The Last Illusion (6 page)

Ernest gave us a look of contempt. “I just didn’t like touching blood,” he said. “It’s bad luck where I come from if someone dies in the theater.”

He spoke with a slight accent, not unlike Houdini’s. “What does the young lady want?” he asked.

“She’s looking for a stole she left here,” the first stagehand said.

“Something was stolen?” Ernest asked, frowning.

The first stagehand and I exchanged a laugh and I saw his demeanor change toward me. “A stole,” he said. “You know a wrap, a shawl.”

“Ah. This I have not seen.”

I gave a shy, sideways glance toward the one who wasn’t Ernest. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just take one last look around, just in case it’s been discarded in a corner, then I’ll be off.”

“All right, miss.” The first one was now looking at me as if he’d just noticed I was a woman. “Just don’t go near that stuff belonging to the
illusionists. It would be more than my job’s worth if they caught anyone poking around it.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t go near it, I promise,” I said.

He nodded and went back to work putting a coat of paint on a pillar. Ernest gave me a long questioning stare and disappeared into the shadows again.

I started peering into corners, then I turned back to my friend. “That contraption for sawing the lady in half,” I said. “Did Scarpelli keep it locked up under one of those tarpaulins?”

“He did.”

I gave a dramatic shudder. “I saw the whole thing. It was horrible, wasn’t it? I still feel faint when I think about it. It’s not still there, is it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t see how it could be. It went in the ambulance with the girl on it. I helped carry her out.”

“Did you? And if it was all locked up with chains like that, then I don’t see how anyone could have tampered with it ahead of time, do you?”

“Beats me,” he said in disinterested fashion. “Unless you were Houdini. Those locks would be a piece of cake to him. But I can’t see Houdini tampering with another fellow’s act. He’s the big star, isn’t he?”

“And if anyone came in from the outside?” I suggested. “What chance would they have?”

“At tampering with the illusionists’ equipment?” He put down his paintbrush and looked up at me, as if he was really taking in what I had said for the first time. “Here, what are you getting at? You’re one of those newspaper reporters, aren’t you? Slipping in here on some flimsy pretext and then asking questions.”

He got to his feet, towering over me.

“Oh, no.” I backed away. “I promise you I’m not a reporter. I suppose it’s just morbid curiosity. I was up onstage, you see, covering up that girl with my wrap, and I heard Mr. Scarpelli say that someone must have tampered with his equipment, so I just wondered how anyone could have done that.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said bluntly.

“I know. My mother was always telling me that I ask too many questions.
It’s a failing of mine, and I’m taking up your time. I should be going. Thank you again.”

I turned away.

“I don’t see how anyone could have tampered with Scarpelli’s table,” he said. “How are they going to get in, to start with? They’d have to get past Ted at the stage door.”

“Can’t you get to the stage from the front of the theater?”

“Nah. We only open the doors an hour before the performance and then there’s always something going on backstage. We’re all here, aren’t we? The illusionists are getting ready. We’d spot an outsider in a second.”

“Of course you would. You spotted me right away, didn’t you?”

“And if any stage door Johnny slips in, well, he’d be tossed out on his ear.”

“I really have taken enough of your time,” I said hastily. “I should be going. Nice talking to you, Mr. . . .”

“Reg,” he said. “Just plain Reg.”

“Nice talking to you, Reg.”

“And you too, miss.” I saw that he was now eyeing me with interest. Perhaps he thought I’d been flirting with him. “So you’re not in the theater yourself then?”

“I have been,” I said, stretching the truth only a little. “At this moment I’m not working.”

“Happens to the best of performers,” he said. “Say, if you’d like to go for a malt sometime?”

“That’s kind of you, but I have a very jealous boyfriend,” I said.

I beat a hasty retreat then and made my way back to Ted at the stage door.

“No luck then, miss?” he asked.

“I didn’t really expect to find it,” I said, “but at least I can say that I tried now.”

He nodded with sympathy.

“Ted, you’re here all the time, aren’t you? You’d know if anyone tried to sneak into the theater?”

“I’ve been stage doorkeeper for twenty years now,” he said proudly. “I can keep out unwanted intruders better than anybody.”

“So you didn’t find anyone trying to get into the theater earlier this week?”

He shook his head, then he frowned. “Exactly what are you suggesting?”

“I was wondering if somebody wished Scarpelli harm and deliberately tried to ruin his act.”

His eyes narrowed. “You seem remarkably interested in this. Are you sure you’re not a reporter? Old Ted don’t take kindly to being tricked, you know.”

“I swear I’m not a reporter,” I said. “I guess I was just being too curious. You know, when something like that happens, you can’t help wondering why. And I was wondering whether it really was an accident or someone had a grudge against Lily or Scarpelli himself.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ted said. “I just stand here at my post and mind my own business, and you should do the same, young lady. It don’t pay to meddle, or to ask too many questions.”

I came out into the alleyway. Was that just a general word of advice or was I being warned off?

