The Last Illusion (5 page)

S
id and Gus finally persuaded me to go to the theater with them that night. I protested that Daniel would probably rather that I waited until I could see Houdini with him, but they thought this was bosh. “You don’t have to tell him everything you do,” Sid said. “A good wife learns when to speak up and when to keep wisely silent.”

“A lot you know about being a good wife.” I laughed.

“I’m a good observer of humanity,” she pointed out.

So I went along with them, only to find a huge crowd milling around outside the front doors of the theater and the manager himself standing just inside the doors and trying to drive them away.

“It’s no use standing there, we’re completely sold out, I tell you. There’s not a seat to be had in the house. Go home like good folks.”

“But you promised us last night that we could come back,” an angry male voice said.

“How was I to know the news in today’s paper would sell out the entire engagement in New York? And it’s not as if Scarpelli will be on the bill tonight.”

There were more angry murmurs, plus some expressions of sympathy.

“Of course he is in no state to go on with his act at this point,” the manager said.

“We came to see Houdini,” someone yelled from the crowd. “He’s the one we want.”

“He’s only here for a week.”

The manager held up his hand to quell the rising mutters. “I tell you what—I’ll try and see if we can arrange a performance on Sunday, even though the theater is normally dark then. And those who missed seeing Houdini perform last night will be given first pick of seats. I can’t do fairer than that, can I?”

We came away with the rest of the crowd.

“It’s amazing how great horror will draw more people than great sweetness,” Gus said. “They came to see if another girl might be sawn in half tonight.”

“They’d be out of luck,” I said. “Signor Scarpelli has done a bunk, much to the annoyance of Daniel and the police department.”

“Well, wouldn’t you want to get away if you’d been responsible for someone’s death?” Gus asked. “Come on, the night is still young. Have you seen
The Wizard of Oz
yet, Molly?”

“
The Wizard of Oz
. Isn’t that a children’s show?”

“They’ve made it into a delightful musical extravaganza. We’ve seen it twice but I’m game to see it again. How about you, Sid?”

“Game for any form of entertainment at any time, as you very well know,” Sid replied. “Come on, Molly. Our treat. Let’s find a cab, Gus.”

So I was whisked off to the Majestic, in a rather more salubrious part of town. It was a children’s story about good and wicked witches and a useless wizard, but I have to say that I enjoyed it. Of course the spectacle in itself was breathtaking. Characters flew around the stage and the wizard had all kinds of machinery to make himself seem terrifying. As I watched, I realized that to a certain extent everything on the stage is a matter of illusion. A good performer can make the audience believe anything he wishes.

.   .   .

The next morning, when I was going through my closet, preparing to do a load of clothes washing, I realized something I had overlooked until now. I had covered that poor girl with my wrap. And of course I realized I now had a good excuse to go back to the theater if ever there was one. And I wouldn’t be going against Daniel’s orders if I just happened to look around a little and ask some questions while I was there, would I?

I wasted no time and went back to Miner’s Bowery Theatre. In daylight it looked rather seedy. The front doors were shut this early in the day. I picked my way down a side alley that was piled with garbage and smelled of cats, and worse, and found the stage door. I had learned from my brief experience in the theater that the stage doorkeeper is the one who knows exactly what is going on. I pushed open the door and stepped into complete darkness.

“And where do you think you’re going?” came a gruff voice from one side.

My eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom and I saw his bald head floating eerily white over the bottom half of a donkey door. It was amazing how all stage doorkeepers looked the same. I smiled at him in what I hoped was charming innocence.

“Hello,” I said brightly. “I was here two nights ago when the accident happened to poor Lily.”

“If you’re one of those reporters you can turn right around and get out before I call some of our stagehands and have you thrown out,” he said in surly fashion. I should add that most stage doorkeepers are surly too, at least until they know you.

“Nothing of the sort,” I said. “You see I went up onstage with my young man when he tried to help, and the doctor was asking for blankets to cover the poor dying girl. So I covered her with my wrap until they could come up with something warmer. I came back just on the off chance that it had been discarded here in the theater. I know it’s probably covered in blood and beyond using again, but I was particularly fond of it.”

