The Last Illusion (3 page)

I thought I’d better make my escape before she told me that story in detail. “I really should be getting back,” I said. “There’s a cab waiting for me, and my intended will wonder where I’ve got to.”

She reached out a dainty, white hand this time. “Thank you again. You’ve been very kind.”

“Take care of yourself,” I said.

“Oh, I will. It’s not me I worry about. It’s Harry. I worry about him every single day.”

I went out, closing the door quietly behind me. I was also about to marry someone in a profession fraught with danger. Would I be worrying about Daniel every single day?

Two

I
came back to the stage to find Daniel, Signor Scarpelli, and the theater manager in conversation. No sign of the box containing Lily, nor of Houdini.

“Molly, you’re still here.” Daniel looked up in surprise. “I thought the cab came for you ages ago.”

“I took Mrs. Houdini to her dressing room and she was in such a distressed state that I couldn’t leave her until she calmed down,” I said.

“Good of you, miss,” the theater manager said. “It was a most distressing sight. Awful. I’ve never seen a thing like it happen in my theaters and I’ve had fire-eaters, lion tamers, you name it.”

Daniel cleared his throat, obviously wanting to get down to business. “Now, Mr. Scarpelli—is that your correct name?”

“My stage name,” the man said. “In real life I’m Alfred Rosen.”

“And the girl’s name?”

“Lily Kaufman.”

“A relative of yours?”

Scarpelli looked almost coy. “No, just a professional associate.”

“I see.” Daniel nodded. “I’ll need the name and address of her next of kin. They’ll have to be notified.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather do it myself,” Scarpelli said. “I feel responsible. It’s only right that I should go and see them. Lily thought the world of her parents. Sent money home to them every month regular.”

“Very well, but I’ll still need their names and address for our records.”

“I can come down to your police station and bring you all that in the morning, if you don’t mind,” Scarpelli said. “I don’t know the address off the top of my head and I’m all at sixes and sevens at the moment. My heart still hasn’t stopped thumping. I still can’t believe it, if you want to know the truth. I keep thinking it’s a horrible nightmare and I’ll wake up any second.”

“You stated that someone must have tampered with your equipment,” Daniel said, showing no sign of sympathy. “Why are you so sure of that? Why couldn’t it simply be a malfunction of your trick?”

“Because the trick should have been foolproof,” Scarpelli said.

“Explain it to me.”

Scarpelli raised his hands in horror. “My dear sir. An illusionist never reveals his secrets to anybody.”

“As you wish,” Daniel said, “but you have to realize that the only evidence I have so far of a crime being committed is yourself wielding a saw and almost certainly killing a young woman. A most convenient way of dispatching someone you might have wanted dead.”

Scarpelli’s face flushed. “You think that I—Captain, I assure you that I was exceedingly fond of Lily. I would never have done anything to harm her.”

“So what makes you think anyone else would have wanted to harm her?”

Scarpelli paused, looked around, then lowered his voice. “There have been little things,” he said. “Small glitches in the act. Locks that wouldn’t open, props that mysteriously disappeared right before show-time. I put them down to Lily’s lack of organization. She was something of a scatterbrain, you know. But now I’m wondering if someone
was trying to disrupt my act all along. It wasn’t someone who wished harm to Lily, it was someone who wished to destroy my reputation as an illusionist.”

“So tell me why I should believe the accident was not a mere malfunction of your equipment,” Daniel insisted. “Your secret will have to come out anyway in a court of law if you’re tried with negligence or even worse, homicide.”

Scarpelli glanced at first the theater manager then me. “They are not to know,” he said.

“Molly, I think it’s about time you went home,” Daniel said. “The cab has been waiting for hours and you’ve no place in a police inquiry.”

As if on cue several more policemen burst in through the front doors.

“Up here, men,” Daniel called. Then he put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Off you go, then,” he said.

I had no choice but to leave just when things were getting interesting.

The cab took me safely back to my little house on Patchin Place. I made myself a cup of tea, then went up to bed. The window was open, letting in the summer breeze, scented with the roses growing over my garden wall. I stood at the window and took deep breaths, trying to shake the horrifying image from my mind. Suddenly I felt horribly alone and vulnerable. I had always considered myself to be a strong and independent woman until now. I had been in no hurry to get married and give up my independence. But at this moment I longed for strong arms around me and thought how reassuring it would be to fall asleep in his arms feeling safe and protected. Then, of course I reminded myself that I would be marrying someone whose own life would be forever tinged with danger. Like Bess Houdini, I’d be constantly worrying about my husband every time he came home late.

I slept at last and woke to a glorious summer morn with the sun streaming in through my window and the net curtain flapping idly in the breeze. The terrors of the night were dispelled. I got up, dressed, and was ready to start the day when there was a knock at my front door. I
rather hoped it might be Daniel, stopping by on his way to work to give me the details of what transpired at the theater after I went home. Instead it was my neighbor Augusta Walcott, of the Boston Walcotts, usually known by the irreverent nickname of Gus. She had a basket over one arm.

“Good morning,” she said. “I’ve just been to the bakery on Greenwich Avenue and I’ve returned with croissants hot from the oven. Come and have breakfast with us. We are dying to hear your impression of this man Houdini.”

“As to that, I didn’t have a chance to see him perform,” I said. “I take it you haven’t read this morning’s
Times
yet.”

“No, I haven’t. It’s lurking at this moment in the basket with the rolls. Besides, Sid always likes to read it first. Houdini didn’t perform after all then?”

