Phyllis Wong and the Return of the Conjuror

by Geoffrey McSkimming

  Also by Geoffrey McSkimming

  THE PHYLLIS WONG MYSTERIES

  Phyllis Wong and the Forgotten Secrets of Mr Okyto

  First published in 2014

  Copyright © Text, Geoffrey McSkimming 2014

  Copyright © Illustrations, CLOP Pty Ltd 2014

  All attempts have been made to locate the owner of copyright material. If you have any information in that regard please contact the publisher at the address below.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia – www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74331 837 9

  eISBN 978 1 74343 549 6

  ♣, ♣: quotation from ‘Antigonish’ by William Hughes Mearns

  Cover and text design by Seymour Designs

  Cover and internal illustrations by Peter Sheehan

  Author photograph by Sue-Anne Webster

  Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  For my conjuror, Sue-Anne Webster

  Contents

  PART ONE

  You do something to me . . .

  Off to Thundermallow’s

  A new amazement

  Unforeseen outcomes

  Burnt

  Definition below

  Whirl of wonder

  Unfolding

  Pockets revealed

  Bizarre bazaar

  PART TWO

  Settling the secret

  Going places

  Bard times

  Lurking in the ruffle

  Uncertain

  Plans upheaved

  A scrap to go on

  Using her Pockets

  Discovery at Jaggard’s

  Heads-up headline

  PART THREE

  Frustrations

  Beginners please

  Don’t call us . . .

  Short explanation

  Inveigling the Inspector

  Secret and sudden arrival

  The play’s the thing!

  Whatever it takes

  Time out of joint

  Entrances and exits

  Taken by the blaze

  No black and white

  Endword

  ‘The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.’

  —Albert Einstein, physicist, 1879–1955

  ‘There are Pockets of different strengths where you least expect them. In them you will find the greater magic. It is more marvellous than the sum parts of any duck.’

  —Wallace Wong, magician, 1898–?

  (from his journals)

  ‘If your messenger find him not there, seek him i’ th’ other place yourself. But indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stair . . .’

  —William Shakespeare, writer, 1564–1616

  (from Hamlet, Act IV, Scene III)

  PART ONE

  Flames and futures

  You do something to me . . .

  On a crisp, dark, frosty night in December, as the last of the city lights were being turned off, a clear, melodious whistling was floating through the air like a thick, syrupy fog.

  It was not a quickly whistled tune that floated along the almost deserted streets, but a slow, almost melancholy air. It rose and fell and sometimes it hovered on a single note, freezing that note and suspending it.

  At times, the tune trembled, like a delicate cobweb vibrating in a steady breeze. At other times, it swooped down low, then shot up again to reach thin, high notes. But mostly, the whistling was strong and direct.

  It had such strength in it that if anyone were to hear it they might think that the notes were here for good, never to dissolve away, as music always does.

  It was a whistling with a purpose behind it.

  It was the whistling of a man who had vanished . . .

  Off to Thundermallow’s

  ‘Hey, Phyllis Wong! Where’s the fire?’

  Phyllis Wong was hurrying down the street, her school bag half slung across her back and her long black hair billowing behind her in the breeze. Her friend Clement, who had asked the question, was trying to keep up with her as she strode the pavement.

  ‘What’re you talking about?’ Phyllis said over her shoulder.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ Clement pushed his glasses back up his nose. His legs were shorter than hers and he was struggling to stay alongside her.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ she said.

  ‘Then how come you’re leaving scorch marks on the sidewalk?’

  She shook her head, as if to say, you always exaggerate too much, and kept powering on.

  ‘I know what’s wrong,’ Clement said, puffing. ‘You’re narked. You always hurry like this when you’re angry about something.’

  Phyllis came to a corner and waited for the WALK light to turn green. She watched the cars and buses and taxis crawling along the avenue, but she was seeing something other than traffic.

