‘Behold, Mr Quilrose,’ she announced quietly. ‘When I came into your shop, I had an immediate feeling that in here there are many wonderful things. Many wonderful things that contain secrets and stories from times past. Many things that contain their own sorts of magic. And, Mr Quilrose, as a magician, I often find that things that contain older sorts of magic somehow give breath and life to newer kinds of magic. Newer kinds of magic that fly out into the world as they do now. Observe!’
She raised her hand until it was level with his face. Then, gently and smoothly, she unfolded the card so that it lay flat and open in her hand.
Slowly and steadily, twenty tiny paper butterflies flew up from the card and hovered in the air between Orson Quilrose and Phyllis. Their wings of dazzling purple and green, yellow and red, orange and blue fluttered heartbeatingly fast as the butterflies floated around.
Orson Quilrose’s eyes shot wide open, his bristly brows rising almost to his hairline. ‘Well, I’ll be snapped!’ he exclaimed.
Phyllis watched his look of amazement, and she zinged with the exhilaration she always had when she had ‘got’ someone. It was one of the best feelings a magician can ever experience.
Then, after a few seconds of the butterflies hovering and darting and floating about, Phyllis clicked her fingers. In the blink of Orson’s old eyes, every one of the iridescent insects vanished into the thin, dusty air!
‘Have you forgotten who you are?’ Phyllis asked, still smiling.
He blinked, and wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘I seldom use this word, young lady, but that was . . . flabbergasting!’
‘Magic always is,’ said the young prestidigitator. ‘When it’s good magic.’
‘And you are a fine proponent of your art.’ The old, crinkled lips of Orson Quilrose stretched into a thin grin. ‘Thank you for that performance. You have enlivened my afternoon.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Phyllis held out the business card. ‘May I keep this?’
‘Oh, by all means,’ he replied. ‘With pleasure I give it to you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, tell me.’ His voice was different—softer, not quite as thin and harsh as it had been before. ‘Why have you come to see me?’
Phyllis told him about Alexander Sturdy and asked whether Mr Quilrose had any images of the ventriloquist.
At the sound of Sturdy’s name, the old man looked alarmed. ‘This is most strange,’ he said quietly.
‘What’s strange, Mr Quilrose? What’s wrong?’
‘You asking about Alexander Sturdy. You wanting to know about a man who is all but forgotten. A man who, up until yesterday, had been totally unremembered by everyone, including me.’
Phyllis looked puzzled. ‘Huh?’
‘Yes, Phyllis, as it happens, I did have photographs of Alexander Sturdy. Back there’—he jerked his bony thumb over his shoulder, towards a tall set of shelves at the rear of the shop—‘with the old theatrical photos, amongst all the thousands of vaudeville performers’ pictures from a hundred or more years ago. I had three photos of the man. I had no idea there were any pictures of Sturdy in all that lot . . . there are so many old photos in those boxes . . .’
‘But you did have some?’
‘Yes.’ He wiped his mouth again. ‘I rediscovered them yesterday. Yesterday afternoon, just before closing time, a man rang me and asked to come to the shop. I let him in, and he said he was looking for pictures of a particular performer from the early years of the twentieth century. And the performer he was looking for was—’
‘Sturdy!’
‘Indeed.’ Mr Quilrose nodded his worried head. ‘Alexander Sturdy. Now, what a coincidence. First the stranger yesterday, and now you, in the space of only one day, both of you looking for a photo of a man unremembered. But there’s something even stranger about all this, Phyllis, something even more . . . weird . . .’
‘What?’ Phyllis pressed her fingers hard onto the glass countertop.
‘The man who was asking after the photos,’ said Orson Quilrose, ‘was the spitting image of Alexander Sturdy himself!’
Making someone disappear
Orson Quilrose nodded again. ‘Oh, yes, when I’d found the photos of Alexander Sturdy he was asking about, and when I’d laid them on the counter, my heart almost stopped. The man in front of me was perfectly identical to the man in the photographs. To a T!’
Phyllis’s eyes narrowed at that. Why? she wondered. Why was he seeking photos of himself?
