The Last Illusion Read online

  What was I looking for? I really didn’t know. All I could surmise was that a skilled illusionist had pulled off the remarkable stunt so smoothly that I, standing a few feet away, had not been aware of it. A skilled illusionist who had recently been in Germany and who was now in the pay of the German secret service. And who was also a skilled killer. I scanned through the German text for names I might recognize, but the Gothic type was so different that I didn’t know what I was reading. Eventually my eyes started watering from the poor light and the exhaustion of the day caught up with me. I turned out the gas and looked out of the window before I went to sleep. I couldn’t see the constable from my window, but I thought I saw the shadow of a man standing across the street. I hoped he was Mr. Wilkie’s agent, sent to keep watch over me. I tried to reassure myself as I fell asleep.

  In the morning I woke to the sun streaming in through my window and the sound of horses’ hooves as the milk wagon made its way down the street. I felt surprisingly refreshed and ready to take on the world. Bess was still blissfully asleep but Houdini’s mother was up and bustling around the kitchen. She had made little pancakes that she served to me with sour cream and nodded again with approval as I ate heartily.

  “What we do now?” she asked as she sat opposite me with a cup of coffee. “What happens to us?”

  “We have to wait, I suppose,” I said. “Wait until there’s any news of your son.”

  “He is dead. This is what you think, no?” she asked.

  “I really don’t know,” I said. “I am still hoping for the best.” But I wasn’t quite sure what the best could be. One man was dead and Houdini had been spirited away in a trunk. The trunk had been found floating in the East River. So the chances of his still being alive were slim, but I didn’t want to give up hope.

  “I’m going to keep looking for him,” I said. “Maybe you can help find out what happened to him.”

  I went upstairs and brought down the scrapbooks. “I can’t understand German,” I said. “Can you help me translate?”

  She glanced at the newspaper cuttings then shook her head. “I speak some German, but I don’t read it. Yiddish I can speak. Hungarian I can speak. But in my town they did not educate girls to read German. My son Leopold—the doctor. He could maybe help you. He is an educated man.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Can you give me his address?”

  She gave it to me, but then asked, “How can these old newspapers help you find my son? He is not in Germany. He is in New York.”

  “I don’t know, but at the moment we can’t leave any stone unturned.”

  “Please?” She frowned at the image I had used.

  “I mean that we just have to try everything. I’ll go and see your son Leopold this morning.”

  “Please say his mother sends love and asks why he does not come to see us? We need him. He is our comfort.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  I took Bess some breakfast and woke her gently. Her big eyes shot open at my touch. “Any news?” she asked, attempting to sit up.

  “None yet, but let us hope that today will bring some. See—your mother-in-law has made these pancakes. They’re awfully good.”

  I left her picking at them halfheartedly and went to retrieve the scrapbooks. My first task for the morning would be to find brother Leopold and see if he could read the latest articles to me. Then I had another idea. The Dramatic Mirror, one of the publications Houdini wrote for, appeared to have its editorial offices in New York City. It was just possible that he had submitted an article to them that had not yet been published. Worth a try, anyway. And while I was walking around I’d come to a decision as to whether I should inform Mr. Wilkie about the amazing underwater trick, or whether I was being too fanciful with what was probably just another flight of an illusionist’s fancy.

  I put the scrapbooks into my overnight bag and peeked in at Bess’s door.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said. “I’m going to your brother-in-law to see if he can read these German articles to me.”

  “What do you hope to achieve with this?” Bess asked.

  “I’m really not sure,” I said. “It’s possible that something that happened in Germany is responsible for your husband’s disappearance.”

  “What kind of thing?” She looked puzzled.

  “I don’t know. We’re grasping at straws here, Bess, but somebody pulled off a really clever trick and killed a man in a full theater. Somebody had to have a really good motive for doing that.”

  I came into the room and sat on the bed beside her. “Think back to your time in Germany. Was there any ugly incident? Any time that your husband felt threatened? Anything that just felt strange to you?”

  She shrugged. “Everything felt strange to me in Germany—the food, the people. And there were several incidents—”

  “What kind of incidents?”

  “Men claiming Harry was a fraud. Cheating him with handcuffs that couldn’t be opened. But you know, he gets that kind of thing all the time.”

  “Can you give me the names of any of these men?”

  She frowned with concentration. “One was called Graff, I believe. And then there was Ciroc or Cirnoc. Harry outsmarted him.”

  “Any fellow Americans who were touring Germany at the same time?”

  “Harry’s brother, of course. And a guy called Wyatt. He and Harry never saw eye to eye. And Cunning and Stevie Summer. But none of them was as successful as Harry. He is adored over there. He’s invited everywhere—the police love him, and the nobility. He’s treated like a king.” She gave a big sigh. “You’re trying to tell me that something happened in Germany to make someone want to kill Harry? If it did, I don’t know what it could be. Illusionists are always rivals. They’re always suspicious of each other. But they don’t go around killing each other.”

