The Last Illusion Read online

  “Scarpelli? I don’t think he antagonized anyone in particular. Jealously guarded his props, of course, but they all do.”

  “So you don’t think anyone could have tinkered with his props that night? Because that’s what he claimed—that someone was out to ruin his reputation and do him harm.”

  “That’s rubbish,” the old man said. “Do him harm? Between you and me, young lady, he wasn’t much of a threat, until he came up with this latest stunt, that is. If his sawing the lady in half hadn’t gone wrong, he’d have made his reputation. Nobody else in the world does that illusion on the stage these days, although I understand a Frenchy used to do it, long ago.”

  I made a mental note of this. A new trick that nobody else could do. Of course it would put Scarpelli on another level. And a fellow magician might well want to make sure the trick didn’t succeed.

  I decided to push my luck just a little further. “That poor girl seemed so sweet and nice,” I said. “I can’t imagine a girl like that having an enemy in the world.”

  “She didn’t. And I tell you what—he thought the world of her too. Scarpelli, I mean. Nothing was too much trouble for her. You should have heard him and Houdini fussing over their womenfolk when they were rehearsing. Both of them had to run out because their ‘honey-lamb’ or their ‘babykins’ wanted a soda or some candy. If ever you’ve seen two men on strings it was those two.”

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” I laughed with him. “And have you noticed it’s always the small delicate women who can lead their men a dance. If I tried that with my young man, he’d tell me to go and get my own soda or candy!”

  He chuckled at this. “You’re right. It doesn’t pay to be too independent for a woman.”

  I decided I had probably pushed my luck for long enough. “I’d better go and look for that wrap,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed chatting with you, Mr.—?”

  “Likewise, miss. And I go by Ted. Old Ted, they call me.” He nodded in a most civil fashion. “Watch your step back there. Things lying around all over the place that can trip you up if you’re not careful.”

  I thanked him again and off I went, down the dark passageway until I found myself in the backstage area. The whole place was lit by a couple of anemic electric bulbs, which were not strong enough to cast more than small pools of light and the stage was bathed in gloom, the various props and scenery flats looming over me like menacing shadows. Even though I told myself I had no reason to be afraid, I found I was holding my breath. After all, if Scarpelli’s mishap had not been a malfunction or miscalculation, then someone had wanted a person dead badly enough to have taken a frightful risk in this very theater, at this very spot. And it seemed as if that person had to be Scarpelli himself, if the props were really locked up like the stage doorkeeper had told me. Of course I couldn’t forget that the headliner on the bill was the self-proclaimed King of Handcuffs who could open any lock. But he had appeared shocked and surprised when he saw what had happened. He had also, I reminded myself, been the one to suggest that Lily should be carted away in an ambulance before the police arrived to uncover any clues from the scene.

  I tiptoed carefully across the stage, my feet sounding unnaturally loud in the vast empty area. This was about the spot where the tragedy had taken place. I got down on my knees and searched the floor, looking for bloodstains, but it had been well scrubbed. Then I prowled around the rest of the backstage area. I came across some big wooden crates, padlocked, plus a couple of tarpaulins, wrapped around with chains and likewise locked with massive padlocks. I assumed these to be the magicians’ props that they guarded so carefully. I wondered if Scarpelli had also kept his sawing-the-lady trick under a similar tarpaulin. If so it would probably have been easy enough to break into, especially for a fellow magician—especially one who made his living from picking locks.

  In truth I had little hope of finding my wrap. There was no reason anyone would have removed it from Lily’s body before transporting her to the hospital. And since no hospital had apparently admitted her, then the wrap was lost with the girl and the illusionist. Not that I really fancied having it back, all covered in blood. Then another thought struck me—Scarpelli made it quite clear that he wasn’t about to divulge his illusion to anybody. If he had fled, wouldn’t he have made sure that he left nothing behind but took that contraption with him? It would be covered in blood and probably beyond use now, but it would hold the secret to the illusion. That’s why he made sure she was wheeled out still lying in the box.

  I hadn’t seen what happened when she reached the ambulance and whether she was lifted out of the box and onto a stretcher at that point. In which case, what happened to the contraption itself? I stared longingly at those tarpaulins. If I could just peek under them, maybe I’d recognize the leg of that table. Maybe there would still be evidence of bloodstains on the leg. And if it was still here, then maybe Scarpelli hadn’t run off after all. Maybe the murderer had made sure that he finished off both Scarpelli and his assistant. I knelt on the floor and attempted to lift up the bottom of the tarpaulin.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” called a voice from across the stage.