‘I commented on the resemblance,’ said the old man. ‘I said to him how remarkably like Alexander Sturdy he was, especially round the jaw and the eyes. He told me that Sturdy was his great-uncle, and that he had inherited the likeness.’
Great-uncle my foot, Phyllis thought, frowning. ‘What was he like?’ she asked.
‘Rude,’ answered Mr Quilrose abruptly. ‘One of the rudest men I’ve ever met. He was a big man, tall and broad across the shoulders, and he stood very close to the counter, leaning towards me as though he wanted me to move back away from him. But I did not, Phyllis Wong. I stood my ground and didn’t give him an inch. This is my shop, my establishment, and I will not be bullied by anyone!’ He thought for a moment. ‘He was one of those types who wants to take up all the space around him, with little respect for the private zones of others. Those sorts of people always make me bristle.’ He sniffed loudly, and Phyllis got the impression that if that sniff had been words, they would have been very rude words indeed.
‘So what happened when you showed him the three photos?’ she asked. ‘Did he buy them from you?’
‘No!’ Orson Quilrose’s neck flushed a deep scarlet. ‘No, he most certainly did not buy them from me!’
‘So he just wanted to look at them?’
‘No, he wanted to buy them. But I decided not to sell them to him. He was so rude! He demanded to buy them. “I will purchase these from you,” he declared, almost shouting at me. “What price are you asking?”
‘By that time, I’d had enough of him, Phyllis Wong. There was no way I was going to transact any business with the thuggish man. So I told him that, because of the rarity of the photographs, they were not for sale.’
‘So you still have them?’ Phyllis was getting a little confused. A few minutes ago, Orson Quilrose had told her that he had three photos of Alexander Sturdy. He had spoken in the past tense; she was sure she had heard him say that.
‘No.’ The old man shook his head slowly. ‘I no longer have them.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘The man looked at me fiercely . . . for a moment I thought he was going to reach across the counter and grab me by my scarf and pull me over and do something dastardly and painful to me—you should have seen the fury in those eyes . . . blazing like fire . . . like green fire, bright and pulsating—but he didn’t reach across and grab me. No, he flung down a wad of notes onto the counter—a hundred dollars, would you believe—and snatched up the photographs!’
‘He stole them?’
Orson Quilrose sighed. ‘He bought them against my will. He snarled at me, “They are my photos and I am reclaiming them!” I suppose, in a way, he did steal them, even though he threw down a hundred dollars.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Then he picked up his bag off the floor—a largish bag it was, looked like imitation crocodile scales, covered with hotel stickers and ocean liner labels—and hurried out of my shop. I was glad to see the ugly back of him!’
Phyllis pondered all this. A small vertical wrinkle creased the middle of her forehead.
‘Tell me, Phyllis Wong: why are you interested in this forgotten ventriloquist?’
She snapped out of her ponderings. ‘Oh . . . he was just a man who was working at some of the theatres my great-grandfather performed in. Wallace Wong, Conjuror of Wonder! That was my great-grandfather.’
‘Ah!’ Orson Quilrose smiled. ‘Now there’s a name I do know. In fact . . . can you wait a moment? I think I might have som
ething that will interest you . . .’
‘Sure.’
Mr Quilrose winked and went to the back of his shop. Phyllis watched as he took a big cardboard box down from one of the shelves. He shuffled back to the counter with the box and placed it in front of her.
‘Have a little search through those,’ he told the young conjuror.
The box was filled with old photographs, all neatly filed and arranged and separated by thin pieces of cardboard. Phyllis grinned. ‘Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.’
Carefully she thumbed through the photos, flipping picture after picture forward in the box. All the people in the photos looked like theatre people: acrobats, singers, actors, musicians, clowns, contortionists, people with performing dogs, all of them from a long time ago. Phyllis guessed that the photos had been taken when photography was still a new art form, as many of the images were yellowed. Some had even faded to the point where she could barely make out who was in the picture.
As she flicked through them, the faces from so long past stared back at her. A tingle shot up her spine as she realised that, even though these theatre people had been captured by the camera lens all that time ago, Phyllis had the opportunity—if ever she wished—to see these performers doing their acts, live before her very eyes.