  “Someone killed twice in the same theater, here in New York,” I reminded her. “First they ruined Scarpelli’s reputation by killing his assistant in a failed trick and then the man in the trunk. And presumably the same man trapped you in the trunk. Is there someone who is angry with his whole profession, do you think?”

  She shrugged, then looked away from me. “One thing I should probably tell you,” she said, still looking away and twisting her bed-sheet uneasily. “I meant to tell you before, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so.”

  “What?”

  She was still staring out of the window. “That incident when I was trapped in the trunk—I did that myself. I hid the key.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. “You rigged up your own death?”

  She turned back to me. “Oh, I didn’t intend to die. It’s just that—well, I knew that Harry would never go for you taking over as his assistant and I just wanted him protected, that’s all. So I had to come up with a good reason why I couldn’t be part of the act for a while.”

  “So you were just pretending? You hadn’t really passed out?” I was trying to control my anger.

  “Oh, no, I really did pass out. I really did nearly die. You see, I didn’t expect it to take so long, and then I started to panic and next thing I knew I was lying there.”

  “So why didn’t you say something before?”

  “Because I felt like a fool, that’s why,” she said. “And because I knew it had nothing to do with the other things that happened.”

  “Well, I suppose at least it’s one piece of the puzzle that’s now in place,” I said.

  “Are you going to tell Captain Sullivan?”

  “I’ll have to,” I said. “But I have so many other things to do this morning that I probably won’t get a chance to speak to him for a while.”

  “How long will you be gone?” She looked like a small child, worrying about its mother.

  “I’ll try to be back as quickly as possible,” I said. “The house is well guarded. You have nothing to fear.”

  “But I do fear,” she said. “I’m terrified. I want my husband back.”

  “I hope to hav
e some news for you when I return,” I said.

  It did cross my mind that Mr. Wilkie had told me to go to Houdini’s house and stay there. Instead I would be gadding around New York. But then if nobody knew my connection to Wilkie apart from a man supposedly guarding me and two men back in Washington, I would be safe, wouldn’t I?

  So I made sure that Bess was comfortable, gave Mrs. Weiss instructions not to open the door to anybody except the police until I returned, and I set off, lugging my heavy bag of scrapbooks. As I stepped outside I found that the day, even at this early hour, was already a sultry one, as humid as walking though a hothouse. Not a day for scouring the length and breadth of New York City—from Dr. Leopold Weiss to the magazine offices. Even as I was making my list, the wheels in my brain started turning over something I had just said to Bess. Scarpelli—who had so conveniently vanished. Was he the one? Had he killed his assistant because she found out he was a German spy and was about to report him? Maybe she had even found out that his mission was to kill Harry Houdini and had stood in his way. I should have done more to check into Signor Scarpelli, rather than leaving it to the police. Then I reminded myself that he had supposedly disappeared from the face of the earth after the accident onstage. Every policeman in New York had been looking for him, which made it highly unlikely that he had been able to gain access to the theater on the night that Houdini was kidnapped. But I remembered his obvious dislike of Houdini, not to mention his jealousy and the fact that he had also toured Germany recently. I decided it might just be worth checking out where he had stayed while he was in New York. So I should visit the theater while I was downtown. I would be able to find out his address in New York from their records.

  I found Dr. Leopold Weiss’s residence in the East Eighties and knocked at the door. It was opened by Dr. Weiss himself. I saw the resemblance to Houdini instantly, although he wore a neatly trimmed little beard and round spectacles, and looked altogether older and more somber.

  “Miss—uh. Good day. Can I help you, miss?” He seemed surprised to see me, although a patient turning up at a doctor’s door couldn’t have been that unusual. I thought I saw a flash of recognition cross his face, but we hadn’t ever met before, unless he’d been in the audience and seen me onstage with his brother.

  “I’m Molly Murphy, a friend of your brother’s wife,” I said. “I’m helping to try and find out what has happened to Houdini.”

  “A terrible business,” he said. “Hard for us all to endure. How is my mother holding up? How is Bess?”

  “Bess is taking it very hard,” I said. “And so is your mother, although she is made of sterner stuff and doesn’t show it.”

  “I must try to pay them a call later today, if I can,” he said. “I am so sorry they have to go through this. Are they well protected?”

  “Yes, there is a policeman standing guard outside at all times.”

  “That’s good to know,” he said. “I hope one policeman is enough against these fiends.”

  “Your brother hasn’t tried to contact you, has he?” I asked. “We’re still not sure if he’s dead or alive.”

  “I feel it in my heart that he is still alive,” he said. “One must always have hope and patience. You will tell that to my mother and to Bess, won’t you? Tell her to continue to have hope.”

  “I have a favor to ask, Dr. Weiss,” I said. “These scrapbooks document Harry’s time in Germany. Unfortunately I don’t read German and I wondered if you could translate the articles for me.”