  I jumped up guiltily and was relieved to find it was only one of the stagehands and not one of the illusionists. He was a big, burly man in his shirtsleeves and braces, so I decided to act the helpless female.

  “Oh, my goodness, you startled me,” I said, putting my hand to my chest in a dramatic gesture. “It’s so dark back here, isn’t it?”

  “The public’s not allowed backstage,” he said, still glowering. “Who let you in?”

  “Your doorkeeper said I could come and look for my lost wrap. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Your wrap?”

  I nodded. “I was here the other night when there was the terrible accident, and I used my wrap to cover that poor girl until they found blankets for her. I came back on the off chance that it might still be here, although it probably won’t be much use to me, all covered in blood like that. However I’d like to retrieve it if I could. It came from Paris, you know. Cost me more than a month’s wages.” I hoped I was babbling on like a scatterbrained female. I even attempted a pretty smile.

  “You wouldn’t find it under there,” the stagehand said, giving me a frosty stare. “Those belong to the illusionists and they’re most particular about them.”

  “Oh, dear. Of course, they would be. I’m sorry.” I backed away hastily. “You didn’t find a wrap, did you? A pretty lilac color with a silky fringe, but it would have had blood on it, of course. You probably wouldn’t have noticed the color.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t say that I’ve seen such a thing, and the boss had us cleaning up the stage after the tragedy. I can tell you it’s not easy cleaning up that much blood. Scrubbing until all hours, we were.”

  “How awful for you. I’m sure it was a most horrid task,” I said.

  “Not your favorite either, was it Ernest?” the stagehand called to another fellow who was apparently watching us from the shadows. The first stagehand turned back to me with a smirk on his face. “Gives himself airs and graces that one. Thinks he’s too good for the menial tasks. I told him why doesn’t he go back to the old country if it doesn’t suit him here?”

  Ernest gave us a look of contempt. “I just didn’t like touching blood,” he said. “It’s bad luck where I come from if someone dies in the theater.”

  He spoke with a slight accent, not unlike Houdini’s. “What does the young lady want?” he asked.

  “She’s looking for a stole she left here,” the first stagehand said.

  “Something was stolen?” Ernest asked, frowning.

  The first stagehand and I exchanged a laugh and I saw his demeanor change toward me. “A stole,” he said. “You know a wrap, a shawl.”

  “Ah. This I have not seen.”

  I gave a shy, sideways glance toward the one who wasn’t Ernest. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just take one last look around, just i
n case it’s been discarded in a corner, then I’ll be off.”

  “All right, miss.” The first one was now looking at me as if he’d just noticed I was a woman. “Just don’t go near that stuff belonging to the illusionists. It would be more than my job’s worth if they caught anyone poking around it.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t go near it, I promise,” I said.

  He nodded and went back to work putting a coat of paint on a pillar. Ernest gave me a long questioning stare and disappeared into the shadows again.

  I started peering into corners, then I turned back to my friend. “That contraption for sawing the lady in half,” I said. “Did Scarpelli keep it locked up under one of those tarpaulins?”

  “He did.”

  I gave a dramatic shudder. “I saw the whole thing. It was horrible, wasn’t it? I still feel faint when I think about it. It’s not still there, is it?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t see how it could be. It went in the ambulance with the girl on it. I helped carry her out.”

  “Did you? And if it was all locked up with chains like that, then I don’t see how anyone could have tampered with it ahead of time, do you?”

  “Beats me,” he said in disinterested fashion. “Unless you were Houdini. Those locks would be a piece of cake to him. But I can’t see Houdini tampering with another fellow’s act. He’s the big star, isn’t he?”

  “And if anyone came in from the outside?” I suggested. “What chance would they have?”

  “At tampering with the illusionists’ equipment?” He put down his paintbrush and looked up at me, as if he was really taking in what I had said for the first time. “Here, what are you getting at? You’re one of those newspaper reporters, aren’t you? Slipping in here on some flimsy pretext and then asking questions.”

  He got to his feet, towering over me.

  “Oh, no.” I backed away. “I promise you I’m not a reporter. I suppose it’s just morbid curiosity. I was up onstage, you see, covering up that girl with my wrap, and I heard Mr. Scarpelli say that someone must have tampered with his equipment, so I just wondered how anyone could have done that.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” he said bluntly.

  “I know. My mother was always telling me that I ask too many questions. It’s a failing of mine, and I’m taking up your time. I should be going. Thank you again.”

  I turned away.

  “I don’t see how anyone could have tampered with Scarpelli’s table,” he said. “How are they going to get in, to start with? They’d have to get past Ted at the stage door.”

