The Last Illusion Read online

  “After this, let us hope that you will have no future contact with such unpleasant matters,” he said firmly and ushered me down the hallway, grasping my elbow. “Is this the way out?”

  “Yes, this leads to the stage door,” I said.

  Old Ted’s head stuck out of his cubicle as we approached. “How long am I expected to hang around here?” he demanded. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “Just a few questions and you can go home,” Daniel said. “And I’d like you to take a look at the body that has turned up in Houdini’s trunk. I’m just going to find this young woman a cab and then I’ll be right back.”

  “If you ask me,” Ted said, eyeing me steadily, “all the trouble started when that one showed up for the first time. If she’s not involved then she’s a Jonah—bringing us bad luck. I hope you’ve questioned her thoroughly and you’re not just letting her go.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve found out everything there is to know about her,” Daniel said, “and you’re right. Trust me, I’m keeping my eye on her from now on.”

  “Thank you for ruining my reputation,” I said as we emerged into the alleyway.

  Daniel grinned. “At this moment it’s more useful if they think you’re a suspect not hand in hand with the police.”

  We came out to the Bowery. Even at this late hour there was still some traffic—a trolley going past, the odd cab or carriage clip-clopping on the cobbles, and some establishments were still open, but it was quiet compared to the daytime bustle.

  “Just be careful,” Daniel muttered as he hailed a hansom cab for me. “One illusionist’s assistant has already come to a tragic end this week.”

  Then he helped me up into the cab, gave some money to the driver, and hurried back into the theater.

  Twenty

  Early the next morning I was leaving Patchin Place, on my way to Bess Houdini’s house, when I bumped into Gus coming home with a bag of fresh rolls and the morning paper.

  “You’re up bright and early,” she said. “Come and have breakfast and hear about our ordeal at the cottage.”

  “Ordeal?”

  “My dear, you were so right not to have accompanied us. If we’d known what a boring and bigoted bunch they would be, we’d never have gone. Nothing but tittle-tattle and gossip of the most idle sort, and worse still, my cousin’s wife’s mother spent the whole weekend trying to get me together with her unmarried son—who had pimples and a stutter—and kept lecturing me on how life was passing me by and I’d be doomed to be a hopeless spinster. She was quite put out when I told her that I didn’t mind that prospect at all.”

  “I’d love to come and hear all about it,” I said, “but I’m afraid I’m working. I take it you haven’t read that paper you are carrying yet.”

  “I haven’t, but the newsboy was yelling something about a murder in the theater and Houdini having vanished,” she said.

  “That’s right. I was at the theater last night. I saw the whole thing firsthand. And Houdini’s wife is expecting me.”

  “My dear Molly, what an exciting life you lead,” Gus said, eyeing me with envy. Most women would have been reaching for their smelling salts by this time. “I do wish we could come with you. I don’t suppose you could take us along—as your assistants, maybe?”

  I smiled. “No, I couldn’t take you with me.”

  She sighed. “You will keep us au fait, won’t you? I can’t wait to tell Sid. She’ll be positively agog.”

  So we parted and I caught my train northward. As we made our slow progress, I had time to think. My head was clear after a night’s sleep and I found myself full of energy and ready for anything. I went through the whole performance of the night before, wondering if I had overlooked anything. Was there anything I had observed while I was waiting in the wings to go onstage? Anyone who had been near the trunk? Anything lying there that shouldn’t have been? I could think of nothing. Of course I had been wound up and nervous about going onstage so I may have overlooked a good deal, but the point was that Houdini wouldn’t have overlooked anything. He was meticulous in his preparation.

  So it all came down to whether he was victim or murder suspect. If he had cleverly planned this whole thing, then did Bess know about it? If so, she was a brilliant actress. But then she was a stage performer—it was her job. I found myself wondering if I had been deliberately hired as the stool pigeon—someone who knew nothing of the theater, little about the Houdinis’ act, to be an alibi of sorts for them. I had found myself used by my clients before and I didn’t like to think of myself as gullible enough to have been made a fool of again. But I did see how the whole thing could have been part of a well-orchestrated plan—Bess locked in the trunk, me persuaded to take her place so that there was no suggestion that Houdini had accomplished the switch with an accomplice.

  I didn’t know whether to wish that he was a murderer or that he was the victim, because I rather liked him. I was still deep in these thoughts as I disembarked from the train and made my way along 102nd Street, so I was startled when a large figure in blue uniform stepped out to intercept me as I went to mount the steps to the Houdinis’ front door. I had forgotten that Daniel had promised Bess Houdini protection when he sent her home the night before.

  “Just a moment, miss,” the constable said.

  “St. Michael and all the angels spare me,” I muttered. Now I’d have to go through another round of explanations before I was admitted and frankly I could no longer remember if I was supposed to be Bess’s dear friend or the detective come to keep an eye on her. This whole thing was becoming tiring. But to my relief the constable said, “It’s Miss Murphy, isn’t it? The captain said to expect you. He’ll be by later himself.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I promised Mrs. Houdini last night that I’d stay with her today so I’ll definitely be here.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard any word about him yet, have you?” the constable asked hopefully. “Houdini, I mean. They haven’t found him yet?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” I said.

