The Mak Collection (164 page)

‘I am he.’

‘Has this wonderful shop been around for long? I don’t know how I could have missed it before.’

The shopkeeper seemed to take umbrage at her question. His smile vanished and his eyes wandered away. ‘We are the oldest and most respected purveyor of illusionists’ tools, manuals, historical books and paraphernalia in New South Wales,’ he explained a little stiffly.

Is that so?

Mak extended her hand. ‘My name is Makedde,’ she said, to make amends.

He shook it. ‘What an unusual name,’ he remarked. ‘A stage name?’

‘No.’

‘I am Mr Millard,’ he introduced himself majestically, bowing ever so slightly. She imagined him sweeping a top hat through the air as he spoke. He gestured to a large framed poster that hung over the cash register, and there it was, an
image of Mr Millard in the top hat and tails he seemed to wish he was wearing. His photograph had been transformed to a grainy sepia tone, giving it the look of an old-fashioned flyer, though his toothy grin seemed not at all convincing for the period.

‘Mr Millard, it is a pleasure to meet you,’ Mak said, implying in her tone that she had heard a lot about him. ‘Can you tell me, do you sell these coins here?’ She had brought the cut coin from Adam’s room with her, and she pulled it from her pocket.

‘Mmm, yes,’ he said, with what seemed like mild distaste.

‘It’s not a good trick?’

‘We specialise in rather more
sophisticated
tricks. But yes, I have such coins.’

‘Thank you.’ Mak slipped the offending coin back into her pocket. ‘Do you have a members club perhaps, Mr Millard?’

He lit up. ‘Yes, we do. Are you interested in joining?’ He moved to the register and took a thick book from under the counter. ‘We could use more female magicians,’ he told her enthusiastically, opening the book up at a marker. ‘There really aren’t very many, which is a shame.’

Mak brought the lock-picking book over and put it down by the cash register. ‘Actually, I’m interested in someone who I believe may be one of your members,’ she told him, and pulled Adam’s photograph from her pocket.

He closed the book with theatrical indignation. ‘I can’t reveal the identity of our members.’

‘Of course not,’ Mak backtracked. ‘Let me explain why I’m interested.’

Playing mind games with this magic shop owner would be an exercise in frustration. But honesty might just work.

‘I’m a private investigator helping out a very worried mother who’s looking for her son.’ She passed him the photo. ‘Adam Hart. I think he’s probably been in here some time.’

‘Good-looking kid,’ Mr Millard said, studying the photograph. ‘Is he a performer?’

‘Probably an enthusiast.’

‘Well, all the
real
enthusiasts come here.’

‘So he is a member, then?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

Mak took a breath. This was beginning to get annoying. ‘I see. Perhaps he’s a member of another magicians’ club,’ she said, taking the photograph out of his hands. ‘Sorry, I’ve come to the wrong place. Thanks for your time.’

She began to leave, the lock-picking book sitting unpurchased on the counter.

‘It’s possible he might be part of our membership,’ she heard him say as she reached the doorway. ‘I’ll just check for you.’

Mak turned and flashed him one of her dazzling smiles. ‘That would be most helpful, Mr Millard. Thank you.’

If Adam was an active member she could find other people who knew him, who might have seen him in the past week and might even know where he was. She might be able to find additional contact information for him, information on his interests. Perhaps someone would even have a helpful theory on his disappearance?

‘I don’t have an Adam Hart listed.’

Mak’s heart sank. ‘Thank you for checking,’ she said, defeated. She pulled her credit card out of her wallet and purchased the book.

‘Excellent choice, miss. You’ll find it most helpful,’ he assured her.

‘I hope so. You never know when you might need to bust out of a pair of handcuffs,’ she joked.

She might find the book helpful, but she sure wasn’t finding the coin lead very helpful. Perhaps most nineteen-year-olds had a coin trick or two in their bedrooms.

‘Oh, I wanted to ask you one other thing,’ Mak said. ‘If you were going to conceal something personal in a room—say, some valuables, or a diary—how would you do it?’

