Now You See It (13 page)

Lordamighty?

“I’ll take your word that he won’t confess,” Plum went on. “So what do—”

She cut him off. “We have to find Harry’s body,” she said. “If we can only—”

She stopped, looking across the room.

At the burial case.

The Sheriff asked, “What’s that?”

“An Egyptian burial case,” she told him.

“From Egypt?”

“Well, maybe it’s from Yugoslavia, I don’t know,” she snapped.

“There’s no need to be smart,” the Sheriff told her.

Especially for you
, I thought.
(Max, where
are
you?
is what I was thinking behind that thought.)

Cassandra had exhaled wearily.
“Sorry,”
she said. She didn’t sound it.

“I think, before we start searching for a body—I’ll probably need a warrant anyway—I’d better speak to your husband,” the Sheriff decided.

“It’s always kept open,” she said.

He squinted at her.
“What?”
he asked.

Cassandra walked across the room and opened the burial case.

“Yes, it would have been terribly clever of him to hide the body in here,” she said, scowling at the empty interior.

Neither of them noticed what was happening behind them.

On the right glove of the suit of armor.

A large drop of blood was about to drip from one of its fingertips.

“Where might I be likely to find your husband, Mrs. Delacorte?” the Sheriff asked.

Her smile was bitter. “After committing murder?” she said. “On a flight to Europe, probably.”

No
, I thought;
not Max
. But it was only half a thought.

The bulk of my attention was on the suit of armor as the hanging drop of blood disengaged itself from the fingertip of the glove and dropped to the floor, splashing delicately. They did not react.

Can’t you
hear
that?
I thought incredulously.

“You think he’s left, then?” the Sheriff asked. Obviously, he hadn’t heard.

“Sheriff, how am I supposed to know?” Cassandra replied. “How
could
I know?”

Obviously, she hadn’t heard either.

Now a second drop of blood was collecting at the tip of the glove finger. I watched with a kind of sickened fascination
as it stretched downward, quivered, broke away, then fell to the floor, where it splashed on the damp spot left by the first falling drop of blood.

Are the two of you
deaf? screamed my mind.

Apparently so. Plum was walking over to the casket now. “This a trick?” he asked, pointing at it.

“No, it’s real,” Cassandra said. “At least he says it is.”

“Real?”
He looked repelled. “A real coffin in your husband’s office?”

Magic Room!
I cried out. Minus sound, of course.

“That’s the kind of man he is,” Cassandra answered him.

Folks!
I thought.

Plum peered in through the glass top, twitching in shock as he saw what he thought was Max.

“Is this
him?”
he asked, aghast.

“Of
course
not,” she said, frowning. “It’s a quarter-size dummy.”

Plum grimaced, looking ill. “Sure
looks
real,” he said.

He turned to ask her something else and saw her staring at the suit of armor.
God bless us all
, I was thinking—

—as a third, large drop of blood was disconnecting from the fingertip of the glove.

They both winced simultaneously as it splattered on the floor. Now
you hear it
, I thought,
at last
.

“My God,” said Plum.

Cassandra’s expression was one of disbelieving horror.

“He
wouldn’t,”
she said.

Plum started toward the suit of armor.

“It wouldn’t make sense,” Cassandra murmured shakily. I had to agree.

But who was in the suit of armor, then?

“Why do you keep saying that?” asked Plum.

“Because he’s a
magician,”
she explained. “He’d never be so obvious.”

That, at least, she understands
, I thought.

But she wasn’t certain enough to not watch apprehensively as Plum reached the suit of armor and stopped.

A fourth drop of blood was collecting at the fingertip.

Plum winced again—as Cassandra did—when the drop fell, enlarging the scarlet splash-mark on the floor.

Gingerly, he reached up toward the faceplate, his movement slow, almost diffident. Cassandra watched him with a sickened gaze.

Plum’s fingers moved closer to the faceplate.

Closer.

A
stonishment!

Plum recoiled, crying out involuntarily as the suit of armor sprang open, its hinged halves stopping with a loud, metallic clang.

Cassandra jerked back, gasping.

And I recoiled and jerked back inwardly, my mind crying out—

—as
The Great Delacorte
stepped forth.

He was attired in full illusionist regalia—white tie and tails, a top hat accordioned shut in his hands. His smile was broad, theatrical.

He was, in fact, not standing before us so much as making an appearance, his expression that which a generation of magic devotees had come to know so well—genial, urbane, and welcoming.

“Good afternoon, my friends!” he said.
The Great Delacorte
saluted them.

Despite my startlement and general disconcertment, it warmed my heart to see him like that.

This was a far different Maximilian Delacorte from the man who met with Harry Kendal—had it only been a few short hours ago?

That Delacorte was wan and understated, soft-spoken until righteous anger came. That was a hurt, embittered Delacorte, a man nearly broken by inner pain.

The man who stood before us now was, indeed,
The Great Delacorte
.

And more.

This man was
on
. Keyed up. Imbued with energy. One might put it, in the current lexicon, that he was
wired
.

There was an undercurrent of almost crazed ebullience in his look and manner which transcended even his usually effusive stage persona.

But then, something
more
was going on beneath the surface.

