The Last Illusion (30 page)

“Oh, dear,” I said. “Poor Bess.”

He nodded. “It will be hard for her, I agree. And it’s always harder not knowing, isn’t it? I’m glad you’re returning to her today. You can provide comfort as well helping us.”

I plucked up courage to mention something that had been going through my head, but that I hadn’t dared to ask before. “I don’t want to sound crass, but am I to be paid a fee for my services or am I supposed to be doing this for the good of the country?”

Wilkie threw back his head and laughed. “I do like you, Miss Murphy.
You have none of the usual female sensibilities. Find us what we’re looking for and there will be a handsome fee.”

“Do you have any idea at all what you’re looking for?”

He shook his head. “None whatsoever. All we know from Houdini was that he’d discovered something important in Germany and that he wouldn’t share his news with anyone but me. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, but I don’t know whether this was information or something of substance like papers or drawings that he wanted to hand over.”

“You’re not giving me much to go on,” I said.

“All I can say is that some of the information may be contained in a magazine article he was writing. It may, of course, have been all in his head, in which case it is lost to us, but I suspect he’ll have wanted to show us some kind of proof. Now, these are the magazines I want you to look for.” And he opened his briefcase.

“Magazines?” I took them with interest.
Conjurers’ Monthly
.
Mahatma
magazine.
The Dramatic Mirror
. “I’ve seen these before. There were piles of them in their bedroom.”

“You have searched their bedroom?” He looked impressed, or was he amazed at my cheek?

“This morning. I wanted to see if there was any clue as to where Houdini might have gone. The police suspect that he was part of the murder plot, you see. And I rather thought that he and his brother might have planned it between them. I suspected it was a way to get rid of someone who was bothering them—threatening or demanding money, maybe. As you can see, we were all barking up the wrong tree.”

“So there are magazines in his bedroom,” Wilkie said. “But it’s not an old magazine I want. Those I have. Those we have been through with a fine-toothed comb. I need a new article he might have been writing. One that has not yet been published. Or his notes.”

“If he had such vital information for you, why didn’t he just telephone you?”

Wilkie laughed. “Telephone me? My dear Miss Murphy, do you know how many exchanges a telephone call has to go through between New York and Washington? A telephone message is about as private as shouting from the rooftops. For all I know any telephone call
from my headquarters could be monitored by unfriendly ears. In the same way that letters could be steamed open and wires read by unfriendly eyes. In my business you can’t trust anybody.”

“And yet you seem to think you can trust me.”

He gave me a long, hard look. “My dear Miss Murphy. I pride myself on being a good judge of character. I’m certain I can trust you.”

The train chugged on across flat New Jersey countryside, occasionally crossing rivers with boats bobbing in blue water. There were farms and leafy glades and everything looked very peaceful and rural. I watched a young woman taking in a line of dry laundry while a child and dog romped at her feet. In a nearby field men were harvesting corn with great baskets on their backs. I bet these people never have to worry about crimes, I thought. They wake with the sun. They work in the fields and they fall asleep tired and content. Maybe that was the kind of life to have, not always having to be alert, on guard, in danger.

“You will soon have a more peaceful life if you want it,” an inner voice whispered in my ear. At this moment it came as a relief to think it.

Chief Wilkie took out his pocket watch and checked it. “Ah, we will be coming into Philadelphia soon. I suggest you disembark and catch the next train back to New York. You’ll need money for the return ticket.” He reached into an inside pocket and drew out an envelope. “Advance against fees,” he said.

I nodded politely as if men handing me money in railway compartments was a usual business for me, and put the envelope into my purse.

“And everything is clear?”

“One more thing,” I said. “You have told me how to contact you if I find anything important. How do I contact your man if I find myself in danger?”

“My man should be within hailing distance at all times,” he said.

“You sent a man to watch over Houdini and he didn’t prove to be much assistance, did he?”

“Good point. But frankly I don’t expect this to take long. You’ll search the house. Either you’ll find something or you won’t. By tomorrow we should know. And there are constables on duty, guarding Mrs. Houdini, are there not?”

“There are.”

“Then go to the house and stay there until your assignment is complete,” he said. “But I really don’t think you are putting yourself in danger. You are staying with a dear friend at a time of distress. What could be more natural. And they’ll never be expecting us to use a woman.”

“I see,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or annoyed.

We were passing through the outskirts of a city—ragged wooden houses, then more orderly rows, then solid brick buildings as we neared the center. Then the train pulling up beside a platform.

“Good-bye then, and good luck, Miss Murphy.” Mr. Wilkie stood and held out his hand to me. I shook it. He took down my overnight bag and opened the door for me.

“If you hurry, I believe there is a train to New York in a few minutes. No need to purchase a ticket. If you choose a regular carriage you can pay the conductor on board. Tell him there was a family emergency and you had to return unexpectedly.”

“Thank you,” I said, before I paused to wonder why I was thanking him for anything. Does a kidnap victim usually thank her abductors for taking her out of her way, then laying a difficult task before her? As I stepped out of the carriage and accepted my bag from him I looked down platform to see where I should cross and saw someone I recognized shoving his way through the crowd. It was none other than the fair-haired and arrogant young man whom I had overheard talking with Houdini in the passageway at the theater.