He stared at me for a while, trying to size me up.

“I didn’t see it personally,” he said.

“I don’t know if the girl was carried out of the front door or she came through this way.”

“Out the front. I certainly didn’t see her leave. They’d have never got a stretcher out through here. Too many steps and the alley’s too darned narrow.”

I put my head prettily on one side, in the way that children always think is endearing. “Would you mind if I took a look for my lost wrap? I know it’s probably been thrown out by now, but I’d kick myself if it was still lying in a rubbish bin. I was rather fond of it, you know.”

Another long pause, then he said, “You’re probably going to cost me my job, but go on with you. There’s nobody around at this hour anyway, so you can’t do no harm. But don’t go doing any snooping into dressing rooms or the like. Not that you can get at the illusionists’ props. Always locked up good and proper, they are.”

“Really? So does each illusionist lock his props away separately or are they all in one locked room?”

This made him laugh. “Listen, girlie, that lot wouldn’t trust their own grandmothers. They live in constant mortal fear that a rival illusionist is going to steal their tricks. You hear of the brotherhood of magicians. Don’t you believe it. Rivals, that’s what they are. They’d cut each other’s throats if they had a chance.” Then he realized what he had said. “Didn’t really mean that,” he stammered.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” I said soothingly. “But from what they are saying, I understand there was little love lost between the one who calls himself Scarpelli and Houdini.”

“They all hate Houdini’s guts,” the old man said confidentially. “Just because he can get himself publicity like nobody else—and he gets paid for it too. But none of them can do what he does—challenging police departments all over the country, defying anyone to come up with a lock or a jail cell that can hold him. And I’ve watched him, young lady. If they’re illusions I’ll eat my hat. If you ask me, I reckon the man’s not quite natural. One of the stagehands said he had to be in league with the devil and I’m half inclined to believe him.”

“How about Scarpelli. Did he get along just fine with the others?”

“Scarpelli? I don’t think he antagonized anyone in particular. Jealously guarded his props, of course, but they all do.”

“So you don’t think anyone could have tinkered with his props that night? Because that’s what he claimed—that someone was out to ruin his reputation and do him harm.”

“That’s rubbish,” the old man said. “Do him harm? Between you and me, young lady, he wasn’t much of a threat, until he came up with this latest stunt, that is. If his sawing the lady in half hadn’t gone wrong, he’d have made his reputation. Nobody else in the world does that illusion on the stage these days, although I understand a Frenchy used to do it, long ago.”

I made a mental note of this. A new trick that nobody else could do. Of course it would put Scarpelli on another level. And a fellow magician might well want to make sure the trick didn’t succeed.

I decided to push my luck just a little further. “That poor girl seemed so sweet and nice,” I said. “I can’t imagine a girl like that having an enemy in the world.”

“She didn’t. And I tell you what—he thought the world of her too. Scarpelli, I mean. Nothing was too much trouble for her. You should have heard him and Houdini fussing over their womenfolk when they were rehearsing. Both of them had to run out because their ‘honey-lamb’ or their ‘babykins’ wanted a soda or some candy. If ever you’ve seen two men on strings it was those two.”

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” I laughed with him. “And have you noticed it’s always the small delicate women who can lead their men a dance. If I tried that with my young man, he’d tell me to go and get my own soda or candy!”

He chuckled at this. “You’re right. It doesn’t pay to be too independent for a woman.”

I decided I had probably pushed my luck for long enough. “I’d better go and look for that wrap,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed chatting with you, Mr.—?”

“Likewise, miss. And I go by Ted. Old Ted, they call me.” He nodded
in a most civil fashion. “Watch your step back there. Things lying around all over the place that can trip you up if you’re not careful.”