  He came out and stood beside me as I showed him one of the scrapbooks, then he shook his head and retreated.

  “Much as I would want to help you, I’m afraid that I was on my way to a very sick patient and I shall be operating at the hospital for most of the day. Perhaps later this evening I shall find time to visit my mother and Bess and then I can look at your scrapbooks for you—although I have to tell you that my German is not very good. I was a small child when I came here and essentially I speak English with some knowledge of Hungarian and Yiddish. But I will do what I can if you can’t find anyone else.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I look forward to seeing you later today then, and I know Bess will be glad to see you.”

  “As I shall be very glad to see her,” he said warmly. Then he bowed in that stiff European manner that reminded of another doctor I knew—Dr. Birnbaum, my alienist friend from Vienna. Splendid, I thought. Why hadn’t I considered him before? He was a native German speaker and I remembered that he also spoke Hungarian. He could translate for me and I wouldn’t have to wait for Leopold’s bumbling attempts. Thus I quickened my step to the nearest Second Avenue El station and was soon heading south. As usual it was sweltering and uncomfortable in the carriage and I was glad when I could disembark at Eighth Street and then faced the long walk across town back to Washington Square.

  Dr. Birnbaum kept a suite at the Hotel Lafayette, just off the square and across from the university. I asked for him and was met with a blank response. “I’m sorry, there is no gentleman here of that name,” the clerk said.

  “But I saw him a few days ago,” I said. “Could you find out where he might have gone?”

  The clerk shrugged but went through into a back office, bringing with him another young man whom I recognized. “I’m afraid Dr. Birnbaum has given up his rooms here,” he said.

  “Oh, I see. Did he leave a forwarding address?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  I was beginning to feel that I might explode. “Surely he left an address for forwarding his mail?”

  “I understand he made arrangements with the post office.”

  “Thank you,” I said through my teeth, then remembered that someone in the hotel might know. Instead of returning to the street I made for the staircase, much to the surprise of the two clerks, I expect. I knocked on Ryan O’Hare’s door and it was finally opened by a bleary-eyed Ryan, still in his emerald-green and peacock-blue robe.

  “Molly,” he muttered. “Why do you always have to come to visit me so confoundedly early?”

  “It’s ten o’clock, Ryan,” I said.

  “As I said, confoundedly early. You know I am not at my best before luncheon.” He sighed. “Well, I suppose you had better come in. What can I do for you, or have you come to cheer me up?”

  “I’ve come for information,” I said.

  “You only come to see me when you need something. How callous of you,” he said. “Very well. What is it?”

  “Dr. Birnbaum,” I said. “Do you know where he’s gone?”

  “Never mention that man’s name to me again,” Ryan said bitterly. “We are no longer on speaking terms. I hope he’s gone to the ends of the earth. In fact I hope he falls off the end of the Earth.”

  I tried not to smile, in spite of everything. “So you and he had a falling-out?”

  “You knew that. He decided that I was not helpful to his reputation and his career.”

  I could see that. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I’m not. He was horribly boring, if you want to know.”

  “So you’ve no idea where he lives now?”

  “None at all.”

  “Thank you anyway.” I started for the door.

  “Stay and have breakfast with me,” he said. “I may force myself to eat.”

  “I’d love to but I’m in the middle of a case.”

  “Always rushing around. It’s not healthy.”

  “Sid and Gus said the same thing.”

  “Dear Sid and Gus. I must go to visit. They’ll cheer me up if nobody else can. I haven’t been out for days.”

  “Then you won’t have heard any gossip about what happened to Houdini?” I asked cautiously.

  He shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to a soul,” he said.

  “If you do speak to a soul in the near future, do try to find out what the theater people think has happened to him,” I said,

  Ryan shrugged. “As I told you before. He is vaudeville, I am legit. Never the t
wain shall meet, my dear. Now I’m feeling weak again and must take to my bed, if you don’t mind.” He lay down with great drama and I made my exit.

  I tried to control my frustration as I came out and went to sit in Washington Square for a few minutes to calm down. Nothing seemed to be working out today. I turned the pages of the scrapbook, staring at the pictures and willing the words to make sense. Here and there I picked out a name, but it seemed that in German half the words in a sentence started with a capital letter. Houdini shaking hands with the Kaiser. That much I could understand, and some kind of picture of a courtroom, under which he had written, “Houdini triumphs again.”

  The branches of the tree above me moved in a sudden breeze and the sun shone full on the page of my book, bringing the characters in the sketch on the page into harsh focus for me. It was a group standing onstage and a face at the back of that group stirred something in my memory. I had seen that face recently, or a face that resembled it. Somewhere else in the scrapbooks, perhaps? I flicked through page after page, but the face didn’t appear again. I scanned the article, trying to pick out a name I recognized but in the end I had to give up, frustrated. So I’d have to wait for Leopold to translate for me this evening after all. And I never was good at being patient.