phyllis half-expected to hear his spine creak loudly—and reached into a drawer below the counter. From the drawer he withdrew a small card. The card had gold-deckle edges and in the middle of it were the words:

  Quilrose’s Photographica

  Rare photographic memorabilia

  17 Ottwell Street

  Open seven days by prior appointment only

  ‘Will this do?’ he asked.

  ‘Perfectly, thank you.’

  He handed the card to Phyllis and she folded it neatly in half.

  ‘I say!’ remonstrated Orson Quilrose. ‘They cost money, they do!’

  Phyllis gave him her inscrutable smile, the one she always gave when she was about to present something amazing. Orson Quilrose’s eyebrows bristled indignantly, but he remained quiet and kept his eyes on the folded card in Phyllis’s hand.