I thanked him again and off I went, down the dark passageway until I found myself in the backstage area. The whole place was lit by a couple of anemic electric bulbs, which were not strong enough to cast more than small pools of light and the stage was bathed in gloom, the various props and scenery flats looming over me like menacing shadows. Even though I told myself I had no reason to be afraid, I found I was holding my breath. After all, if Scarpelli’s mishap had not been a malfunction or miscalculation, then someone had wanted a person dead badly enough to have taken a frightful risk in this very theater, at this very spot. And it seemed as if that person had to be Scarpelli himself, if the props were really locked up like the stage doorkeeper had told me. Of course I couldn’t forget that the headliner on the bill was the self-proclaimed King of Handcuffs who could open any lock. But he had appeared shocked and surprised when he saw what had happened. He had also, I reminded myself, been the one to suggest that Lily should be carted away in an ambulance before the police arrived to uncover any clues from the scene.

I tiptoed carefully across the stage, my feet sounding unnaturally loud in the vast empty area. This was about the spot where the tragedy had taken place. I got down on my knees and searched the floor, looking for bloodstains, but it had been well scrubbed. Then I prowled around the rest of the backstage area. I came across some big wooden crates, padlocked, plus a couple of tarpaulins, wrapped around with chains and likewise locked with massive padlocks. I assumed these to be the magicians’ props that they guarded so carefully. I wondered if Scarpelli had also kept his sawing-the-lady trick under a similar tarpaulin. If so it would probably have been easy enough to break into, especially for a fellow magician—especially one who made his living from picking locks.

In truth I had little hope of finding my wrap. There was no reason anyone would have removed it from Lily’s body before transporting her to the hospital. And since no hospital had apparently admitted her,
then the wrap was lost with the girl and the illusionist. Not that I really fancied having it back, all covered in blood. Then another thought struck me—Scarpelli made it quite clear that he wasn’t about to divulge his illusion to anybody. If he had fled, wouldn’t he have made sure that he left nothing behind but took that contraption with him? It would be covered in blood and probably beyond use now, but it would hold the secret to the illusion. That’s why he made sure she was wheeled out still lying in the box.

I hadn’t seen what happened when she reached the ambulance and whether she was lifted out of the box and onto a stretcher at that point. In which case, what happened to the contraption itself? I stared longingly at those tarpaulins. If I could just peek under them, maybe I’d recognize the leg of that table. Maybe there would still be evidence of bloodstains on the leg. And if it was still here, then maybe Scarpelli hadn’t run off after all. Maybe the murderer had made sure that he finished off both Scarpelli and his assistant. I knelt on the floor and attempted to lift up the bottom of the tarpaulin.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” called a voice from across the stage.

I jumped up guiltily and was relieved to find it was only one of the stagehands and not one of the illusionists. He was a big, burly man in his shirtsleeves and braces, so I decided to act the helpless female.

“Oh, my goodness, you startled me,” I said, putting my hand to my chest in a dramatic gesture. “It’s so dark back here, isn’t it?”

“The public’s not allowed backstage,” he said, still glowering. “Who let you in?”

“Your doorkeeper said I could come and look for my lost wrap. I hope that’s all right.”

“Your wrap?”

I nodded. “I was here the other night when there was the terrible accident, and I used my wrap to cover that poor girl until they found blankets for her. I came back on the off chance that it might still be here, although it probably won’t be much use to me, all covered in blood like that. However I’d like to retrieve it if I could. It came from Paris,
you know. Cost me more than a month’s wages.” I hoped I was babbling on like a scatterbrained female. I even attempted a pretty smile.

“You wouldn’t find it under there,” the stagehand said, giving me a frosty stare. “Those belong to the illusionists and they’re most particular about them.”

“Oh, dear. Of course, they would be. I’m sorry.” I backed away hastily. “You didn’t find a wrap, did you? A pretty lilac color with a silky fringe, but it would have had blood on it, of course. You probably wouldn’t have noticed the color.”

He shook his head. “Can’t say that I’ve seen such a thing, and the boss had us cleaning up the stage after the tragedy. I can tell you it’s not easy cleaning up that much blood. Scrubbing until all hours, we were.”

“How awful for you. I’m sure it was a most horrid task,” I said.

“Not your favorite either, was it Ernest?” the stagehand called to another fellow who was apparently watching us from the shadows. The first stagehand turned back to me with a smirk on his face. “Gives himself airs and graces that one. Thinks he’s too good for the menial tasks. I told him why doesn’t he go back to the old country if it doesn’t suit him here?”