‘And where’s it now?’ asked Lucky.

‘Can’t see ’em. Maybe they’re for your protection?’

‘Yes,’ said Gregor. ‘That’s it.’

Out on the footpath, Lucky said: ‘I suspect that guy knew something.’

‘He didn’t know squat,’ said Gregor. ‘Stay composed and we’ll get through this.’

A few weeks earlier, Gregor had written twenty near-identical letters to hotels and government clerks in the two largest Australian cities, proposing a short concert. He did not write to the service clubs, the American Red Cross Society or official USO clubs, or the Booker T. Washington Club or the Trocadero, because these were places where frauds might easily be detected. There were a million Americans stationed in Australia (the figure Lucky cited from the Sydney Morning Herald). One million uniformed men (or perhaps fewer), and Lucky and Gregor feared them all for their knowledge of popular music. In his letters, written on US Army Air Force letterhead, Gregor made clear the shows were for civilians only: ‘a small thank you for so much hospitality’.

There were five requests for a concert and an itinerary was devised: Sydney first, then Melbourne. The imposters would take trains of various gauges to Victoria and back, unless they could talk their way onto military flights. Which Gregor was determined to do. A depressing pattern, they’d heard, of a thousand miles of harsh countryside and stations with sinking platforms and green verandah roofs was not something you submitted yourself to, if you were a great musician.

To the left of the community hall was a funeral parlour. On the right, beyond a vacant lot, stood a brick home surrounded by cypress trees. Lucky held the clarinet case with both hands, thinking of the first tune he’d play. Breathe with the diaphragm, like making yourself fat.

Two men in uniform came out of the hall and waved to Gregor and Lucky.

Gregor said: ‘You know these guys?’

‘Let’s walk away.’

‘They’ve seen us already—we’ll talk to them. You’re Benny and I’m your manager. It’s going to be fine.’

The two men wore expressions Lucky found startling, comic up to a point. One of the MPs was tall and broad with thinning black hair. The other had large ears and said: ‘May I have your autograph, Mr Goodman?’

‘No problem at all,’ said Lucky.

‘Hell of a joke,’ said the MP with big ears.

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Lucky, looking up from the scrap of paper on which he’d made a mess. The false signature was not at all natural.

‘We heard about your little concert today. You ain’t Benny Goodman.’

‘I damned well am!’ said Lucky.

‘And I’m Gary Cooper. And he’s Wallace Beery. It’s funny the shit you end up doing in a war.’

‘Benny is who he says he is, got that?’ said Gregor. ‘Now we must leave. We have an engagement.’