  “Well, good luck to you then.” He resumed his position beside the front door and I gave a good rap on the knocker.

  The door was opened by Houdini’s mother. “You?” she said, pointing at me accusingly. “Where is my boy?”

  “I wish I knew,” I said. “Everyone is looking for him.”

  “They say he kills a man. My son never kill nobody!” She spat the words at me in her strongly accented English. “Where is he? Something bad has happened. I know it.” She clutched her bosom in dramatic fashion.

  “How is Bess?” I asked. “She asked me to come and be with her.”

  “How do you think she should be?” she demanded. “Her husband is gone, maybe dead. She won’t leave her bed. She won’t eat. She won’t sleep. She will make herself sick. She will die of grief.”

  “I’ll go straight up to her then,” I said, trying to give her a friendly smile. It was like smiling at a gargoyle. “I expect she’ll be glad to see me,” I added.

  She gave the sort of shrug that indicated that might or might not be the case. Houdini’s brother Dash did not put in an appearance as I went up the stairs to Bess’s bedroom. I tapped on the door and went in. She was awake, lying in bed, and staring at the ceiling. When she saw me she sat up, her face alight with hope. “They’ve found him?”

  “I’ve heard nothing,” I said. “I came straight from my house.”

  She sighed and lay down again. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said. “He has to be dead or he’d have contacted me by now. He’d know how much I would worry and he’d have found a way to let me know he was all right.”

  I didn’t like to suggest that he may have been kidnapped if he was still alive, and if he was guilty of the murder, then he couldn’t risk contacting his wife.

  “Is there anywhere else he might have gone if he was in trouble?” I asked. “Any friends with whom he might be hiding out?”

  “His brother Leopold lives in th
e city,” she said. “You know, the doctor. But Dash went round there last night and Leopold hadn’t seen him. He has friends in New York, I’m sure. Other performers he’s worked with over the years. But I couldn’t tell you who they are or where they live. And why would he go to one of them, knowing that his poor wife was sick with worry?”

  One only had to look at her to see that she was not a player in this charade—if charade it was. She looked terrible with dark circles around her eyes and hollow cheeks, as if she hadn’t slept a wink.

  “Bess,” I said, carefully measuring my words, “I have to ask you this—but did you have any suspicion at all that your husband might have planned this?”

  “Planned it? What do you mean—planned to get kidnapped?” Her voice rose dangerously.

  “I meant that this was an illusion planned to get rid of someone who was bothering him. You said that the victim was the young man who came to the door and made what sounded like threats.”

  “That is crazy,” she said. “My husband wouldn’t do that. Never.” “You said he’d taught fellow illusionists a lesson by having them roughed up.”

  “That’s different,” she said. “Illusionists are always rivals, but that doesn’t mean they go around killing each other. Besides, the dead guy wasn’t one of us.”

  “But if it wasn’t Harry who did this? It had to be another illusionist,” I went on. “Someone out to pay back your husband? It’s logical that it was the same person who trapped you in the trunk.”

  I saw her expression change for a second. “Not necessarily,” she said. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m crazy with worry. Find my Harry and I’ll be in your debt for the rest of my life.”

  “I rather hope you’ll pay me a good fee,” I said with a smile.

  She managed a watery smile back.

  “Have you had some breakfast?” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “You’re looking horribly pale.”

  “I’m not hungry. And besides, his mother doesn’t like walking up the stairs.”

  “What about his brother?”

  “Gone,” she said.

  “Gone? Where?”

  “Back to Atlantic City. Caught the train early this morning.”

  She must have seen my expression become guarded. “He has a show to do tonight,” she said. “He has to perform when he’s booked into a good house like that. It doesn’t do to get into the bad books of the theater managers, or they won’t hire him again.”

  This made sense but my mind was still jumping to other conclusions. The younger brother, banished from the act when Houdini married, now imitating his more famous brother but without his celebrity—would that make him bitter enough to take revenge and maybe take over the limelight? Who better would know how to exchange bodies in a trunk? And he was big and strong enough to make that exchange.

  “What’s the name of the theater in Atlantic City?” I asked.

  “It’s the Majestic on the pier,” she said. “It’s a good house. Of course I expect my husband helped to get him hired at a good house like that. That family, they’re so close, they’d do anything for each other.” I saw her staring at a photograph in a silver frame of Mrs. Weiss, surrounded by her offspring—Houdini, a sister, the taller, sturdier Dash, and a distinguished-looking man with a beard I decided must be Leopold.

  I kept my suspicions to myself and glanced around the room. It wasn’t exactly tidy, with half-unpacked trunks and piles of magazines on top of dressers. “Would you mind if I took a look to see if there is anything here that might give us a clue as to what kind of trouble your husband was in?”

  “Anything,” she said. “Anything that can help find him, although I don’t know what that could be.”

  I felt awkward as I started rummaging around, feeling her eyes on me. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone poking around in my bedroom. And I had no idea what I might be looking for anyway. “Where did he write his letters?” I asked, hesitating before I opened drawers. “Did he keep his correspondence and business papers in a desk downstairs or up here?”

