The Shadow in the North (14 page)

think they'll come at him from the front, if they do it at all."

Then Sally, looking around herself, glanced up at the boxes on the other side. There were half a dozen of them, and four were dark, but in one of the other two sat three men—and one of them was looking directly at her through opera glasses.

He saw her look, took the glasses away, and smiled and bowed slightly. She saw the glint of light on his gold-rimmed spectacles.

"Mr. Windlesham," she said involuntarily, and looked away.

"What's that?" said Frederick.

"Bellmann's secretary. He's in that box—the second one along—and he's seen me. What do we do now?"

"Well, we're in the same game, that's plain to see," said Frederick, and turned to stare up. "No point in trying to hide now; he can tell we're together. There's another fellow in there, Jim—no, two of them. Can you make them out?"

Jim was craning up as well, but he shook his head. "No," he said. "They're hanging back in the shadow. The shorter one could be the bloke I saw in Mackin-non's dressing room, but I wouldn't like to swear to it. Bloody nuisance. I'd go up and lock 'em in the box, same as I did that night, but they'd see me coming."

Frederick gave them a friendly wave and turned back to the stage. The orchestra was about to begin. He said to the others, "They can watch us, but we can get to the

stage more quickly. If it comes to a scrap, Jim, we'll hold 'em off while Sally sticks to Mackinnon. Got your knuckles?"

Jim nodded. "That door behind the master of ceremonies' desk leads straight into the wings," he said. "They picked the wrong place to wait when they chose that box. It's the one advantage we got."

"Unless there are some more of them backstage," said Sally.

They couldn't say any more because the orchestra began, with a crash of cymbals and a thump on the bass drum, and, sitting where they were, they could hear nothing else. Jim, at the end of the row, cast an eye up to the box every few seconds while Frederick gave himself up to enjoying the entertainers.

Madame Tarocszy's Female Hungarian Velocipede Troupe came and went, and so did Miss EUaline Bagwell (soprano), the Lightning Sketcher, and Mr. Jackson Sinnott (comic and patriotic songs); and still the three men didn't leave their box. Sally looked up once to find Mr. Windlesham's curious and mild expression, complete with glinting spectacles, still fixed on her, and she felt unpleasantly naked. She turned back and tried to ignore it.

Finally the master of ceremonies announced the Great Mephisto. There was a drumroll, the conductor's left hand rumbled at a chord in the bass of the piano while his right hand urged the four string players to a

mysterious shimmer, and then with a flourish of q^m-bals the curtain rose. Frederick and Sally sat up.

There was a slender figure in tailcoat and white tie at the center of the stage. He wore a white mask. Sally had never seen Mackinnon, but she knew at once who it was, and not only because Jim sat up alertly on her left and whispered, "That's him, the perisher."

Frederick was as relaxed as ever on her other side. She looked at him, saw an expression of pure, childlike enjoyment on his face, and found herself smiling in response. He turned and winked at her, and then the act began.

Whatever else he was, Mackinnon was an artist. It was clear that the mask was not only a means of concealing his identity but a positive part of the act he was developing—as important as the white-face makeup he'd worn previously. He didn't speak, and the atmosphere he engendered was sinister—emphasized by the number of tricks he performed that featured knives and swords, cutting and piercing and severing. Movement, mime, and above all the expressionless, mesmeric mask, all added to the sense of danger and horror. The audience, which had been rowdy and cheerfiil until then, fell still—but not with distaste or disapproval: they were awed. So was Sally. He was a phenomenal performer.

They had been watching him for some minutes, unable to take their eyes away, when Jim turned his head briefly to glance up at the box—and shook Sallys arm.

"They've gone!" he whispered.

Alarmed, she turned as well, and saw that the box was empty. Jim swore, and Frederick sat up.

"They had more sense than we did," Frederick said under his breath. "Damn it, they must have got backstage. As soon as he goes off, Jim, we'll make a run for it—"

But then Mackinnon sprang a surprise of his own. The music stopped in mid-bar, the magician stood with arms raised high—then he shook his hands, and two shimmering scarlet cloths rippled downward over his arms and hung to the floor like waterfalls of blood.