Then she came to a particular photograph and she stopped. And gasped.
‘Hey! W.W.!’ She took the photo out of the box. Her great-grandfather was there in her hands, all black-and-white, in his immaculate tuxedo, with a white dove in one hand and a floating silver sphere above his other hand. Beneath his image, in fancy lettering, were the words:
Wallace Wong, Conjuror of Wonder!
Orson Quilrose’s eyes were bright as he watched Phyllis examining the photo. He had no idea that she had been with the man himself only the other day.
‘I came across that,’ he said, ‘when I was searching for the Sturdy photographs yesterday. Would you like to have it?’
‘You bet!’ Phyllis replied. ‘How much, Mr Quil—?’
‘It is a gift,’ he interrupted. ‘A gift to you, in return for the gift of the magic you performed for me.’
‘Are . . . are you sure?’
‘Most definitely. You really did almost make me forget who I was with your marvellous prestidigitation.’
Phyllis took her Transiting journal from her pocket and slipped the photo inside it. ‘Thank you; I’ll treasure it.’
Then Phyllis saw something else: the next photo in the box looked familiar. She took it out. ‘Who’s this?’
Orson Quilrose squinted at the old, sepia image. He shuddered. ‘Well, stick me in an album and call me archived! I must’ve had a fourth one!’ He shook his head, as if trying to get rid of an awful memory. ‘That, Phyllis, is Alexander Sturdy. Yergh.’
Phyllis said, ‘And that lump of wood on his knee is Narky Norman.’
‘Hideous, isn’t he?’
‘It’s got to be the worst-looking vent dummy I’ve ever seen,’ said Phyllis.
‘I was talking about Alexander Sturdy,’ said Orson Quilrose, and he gave a sudden cackle of laughter.
Phyllis laughed too.
‘You can have that one also,’ he said to her. ‘There is no way I want to have any likenesses of Alexander Sturdy in my shop. Not after meeting his great-nephew.’
‘Thanks, Mr Quilrose!’ This was just what she needed.
‘Seeing as how you’re into ventriloquists, would you like this one as well?’ He picked out the next photo from the box and handed it to her.
‘Hercule S. Perkus!’ she gasped, reading the name at the bottom of the photo. ‘My great-grandfather told me all about him!’ Phyllis studied the debonair-looking Perkus with his neat, precise beard and his immaculately dressed sidekick on his knee.
‘Your great-grandfather told you?’ Mr Quilrose gave her a queer look.
‘Um . . .’ She blushed. ‘Yeah, he left a diary, and I read about Hercule S. Perkus in that. My great-grandfather wrote it so well, I always feel like he’s talking to me whenever I read it.’
‘Ah, yes. Good writing is like that. You feel as if the writer is right beside you.’
Phyllis showed him the dummy on Hercule S. Perkus’s knee. ‘See? That’s Jaunty Jasper. Apparently Jasper was a marvel of mystery—he could walk across the stage and do handstands and all sorts of things, even when Perkus was offstage!’
‘Good heavens!’
‘Are you sure you want to part with this too?’ Phyllis asked.
‘Do you know, I doubt whether I shall ever meet a more appreciative person than you, Phyllis. I like your enthusiasm. And you seem to have a fascination with the past . . . that is a rare thing these days. Yes, I would like very much for you to have that also.’
‘You’re peachy,’ beamed Phyllis, sliding the two extra photographs into her journal.
‘Thank you,’ said Orson Quilrose, blushing. It had been many years since he’d been called peachy. This afternoon would be one he’d remember for a long time to come.
Phyllis waited on the sidewalk outside Thundermallow’s for Clement. As usual, he was late. From inside the magic shop, Madame Ergins kept a baleful eye on Phyllis leaning against the window.
While Phyllis waited, she took out the photograph of Alexander Sturdy and thought hard about it. Why, she wondered, was Sturdy buying up photos of himself? She bit her lip as she pondered.
And then Clement turned up, puffing his way along.
‘Hey, Phyll! Sorry I’m late!’
Phyllis slid the Sturdy photo back into her journal and wrapped the journal’s leather cord around the book before quickly pocketing it.
‘What kept you?’ she asked.
