The Last Illusion (8 page)

T
he first thing I did was what most women would do in a similar situation: decide that I had nothing to wear. If I was to meet the famous Harry Houdini at the theater tonight and be presented as a future assistant I had to look the part of a theater artiste. And as to finding something I could wear onstage—something like Lily’s glittering white ensemble—well, I had no idea where I might rustle up one of those.

I went upstairs and examined the few items of clothing hanging in my wardrobe. My own clothing was plain and practical in the extreme. I had, after all, arrived in this country with literally the clothes on my back and my earnings since had just about kept body and soul together. But at the far back of the wardrobe I found something that encouraged me. It was the outfit Oona Sheehan had lent me when she had hired me to impersonate her. It was a smart black-and-white striped grosgrain two-piece. I took it out and examined it in the light. It was unfortunately rather the worse for wear, having been through a lot while I was in Ireland, but it would do at a pinch for tonight’s meeting with Houdini.

But as to what I could wear as a magician’s assistant . . . I did the next thing I always did in moments of crisis like this: I went across the street to Sid and Gus.

Gus opened the door, a riding crop in one hand and wearing an elegant riding habit. Her cheeks were flushed. “Molly!” she exclaimed. “We’ve just returned from Central Park. We’ve been out riding.”

“Pretending to be Mongolian warriors?” I asked cautiously.

“Not quite. We thought that we ought to brush up our riding skills before we undertook an expedition somewhere wild like the Jersey shore and tried a flat-out gallop along the sands. I’m afraid those poor, tired horses will never be the same, especially after Sid’s little episode.”

“What did she do?” I asked.

“You know Sid. Always pushes everything to the limit. First she was most annoyed because they insisted on giving her a sidesaddle. Then she asked if she could ride bareback instead and of course they refused. So no sooner were we out of the stable than she urged the poor animal into a gallop, throwing up the dust along the drive and terrifying children. Then she decided she wanted to see if she could leap into the saddle while the beast was moving, the way they do it in Mongolia.”

“Jesus, Mary, and—” I started to say before I caught myself. These Irish expressions tended to come out in moments of crisis. I was trying to eliminate them if I was ever to become the sophisticated New Yorker. “So what happened?” I asked.

“I talked her out of it, of course. She’s come home quite miffed. And the outcome is that we are
personae non gratae
at that particular stable in the future after we returned her horse exhausted.”

As she was saying this Sid appeared, dressed in men’s riding breeches and tall boots, a crimson scarf tied over her black hair. She gave a marvelous impression of a bandit, if not a Mongolian.

“Gus has told you, I suppose,” she said, frowning. “I was forced to ride sidesaddle on a tired old nag. I kept telling them I was a superb horse woman and I’d rather go bareback, but they simply wouldn’t listen. I don’t know where we’re going to get in our Mongolian practice.”

“Go and have a lie down, dearest,” Gus said, “and I’ll make us some iced tea. My, but it’s warm today, isn’t it.”

She opened the door of what used to be the drawing room and was now draped, from the central chandelier downward, with fabric to resemble a Mongolian tent. “It’s cooler in here,” she said. “Do sit, Molly, and I’ll be back with the tea.”

I sat, on a leather cushion on the floor. I don’t know what they had done with the sofas. Perhaps they were still behind all that drapery. Gus reappeared with a tray with glasses of iced tea and some chocolate biscuits. “So is this just a friendly call or was there something particular you wanted?” she asked.

“I know you two love your playacting, so I wondered if you had any sort of costume that would make me look as if I was a theater performer,” I said.

“Oh, what fun. Is it for a costume party?”

“No, an assignment. I have to meet some people at a theater tonight and convince them that I am one of their fraternity. Then I’m rather afraid I may have to appear onstage, so I just wondered . . .”

“Appear onstage? As what?”

“I can’t really tell you too much,” I said.

“What a hoot,” Gus said. “Molly onstage again. We can’t wait to see you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said. “It’s bound to be highly embarrassing. In fact I am not at all sure about this whole assignment. But on the off chance that I’m expected to play a part, I will need a costume.”

