The Last Illusion (38 page)

“Actually I can. I could have you arrested for interfering with police business,” he said.

“So have the police discovered what happened to Houdini yet? Has his body been discovered? Have they come up with any suspects or a motive for the crime?”

“Not as yet,” he said cautiously.

“Then maybe the police could use a little help,” I said.

He looked at me, head tilted sideways, then he laughed. “You’re impossible, do you know that?”

“So you’ve said before.”

“And you think that this Lily person is somehow responsible for Houdini’s disappearance? What motive would she have?”

“I’m not sure of that yet,” I said cautiously. “I will probably be able to tell you by tomorrow. How long do you think it will take to have the blood tested on this cloth?”

“I’ll have it sent round to the laboratory that does this kind of testing for us,” he said. “I don’t believe it should take them long.”

“Then let me know immediately,” I said. “I’ll be at Houdini’s house, keeping Bess company.”

“Thank heavens for small mercies,” he said. “At least you can’t get yourself into more trouble if you stay there with Mrs. Houdini and one of our men outside the door.” He put down the parcel and opened his door for me. “You’re really going directly there?”

“I really am,” I said.

“At least I’ll know where to find you for once.”

I paused in the doorway and looked back at him. “By the way, have you found Scarpelli yet?”

“No. We’ve pretty much given up looking for him,” he said. “We decided we’d never be able to prove that the unfortunate incident wasn’t accidental. And if it really turns out to be another illusion, then I’ll be glad we haven’t wasted the manpower.”

“His agent thinks he might be in Boston if you want him,” I said. And I gave him a big triumphant smile as I swept from the room.

Thirty-two

I
was feeling pleased and excited as the train took me slowly northward to Harlem. I had proved that I was a real detective. Oh, I had solved cases before, but sometimes more by luck than by observation and deduction. Paddy Riley, my former mentor, would have been proud of me. I thought Mr. Wilkie would be equally impressed. I had the drawings of the underwater escape to give him and the piece from the magazine that hinted at possible invasion. And I had an illusionist who had recently been in Germany and had pretended to be a doctor when a girl pretended to die. Not to mention a bag full of counterfeit money and a house with a printing press in the basement. All in all a most satisfying day.

I peered out of the train window, hoping to spot a clock somewhere. Really, I would have to save up enough money to buy myself a watch soon. I thought it couldn’t be later than four, so I’d arrive at Houdini’s residence in good time to meet Mr. Wilkie. I left the train at Ninety-ninth Street and felt a spatter of raindrops. I had been in such a hurry that I had forgotten to pick up my brolly when I had been at Patchin Place. How shortsighted of me, as the clouds overhead loomed black and
menacing and from the east came the growl of thunder. I quickened my step. Houdini’s house was several blocks away and the first spatter of raindrops sizzled onto the hot sidewalks. Thunder clapped nearby now and a horse neighed and reared in alarm as it stood waiting in the shafts. I looked for an awning to shelter under, but I had already left the commerce of Third Avenue behind and the street ahead of me was purely residential, so I had no choice but to push on. The rain began in earnest, hard and cold on my skin. I would clearly be meeting Mr. Wilkie looking like a drowned rat and I worried about the scrapbooks I still carried in my bag getting ruined. I clutched the bag to my person in a vain hope of keeping it dry and looked around desperately for a passing cab. But cabs do not patrol streets where there is little likelihood of picking up fares. In fact the street was deserted, save for one smart black carriage coming swiftly toward me. I stepped back from the curb so that I didn’t get even more drenched with the spray from the wheels, but to my surprise it came to a halt beside me and the door was thrown open.

“Miss Murphy?” a horrified voice exclaimed from the interior. “Get in quickly, before you are soaked to the skin. Here, take my hand.”

A hand came toward me and I saw that the man leaning out of the carriage was Anthony Smith, the young Secret Service agent. He took my arm and assisted me into the carriage, then leaned across to close the door behind me. “What a stroke of luck. I’ve just been to Houdini’s residence to find that you weren’t there and I wasn’t sure what to do next.”

“A stroke of luck for both of us,” I said as the heavens opened and the rain came down in a solid sheet, bouncing from the carriage roof and the sidewalks.

“What beastly weather,” he said. “I must say I didn’t come prepared for a deluge, and neither did you by the look of it. Here, I have a handkerchief if that will help.” He produced one, white and neatly folded with his initials embroidered in one corner. “You’ll probably want to dry off before we meet Mr. Wilkie.”

“Mr. Wilkie sent you to fetch me?” I asked as the carriage took off again.

“Of course. He thought it wise that you should meet where there is no possibility of being overheard.”

“Another train ride?”

“I really can’t tell you. I was sent to find you and then I imagine my task will be complete. He doesn’t confide in anyone, you know. More cautious than he needs to be, but a solid fellow, nonetheless.”