‘Man,’ he said, sliding his glasses up his nose, ‘you wouldn’t believe the queues to get autographs. They went for miles. And then Todd Smertz would only sign three of my Decay My Voice Broke collectors cards! Three! Can you believe it? His minders said three’s the limit and I’d been waiting for over two hours and to top it all off he said my scar looked fake! Ha!’ He patted the gory latex on his cheek. ‘This is the best quality, most true-to-death scar on the market, Miss Hipwinkle guaranteed it!’ He took a deep breath and slumped against the wall of Thundermallow’s. ‘Man, am I whacked!’
‘I’m sorry it didn’t go well,’ said Phyllis. She took a bottle of water from her bag and handed it to him.
‘Ah, doesn’t matter. Thanks, I’m as parched as a burnt zomboid.’ He had a few gulps. ‘Y’know? Todd Smertz is a shrimp. Not like in the movies. I thought he was sitting down behind the autograph table but, no, he was standing up! Probably on a box so he could see over the top. Shrimpoid.’
Phyllis giggled.
‘So,’ Clement said, ‘what d’you want to do this afternoon?’
‘Go to the police.’
‘Huh? Why? Because of what happened with Todd Smertz?’
‘No, Clement.’ She shook her head in a for someone who’s intelligent, you sure can say dumb things sometimes sort of way. ‘I just have to run something by Barry Inglis.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘Phyll!’ He looked crestfallen.
‘I will, don’t worry. I just have to talk to Barry first.’
‘Old Baz.’
‘He’s not old.’
‘Is it anything to do with that Wallace Wong card you found in the subway?’
‘Exactly,’ said Phyllis. ‘C’mon.’
Half an hour later in his office, the Chief Inspector had listened to the young magician’s account of her meeting with Orson Quilrose, and of Orson Quilrose’s meeting with Alexander Sturdy. (Phyllis had left Clement downstairs at reception, telling him that this was official police business. Grumbling quietly to himself, Clement had plonked himself on a chair in the corner and had taken out his webPad to hook up to a Zombie War Zones game.)
‘Hmm,’ hmmed Barry Inglis, peering intently at the photograph of Sturdy that Phyllis had given him. There was something
about Sturdy’s face that perplexed the Chief Inspector.
He tapped the photo against the palm of his hand. ‘You’ve done very well, finding this,’ he congratulated her. ‘Now we can start putting it out on the network. Hmm . . .’
‘Chief Inspector? What are you thinking?’
He looked at her, then at the photograph, then back to her. ‘It’s this Sturdy. I’ve seen this face somewhere before . . .’
‘Maybe you saw him on stage with Narky Norman?’ Phyllis suggested.
His jaw dropped open. ‘Good lord, Miss Wong, how old do you think I am? I’d have to be at least one hundred years of age to have ever seen this man perform live.’
Phyllis raised her eyebrows cheekily.
‘I’ll have you know,’ said Barry, ‘that I am still in my prime. There are a few years left in me yet before I take my police pension. In fact—’
Suddenly he stopped. His gaze shot back to the photograph. ‘That’s him!’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ said Phyllis. ‘Alexander Sturdy.’
Barry Inglis’s blue eyes took on a look of steely discovery. ‘Yes it is, Miss Wong. But he’s someone else as well!’
‘Huh?’
He pulled out a manila folder from the mountain of papers on his desk. ‘This isn’t normally part of my patch,’ he said, opening the folder. ‘Nothing to do with the Fine Arts and Antiques Squad, but because of the enormity of the situation, all divisions of the Force have been brought in on the case.’
He swivelled the folder around and pushed it across the desk. ‘Take a look,’ he told her.
Inside the folder were grainy, sometimes blurry photos of a man in various locations: subway platforms, shops and department stores, street corners and other outdoor places.
‘They’re all from CCTV footage,’ Barry said. ‘That’s why the quality is a little on the poor side. Take a good look at the ones where they’ve zoomed in and enlarged the face.’
Phyllis found one of the enlargements, then another and another. She gasped. ‘That’s . . . that’s him! Sturdy!’
Phyllis Wong and the Waking of the Wizard Page 10