  Clement’s phone rang and he pulled it out of his jeans pocket. ‘Hi, Mum. On the way home. With Phyllis. I dunno. Yep. Uh-huh. No. I think I left it at home. You sure? I can’t remember . . . yeah, I know. It’s just a coat. Um, yeah. Okay.’ He put the phone away and said, ‘You’re not the only one who’s narked. Mum was checking up about my new coat. I think I must’ve left it at school.’

  Phyllis shook her head again, as if to say, you’re always losing things.

  The lights changed and she strode onto the road, Clement running next to her.

  ‘So, c’mon, Phyll, what’s eating you?’

  Phyllis knew he wouldn’t let up, so she answered him. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people trying to expose my tricks!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Clement. ‘Leizel Cunbrus.’

  Phyllis’s dark eyes blazed at the sound of the girl’s name. ‘She’s always trying to be smart. Every time I perform magic at school, she’s there with her friends, saying smart things like “It’s up your sleeve” or “I saw it under the deck” or “I bet you can’t do it again with a different card!” She drives me nuts.’

  ‘She’s just jealous. You know things she doesn’t. She hates that. She always wants to be the best at everything.’

  ‘And she thinks she’s so beautiful! She keeps telling her friends how beautiful she is—ergh. And if she says to me one more time “You’re not a real magician, Phyllis Wong. A real magician has rabbits and doves!”, I swear I’ll take my wand and show her exactly what a real magician can do with it!’

  ‘Yeah, well at least a real magician dresses properly. Unlike Leizel Cunbrus. A real magician would never wear jeans that show off her—’

  ‘Ah, don’t worry about it, Clem, I know what you mean. You’re right. She’s just jealous.’

  ‘Ha! It’s like the sidewalk’s always throwing a party and inviting her jeans
to come down and join in . . .’

  Phyllis giggled then, and her eyes cleared. ‘You’re so observant,’ she said to her friend.

  ‘Learnt how to be from you,’ he said. ‘Like you always say, “The more you see, the less you’ll stumble.”’

  ‘No, that’s Wallace Wong, not me. I found it in one of his old journals. He was always writing things like that.’

  ‘Wallace Wong, Conjuror of Wonder!’ Clement said. Phyllis was often mentioning her great-grandfather. Before his mysterious disappearance while performing the Houdini sub-trunk illusion in Venezuela in 1936, Wallace Wong had been one of the most famous and successful and brilliant magicians in the world.

  Phyllis looked at the time on her phone. Then she turned the corner and headed up a smaller street, one that was lined with tall, narrow buildings and older shops, many of which had been built more than a hundred years ago.

  ‘Hey,’ Clement said, keeping up with her. ‘This isn’t the way home. Where are you going?’

  ‘To Thundermallow’s,’ she replied, walking quicker.

  ‘Thundermallow’s?’ Clement repeated.

  ‘There’s a little something I need . . .’

  ‘What’s Thundermall—oooof!’ He sprawled face-down on the sidewalk, having tripped on one of his untied shoelaces.

  Phyllis stopped and turned, reaching down to help him. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Ouch. Yeah, I’m fine.’ He sat up, rubbed his elbow and straightened his glasses, which fortunately hadn’t shattered from the impact. He hoisted his backpack around his shoulders so that it sat squarely against his back again. ‘I’ll just bruise, that’s all.’ He took Phyllis’s hand and she yanked him up. ‘So what’s Thundermallow’s, then?’

  ‘My favourite magic shop in all the world,’ answered Phyllis Wong as she hurried off.

  ‘Ah,’ said Clement, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘There it is,’ she announced as they approached a dark old shopfront.

  Clement looked up at the neatly painted sign hanging above the door:

  THUNDERMALLOW’S

  PURVEYORS OF

  PRESTIDIGITATION PARAPHERNALIA

  ‘You come here often?’ he asked Phyllis.

  ‘Not as often as I’d like. Usually only when I need to find something special. Something I can’t get from the internet or from other magic shops in town.’

