45

CUSTANCE,’ says Rickards. ‘The fellow’s name is Custance.’

Harry doesn’t respond. He is slumped in an armchair opposite Rickards, who has newspapers strewn over his office desk. Harry is still wearing the cream-coloured suit. He has managed not to spoil it with grease, but it is badly crushed, and he has loosened his tie and collar. In the morning his outfit gave him a debonair appearance; now he looks like a groom jilted on the church steps. Seated next to him, Bess struggles to recall another time when her husband has appeared so despondent. He barely spoke during the journey back from Diggers Rest, his exultation after his flights replaced by a mute, frustrated despair. She wonders if he will even be able to stage his farewell show in the evening.

Rickards shares her concerns. Already the adding-machine in his head is reckoning the ghastly cost of refunds if the ‘Master Monarch of Modern Mysteries’ cancels his final performance. So he is trying to prise him out of his torpor, revealing what is known about Harry’s rival while belittling the other man’s claims to the aviation record. He feels like one of his former attractions, the Extraordinary Eduardo: alone on a high-wire, unable to lean too far one way or another.

‘Not even his first name is mentioned,’ Rickards continues. Harry still hasn’t looked up. ‘Just his initials: F.C Custance. Nothing more.’

‘This has been reported today?’ Bess asks.

‘It has. In The Australasian and – where’s it got to? – also The Argus.’

‘Of course,’ Harry murmurs. ‘McKenzie must have got wind of it at his office before he came up.’

‘McKenzie?’ Rickards considers him over his reading spectacles. ‘You mean McCracken. The Argus chap. Yes, I reckon he might have done.’

‘This Custance made a successful flight yesterday?’ Bess asks.

‘That’s what’s been printed,’ Rickards replies. ‘But this is where things get interesting. The reports – and they’re similar, which suggests they had the same source – are ambiguous.’ He reads aloud from the newspaper:

‘“The first serious attempt at flight in a monoplane in South Australia was made this morning, and resulted in the attainment of a flight and height record for Australasia and a damaged machine …”’

‘A record,’ Harry groans. ‘Nothing ambiguous there. I’d thought Banks could be the one to beat me. But it’s this … Custance.’

Rickards shakes his head.

‘Didn’t you hear me, Double? A damaged machine. The fellow crashed. Listen: “At about five o’clock Custance took his place in the pilot seat. After a few preliminary twists of the propeller the machine was underway at high speed. It rose quickly and, using the fences of the paddock as a guide, the area was covered thrice in rapid succession – a total distance of about three miles. The height attained was between twelve feet and fifteen feet, and the machine was in the air for five minutes, twenty-five seconds, which constitutes a duration record for Australasia.”’ Rickards pauses.

‘Twelve feet? You could almost jump that high. Now, the crucial bit:

‘“Mr Custance again entered the machine with the intention of establishing a height record. After travelling for about two hundred yards, Mr Custance made an error in manipulating the elevators, and caused the machine to descend suddenly, head foremost. The undercarriage was smashed and the propeller broken, but the damage was not great. Mr Custance was thrown through the framework, and struck his head against the petrol tank. Fortunately, he escaped with a few slight bruises.”’

Rickards waves the paper like a diplomat with a treaty.

‘Custance crashed his machine, just like Banks. How can this be deemed a success?’

‘Yet it has been,’ Bess says, as Harry sits up a little. ‘The newspapers have reported a record.’

‘Also a damaged machine!’ Rickards replies. ‘He couldn’t be reckoned to be in control. Isn’t that what the Aerial League has specified, Double?’

‘It is,’ Harry replies. ‘The record requires a powered and controlled flight.’

‘Meaning you can’t smash up your bleeding machine. Another thing – there’s no mention here of witnesses. Who’s to say this wasn’t cooked up?’

‘I had witnesses,’ Harry says. ‘My man Vickery prepared a document. Here.’ He withdraws a crumpled piece of paper from inside his jacket.

‘Excellent!’ Rickards replies. ‘Let’s see what we have here:

To Whom It May Concern

Diggers Rest

Near Melbourne

18/3/1910

We, the undersigned, do hereby testify to the fact that on the above date, about 8 o’clock a.m., we witnessed Harry Houdini in a Voisin biplane (a French heavier than air machine) make three successful flights of from 1 min to 3 ½ mins.

In his various flights he reached an altitude of 100ft, and in his longest flight traversed a distance of more than two miles.

‘Now: the signatories. Brassac. Kukol. Vickery. Signed his own document, eh? Well, why not? Jordan. Walter P. Sanderson … who’s he?’

‘Another driver,’ Harry replies. ‘The one you engaged.’

‘Ah yes. Jagelman. Howie. Smithells – they are …?’

‘Locals. Came from the township on seeing the machine in flight.’

‘Good enough,’ Rickards declares. ‘Have something similar executed next time. Even more signatories, if possible. Though, ideally, fewer drivers.’

‘Next time?’ Bess interjects. ‘Are you advocating more flights?’

‘Absolutely!’

‘But there’s no point,’ Harry says bitterly. ‘To claim the record, to be first, is all that mattered to me. Without it I would merely be taking joy-rides.’

Rickards stands up, fingertips tucked under his crimson suspenders.

‘Now listen. You will have that record. It’s vital to me that you do. I’ve got Aviation Week at Rosehill hanging on this. And no Custance’ – he spits it out like an improbable stage-name – ‘will stop me. Or you.’

‘But Custance already has the record. It’s in the papers.’

‘Newspapers appear six days of the week,’ Rickards replies. ‘Something different every day. Which reminds me: I should call on McCracken at The Argus to check his progress. Also make a stop at The Age office: I’m sure I can interest them in your witness statement.’

He is a man in action, folding the document and searching for his hat. But Harry and Bess don’t move.

‘You’re saying I should fly again tomorrow?’ Harry asks.

‘Fly tomorrow, Double. Fly on Sunday. If you didn’t have your grand finale tonight – and don’t let me down there, old son – I’d pack you off to the paddock again right now for a blooming sunset flight. Here’s my tip: we’ll see and hear little more of this Custance. A bloke from nowhere who crashes his kite and bangs up his head is not the man George Taylor of the Aviation League wants to reward with a record. But an internationally-renowned performer, an intrepid aviator with witnesses present as well as a cinematographer – and I must determine why he wasn’t there today – well, that’s just the ticket. Taylor will tell you so himself.’

As Rickards has expected, this appeal to Harry’s vanity is successful.

‘So I should just ignore Custance?’ he asks, straightening in his seat.

‘The world will ignore Custance,’ Rickards insists. ‘His story’s dodgy and nobody saw him. There’s the key, Double. People believe what they see, or think they see. Come on, man – that’s the essence of your own act here. Once people learn of your flights they’ll come from miles to watch you go up again, which is more than poor battered-and-bruised Custance can do. But now I should keep the ball rolling. And you must farewell the adoring throng tonight. Leave ’em calling out for more!’

‘Of course,’ Harry replies without much enthusiasm. ‘I must ensure that Kukol has everything ready … Actually, I should check backstage now to see if he and Vickery have even returned. Are you coming, my love?’

‘In a moment,’ Bess says.

She allows Harry to leave the office first, having fixed his tie for him lest he encounters some admirers, so she can ask a question.

‘Tell me, Mr Rickards, did you already know about Custance?’

Rickards is patting his pockets, searching for his keys.

‘Did I know? Hmm. Let’s just say that I hear things, Mrs H. I hear things.’