  “Anything important would have been up here with us,” she said. “Harry is very close about his business dealings.” I read into her look that his mother would well snoop if correspondence was left around in a desk downstairs. Then she added, “All the details for his illusions are in that suitcase under the bed. But he keeps it locked and I don’t know where the key is.”

  “I’m not interested in his illusions,” I said, then I reconsidered this. “On second thought, maybe I am, and maybe you can help me. I need to know how he substituted that body during the act. I was onstage, only a few feet away.”

  “He didn’t substitute the body,” she said angrily. “Harry would never kill anybody.”

  “Somebody substituted that body,” I said. “I’m not saying that your husband did it. Let’s assume he was also a victim here. But somebody else knew his stuff well enough to pull off this switch. Tell me how you do the Metamorphosis.”

  She frowned, then shook her head.

  I put my hand on her frail white shoulder. “Bess, how can I help you if you can’t trust me?” I said. “The police are going to ask you anyway, so you might as well tell me. I was part of your act, after all.”

  She turned away from me, staring out of the window, where a spin-dly tree was swaying in the wind. “It’s quite simple really,” she said. “The back of the trunk is only held on with two screws that pull right out. As soon as Harry goes into the bag he takes off the handcuffs and the leg irons so that by the time they have it tied up and have lifted him into the trunk he is free. The bag also has an overlapped opening down the back, so Harry can get out of it without undoing it. Then he pulls out the screws and the back panel swings outward and he’s out of the trunk. There’s a drumroll to mask any noise. Then there’s a flash and he appears. Big applause. He comes forward to bow, taking the audience’s eyes away from me. I slip into the trunk and the bag the same way and I’ve got little wrists. It’s easy to put on the handcuffs. By the time they unlock it, I’m all trussed up the way he was.”

  “Fascinating,” I said. “And do you think he could have substituted a dead body in the same way?” I saw her frown and corrected myself. “Do you think that someone could have substituted a body that way?”

  She frowned. “Where would the body have come from? The trunk’s in the middle of the stage, isn’t it? And you were there yourself.”

  “True enough,” I said.

  “It’s one thing for a person like me to crawl into the trunk. I’m small and I’m agile and I’ve practiced for it. But it would take a lot of effort and time to get a deadweight into that bag.”

  I nodded. “And I heard or saw nothing.”

  “Then I don’t know how it was done.”

  All the time we were talking I was busily examining anything that could have hidden a threatening letter. There were the piles of magazines, all to do with magic, so it seemed. Then there were several scrapbooks. I leafed through them. There were playbills and newspaper cuttings, some of them in a foreign type that I didn’t understand—presumably German. But I noted some headings: “Houdini Exposes Rival as Fraud,” and “Battle of the Handcuff Kings Ends in Disgrace for Cunning.” So it would be worth taking a closer look at them later. These were the men publicly humiliated by Houdini. Men with the expertise to pull off such a stunt and bearing a grudge against him. And it was interesting to note that he had carefully mounted all his victories in a nice leather-bound scrapbook. I put the scrapbooks on a chair and continued my search. But I came across nothing incriminating. No threats or demands for money. Only a couple of letters from friends asking how long he’d be in New York, some admirers asking for autographs, some scribbled notes for an article he was apparently writing for a magazine, and then, in the drawer beside the bed, his passport.

  “At least he hasn’t fled the country,” I said, holding it up. I glanced at it, then stared more intently. “I thought you said he was born
in Hungary,” I said.

  “He was.”

  “But this is an American passport and it says he was born in Appleton, Wisconsin, on April sixth, 1873.”

  “That’s not right,” Bess said, sitting up now. “He was born in Budapest. And his birthday is March twenty-fourth. Why would he have given false information for his passport?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I said.

  Bess took the paper from me and examined it, still shaking her head. “And he applied for this in 1900. He already had a passport long before that. I don’t understand. Unless—”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless it might have been difficult for a person who was a Hungarian Jew to get into Russia and to some parts of Germany,” she said, “so he decided to claim to be American born.”

  “He was taking a risk then, wasn’t he?” I said. “Lying on a passport application, especially someone as well known as he. It’s a wonder he didn’t wind up in jail.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said at last. “I don’t understand anything anymore. I just want my husband back safely. Find him for me, Molly. Promise me you’ll find him.”

  “I’ll do my best, I promise,” I said, hoping that this was a promise I could keep.

  Twenty-one

  I had just put the passport back in its drawer when I heard voices downstairs—a woman’s voice raised in anger and a man’s deep, calm tones. I opened the door and picked up the pronounced accent of Houdini’s mother. “No, I vill not allow—” she was shouting.

  Then, “Calm yourself, madam, please.”

  Then heavy steps coming up the stairs and Daniel’s face appeared from the darkness of the hall.

  “Ye gods, she’s a harridan, isn’t she?” he demanded. “Wasn’t going to let me in even when I told her I was a policeman.” He nodded politely to Bess, who now sat with her bedclothes drawn up in a display of maid-enly effrontery, which I found amusing, considering she spent most of her time appearing in front of strangers in a scanty costume.