The Last Illusion (36 page)

A
s soon as I was out of sight of the theater I opened the bag and went through it. To my disappointment it contained only things that were clearly professional props—some scarves, a wand, and several pieces of false hair, including a variety of mustaches, a box of matches, a packet of cigarettes, and a new jar of makeup-removing cream. But nothing incriminating or threatening. No letters. No addresses.

It didn’t take long to find Morgan Highfield’s office on Lower Broadway for which I was glad, as I was now carrying two bags. Scarpelli’s was remarkably heavy, given the contents, and it seemed to get heavier by the minute. The office was in a seedy area and up on the third floor so that I was panting and sweaty by the time I made it up all those steep stairs. A balding, paunchy man was sitting with his feet up on his desk, wearing no tie and his shirt collar open, and smoking a cigar.

“And what can I do for you, little lady?” he asked, not bothering to remove his feet.

I held out the bag and said that I’d come from Miner’s Theatre,
where I’d also been working and thought that he might want to forward the bag to Scarpelli.

“Thank you, my dear. Most obliged. Very kind of you,” he said. “I can certainly do that.”

“You know where he is?”

“I haven’t heard a peep from him since he took off that night,” he said. It came out smoothly enough, but I got a feeling that he did know but wasn’t going to say.

“So how will you know where to forward his things?” I asked.

“It’s my belief that he was shocked beyond belief about what happened,” he said. “So what do you do when you’ve had a shock? You go home to recover. I expect he’s gone home to Boston. And when he’s ready to pick himself up again, who’s the first one he’s going to contact? His agent, of course.”

“Boston?”

“That’s where he’s from. Poor man. I bet he just can’t face talking to anybody at the moment. I know how he feels. What a terrible tragedy.”

I nodded agreement. “I was in the theater. I witnessed it. It was horrible.”

He leaned closer to me so that his paunch draped over his desk. “I really can’t understand how it happened. He swore to me that the trick was foolproof. It’s my belief that someone tinkered with his equipment. Jammed it, you know.”

“Why would someone do that?”

He shrugged so that his impressive sagging jowls quivered. “Who knows? Out of spite, maybe. These illusionists—they’re a high-strung bunch. Always want to be the best and the first. And if one of ’em feels he’s been slighted, well, he’d find a way to get back at the person who had slighted him, wouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know. That seems excessive to me,” I said.

He nodded. “Like I said, a highly strung bunch. They’d have to be, cheating death every day. Of course it could have been one of Lily’s spurned lovers. She liked to keep a trail of men behind her. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know now. But the show must go on—that’s what we
say, don’t we? I expect I’ll hear from him any day now that he’s ready to go back on.”

“Performing that same trick again?”

“Nah, I don’t think he’ll be trying that one again for a while. I can’t see any girl volunteering to take Lily’s place, can you?”

“I wouldn’t,” I said.

“You in the business, my dear?”

“I have been,” I said.

“As it happens I’m looking for a girl at the moment—rest of the summer in Atlantic City. What can you do?”

“I’ve been a magician’s assistant,” I said.

“Have you? Who have you worked with?”

“Houdini,” I said. “I help out when Bess isn’t feeling well.”

“Then you’ve been on the Continent with him?”

“No, only over here.”

“So you know more than me about what happened the other night. Some say he’s on the run and he killed that guy. Others say he’s feeding the fishes at the bottom of the river. What do you think?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “About Atlantic City. How soon do you need to know?”

“As soon as possible. I need a girl to take over on Tuesday.”

“I’ll get back to you,” I said. “But in the meantime, do you have the address where Scarpelli was staying while he was in New York? He told me that his landlady might have an extra room and I’m looking for one for a friend.”

“I expect she would. These theatrical boardinghouses—people are always coming and going, aren’t they?”

“So what’s the address?”

“Ma Becker’s. If you’re in the business, you’ll know Ma Becker, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes, Ma Becker.” I tried to look confident as I said this. “I’ve had friends that stayed there. What street was it on again—Canal, was it?”

“Delancey,” he said.

