9

IF his room faced east instead of north, the composer would have been able to spy from his window a man standing near a motor car opposite the Metropole’s main entrance. A slim man with a prominent Adam’s apple, wearing a flat cloth cap and broad leather braces over a cream-coloured shirt. He has been told the visiting American will expect to see him outside the hotel at 11.30am. Punctuality is imperative. He knows what Harry Houdini looks like, though it occurs to him that on the one previous occasion he saw him, in between strangers’ heads and children perched on adult shoulders, the American was wearing nothing more than a bathing-costume. Yet he recognises him at once as he strides out into the street, blinking in the sunshine. The man waiting has been chewing at a matchstick but withdraws it with his left hand, which he then raises in a curt greeting. Harry approaches briskly, walking like someone with a stone stuck in his shoe.

‘Audran sent you?’

It is a statement as much as a question, and while Harry speaks his dark eyes are appraising both the figure in front of him and the motor car with its open sides and narrow tyres. He leaves an impression of extreme restlessness, a man intent on achieving several things at once.

‘He did. The name’s Jordan.’

‘Good,’ Harry says, without introducing himself. ‘Swell.’

Harry extends his right hand. It seems to Jordan that the American uses the handshake as a trial of strength, squeezing much harder than necessary. Jordan holds both his gaze and his grip. The American is dressed like a toff. Jordan is reminded of a tightly-wrapped parcel, with a shiny black leather belt instead of string. The compact knot of a striped necktie is wedged between two halves of a stiff white collar, which strain towards each other like opposing sides of a suspension-bridge. Jordan can smell the cloying fragrance of hair-oil and see shirt cuffs, as stiff as the collar, protruding from the sleeves of his light grey suit. The driver guesses that he will have autographed likenesses of himself tucked inside a pocket.

Harry releases his hand and wipes it on the seat of his trousers.

‘Audran outlined my requirements?’

Jordan returns the matchstick to his mouth, chewing it as he speaks.

‘Said you wanted a driver.’

‘Precisely. I must have a reliable driver for the remainder of my time in Melbourne. For another month. You are available?’

Jordan shrugs.

‘I’m a taxi-driver. I drive. That’s what I do.’

‘But I need to be assured of your services whenever I require them. And the hours will be irregular. Some very early starts, too.’

‘I’m a dairy farmer’s son, mate. Know all about early starts. And we’ll take hours into account when we sort out an arrangement. Keeping in mind the jobs I miss attending to you, of course.’

‘I’ll leave it to Audran to finalise details. Or Rickards, my promoter. But it’ll be worth your while.’ Harry runs his hand along the shiny black mud-guard over the right front wheel of Jordan’s vehicle. ‘Say, what is this automobile?’

‘A Darracq. Sixteen horse-power. Four cylinders. Only a few in town.’

‘Darracq – that’s French, isn’t it?’

Harry bangs his hands together when Jordan nods, like a child delighted by what he finds under the tree on Christmas morning.

‘That’s a most propitious omen. My flying machine is French. A Voisin. You know anything about such things, Jordan?’

‘Only that I prefer my chances on the ground.’

‘There’s nothing like flying!’ Harry enthuses, pacing around the car. ‘Nothing at all. But so far I have only experienced this sensation fleetingly, in Germany last November. It’s magical – although on my first attempt I smashed the machine. Broke the propeller all to hell. Yet I am confident of achieving something memorable here.’

Without pausing to ask permission, he steps up inside the vehicle and settles himself into the front passenger’s seat, scanning the driver’s controls.

‘Please join me,’ he says. Jordan does so, though it irks to be invited to sit in his own car. ‘Yes,’ Harry says, ‘I am confident this will do.’

‘Hang about,’ says Jordan, removing the matchstick from his mouth and studying the chewed end. ‘You haven’t told me where you want to go.’

‘Diggers Rest. That’s where the Voisin is being prepared by my mechanic, Brassac. Plumpton’s Paddock. You know it?’

‘I know Diggers Rest. North-west from the city. Off the Woodend road. Two hours’ drive at least. Longer if there’s rain. I’ll have to reckon all that in when settling on terms. Plus the cost of fuel.’

