Attendances have surged since the river leap the previous week. Yet Harry must see for himself. Although he has been performing in public for close to twenty years, Harry still loves few things more than watching people who have paid to see his show. So he finds a gap in the crimson drapes at the back of the stage and spies on his audience.
It is Friday night. Harry will not begin his own performance for another thirty-five minutes in the theatre that smells of tobacco, sugar confections and cheap scent, but he is convinced that all these people have come to see him rather than anyone else on the program. He considers the spectators like a gambler counting his chips. Scanning rows near the front, Harry cannot find the young swimmer or his handler. Nor is his wife in her usual seat, though this is not surprising. Bess knows, to the minute, when he is due on stage and plans her arrival so she can watch her husband without sitting through all the jugglers, joke-tellers and flim-flam acts that Rickards uses to pad out his bills. Harry insists he would be a big enough drawcard on his own, especially now he is preceding his performance with a cinematograph representation of his jump from a Philadelphia bridge and an escape from the Paris morgue, which is a tourist attraction. But Rickards insists on sticking with the preliminaries.
‘Trust me on this, Double,’ Rickards has told him. ‘I know these people. Know what they like, especially them up the back. They want to be entertained. My shows are a banquet with a pile of different dishes.’
Harry is still unsure what to make of Rickards, who has retained much of his East London accent despite living in Australia for close to twenty years. He is certainly not thrilled by the name Rickards has adopted for him. ‘Harry Houdini, the Manacle Monarch,’ he tells him, incredulous any explanation is necessary. ‘Double H, Double M. Double you are.’
It is disrespectful. Yet Rickards is paying him well and Harry recognises a fellow carney in the portly but dapper vaudeville king, who is seldom without the gold chain of a fob-watch suspended between the pockets of his waistcoat. Because Rickards has also engaged him for the Sydney shows, Harry has had to accept him and his eclectic assortment of acts.
Tonight the ‘World Famous Self-Liberator’ is preceded by novelty singers and impressionists, jugglers and contortionists. Happy Tom Parker has been replaced by the side-splitting Frank Curran, who tells his jokes to the backs of people twisting around in their seats. Then comes the marvellous midget, Australia’s own Little Tich, who leaves a cigarette burning on a teacup in the wings while juggling plates and knives, and Rickards’ latest addition – a pair of trampoline acrobats calling themselves the Brothers Martine, who seldom speak to one another off stage. But the crowd favourite is veteran vaudeville trouper Fred Bluett, who doesn’t even bother with a contrived name. The contrast between plain Fred Bluett – greying at the temples, inky-jowled, paunchy, hairy-legged – and the exotic women he impersonates (Ophelia, Delilah, Sarah Bernhardt, serving up soliloquies with an execrable French accent) is a crucial part of his appeal.
Harry enjoys watching Bluett work. He can always tell when he is on stage: audience members who heckle during preceding acts fall silent when Bluett appears before them wearing neither costume nor make-up, as if he had wandered through the wrong entrance off Bourke Street. He glares at the rows of people gawping at him and they are still. Silence, Harry knows, is the hardest thing to summon in a big theatre. Bluett produces a bare minimum of props – a pocket-mirror for Ophelia, a veil for Delilah – and transforms himself. Tonight he is trying something new. He tugs off his rough checked shirt, so that his top half is covered only by a torn grubby singlet, and from his trouser pocket produces a handful of ribbons, which he drapes around his neck. Then, from a calico sack he has carried as carelessly as a labourer’s lunch bag, he removes – to gasps and giggles from the occupants of two and three-shilling seats near the front – a white dish and a sheep’s head, its glassy eyes wide open. The head is placed on the dish, Bluett’s legs are crossed before him like a lithe ballet dancer, and then suddenly, astoundingly, crudely, Fred Bluett is Salomé. Dancing, despairing, sinking to the stage while gently placing a kiss on the sheep’s nose. People whoop and cheer, but Fred Bluett barely seems to notice. He exits as casually as he entered, tossing the bag containing the head and plate on to the floor as soon as he is out of sight and sucking at the brown bottle of ale he opened before making his entrance.
‘I’m buggered,’ Harry hears Bluett say, but then he must prepare himself. For after a brief interval, Rickards’ headliner, ‘The Most Sensational Act Ever Presented to an Australian Audience’, will be on.
First comes the cinematograph pictures: flickering images that last only a few minutes, projected from a clattering machine coaxed into action by Kukol and projected on to an improvised screen – bed linen stretched tight over a timber frame. Harry has successfully argued for this presentation, despite Rickards’ objections:
‘I’ve got competition enough already from these new-fangled moving pictures, the Olympia near Princes Bridge and Hoyt’s at St George’s Hall, without you showing ’em in my own house.’
