The Last Illusion Read online

  “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

  During 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.

  “Is there any news yet?”

  “I have none, I’m afraid. I don’t know how the police are getting on,” I said. “Let’s just hope for the best, shall we? Have you eaten anything?”

  “I didn’t feel like food.”

  “You should eat. I’ll ask your mother-in-law to make you something nourishing. I’m sure she’d like to be busy at a worrying time like this.”

  “Okay.” She nodded, then seemed to realize that I was kneeling beside the bed with the suitcase in front of me. “What are you doing?”

  “I was wondering if we might find any clue to Harry’s disappearance inside this suitcase,” I said. “Are you sure you have no idea where we might find the key?”

  “But Harry wouldn’t want anyone going through that suitcase,” she said in a shocked voice. “He’d never let anyone see the diagrams for his illusions.”

  “Look, Bess, do you want your husband found or not?” I demanded. “I’m not interested in his illusions. I’ll make sure nobody sees his diagrams. But it’s just possible he kept other personal things in there while he was traveling. So where do you think we’d find the key?”

  “I really have no idea,” she said. “Honestly.”

  I rummaged through the drawer where I’d found the passport. So that was why his passport showed him as a natural-born citizen, rather than as a European Jew. I thought—so that he could pass more easily into countries like Germany and Russia. Very useful for Mr. Wilkie. Then I looked in his stud box, and all the places where one keeps keys.

  “Of course he could have carried it on his person all the time,” Bess said. “The police parceled up his suit and delivered it to me this afternoon. It’s hanging up.”

  “And you didn’t go through the pockets?” I asked, marveling at this lack of curiosity.

  “The police said they were keeping the contents of his pockets as evidence for now,” she said. “You’d better ask them if they’ve got the key.”

  Then suddenly it came to me. Of course. How thick could I be? There had been two keys in the inside pocket of his tailed coat. One was presumably for the trunk, but the other . . . the other could well be the key to this suitcase. It was small enough. And what’s more, I still had them in my possession. I remembered now that I had kept them clutched in my hand after I had picked them up onstage, and then I had—I tried to recall. Everything had been so chaotic. Bess had been screaming. Police everywhere. I had tucked them into the waistband of my costume—and promptly forgotten about them. There they would still be, unless they had fallen out.

  “Bess, I’m going down to see if your mother-in-law will make us supper,” I said. “Then I have to collect an overnight bag from my house and I’ll spend the night here with you.”

  Of course I already had the overnight bag sitting in the hall downstairs, but it was a good excuse to go home. She accepted it, at any rate.

  “Thank you, Molly. I really appreciate all you’re doing for me.”

  Houdini’s mother agreed to make a good chicken soup with dumplings for Bess. “About time that one ate something,” she said. “She’s so thin, you’d think the wind would blow her away. A girl should have meat on her bones—like you.”

  I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment but at least she wasn’t scowling at me. I told her I’d be back within the hour and caught the El down to Greenwich Village. I let myself into my house and stood for a moment, relishing the quiet security of my front hall. My own little haven away from the craziness of the world outside. Then I noticed a letter caught in my mail slot. I took it out and saw Daniel’s forceful black scrawl.

  Molly—where are you? I went to question Bess Houdini, expecting to find you there, but she didn’t know where you were. I hope you have not disobeyed my orders and tried to go to interview Hardeen! Please get in touch with me the minute you read this! Can you find a telephone and call me at Mulberry Street or at home (depending on the hour). I need to know you are safe.

  I decided that Daniel could wait until I had carried out my primary mission. I went upstairs. My costume was lying across the back of a chair, where I had left it when I came home exhausted last night. With trembling fingers I felt inside the waistband and there they were—two small keys. Triumphant, I went across the street to find Sid and Gus getting ready to go out to an early supper before the theater. I never failed to be struck by the differences in other peoples’ lives. Their biggest concern was whether the feather in their headdress matched the green of their gown, whereas it always seemed that I carried an enormous weight of worry on my shoulders—either for myself or for one of my clients.

  “Molly, I thought you were off to Atlantic City,” Gus said as she opened the door to me. “That was a flying visit.”

  “I never went, after all,” I said, deciding to leave out the part about being kidnapped. “It proved to be unnecessary.”

  “Molly dear, you’re looking pale and worn out.” Sid came to join her at the front door, looking dramatic in black silk trousers and a black cape lined with red. “Come to supper with us, and then we’re going to see a most amusing show at the Empi
re. We plan to chuckle merrily all evening. It would be good for you.”

  “I’m sure it would,” I said, “but I have a client I can’t leave at the moment and work that has to be done.”

  “I find that the whole concept of work is overrated,” Sid said. “I’m sure God never intended people to work all day—why else would he have put Adam and Eve in a delightful garden with everything they needed around them?”

  “They were cast out because of sin, remember?” I pointed out. “That’s why we have to work. Because of Eve and that stupid apple.”

  “We refuse to accept responsibility for Eve and the apple,” Sid said. “Don’t we, Gus? Our creed is that life is made to be enjoyed every single moment.”

  “It’s all right if you have money to live like that,” I said.

  “You’ll be married to Daniel soon and be a pampered wife,” Gus said, with an amused glance at Sid. “Then you’ll find out what you’ve been missing.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but in the meantime, I have a job to do and I have come to ask if I might use your new telephone to call Daniel.”

  “By all means. Any time. Our telephone is your telephone. . . .” Gus waved me toward the contraption on the wall.

  I asked to be connected to police headquarters, only to be told that Captain Sullivan wasn’t there. I left a message that Miss Murphy was home but planning to spend the night with Bess Houdini, then I called his apartment. Nobody answered there, so I decided I had done all I could, and set off back up to Harlem. I had just turned onto Sixth Avenue when a furious honking of an automobile horn made me look around. The auto came to an abrupt halt beside me and I saw that the person behind the motoring goggles was Daniel.

  “There you are at last,” he snapped, opening the passenger door for me to get in beside him. “Where the devil have you been?”