‘Yes, yes, all that will be taken into consideration. But I hope you appreciate I’m offering you a priceless opportunity. Think of the commercial advantage our association will bring.’

Jordan seems amused by this.

‘What advantage would that be, mate?’

‘Surely you know who I am?’

Jordan nods.

‘The handcuff king.’

Harry sits back, displeased.

‘Much more than that. Haven’t you seen the advertisements? “The World’s Greatest Mystifier … Undoubtedly the Greatest and Most Sensational Act Ever Engaged in Australia”.’

‘You know them off by heart?’

‘I should,’ says Harry. ‘I wrote some of them.’

‘Haven’t seen your show. Though I did see your bridge stunt two days back. Was up there with all the rest. Saw you being sick after.’

Harry frowns. Continues a little too brightly.

‘Tough conditions, Jordan. Though in my time I’ve braved far worse than those I encountered here this week. And, in the end, there was no harm done. I succeeded in what I set out to do. Despite my encounter with a body that followed me up to the surface.’ Harry suppresses a shudder.

‘Body? I didn’t see any body. And I reckon I would have noticed a floater. A policeman mate of mine reckons there are regular leapers from that bridge. One a week at least. Women as well as men. You wouldn’t find me going in the water there. Could even be safer up in your flying machine.’

Harry is staring at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. He’s in the soupy water once again, with Jordan’s voice coming from somewhere distant. Women as well as men … Is it possible he was locked in a desperate embrace with the body of a woman? Like his mother. Like his wife.

He shakes his head; a dog trying to dry its coat after rain.

‘Enough of all that,’ he says. ‘So, we’re agreed? You will be my driver?’

‘Still haven’t discussed price.’

Harry raises a hand. ‘That’ll be sorted out. All I need now is your in-principle agreement.’

Jordan addresses his matchstick rather than Harry.

‘Why me? There are other drivers in Melbourne.’

‘Audran recommended you. And I trust his judgment.’

‘Then I’ll deal with him.’

Harry is leaning forward now. His enthusiasm is hard to resist. And everything about him, from his suit to his hair-oil, smells of money. Jordan shakes the offered hand again, and this time he is the first to squeeze.

Nimble as a gymnast, Harry releases his grip, swings his legs out of the Darracq and lands, feet together, at its side. Then he reaches inside his jacket. Jordan expects a picture, but Harry removes a piece of paper.

‘Excellent! Now – just one more thing. I must ask you to agree to some conditions. We will have a formal document prepared and witnessed, but I have a standard form here that will give you an idea what I’m proposing.’

‘Conditions?’ Jordan is perplexed.

‘Only what I ask of all of my associates,’ Harry replies. ‘I must ensure that any professional secrets I may impart to you will be preserved.’

Before Jordan can reply, and oblivious to anyone else – the pedestrians moving in and out of the Metropole’s entrance and an urchin calling out with a pile of newspapers near his feet – Harry starts reading aloud from his document:

‘“I (we’ll add your full name here) solemnly swear that I will always be true to Harry Houdini and shall never betray him in any way whatsoever. I make this undertaking of my own volition under pain of death.”’

‘Bloody hell. I’m just a driver.’

‘Understood! But you must appreciate my position. My rivals would pay dearly to learn the secrets of my art. I can’t be too careful. But I think we can dispense with that bit about death. Which, to be honest, is only there for dramatic effect. At heart, you see, I’m essentially a performer.’

‘Whatever you say, mate. I’ll sign. When do I start?’

‘Why not first thing in the morning? I have no shows tomorrow. You have no objection to working on a Sunday, Jordan? Excellent. Now, follow me inside to sort out your arrangements with Mr Audran.’

He conjures a billfold from his trousers.

‘Here’s ten pounds. Call it a down-payment on your first week of work.’

Jordan takes the note and studies it before wedging it into his shirt pocket. ‘Now this,’ he says, ‘is my preferred kind of paper.’

When he looks up, Harry is almost back inside the hotel. The driver must hurry to catch up.