Simultaneously all the lights died away except for one narrow spotlight focused on him. There was utter silence in the audience as he walked to the front of the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said—the first words he'd spoken. His voice was light and melodious, though coming from his masked face it had the mystery of a strange god's voice in an ancient temple.

The orchestra was hushed. No one moved. It was as if the whole theater was collectively holding its breath.

"Under these silk cloths," he continued, "I am holding two mighty gifts. In one hand I hold a jewel, an emerald of great antiquity and priceless value. In the other I hold—a knife."

A silent shiver ran over the audience.

"Life," he went on quietly, mesmerically, "and death. The emerald will give its possessor, should he wish to

sell it, a lifetime of wealth and luxury. The dagger, on the other hand, I shall plunge into his heart—and death will enter with it.

"One of these gifts, but only one, I shall give to the person who is brave enough to answer a simple question. A correct answer wins the emerald—a wrong one wins the knife. But first, the gifts themselves."

He shook his left hand. The cloth rippled silkily to the floor in a blood-colored whisper, and there in his hand was a dark green flame—an emerald the size of a hen's egg, flashing with a sea-deep brilliance. The audience gasped. He set it careftilly on the black velvet surface of a small table at his side.

Then he shook the other hand. The cloth fell, revealing the gleaming steel blade of a six-inch dagger. He held it out so the edge was horizontal. With his other hand he plucked at the air—and a white silk handkerchief appeared at his fingertips.

"So sharp is this blade," he said, "that the weight of the handkerchief alone will cut it in two."

He held the handkerchief high and let it fall. It drifted down slowly onto the blade—and without the slightest hitch or pause, fell neatly past it, sliced in half Another gasp from the audience—more like a sigh this time, with a tremor of fear in it. Sally found herself spellbound too. She shook her head fiercely and pressed her knuckles together. Where were the men from the box? Were they backstage already, waiting in the wings?

"Death,". Mackinnon was saying softly, "death by

this knife would be as soft and gende as the falling of the silk. Think of the pain of disease, the misery of old age, the despair of poverty . . . gone in a moment, banished forever! This is as great a gift as the other. Perhaps even greater."

He laid the knife beside the emerald and stepped back a pace.

"I shall do the deed," he said, "here and now, on this stage, in front of six hundred witnesses. And as a consequence, I shall hang. I know this. I am ready.

"Because this is a very solemn choice, I do not expect an answer at once. I shall let two minutes pass, by this clock."

The illuminated dial of a large clock appeared in the darkness behind him, with the hands showing two minutes to twelve.

"I shall set the clock going," he said, "and wait. If no one has offered to answer by the time it strikes, I shall take the gifts and conclude my performance. Tomorrow I shall repeat the offer, and I shall continue until it is taken up.

"Let us see if there is one among you who will dare to do it tonight. It only remains for me to ask the question.

"It is a simple one: What is my name?"

He fell silent. There was not a sound in the theater except for the constant slight hissing of the gaslights, and the sudden first tick of the clock sounded clearly to every corner of the auditorium.

Seconds passed. No one moved; Mackinnon stood

like a statue, his body as still as his masked face. There was silence from the audience, silence from the band, silence from the wings. The clock ticked on. The men from the box must be waiting in the shadows of the wings, held up by Mackinnon's surprise; but they wouldn't stay there forever, and now a minute had gone by.

It was no good waiting, Sally thought. She looked at Frederick and Jim. "We'll have to do it," she whispered, and Frederick nodded. She opened her bag, snatched out the pencil and paper she kept in there, and scribbled hastily. Her hand shook; she could feel the tension of the audience behind her, half convinced that the emerald was real, that he really would use the knife, that life and death really did hang on the outcome.

The hand of the clock was nearly at the twelve. A rustling whisper arose from all around as people breathed in and held their breath. She looked at Frederick and Jim, saw that they were ready, and stood up.

"I can answer it," she called.

A second later the clock struck, but no one heard it in the hubbub that broke out with the release of tension. Every head in the audience craned to look at her: she saw the white of all their eyes in the gloom.