I had removed my damp straw hat and attempted to dry off my face and neck with the handkerchief. My dress was already clinging to me in a way that would have horrified Daniel and it did cross my mind that I was most inappropriately attired to be alone in a carriage with a strange man. But he didn’t seem to have noticed. I stole a glance at him and he was leaning forward, apparently focused on the straw boater and silver-tipped cane he held across his knees.

“So you were actually staying at Houdini’s house?” he said. “I envy you that opportunity. I’m a great admirer, you know. He’s the best there is. I’m a keen amateur magician myself, as is Mr. Wilkie, of course. He likes to engage fellow magicians to work for him.”

“I presume he finds sleight of hand a useful skill in your profession.”

“Quite.” He gave something between a laugh and a dry cough.

Thunder rumbled again nearby and what sounded like hail was bouncing off the carriage roof with a clatter like loud applause.

“Did you come with Mr. Wilkie from Washington?” I asked because the silence was making me uneasy.

“No, I was already here,” he said. “I met him at the station.”

Ah, so it was later than I thought. I stole another glance at him. It was dark in the carriage and his hair and face looked like one of those floating heads that spiritualists can conjure up. The carriage slowed, and the rain abated for a moment so that I could hear the clip-clopping of other horses’ hooves and the chime of a large clock. One, two, three, four. I counted the strokes. Then I sat up, suddenly alert. I hadn’t misjudged the time. It was four o’clock. Mr. Wilkie couldn’t possibly have arrived in New York yet. And at the same time several unconnected thoughts raced through my mind. The passage that Mr. Wilkie had circled in the magazine: something about the problem with illusionists is that you think they are working on one side of the stage when really they are on the other. “I’m a keen amateur magician,” Smith had just said.

And that advertisement for the deception cabinet. Light wood on top, ebony underneath. Works both sides. Used for the most dangerous tricks. And made in Germany. Houdini had been describing Anthony Smith. He even had a Germanic look to him. There were faces like his in those photographs of the German royal court—proud, haughty young officers with light hair. And I knew why I had been uneasy ever since I stepped into the carriage. Anthony Smith was a double agent. That was why Houdini insisted on meeting Mr. Wilkie in person, why he could send nothing by mail. He knew that among Mr. Wilkie’s team of men there was one that couldn’t be trusted.

And now I was alone in a carriage with him. I stole a quick glance in his direction and noticed that the blind on his window was down. Also that he had locked my door behind me. I had no idea where he intended to take me but it certainly wasn’t to meet Mr. Wilkie. My one chance was to show no alarm, to act naturally, and wait for an opportunity to jump out. It was, after all, still daylight and the streets would still be full of people. There would be constables on every corner. I put my bag on my knee, pretending to brush it down with the now-sodden handkerchief, but in reality to hide the door latch. I then leaned across, waited for the noise of the rain to pick up again, and flipped the lock open. Now one swift turn and I could jump out.

It did go through my mind that I would have no proof of my suspicions if I left the carriage now, but I wouldn’t be much use trying to testify as a corpse either, and I had seen what Smith and his kind had done to those who stood in their way. I looked out of the window, trying to see where we might be going but it was still raining too hard to recognize in which direction we were heading. The carriage was not rattling too much so we were not going over cobbles. That meant a major thoroughfare—probably one of the avenues. It would be helpful to know where to run if I made it safely to the street. Surely he wouldn’t have the nerve to chase me in broad daylight, especially if I screamed for help?

I would like to have hitched up my skirt as it would be a long jump down from the carriage, but I couldn’t do that without his noticing and I worried about taking the bag of scrapbooks with me. I didn’t want to
leave it behind. It might even show a snapshot of Anthony Smith in Germany, but it was definitely going to be an encumbrance when I tried to jump out.

We clipped on for a good while at a steady pace. My brain raced desperately for something to say.

“So what kind of tricks do you like to perform, Mr. Smith?” I asked.

“Me? Only the small stuff—cards, linking rings, that kind of thing.”

“So none of the more impressive tricks that illusionists are doing these days?” I said gaily. At least I was attempting to sound gay and girlish. “Of course they are terribly dangerous, aren’t they? Do you know I was actually in the theater when that poor girl was sliced open with the saw. It was all I could do not to faint.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” he said. “No, I don’t think I’d ever attempt to saw someone in half.”

“And what kind of tricks does Mr. Wilkie like to perform?” I prattled on.

“I really couldn’t say.” He snapped the words out and I realized that he too was feeling the tension now.

“Then I’ll have to insist that he give me a demonstration when we’re together,” I said. “Are we nearly there?”

“Who knows, in this infernal downpour,” he said.

The carriage came abruptly to a halt and I thought I heard the driver shouting a curse. I didn’t wait for a second. My hand turned the door handle and pushed it open. Rain came flying into my face. I grabbed the bag, stood up, and—was just conscious of a swift movement behind me.

Thirty-three