But Harry believes he has merged illusion and reality in his act. The segment ends with jerky images of Harry, chains dangling loose from his shoulders and handcuffs on his wrists, running away from the morgue.
Then Harry himself appears from behind the curtains in the same outfit he wore in Paris, an athletic singlet and snug-fitting shorts, with identical chains and restraints on his person, as if he has transported himself directly from the screen into the theatre. He runs to the front of the stage, parts the handcuffs with a snapping motion of his wrists, then lets the chains fall to the floor – Houdini Unbound. He can hear cheering from the rowdier spectators. Closer to the front, Bess takes her place and looks up at her husband so he can acknowledge her presence with a wink before ducking off stage to slip into the dinner-suit that Kukol is holding ready for him. In the minute it takes Harry to change clothes the audience is diverted by the sight of his other assistant, James Vickery, dragging a lunatic’s restraining vest on to the stage in such a way that its many straps and buckles rasp on the floorboards. Vickery holds the apparatus away from his body like the hide of a slaughtered crocodile.
While audience members are craning to see this device into which Harry will soon be trussed, Bess looks around to see if the house seats three rows behind her are occupied. It is the swiftest of movements, scarcely noticeable. She glances back, looks to the front again, then turns her face down abruptly, as if stifling a cough. They are there: Audran and Puccini. The composer has the collar of his jacket turned up as if he were cold.
The stage lights are dimmed. Harry reappears in bow-tie and tails with his arms held before him so that Vickery can insert them in the long canvas sleeves of the straightjacket and secure them behind his back. The buckles for straps that pass under Harry’s groin are pulled tight with a flourish. As an additional touch for this show, a local policeman is led on to the stage to check the restraints. He tugs at some fastenings, confirming that Harry has been secured as if he were a homicidal madman. Vickery, who has been supporting Harry, allows him to slide to the floor then steps back himself. As Harry starts writhing and twisting, many spectators rise so they can get a better view of his struggle. Bess stays seated. As do her guests.
Kukol and Vickery also watch Harry intently, monitoring his progress. They can tell that his hands are already free: the chest and arms muscles that were clenched when the device was secured have now been relaxed, allowing sufficient slack in the canvas and straps for Harry’s hands to slide down and start working on the buckles and belts. There will be some painful chafing, but he is used to that. Harry will take as much time as he judges necessary. If spectators seem enthralled by his struggle, he can prolong the stunt. If they are restless, Harry may hasten its end. Tonight’s escape will be just rapid enough to make it seem difficult while not unduly prolonging the show. For tonight Harry has a surprise in store, one that he announces even as he rises to his feet again with his evening-dress awry and the straightjacket discarded beside him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he begins, urging their complete attention. ‘Before I present for you my celebrated milk-can apparatus, I propose to respond to a specific challenge I have received.’ He pauses to remove a piece of paper from his breast pocket. He unfolds it and reads aloud, emphasising those words he considers most significant:
‘“We the undersigned, expert Carpenters and Joiners of Melbourne, having heard of your abilities of escaping from impossible places, do hereby challenge you to allow us to construct a large and strong packing case of one-inch timber, and make use of two- and one-half inch nails and screws into which we will nail, screw and rope you, so that we believe it will be impossible for you to make your escape.”’
Harry raises his hands again.
‘My friends, here is this custom-made chest and its manufacturers.’ Four tradesmen – all wearing heavy black boots, two of them with long leather aprons – appear on stage wheeling a handcart with squeaking wheels on which rests a freshly-made chest. Those in the nearest rows can smell the sharp tang of new wood. Harry greets each man after they lower the chest. Then comes Kukol with a hammer and nails.
‘Now,’ says Harry, reading from his paper once again. ‘Allow me to present my prospective jailers: Mr John Shearer; Mr Zenas Law; Mr Christian Thomson; and Mr John Hunter – all of whom are in the employ of Andrew Kerr, of Franklin Street. This is correct?’
The one named Hunter nods. The others blink in the lights. Harry removes his crumpled jacket and gives it to Kukol. The lid, which seems to be heavy, is lifted off the chest. Harry jumps inside and bends down to give the longer sides a thump with his palm. It sounds like a drum: taut and solid. Kukol hands the hammer to the nearest carpenter and distributes shiny nails amongst the others.