“Let’s go upstairs and see, shall we?” Gus led the way up two flights of stairs and opened a large trunk. It was full of what we at home would have called “dress up” clothing.

“What kind of role are you expected to play?”

“Glamorous,” I said. “Spangles.”

“This we have to see.” Gus was chuckling now. “You’ll not keep us away, Molly.”

She produced one piece after another, carrying on a constant commentary. “Lion tamer? Harem dancer? French maid? Japanese geisha? Oh, how about this—French cancan dancer?”

She held up what amounted to a black corset with fishnet stockings attached by large suspenders.

“Gus, I could never wear that. It’s not burlesque and anyway I wouldn’t have the nerve,” I said. “I’d be arrested!”

“I believe Sid was, when she wore it.” Gus laughed. “Then it appears I don’t have anything suitable in here for your costume. And as to your outfit for tonight—you’re welcome to check out our wardrobe, but you know that we don’t dress to appease fashionable society any longer. Sid has some divine silk trousers and mens’ smoking jackets, but I suppose they might give the wrong impression.”

“Yes, they might,” I agreed.

So I left empty-handed. Whom did I know in the theater who might have something suitable for me? Oona Sheehan came to mind, of course, because she did still owe me a favor and she was my size. So I caught the Sixth Avenue El up to Madison Square and went to the Hoffman House, where Oona had rooms.

“I’m afraid Miss Sheehan is not in residence,” the hall porter said. “She has left the city for the summer. I have not been informed when she will return. If you care to leave a message?”

“Drat it,” I muttered, coming out into the warm sunshine again. So whom did I try now? Of course, how thick of me. Anyone who could afford to do so left town to escape the summer heat. My only hope was to see if Ryan O’Hare was still in the city. He knew everybody in the profession and besides, seeing him was always a pick-me-up. It also occurred to me that Ryan might prove to be useful in my current assignment. He loved to gossip and probably knew every piece of juicy scandal in the theater world. I returned posthaste to Washington Square and to the Hotel Lafayette, where Ryan had rooms.

I tapped on the door to Ryan’s suite and was greeted by a doleful voice saying, “Go away and leave me to die quietly and alone.”

I bent down and tried to see through the keyhole, but the key was in it. “Ryan,” I called through the crack in the door, “Ryan, it’s Molly. Is something wrong? Please let me in.”

After a moment I heard shuffling feet and the door was opened. A fearsome apparition greeted me and I took a step backward. Ryan was still in his nightshirt. His long dark hair stood out wildly. His eyes were bloodshot and stared me at blearily.

“Holy Mother, Ryan. What in God’s name’s the matter with you. Are you sick?”

“Dying,” he said dramatically. “Probably won’t last the day.”

“My dear man, have you seen a doctor?”

“No doctor. No hope,” he said.

I led him back into his room and closed the door. “Lie down and let me go for one.”

“No use,” he said, sinking dramatically onto the bed.

That was when I noticed an empty bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey on his bedside table.

“Did you drink all this?”

“How else was I going to drown my sorrows?” he exclaimed.

“Then I suspect that all you’ve got is an almighty hangover,” I said. “Lie there, I’ll have them send up some black coffee.”

“Don’t bother. I just want to die anyway,” he said. “There is no point in continuing to live.”

I ignored him and phoned down to the front desk.

“What on earth is wrong?” I asked.

He turned his face away, staring bleakly out of his window, where a large sycamore tree shimmered in the breeze. “Everything,” he said. “Life has no meaning.”

I waited and at last he said, “You remember the divine young man with the yacht? We went on a cruise up the Hudson?”

“I do remember,” I said.

“He’s left me,” Ryan said bleakly. “His father told him to shape up and marry a suitable girl or he was going to cut him off without a penny, so money won out over my broken heart.”

“Ryan, why did you decide to be a playwright,” I said, chuckling, “when you could have been such a marvelous tragic actor?”

“How heartless you are, Molly Murphy. I bet if that great brute of a policeman abandoned you, you’d be a little down in the dumps yourself.”