‘Things are always best concealed in plain sight!’ he declared.

Concealed in plain sight?

‘You wouldn’t want to use padlocks and the like,’ he added. ‘Locks can be picked. Yes, conceal it in plain sight. That’s what I would do.’

Makedde was puzzled by his response.

‘Or fake books. You know, like this.’ He pulled out what looked like a thick Bible from behind the counter. There was a liquor flask inside.

‘That’s neat,’ she said, and smiled. She’d seen those things a hundred times. ‘Thank you. It was nice to meet you.’

Makedde Vanderwall left the magic shop cloaked in disappointment, passing a cork bulletin board covered with flyers for classes from various ‘Master Magicians’ and playbills for local shows. The words ‘Le Théâtre des Horreurs’ caught her eye for just a moment, printed in gothic letters at the top of the board.

The Sydney show dates had just ended.

Adam Hart could not remember ever having felt so free.

Destiny.

His world was an exciting new invention of richer colours and greater possibilities. He lay with his beautiful older lover in her caravan, enjoying the feeling of escape as they were driven like a royal couple further and further from Sydney, further from his clinging mother, the dead father who’d left him behind, and far from anyone who might recognise him and burst this bubble of new reality. Le Théâtre des Horreurs was on the move, their tour taking them to Brisbane where they would perform their final Australian show at the Powerhouse Theatre. And he was with them. He was part of it.

The tour bus moved ahead of them, filled with the rest of the troupe and their sets, their props, their costumes, while Adam and his lover luxuriated in style: special, different, cocooned amongst plush silk cushions on a double bed, just as he believed stars of another era would have been. Bijou insisted on having a caravan for herself when she toured, and
would not perform without it. He understood her needs. A refined woman, a
queen
, she needed her comforts and privacy.

And she was satisfied with his company.
His company.

She was nothing like Patrice. She did not criticise him, belittle him, tell him he was immature.

‘
Mon ami
, fetch me a soda, yes?’ his queen murmured, and Adam sprang up from her side to get her a drink from the minibar-sized fridge. He opened it for her and she took a sip. ‘
Chaud, non
? Hot.’

The skies outside were clear and blue, and the temperature had risen as they neared Queensland. It was indeed a hot day. She leaned against the open window, her ebony hair and diamond drop earrings blowing back in the breeze. He drank in the sight of her sophisticated beauty with a fresh excitement. She was stunning, exotic. Her acceptance transformed him. He was a man.

For the past five hours, he and Bijou had been able to spend time together uninterrupted by the rest of the troupe. A relief. Despite the giddy happiness he revelled in, the new landscape of feelings, there were problems. Adam felt uncomfortable with the others, particularly the illusionist—or was it the contortionist?—who was strange and seemed always to stare at him a little too long. There was a look in the man’s eye that Adam did not recognise. He found it odd, unsettling. Was it curiosity? Hatred? Was he being measured up? Perhaps it was just a culture clash. The man was a foreigner, after all. Adam now tried to avoid him, but naturally they were in close proximity day and night, such was the nature of a troupe on the road. At least the actor, Michel, had exchanged a few brief, friendly words with him before their departure from Sydney. Apart from that brief dialogue, and
Bijou’s loving words, Adam had not conversed in his native language for seven days. Perhaps it was that which had begun to give him an aching longing for the familiar, and encouraged a vague feeling of indefinable dread that lurked just beneath the surface of his bliss.

But for now, with the trailer softly bumping along the freeway in the sunshine, and his lover in his arms, it seemed the world had opened to him. Loneliness was impossible. Dread was far behind.

He was finally free, just as he had always wished. He was Kerouac, an adventurer, living his dreams. ‘
What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing?—it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies
,’ Kerouac wrote.

These are the days that make you a man, Adam thought.

A man.

At three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, the self-made billionaire Jack Cavanagh sat in his opulent fourteenth-floor office, leaning back from his mahogany desk, his arms folded.

Cobwebs.