"Good for you!" came a shout, and it was taken up at once with a hoarse and ragged cheer. Sally walked slowly across the front of the auditorium toward the master of ceremonies, who was standing at the foot of the steps. Under cover of the applause, she was aware of

Frederick and Jim slipping quiedy through the door that led backstage. But there was no time to think of that; she needed all her concentration for Mackinnon.

The master of ceremonies offered his hand, and the applause died away as she climbed up to the stage. The silence that fell now was even deeper than before. Sally walked forward. Windlesham is somewhere in the shadows, too, she thought, and he knows who I am, even if the others don't. . . .

"So," said Mackinnon when she stopped a yard or two from him. "One has arrived with an answer. She comes to meet her fate. . . . Now let us hear: What is my name?"

Sally could see the remarkable blackness of his eyes through the chalk-white mask. Slowly she held out the paper. Expecting her to speak, he was a little disconcerted, but it wasn't visible to the audience: as if he'd rehearsed the move for weeks, he reached out with tormenting slowness for the paper, took it, turned to the audience. Sally could feel their huge, intense presence on her left.

He unfolded the paper, his eyes commanding silence. Every breath in the building was held—including Sally's. He lowered his tyts and read.

She had written:

BEWARE.

bellmann's agents are waiting in the wings, i am a friend.

There had been no time to write more.

Mackinnon didn't blink. Instead he turned to the audience and said, "On the paper this courageous young lady has written a name—a name that every member of this audience, every man and woman in the kingdom, would recognize. It does me great honor—but it is not my name."

A gasp. He tore the paper into shreds, letting them trickle down through his fingers. Sally found herself held like a small animal mesmerized by a snake. All the resolution she'd felt had drained away completely, and the situation was reversed. A minute ago, he'd been in her power; now she was in his, entirely. She couldn't look at his eyes or the mask or the thin red mouth, only at the moving hands shredding the paper. Beautiful, strong hands. Was the knife real? Would he? No, surely—but then, what?

The only thing she knew now was that his mind must be racing. She hoped it was racing to a solution.

The moment couldn't be prolonged. He reached for the knife, held it in front of him and gazed at it profoundly, and then raised it high. He held it above her, still and cold like an icicle of steel—

And then several things happened at once.

A harsh cry broke out from somewhere in the wings, and something in the same place crashed heavily to the floor as a furious struggle broke out, making the curtains swing and sway.

A trap door beside Mackinnon flew open with a bang. A square platform appeared in the opening.

A woman in the audience screamed, and her scream was taken up by another, and then another.

The orchestra began a frenzied performance in at least two keys of the music from Faust.

And then Mackinnon seized Sally by the arm and dragged her to the trap door. She felt his arm around her and marveled at its tense strength.

The lights changed to a flickering, hellish red as the platform, with Mackinnon and Sally on it, began to descend.

The audience was a sea of noise—howling, shrieking, shouting—but Mackinnon's laugh, satanic and powerful, cut through it all as he shook his fist and they sank into the darkness.

The trap closed with a bang over their heads.

The uproar was cut away at once. And Mackinnon drooped. He leaned against Sally and trembled like a child.

"Oh, help me," he moaned.

He'd changed in a moment. In the dim light (a gas mantle some way off in the clutter of beams and ropes and levers was the only illumination) she saw that his mask had slipped sideways. She snatched it off and said:

"Quick—tell me. Why is Bellmann chasing you? I've got to know!"

"No, no, please! He'll kill me! I've got to hide—"

His voice was Scottish now, high and panicky, and he beat his hands together Hke a distracted child.

"Tell me!" Sally snapped. "If you don't, I'll let them have you. I'm from Garland's. A friend, d'you hear? Fred Garland and Jim Taylor are holding off those men at the moment, but if you don't tell me the truth, I'll give you away. Now tell me why Bellmanns after you, or—"

"All right, all right!"

He glanced around like a trapped animal. They were still standing on the wooden platform, between the iron runners that guided it up to the opening in the stage. It was the kind of thing known as a demon-trap—used in pantomimes to bring the Demon King onstage. Somewhere, Sally thought, there must be a man winding a handle to control it, but there was no one else in sight.