“That’s right. I know I’ve been there. Thanks for your time and I’m glad that Signor Scarpelli will be getting his props back when he asks for them.”

“When he does, I’ll let him know that you did him the favor. What was your name again, miss?”

“I didn’t say,” I said, “But it’s Kathleen. Kathleen McCarthy. He probably won’t remember me.”

Then off I went toward Delancey Street. I hadn’t had the nerve to ask him the number and Delancey is a long street, so I had to stop and grab a bite to eat and drink at a Jewish delicatessen to fortify myself before I finally met people who had heard of Ma Becker’s and I trudged up the steps to her front door. Machinery was clattering away loudly from a workshop in the basement and I wondered how theatrical folk could stand such a noise, seeing that they liked to sleep late in the morning. But perhaps beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Ma Becker was the archetypal landlady—hatchet-faced and clearly allowing no hanky-panky within her walls. Keen on money too, as I saw her eyes light up when I asked about vacant rooms.

“Your friend, what does she do in the business?” she asked.

“She’s a dancer.”

“Chorus girl?”

“Acrobatic dancer,” I said, feeling stupid that I was allowing this farce to continue.

“Solo act then.” She was positively beaming at me now. “I’ll take you up and show you the room. When will she be in town?”

“In a couple of weeks, I hope,” I said.

Along the dreary, dark-brown hall and up the dark-brown worn linoleum of the stairs we went. The room was truly dreadful—dark, looking onto the tenement behind, and smelling of bad drains. “It will do just fine,” I lied. “I’ll write and tell her.”

As we came down the stairs I turned and said breezily, “So which room did Mr. Scarpelli have here? He always spoke so fondly of you.”

“Did he now? Well, I’m not about to speak fondly of him. Up and leaving me without paying the rent.”

“So he never came back here after the tragedy?”

“I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since,” she said. “I kept expecting him to get in touch because he’s left all his stuff, but I haven’t heard from him. Typical of these men. Never think of anybody except themselves. So now I don’t even know if I am supposed to re-let the room or if he wants it kept on.”

“Could I see it?” I asked. “Just in case he doesn’t want to keep it. I may be needing a room myself as well.”

“I don’t think I should be showing Alfred’s room,” she said. “It’s not right, is it?”

“But if he owes you money then you’ve no obligation to keep it for him, have you? Why, he might be away for months. He might never come back. And I can pay.”

I saw the struggle between money and a loyalty to Scarpelli going on in her head until she finally said, “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in showing it to you, just in case he won’t be needing it again. It’s this one here.” She opened a door on the first floor. This room was much nicer altogether—it had a big bay window that overlooked the street, a gaily patterned carpet, and an impressive wardrobe.

“This is lovely,” I said.

“Well, Scarpelli, he’s one of my best returning customers,” she said. “Or at least, he was. Who knows now?”

“Nobody seems to know where he is even,” I said.

“That’s right. Disappeared into the blue, hasn’t he?” she said. I thought I detected a twitch of smile as she said this and it occurred to me that perhaps she did know. In which case had she written to him, asking for the money she owed him? And why was she smiling?

I was looking around the room as she talked. She went across to the window and opened it, letting in the fresh air. “Stuffy in here,” she said.

The clatter of machinery rose up from the basement, a deep, rhythmic thump. I was dying to open that wardrobe and the drawers in the dresser, but I couldn’t think of a reason to do so. Besides, at least now I knew he lived in Boston and I could pass that information along to the police, if they didn’t already have it. If they still wanted it.

“His agent thinks he might have gone home to Boston,” I said.

“Boston? Fancy that. The scoundrel,” she said, and again it came out a little as if she were delivering lines onstage.

“So why don’t you pack up his stuff and then you could re-let the room until he comes back? I’m sure my friend would rather have this room than the one upstairs.”

“The police were round here several times and they told me not to touch anything,” she said. “But if he’s gone to Boston—well, that’s a different matter, isn’t it?” Again I could see the struggle between doing what the police had told her and recouping her losses. “They can’t expect me to keep this room untouched forever, can they?” She said, as if thinking out loud, “I mean, what if he never comes back. I expect—” She broke off as she heard her name being called.