‘I will now permit myself to be sealed inside this timber sarcophagus,’ says Harry, seated so that he is visible only from the chest upwards. ‘These craftsmen will secure the lid. The curtains will be drawn and Mr Kukol here will allow me only five minutes to get out. You still deem it to be impossible, gentlemen? Very well, begin.’
‘A trick,’ whispers Puccini. ‘But I cannot think how he will execute it.’
Bess allows herself another glance behind her. The composer is leaning forward. Audran has placed a restraining hand on his arm. Then the hammering begins. After the last nail has been driven home Hunter thumps his fist on the lid. There is an answering knock from within. Then Kukol ushers the carpenters towards the front as the curtains close behind them.
The woodworkers have been encouraged to check their chest. But so much attention has been paid to its top that they have neglected to examine the far end, where the nails securing the boards nearest Harry’s feet have been removed, filed off, and replaced. This was Vickery’s job, executed in a matter of minutes while the carpenters were invited to stand in the wings and watch the Mysteriarch wriggle out of the straightjacket. One or two kicks should be sufficient to release the boards and allow Harry’s egress. Then the end will be secured again, Kukol will hear a signal, the curtains will be parted and there will be the chest, intact, the lid as secure as ever. Beside it, free once again, the ‘World’s Greatest Mystery Man’. The only complication for Harry has been a sneezing attack after a curl of freshly-planed wood falls on his upturned face. It’s almost too easy, yet confounding when seen from the stalls. Again, Harry prolongs his escape just long enough to emphasise the difficulty of the challenge.
Bess, who has seen it all so many times, can still admire her husband’s command of technique and timing. It is an art to build up suspense, sustain it and then allow a sudden release of tension. He bows his head in silent acknowledgment of the applause, then invites the puzzled woodworkers back on to the stage to inspect their creation, which appears undamaged. While everyone is watching them, and before Harry begins introductions for his most famous routine, Bess glances back again. The seats for Audran and Puccini are now empty. She is surprised and a little hurt, but also appreciates their own sense of timing. With attention directed elsewhere, the composer and manager have quietly made an escape themselves.
19
AUDRAN and the composer push through a side door and find themselves in a narrow staircase. The steps, covered by a worn strip of carpeting, turn back on themselves regularly, so that as the two men climb down they must turn right after every landing, on which gas lanterns offer only feeble illumination. They hear applause and stamping feet inside.
The next exit leads into the Opera House foyer. They surprise a boy in a blue uniform and shiny black hat, who has guessed he has another twenty minutes before the handcuffed man finishes his performance and people start to leave. As the boy rushes to hold the door for them, Audran signals that his help won’t be necessary. Nor is there any need to explain why they are leaving early – a rare occurrence at Harry’s shows. The two men walk briskly through the foyer, saying nothing. Then they are outside.
The night is mild and smells of cigar smoke and dung from the horses waiting patiently, heads down, before carriages lined up one after another opposite the theatre entrance. In front of these is a long, handsome automobile, bodywork gleaming. Its driver appears to be slumbering in his seat. Like the theatre boy, he is confident of not being needed for a while.
‘My apologies for the early departure, Maestro,’ Audran says. ‘It seemed judicious to avoid the post-performance crowd.’
‘I am always content to be away from a crowd,’ the composer replies.
‘I am aware, too, that we have missed the climax of Mr Houdini’s show. The milk-can. Perhaps you can view this another time, or Mrs Houdini could tell you what we have not seen ourselves.’
The composer smiles briefly before saying:
‘To be confined in a milk-can is unpleasant, I am sure. But better than dying; the fate of so many at the end of my own stage creations. This American is skilful. I understand why so many people come to see him. We see danger, but we know he will not die. In an opera, however, the music should be glorious and the singers wonderful. They sound better because we have a sense that some of them will die.’
The composer grabs Audran’s left arm and urges him to turn around.
‘Look!’ he says. ‘Just look at that.’
The manager gazes along the street, which rises in a slight hill to the east. Past the carriages he sees a ragged row of wooden poles with narrow crossbars hung with wires for the city’s new telephone service; poles that resemble the masts of ships without sails. A cable-tram rumbles past, its sides open, the gripman ignoring bold urchins hanging on the back for a free ride. Heading the other way, smoke trailing behind and a lantern out front warning of its approach, a motor car seems destined to collide with the tram before its driver steers his vehicle off the tracks. Several horses raise their heads and snort while people promenading past, gentlemen in hats and ladies with furled parasols, turn to follow the machine’s progress, paying little attention to the two men standing outside the Opera House.
‘What would you have me look at?’ Audran asks.