“That man.” I hissed out the words, leaning close to Mr. Wilkie. “The fair one, coming toward us. He was talking with Houdini at the theater a few nights ago.”

“Was he? Interesting,” Wilkie replied and to my astonishment he waved.

The young man quickened his stride, passed me as if I didn’t exist, then went to haul himself into the carriage beside Wilkie.

“Sorry, sir. I was held up. All in order?” he said in polished tones of one educated at a good school.

“All in order,” Wilkie said. “I was just saying good-bye to this young lady. Miss Murphy, this is one of my associates, Mr. Anthony Smith.”

Mr. Smith tipped his hat to me politely.

“Aren’t all your associates called Mr. Smith?” I asked.

Wilkie laughed. “Valid point. But this one really is. This young lady has a rapier wit, Smith.”

The young man seemed to really notice me for the first time. He stared at me, obviously trying to recollect where he had seen me before. Then he said, “Should I close the door, sir? We’re about to be off.”

“I think so, Smith. The young lady will be leaving us here. Such a delightful journey, my dear. Enjoy yourself in Philadelphia.”

“Thank you, I will.”

I smiled at them politely, then turned to walk down the platform. So Mr. Smith was not to be told of my mission. Or maybe Wilkie was waiting until the train left the station, just in case the wrong person was listening. I decided, as I went to find out the platform for the returning train, that I should make a terrible spy. I’d surely spill the beans to the wrong person.

As I came to the end of the platform newsboys were waving early editions of the evening newspaper. “Philly Flooded with False Money,” the headline read. So Daniel’s case had spread from New York. Or maybe the forger had found the police too hot on his heels and had moved on. That’s probably what the obnoxious Mr. Smith had been doing in Philadelphia, I decided.

And as the train pulled out of Philadelphia Station, I noticed a poster on the wall advertising Signor Scarpelli—Prince of Magicians. I tried to see what date was on it—whether it was an old poster or not, but the train had already gathered speed and whisked me past it.

Twenty-five

D
uring the long journey back I studied the magazines I had been given.
Mahatma
magazine was the official organ of the American Association of Magicians, with reports from all over the world. Wilkie had placed a pencil mark next to “Our Berlin Correspondent,” whom I presumed was Houdini. And I saw that in several issues he had written articles under his own name, including, interestingly enough, how to use chemicals to create an ink that vanishes after a few seconds as well as various invisible inks. Useful for a spy as well as a magician, I decided.

In
The Dramatic Mirror
he wrote under his own name. I read through everything he had written. All his reports sounded innocuous enough, and even looking for a double meaning, I couldn’t find a single one. I wondered if I’d have better luck back at the Houdinis’ house. What sort of thing would he have seen in Germany? Surely nothing that might threaten the might of the United States of America? Whatever it was, it was enough to have him kidnapped and probably killed.

The magazines made fascinating reading for an outsider like myself. I learned how to use mirrors to make a box appear empty. I even amused
myself by reading the classified advertisements. It seemed that one could buy almost any kind of unlikely contraption. I was intrigued by something called a “deception cabinet.” Fine, light wood on top, ebony below. Opens two ways. And the afterthought, “suitable for the most dangerous tricks, so watch out.” I was about to move on when something about it caught my attention. “Made in Germany.” But then I presumed that many clever devices were manufactured in that country.

I wondered how one operated a deception cabinet. Maybe I’ll give up being a detective and start a new career as a magician with my deception cabinet, I thought with a chuckle. Then I remembered that an illusionist’s life was no safer than a detectives’—less safe, in fact.

It was with heavy heart that I made my way from the ferry to the Houdinis’ house. I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with a possibly hysterical Bess. Another constable stood guard outside and I was admitted again by Houdini’s mother. She looked at me with the same hostile glare with which she had greeted me on previous occasions, but she didn’t ask, “Where’s my boy?” this time, making me wonder whether they had received bad news.

“How is Bess?” I asked.

“She wait for you,” the old woman said, now apparently accusing me because I hadn’t been there. “All day she ask me why you not come?”

“I’m sorry. I know, I should have been here, but I had important business. I’ll go up to her now, shall I?”

She shrugged as if it was no business of hers, but I felt her eyes following me all the way up the stairs. Bess seemed to be asleep, so I tiptoed into the room and went over to the magazines and papers on top of the dresser. I searched diligently but didn’t come across anything that I thought would be of significance. But then I decided that Houdini was hardly likely to leave something so vital that it could only be imparted to one man out in full view, especially when someone had already tried to break into the house once. My gaze fell to the suitcase under the bed, where Houdini kept the details of his illusions. I dropped to my knees and was pulling it out when Bess stirred.

“Molly. You came back! I was so worried that something bad had happened to you,” she said, staring at me with those big, helpless eyes.
Of course then I felt terrible. It had never occurred to me that my absence would have given her something else to worry about.

“I’m so sorry, I should have been here with you. Something came up and I had to leave in a hurry, but it was thoughtless of me not to let you know that I was all right.” This of course was partially a lie. I’d been kidnapped and bundled into a train. Not exactly all right, then. But I smiled at her brightly. “I’ve been working on your behalf, trying to find out what might have happened to your husband,” I said.