“Ma—where are you? There’s a man at the front door for you!” a male voice was shouting.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” she called back, and left the room.

I didn’t wait a second longer. I dashed over to the wardrobe and opened it. The loud clattering of the machinery in the basement hid any noise that the opening door made. I had no idea what I was looking for and I found myself looking at a black suit and a cape. Hardly a revelation but it did show that he hadn’t taken his costume with him, so he had never returned here after that night. On the floor, half hidden under the cape, was an canvas bag identical to the one I had carried to the manager’s office. I lifted it out and opened it. It was empty. I was about to stuff it back when it occurred to me that it was heavy, just as the one I had carried to the office was heavy, given the number of items in it.

I opened it again and fished around at the bottom. The canvas was only loosely sewn. It came loose, I snapped the remaining threads, and beneath it I pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills. I could hardly believe my eyes. Hastily I stuffed them back and put the bag back where I had found it.

What could this mean? Scarpelli had left town owing people money. He hadn’t paid his rent and yet he had all this money. Was it possible he was also a crook—a robber? And Lily had found out and was about to go to the police so he killed her?

The noise of the machinery was overpowering. Why had he stayed
here when he had enough money in that bag alone to stay at a good hotel? Unless. . . . Slowly things pieced themselves together in my mind. The sound of that machine was identical to the sound I had heard before that morning—the sound of the printing press at the magazine. What if that money was forged? Scarpelli had been in Philadelphia and now Secret Service men were in that city investigating the flood of forged banknotes there. I couldn’t wait to share my suspicion with Daniel. Then I remembered that I couldn’t let Daniel know what I’d been doing. He had forbidden me to investigate anything to do with Scarpelli. So I’d have to tell Mr. Wilkie instead. Another coup when I saw him later this afternoon.

I heard slow steps coming up the stairs. I closed the wardrobe again and was looking out of the window when Ma Becker reappeared.

“Ah, still here?” she asked. “Ain’t no use setting your heart on this room because I’ll have to wait until I get word from Alfred. And who knows when that will be.”

“Thank you for your time,” I said. “I’ll let my friend know about the other room.”

She followed me down the stairs. I bet she’s part of it too, I found myself thinking as I peered down the basement steps before I went on my way. Ma Becker was still standing at the door, hands on hips, watching me go. She must be in on it. Someone who was as keen on money as she wouldn’t leave the best room empty when she had a chance to rent it again, especially if she was owed money for it by someone who had disappeared into the blue, as she put it. That little smirk had given her away.

The chime of a clock reminded me that I had better make my way back to the theater for the matinee. I threaded my way between pushcarts and women with shopping baskets until I reached the Bowery and joined the line waiting to go into the theater. I noticed some men of the press watching with interest. Were they anticipating yet another disaster?

Gradually the line moved forward until I was in the blissful cool of
the theater. I made my way around to the stage box. It was exactly where Bess and Houdini’s brother had sat on that fateful night. What was I doing here? I wondered. Even if this Mr. Summer had been in Germany with Houdini, he hadn’t been in the theater when Houdini disappeared. So what did I hope to gain from watching his performance? Then I reasoned there was nowhere else I should be, apart from back with Bess, and frankly, I was glad to sit and rest after a day of rushing around in the heat.

The orchestra struck up a lively tune and the show began. It started with a pair of comedians in blackface who exchanged a string of corny jokes and then did a soft-shoe dance. Then followed a female singer who probably broke the heart of every male in the audience by singing, “The Boy I Love Is up in the Gallery.”

Finally the announcer boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Summer time! Back from a triumphant tour of Europe, where he played to kings and nobles, it’s that master of magic, that prince of prestidigitators, Stevie Summer, with the lovely, the exotic, that dangerous feline, Kitty.”

And Stevie Summer swept onto the stage, accompanied by a gorgeous dark-skinned beauty. She was dressed in a startling red satin costume that left little to the imagination, and her magnificent black hair was worn loose, cascading over her shoulders. Over her eyes was a provocative black cat mask. I heard a collective intake of breath from the men in the audience.