“There was a horrible accident in the act preceding his,” I said. “The illusion was supposed to be sawing a girl in half. But something went wrong and she really was sliced with the saw.”

“Good God,” Gus said. “Seriously hurt?”

I found it hard to force out the words. “She was not expected to live, I’m afraid. The manager stopped the show and sent everyone home.”

“How awful for you. You need a dose of Sid’s coffee to restore you to sorts.”

In truth I didn’t need a dose of Sid’s coffee. She made it in the Turkish fashion, abominably strong and more like drinking thick sludge. But my friends’ cheerful company more than made up for the coffee. I followed Gus across the street to her house on the other side of our little backwater. It was a charming haven of twenty brownstone houses set in a cobbled alleyway and gave the feeling of being miles away from the traffic and bustle of Greenwich Avenue and the Jefferson Market opposite.

Gus flung open her front door. “Sid, dearest. Here she is, and with such a dramatic tale to tell.”

We went down the long hallway and through to the kitchen at the back of the house. They had built a conservatory onto it and Sid was sitting in a white wicker rocking chair, the picture of country elegance.
I should probably explain that Sid’s real name was Elena Goldfarb. She and Gus led the most delightfully bohemian existence, with Gus’s inheritance to keep them in that lifestyle. Their house was always full of artists, writers, actors—and extremely heady for a girl who until recently had lived in a primitive Irish cottage and whose entertainment had been the occasional dance at the church hall.

Sid jumped up as we arrived. She was wearing a red silk kimono with a large golden dragon curling over it and the effect with her black bobbed hair was stunningly oriental.

“Molly!” she cried, opening her arms to me. “We see you too seldom these days and now you’ve come to cheer up our drab little lives with a dramatic tale.”

I had to laugh at this statement. “Drab little lives? I don’t know of any lives less drab. Who else would convert their living room into a Mongolian yurt?”

Sid looked surprised. “Well, we decided we didn’t really want to go to Mongolia after all. Too cold and windy and bleak, you know. So we decided to have the Mongolian experience at home. Of course we’ve had to do without the horses galloping over the plain, but there are riding stables nearby . . .”

A vision of Gus and Sid, dressed Mongolian fashion and galloping astride through Central Park flashed into my mind before Sid said, “So tell us your dramatic tale.”

“A horrible tale, actually,” I said and repeated what I had told Gus.

When I’d finished there was stunned silence.

“How utterly awful,” Sid said at last.

“She needs coffee, Sid,” Gus said and started to put the French rolls into a wicker basket.

“She most certainly does. You must have been most upset last night. Why didn’t you come over to us when you got home? You know what late hours we keep and we could have given you a stiff brandy.”

“Perhaps her intended was there to offer her more comfort than we could give,” Gus said, giving us a knowing look.

“No, I came home all alone. Daniel sent me home in a cab,” I said. “He had to stay on to conduct an investigation into the incident.”

“A nasty accident, surely?” Sid looked up from putting a small cup of thick black coffee in front of me.

“The illusionist himself didn’t seem to think so,” I said. “He thought his act had been tampered with.”

“Who would do such a fiendish thing?”

“I have no idea. I had to take Mrs. Houdini to her dressing room so I missed a lot.”

“There is a Mrs. Houdini?”

“Indeed yes. A delicate little thing like a china doll. She was in hysterics when she saw the poor girl.”

“Most women would be,” Sid said, giving Gus an amused glance. “I am afraid you have doomed yourself to not being socially acceptable by not being able to produce an attack of the vapors, Molly. A most useful accomplishment for a woman.”

Sid sat beside me at the table and opened the newspaper. She scanned the first pages while Gus and I sampled the French rolls.

“Ah, here we are. ‘Tragedy at Miner’s Bowery Theatre.’ Here’s the whole thing in grim detail, written by someone who was an observer on the spot. They are certainly on the ball at
The New York Times
, aren’t they? All the news that’s fit to print indeed.” She read us the piece out loud. “Oh, and you’ll be pleased to hear this, Molly. The management has agreed to provide free tickets to a subsequent performance for those who were not able to see Houdini last night. Well, I call that big of them.”

“The show must go on. That’s what they say, don’t they?” Gus commented as she slathered more apricot jam onto her croissant. “We should go and see for ourselves, Sid. Will you and Daniel be going back tonight, Molly?”

“I have no idea. It all depends when he can get away. I know Daniel will want to catch Houdini’s act before he sails back to Europe. In truth I don’t know if I’m so keen, after what I witnessed last night. I’d keep expecting something else to go horribly wrong.”

“I’m sure these things are usually perfectly safe. Why don’t you come with us tonight, if Daniel isn’t free to escort you. Then we can go
to a coffeehouse afterward for a heated discussion on how the illusions were done.”

“I watched many of them last night and I was completely baffled,” I said. “Even simple tricks like making a card rise from the pack. But then I’m Irish and easily impressed by anything that appears to be supernatural, I suppose.”

“So what are your plans for today, Molly?” Gus asked. “Ever since your engagement you have been so caught up with that policeman of yours that we’ve hardly seen you.”

I nodded. “Daniel keeps wanting me to look at houses and flats,” I said. “When all I want is to stay here and have him move into my house. I promised he could furnish it to suit his taste and it is a perfectly acceptable address, is it not? So close to Fifth Avenue, and to his police headquarters, but for some reason he is not keen on the idea.”