“I’m sure I would,” I said, “but I don’t fall in and out of love with someone new every few weeks like you.”

“But this time was different,” he said. “I had such high hopes. We
were going to sail his yacht to the Med for the summer. He was going to back my new play.”

“Ah, I see. So maybe money did play a small part for you as well.”

“A very small part,” he agreed. “One does like to dine well and a summer on the Med sounded so delightful. Better than being stuck in this sweltering cesspool for the summer. And now what will happen to my new play?”

“I didn’t know you’d written a new play,” I said.

“Only the most brilliant thing so far this century,” he said. “It will make that oaf George Bernard Shaw look like an illiterate schoolboy.”

“What’s it called?” I asked, since he was clearly perking up.

“I don’t have a title yet. And I have to confess that most of it is still in my head, but the smattering that is on paper—sheer, unadulterated brilliance.”

“Modesty, thy name is Ryan,” I said.

“One knows one’s worth,” he said.

“Then it seems to me that you have a lot to live for right now. You need to get that play on paper before it all vanishes from your head. And I tell you what, if it’s as brilliant as you say, then we’ll take it to the impresario Tommy Byrne. He’s a fellow Irishman, isn’t he?”

Ryan sat up, clutched at his head in dramatic gesture for a moment, then reached out and grabbed my hand. “Molly, you are a true lifesaver. You’ve given me hope. If things were different, I’d fight off that horrible policeman and marry you myself. You always know how to lift my spirits.”

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of black coffee. He drank it, protesting with each sip, then lay back down again.

“Now you can do something for me,” I said. “First of all, I need a costume to be a magician’s assistant.”

The bloodshot eyes opened in surprise and he laughed. “Molly, my sweet. You do not look the part of a magician’s assistant. They are tiny and weigh no more than a feather. How else can they fit themselves into those terrible contraptions for the tricks?”

“I don’t intend to be put inside any kind of contraption,” I said. “I’m just going to stand there and be helpful.”

“Have you abandoned your current profession for the stage then? Daniel won’t approve.”

“Daniel won’t know and this is for an assignment.”

His eyes lit up. “An assignment? Do tell?”

“To the most notorious gossip in New York? Ryan, you know I can’t discuss my cases. But you may be able to help me.”

“You only have to ask, you know that.”

“What do you know about illusionists?”

“Not very much. We move in different circles. They are vaudeville, I, my dear, am legitimate theater.”

“So you don’t know much about Houdini?”

“Only that I’d adore his fame and money. My dear, he is the darling of Europe at the moment. He was feted by the Kaiser, the Tsar of Russia. He has them eating out of his hand.”

“He’s back here for a few weeks this summer and part of an evening of illusion at Miner’s.”

“Is he? I must go and see it. I understand he has muscles like iron. They positively ripple.”

“I understand the whole show is sold out,” I said.

“My dear, I can get my way into anything. The theater owners all adore me.”

“So you would have no way of knowing if there were any current feuds going on between Houdini and other magicians?”

“No, but I expect I can come up with someone to ask, if I put my mind to it.”

“And I did just save you from imminent death,” I reminded him.

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he said. “So let me think who I know in the sordid world of vaudeville. And who loves to gossip.” A wicked smile came over his face. “Yes, I can think of one or two people, although whether they’ll be in town at this time of year, I can’t tell you. But I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it, Ryan. So about the costume. Where do you think I could find one in a hurry that would fit someone as large and healthy-looking as me?”

“You wouldn’t find one anywhere, darling, but I do know a divine little dressmaker,” he said.

“That may be the answer,” I said. “How do I find her?”

“It’s a he,” he said. “I’ve no doubt he could make you one in a hurry, but he’s not cheap. I’ll take you to him if you like.”

“This afternoon?”

“Darling, I am not venturing forth looking like this. I do have my public to think of. Tomorrow, if all is well. Come round but not before ten. I am not at my best in the early morning.”

I was obviously not going to get any more out of him, so I took my leave.

Seven