  She stopped in front of the windows—narrow-paned windows of pale green glass—and peered inside. Clement did likewise.

  The display on the other side looked like it hadn’t been changed in a long time. All of the apparatus behind the glass—tall copper cups with small red balls nested on their tops, decks of playing cards arranged in fan-like formations, several rubber skulls grinning vacantly out into the dying afternoon light, long black magic wands with silver tips, a yellow-and-red wrist-chopping guillotine, brightly painted silk cabinets, old magic books, large silks decorated with the grinning faces of mischievous imps and devils, assorted mysterious-looking tubes and boxes and velvet change bags—all of these things were covered with a fine layer of whitish, powdery dust.

  Clement gave a shiver. ‘Is this place still open?’ he wondered. ‘It looks like nobody’s been here in years . . .’

  ‘The window’s always like that,’ Phyllis told him. ‘Has been ever since I can remember. Thundermallow’s has been here forever.’

  If forever had been since 1907, Phyllis’s statement would have been perfectly accurate. That was the year the shop had opened, and it had always been owned by a Thundermallow. In fact, the founder of the business, Thurston Thundermallow, had known Wallace Wong way back in the early decades of the twentieth century. When he was starting out in magic, Wallace Wong used to buy many of his tricks from Thurston Thundermallow. Later, as Wallace became more and more famous, he used to commission Thurston Thundermallow to help him make new illusions. The two men worked closely and created many never-before-seen effects. Some of these illusions were so cleverly devised that even today, more than a century later, magicians do not know the secrets behind them.

  ‘C’mon,’ said Phyllis, opening the door.

  Clement watched her disappear inside. He waited for a moment—for some reason he felt a bit strange about following her. It seemed like this was her world, and he felt apprehensive about intruding.

  Then she poked her head out of the doorway and raised her eyebrows at him. ‘You coming or not?’ she grinned.

  ‘Sure.’ He smiled back at her, then pushed his glasses further up his nose and went in.

  Inside Thundermallow’s, everything was dim. The only light came from a series of shell-shaped lamps on the walls, and this light was spilling upwards in a soft, pale yellow glow. The walls, visible between towering black shelves, were covered in a dark purple, velvet-flocked wallpaper.

  Both Phyllis and Clement blinked as their eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  There was a sweet smell in here; a soft, honey-like fragrance pervaded the shop. It always eased Phyllis into a sense of quiet, eager anticipation when she came in. She never knew what she was going to find amongst all the old, dusty shelves that were lined with hundreds of neatly arranged dark green and purple cardboard boxes, all of which were labelled Thundermallow’s, and all of which contained tricks and mechanisms and special gizmos that could only be found in a magic shop of serious reputation.

  Clement’s eyes grew wide as he beheld all of the shelves. Then, in one corner, he saw the special Disguises section. Quietly he read the signs there, whispering the words to himself: ‘Hoodwink Your Friends—Real Van Dyke Beards!, Startling Sideburns!, Lifelike Goblin Ears!, Fangs You Very Much!, False Noses for Any Occasion!, Toupees to Amaze, Be INCOGNITO and the LIFE of the PARTY!, Scars, Scars, Scars!, Disguise the Limit!’

  Clement took a step towards Disguises. Suddenly a blurry, hairy streak shot out from one of the shelves by his arm. He quickly jumped back.

  ‘Reeeeeeeeooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwrrrrrrrrrr!’ came a blood-curdling squeal.

  It echoed around Thundermallow’s, and Phyllis and Clement both tensed. ‘What the—?’ whispered Clement, his heart beating hard.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Phyllis reassured him. ‘It’s just Madame Ergins.’

  ‘H-huh?’

  She pointed to a pair of steely-violet eyes that were glaring up at them from under a chair in the corner. Clement looked carefully and saw the very hairy, very annoyed, very come one step closer and I’ll claw you faster than you can blink face of a grey Persian cat. ‘Madame Ergins. She belongs to Mr Thundermallow,’ Phyllis explained. ‘She’s why I never bring Daisy in here.’