Through pale eyes he stared out floor-to-ceiling windows at the picture postcard view. The Sydney skies were sunbaked blue, charcoal clouds looming in the far distance. By evening there would be rain. Despite its changing colours, the view had become a thing of routine. It no longer impressed him. Very little did impress him, he realised. He felt removed from every triumph, viewing his domain of success through a narrow aperture, a child looking through a tiny pinhole in a cardboard box so he would not burn his eyes in the fire of an eclipse.

Cobwebs and tar.

In his quieter moments, Jack had begun to sense that his heart was slowly filling with cobwebs and tar, and that it would soon stop functioning completely.

A man known for his drive and business sense, Jack found
these intimations of fragility terrifying. He didn’t know what to do about them, or about the fact that the past year seemed to have aged him ten. No one but his personal physician dared to voice the obvious, but the stress was showing. Jack had dark circles under his eyes that no longer disappeared by mid-morning, or even midafternoon. He had lost more hair than he should, more than his father had at his age. He had lost fitness, strength, energy, sexdrive. His penis hung limply between his legs, as useless as an unintended extension of skin. His wife said nothing. He sometimes seemed almost catatonic, his mind too occupied to allow him either rest or activity. Dr Harris had warned him about his stress levels, blood pressure, cholesterol. He had not yet told his wife, Beverley, about the Cipramil he had to take each morning—
take it on time, don’t miss a dose
. He kept the antidepressant drugs and their prescription in a locked office drawer, where they would never have to concern her. He didn’t like the idea of the pills, and in a fit of defiance he had gone cold turkey two months earlier, throwing them out completely. He had been hit with a frightening combination of sleep terrors and three days of unrelenting light-headedness—the world moving, moving, and after each turn his body stopping while his brain still travelled—before getting the prescription filled again in a blind panic. He had since given in to the drug with a sense of defeat hitherto foreign to him. He had not told Dr Harris about his sensation of cobwebs and tar. It made no sense, and would make even less sense if voiced and acknowledged. Nonetheless, there it was. A sensation as real as any other he had known.

The fingers of Jack’s right hand touched the shirt pocket over his heart, absent-mindedly.

It was barely three o’clock, and already he felt something like a heavy sleep weighing against his bones. Forty-eight hours earlier, he had still been at his Palm Beach abode, where he and Beverley had spent an extended weekend relaxing in the shade of palms, enjoying fresh seafood prepared by their chef, not needing to say anything, not needing to discuss the problems of their world. He had felt momentarily refreshed by these snippets of life reminding him what it must have once been like to feel something that approximated peace. Jack longed to return to those moments. It was unfathomable to him now, but there had been a time when his Sunday evenings had seen him race back from Palm Beach to this very office to get a head start on the week. Now he wondered where he had found the energy or drive. He wondered how everything could have changed so deeply.

There was a knock.

‘Yes?’ Jack replied firmly, sitting up.

Joy entered. ‘Mr Cavanagh, it’s Mr White on line one. Will you take the call?’

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, a renewed heaviness descending on him at the mention of the name. Perhaps he had felt Mr White’s proximity before the call had even been made.

‘Thank you, Joy,’ he said to his loyal secretary without looking at her. He never kept eye contact with Joy when The American was mentioned.

‘Thank you, Mr Cavanagh. I’ll put him through right away,’ he heard her say. Her footsteps retreated, and gently the door of his office was shut. He was alone.

The American.

Bob White was a former head of FBI headquarters in California, and since retiring had worked in the private sector.
He had been on retainer with Jack for the past seven years, since Cavanagh Incorporated had been threatened by the kidnapping of a top-level executive in the Middle East. He was a confidential asset to the company. If Mr White was involved, things were serious. It had not been a good twelve months for the Cavanagh family, so Mr White,
The American
, had been busy.

A red light flashed for line one. Jack took a breath and picked up the receiver.

‘Bob.’

‘Good day, Jack.’ The American was one of the few people who called Jack by his first name. Perhaps it was due to the intimacy of their dealings that this seemed natural. ‘I have news on the matter from last year.’