Five

A
s I picked my way back down the alley I noticed the dustbins. On impulse I took the top off the nearest one and started rummaging through it. It was just possible that my wrap had wound up here. It was disgusting work and I had just told myself that I didn’t want to reclaim the wrap that badly, and that almost certainly it would be beyond redemption, when I came upon a blood-soaked piece of fabric. It was so stiff and caked with dried blood that it was impossible to see what it had once been, but definitely not my wrap. It had no fringe. I was about to drop it back when it occurred to me that this was valuable evidence. If the girl and Scarpelli had vanished, then this blood-soaked rag was the only proof that a crime had taken place. I wrapped it in a piece of newspaper that was lying nearby and tucked it into my handbag.

I looked up to see a disreputable-looking man staring at me. He was unshaven, unwashed, and dressed in tatters. “If you’re that hungry, girlie, there’s the Salvation Army mission a block away,” he said in a gravelly voice. “They hand out free soup.”

I tried not to smile as I thanked him and walked away. I had never been mistaken for a tramp before!

When I got home I took the rag, still wrapped in newspaper, and wondered if I should bring it directly to Daniel. Then, of course, I realized this would show that I went to the theater against his wishes. No sense in rocking that boat unnecessarily. I’d keep it here unless and until it was needed, then I could produce it triumphantly. I wrapped it well in tissue and shoved it into a drawer out in the scullery. I had just washed my hands and was about to make myself some lunch when there was a knock on my front door. Not Daniel, because it was a timid little tap. I opened it and at first didn’t recognize the young woman who stood there. She was dressed demurely in a simple muslin, with a pretty bonnet-style hat, and at first I took her for a schoolgirl, but then she said, “Miss Murphy. I hope you’ll forgive me for calling on you like this but I wanted to thank you for your kindness to me the other night You did give me your card.”

Then I realized that it was Bess Houdini. The other night she had been in full stage makeup. Without it she looked pale, innocent, and frail—but not quite as young as I had thought. She was definitely older than me. In her thirties, maybe.

“Please, come inside, Mrs. Houdini,” I said. “It was nice of you to stop by, but it certainly wasn’t necessary to come and thank me in person.”

I ushered her inside and offered her a seat in my one halfway decent armchair.

“I have to confess, Miss Murphy, that I do have another reason for seeking you out,” she said. “You said you were a lady detective.”

“That’s right. I am.”

“Well, I’d like to engage your services.”

Of course my brain went straight to divorce. As I’d mentioned, I didn’t like handling divorce cases in the first place, and I had no wish to cross swords with a man like Houdini—reputed to be in league with the devil.

“Really?” I tried to sound only mildly interested. “May I offer you a cup of tea or a glass of water?”

“A glass of water would be swell, if you don’t mind. It’s hot and muggy out there today, isn’t it?”

I went and got her the glass of water, then sat across from her, waiting patiently while she drank it.

“So what sort of assignment did you have in mind, Mrs. Houdini?” I asked when I thought she’d had long enough to compose herself. My sainted mother would be impressed at the way I’d learned patience at last.

“I want to hire you to protect my husband,” she said.

I couldn’t have been more surprised. I started to say, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” but I swallowed it back. “You want me to protect your husband?” I repeated.

“I think that someone’s trying to kill him,” she said.

My mind went immediately to the horrifying scene I had witnessed. “Is this because of what happened to Scarpelli’s assistant the other night?”

“That did make me think that it wasn’t just my nerves and I hadn’t just been imagining it,” she said.

“If someone’s trying to kill him, then surely it’s a matter for the police,” I said.

She shook her head vehemently. “No, that wouldn’t do at all. Harry would never countenance it. He’s a very proud man, Miss Murphy. You might even say a very vain man. He’d hate the thought that he couldn’t take care of himself. And he’d hate the thought even more that someone wanted him dead. That’s why I came to you.”

“What exactly do you think I can do?” I asked.

“Two things, I hope. Keep an eye on him and find out who wants him dead.”

I tried to compose my racing thoughts. One part of my brain was saying this was a plum assignment and I could forever after advertise that I’d been hired by none other than the premier magician of our time, the great Houdini. But the more sensible part of my brain was asking me how I could ever protect a man who risked his life on a daily basis and how I could ever hope to discover who might want him dead. But I’ve always loved a good challenge, and I had no other case on the books.

“Very well, Mrs. Houdini,” I said. “So tell me how your husband may be linked to what happened to Lily the other night. Do you suspect that Lily’s death was a murder and that the same person is trying to kill your husband?”

She shuddered as she remembered. “I’m not sure. But I tell you that’s the first thing that came into my head when I saw her lying there.”

“So you’re suggesting that a murderer is loose in the theater—someone who is trying to kill illusionists or at least ruin their reputations?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know who that could be. The other acts on the bill, they’re real nice. They seem like gentlemen and it’s not as if they’re Harry’s particular rivals. None of them tries to do what Harry does. Of course he does have his rivals, but not on this bill. And it would be hard for an outsider to get backstage, particularly when a show’s going on.”

She paused, looking at me expectantly.

“So maybe you’d better start by telling me why you suspect someone wants to kill your husband.”

She leaned closer to me. “Ever since he got back to this country last week I’ve had this feeling of danger,” she said. “I can’t explain it, but I’m sort of looking over my shoulder all the time. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do,” I said. “We Celts are supposed to have that sixth sense and it has served me well in the past. So is there anything more concrete than a feeling of danger?”

“I think that we’re being watched,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure that someone tried to break into our house the other night. I heard someone outside. I woke Harry and when he turned on the light the fellow ran off.”