Frozen by surprise, both Cassandra and the Sheriff twitched as Max popped open his top hat, set it on his head, and tapped it into place.

“It will be my pleasure this afternoon,” he said high-spiritedly, “to entertain you with some minor whimsies of illusion … some larger feats of prestidigitation … and some exploits of darker magic which will place each one of you—whether you will or not—
In Touch
with the Mysterious.”

Crystals of icy dread began to assail my inner warmth.

This had been the opening speech of his act (virtually the opening speech of
my
act, too) for fourteen years.

At the conclusion of which (as he did now), he tossed up a cloud of golden dust which crackled brilliantly, then vanished into thin air.

Plum had twitched at this. He stared at Max, mouth open.

Max swept off his top hat, bowing regally.

“I do not believe we’ve met, sir,” he observed.

Plum was speechless. So was I. (Well, I always was.) I could not escape a chilling premonition that Max had truly gone insane. Under all the circumstances, wasn’t it a possibility?

Max tilted his head inquisitively toward the Sheriff. “Sir?” he said.

Plum swallowed quickly, clearing his throat. “Grover Plum,” he said. “Sheriff, Medfield County.”

“Well, Sheriff, Medfield County,” Max replied. “So good to meet you.”

His expression became that of a man savoring some new, delightful knowledge.

“Grover Plum,”
he said. “How musical a name.”

He beamed. “I am, of course, Maximilian Delacorte, known professionally as The
Great
… Delacorte.”

He confused me further by gesturing expansively in my direction, adding, “And this, of course, is my beloved father, the
original Great Delacorte
, a magician of worldwide distinction and renown.”

“I … met him,” mumbled Plum.

“Glad to hear it, Sheriff,” Max responded.

Offhandedly, he gestured toward Cassandra, who was looking toward him with a dark, despising disdain. (How’s that for alliteration?)

“You’ve already met Miss Crane,” he said.

“Who?”
the Sheriff asked.

Max pointed at Cassandra as though at the target for a firing squad. “That
woman,”
he said. “Her maiden name was Crane.”

His cheeks puffed outward noticeably as he made a sound of sardonic amusement.

“Maiden,”
he said, “a title nonapplicable to her for many decades.”

Cassandra tightened and began to speak. He cut her off.

“What brings you here so soon?” Max asked the Sheriff.

“It was
you
who telephoned my office, then,” said Plum.

“Of course,” said Max. “I didn’t expect you so promptly though.”

“I’m not surprised,” the Sheriff said, “since you didn’t mention murder in your call.”

Max’s smile was evanescent. “No, I didn’t,” he admitted.

“Why did you kill him, Max?”
Cassandra asked.

He did not reply. Reshutting the suit of armor with care, he strode to the bar, placed his top hat on its surface and gave the chilling bottle of Dom Perignon a few quick turns between his palms.

“Champagne, Sheriff?” he offered.

“I hardly think this is the time for champagne,” responded Plum.

“Oh. Too bad,” said Max.

He glanced at Cassandra. “My dear?” he asked. His tone became cajoling. “Your favorite brand.”

“I don’t drink to murder,” she told him in a throaty, malignant voice.

He smiled. “Too bad,” he said again. “Not the comment though. That was very good.” He pointed at her with approval.
“Telling.”

“Mister Delacorte—” Plum started.

“We’ll have the champagne later, then,” Max said. “When we’re ready.”

“Mister Delacorte—” Plum began again.

“Perhaps with caviar,” Max said. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sheriff. Did I interrupt you?”

“I’d like to remind you—” said the Sheriff.

“Uno momento,”
Max broke in.

Moving briskly to the Egyptian burial case, he shut the lid, then turned back with a smile.

“Like to keep a tidy household,” he said cheerfully.

Max, what is going on in your mind?!
I thought in deep distress.

The Sheriff had begun to bristle now.

“See here, Mister Delacorte,” he said, “I’m not here on a social visit. My office gets a call, I drive out here and find your wife lying on the floor over there.”

“You
do?”
said Max. He turned to Cassandra with a look of innocent curiosity. “Why were you lying on the floor, darling?” he asked.

“Where is he, Max?”
she cried.

His tone was bland as he inquired, “Who’s that, my dear?”

Her cheeks were whitening with rage. (Clearly, he was still exacting vengeance on her.) “Stop the stupid game, Max!” she demanded. “We’re not playing! Where
is
he?”

“I think you’d better tell us, Mister Delacorte,” the Sheriff added.

Max looked at him.

“Your wife claims you’re the one who committed the murder,” said Plum.

Max’s expression became one of “hurt” bewilderment.

“What a dreadful thing to say,” he responded.

He looked at Cassandra, clucking with reproach.

“How awful,” he said.

She looked at him with disbelief now.

“You asked him here to kill him,” she said, a look of genuine pain on her face. “To
kill
him.”

Max’s mouth was opening to reply when Sheriff Plum said, “Let’s get down to details now, shall we, Mister Delacorte?”

He removed a pad and stubby pencil from the breast pocket of his shirt. Max looked at it approvingly.

“By all means!” he said; he actually sounded enthusiastic. “I’m a detail man myself; always have been. Nothing to compare with details, is there? Without details—”

“Stop
it,” Cassandra cut him off, her voice low-pitched, almost murderous.