  ‘That I can understand,’ Clement said, feeling his heartbeat returning to normal. ‘It’d be World War III with fur!’

  ‘Ah! Phyllis Wong! Welcome back to Thundermallow’s!’

  Phyllis and Clement turned. There, standing before a deep burgundy velvet curtain, was a shortish, plump gentleman with shining violet eyes (the same colour as Madame Ergins’s, Clement observed). The top of the man’s head was bald and pink and on the sides, above his ears, there sprouted a thick band of curly white hair. He was dressed in a smart three-piece suit of dark maroon, and the collar and cuffs of his coat were black velvet.

  ‘Hello, Mr Thundermallow,’ said Phyllis, giving him a big smile. He always looked so cheery, and every time she saw him again after not seeing him for a while, Phyllis got the feeling that he was the sort of person who never let the cares of the world bother one little curly white hair on the sides of his head.

  ‘And how is my favourite young magician? The most practised prestidigitator, the cleverest conjuror, the legerdemainist most likely to learn the languishing, legendary secrets of our noble profession? Hmm-yesindeed?’

  Phyllis blushed at all the compliments. ‘I’m swell, thanks.’

  ‘Ah-ha,’ said Mr Thundermallow. ‘Still speaking as though you’re in one of your great-grandfather’s movies, I see. You are a breath of the freshest air, always have been.’ His eyes trav
elled beyond her shoulder. ‘And who might this be? Hmm-yesindeed?’

  Phyllis grabbed Clement’s arm and brought him forward. ‘This is my friend, Clem. I hope you don’t mind me bringing him in . . .’

  ‘Any friend of Phyllis Wong is welcome here.’ The cheery man extended his pink hand. ‘Aubrey Thundermallow. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Clem.’

  Clement wiped his hand on the front of his sweater and then shook Aubrey Thundermallow’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘I hear you’ve already chanced upon Madame Ergins,’ said Mr Thundermallow, glimpsing the grumpy cat under the chair.

  ‘He has,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘She nearly scratched my arm clean off,’ Clement said.

  Mr Thundermallow smiled. ‘Ah. She’s a good cat, really, under all that hair. She just gets a little temperamental now and then. Poor old thing, she’s never been the same since she encountered the exploding mice.’

  ‘The exploding mice?’ repeated Phyllis.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Aubrey Thundermallow. ‘Happened about . . . Hmm-yesindeed . . . four years ago, I believe. We’d just had a delivery of a whole lot of novelties.’

  When he said novelties, he hunched his shoulders up close to his ears, raised his eyebrows and gave Phyllis and Clement a half-sideways look, the same sort of look a boy might give if he were just about to suggest doing something a little bit naughty.

  ‘Boxes and boxes from the Blurtaceous Novelty Co. in Shanghai,’ he continued. ‘At that time the Blurtaceous Novelty Co. made the best things, the quality second-to-none. But apparently there was some unrest at the factory that we didn’t know about . . . seems like hundreds of workers were about to be laid off and they weren’t at all happy about it, and apparently some of the more upset ones decided to take revenge on the Blurtaceous Novelty Co. so they switched around the mechanisms of some of the products.

  ‘And of course, we had no idea this had happened. We opened up one of the boxes of what we thought were Blurtaceous Clockwork Mice—beautiful little spotted creatures made of tin, with whiskers that really twitched when the mice scuttled across the floor—and we wound them up, ooh, maybe about a dozen of them. Hmm-yesindeed. And then, just as they started scuttling around in circles and every which way across the shop, one after another—BOOM! KA-BAM! WHAPPOW!—they all blew up, exploding all over the place. And poor Madame Ergins, who up until that time had been a cat of great and purring placidness, all at once became the cat from the Underworld!’