  “Can’t you get to the stage from the front of the theater?”

  “Nah. We only open the doors an hour before the performance and then there’s always something going on backstage. We’re all here, aren’t we? The illusionists are getting ready. We’d spot an outsider in a second.”

  “Of course you would. You spotted me right away, didn’t you?”

  “And if any stage door Johnny slips in, well, he’d be tossed out on his ear.”

  “I really have taken enough of your time,” I said hastily. “I should be going. Nice talking to you, Mr. . . .”

  “Reg,” he said. “Just plain Reg.”

  “Nice talking to you, Reg.”

  “And you too, miss.” I saw that he was now eyeing me with interest. Perhaps he thought I’d been flirting with him. “So you’re not in the theater yourself then?”

  “I have been,” I said, stretching the truth only a little. “At this moment I’m not working.”

  “Happens to the best of performers,” he said. “Say, if you’d like to go for a malt sometime?”

  “That’s kind of you, but I have a very jealous boyfriend,” I said.

  I beat a hasty retreat then and made my way back to Ted at the stage door.

  “No luck then, miss?” he asked.

  “I didn’t really expect to find it,” I said, “but at least I can say that I tried now.”

  He nodded with sympathy.

  “Ted, you’re here all the time, aren’t you? You’d know if anyone tried to sneak into the theater?”

  “I’ve been stage doorkeeper for twenty years now,” he said proudly. “I can keep out unwanted intruders better than anybody.”

  “So you didn’t find anyone trying to get into the theater earlier this week?”

  He shook his head, then he frowned. “Exactly what are you suggesting?”

  “I was wondering if somebody wished Scarpelli harm and deliberately tried to ruin his act.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You seem remarkably interested in this. Are you sure you’re not a reporter? Old Ted don’t take kindly to being tricked, you know.”

  “I swear I’m not a reporter,” I said. “I guess I was just being too curious. You know, when something like that happens, you can’t help wondering why. And I was wondering whether it really was an accident or someone had a grudge against Lily or Scarpelli himself.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Ted said. “I just stand here at my post and mind my own business, and you should do the same, young lady. It don’t pay to meddle, or to ask too many questions.”

  I came out into the alleyway. Was that just a general word of advice or was I being warned off?

  Five

  As I picked my way back down the alley I noticed the dustbins. On impulse I took the top off the nearest one and started rummaging through it. It was just possible that my wrap had wound up here. It was disgusting work and I had just told myself that I didn’t want to reclaim the wrap that badly, and that almost certainly it would be beyond redemption, when I came upon a blood-soaked piece of fabric. It was so stiff and caked with dried blood that it was impossible to see what it had once been, but definitely not my wrap. It had no fringe. I was about to drop it back when it occurred to me that this was valuable evidence. If the girl and Scarpelli had vanished, then this blood-soaked rag was the only proof that a crime had taken place. I wrapped it in a piece of newspaper that was lying nearby and tucked it into my handbag.

  I looked up to see a disreputable-looking man staring at me. He was unshaven, unwashed, and dressed in tatters. “If you’re that hungry, girlie, there’s the Salvation Army mission a block away,” he said in a gravelly voice. “They hand out free soup.”

  I tried not to smile as I thanked him and walked away. I had never been mistaken for a tramp before!

  When I got home I took the rag, still wrapped in newspaper, and wondered if I should bring it directly to Daniel. Then, of course, I realized this would show that I went to the theater against his wishes. No sense in rocking that boat unnecessarily. I’d keep it here unless and until it was needed, then I could produce it triumphantly. I wrapped it well in tissue and shoved it into a drawer out in the scullery. I had just washed my hands and was about to make myself some lunch when there was a knock on my front door. Not Daniel, because it was a timid little tap. I opened it and at first didn’t recognize the young woman who stood there. She was dressed demurely in a simple muslin, with a pretty bonnet-style hat, and at first I took her for a schoolgirl, but then she said, “Miss Murphy. I hope you’ll forgive me for calling on you like this but I wanted to thank you for your kindness to me the other night You did give me your card.”

  Then I realized that it was Bess Houdini. The other night she had been in full stage makeup. Without it she looked pale, innocent, and frail—but not quite as young as I had thought. She was definitely older than me. In her thirties, maybe.

  “Please, come inside, Mrs. Houdini,” I said. “It was nice of you to stop by, but it certainly wasn’t necessary to come and thank me in person.”

  I ushered her inside and offered her a seat in my one halfway decent armchair.

  “I have to confess, Miss Murphy, that I do have another reason for seeking you out,” she said. “You said you were a lady detective.”

  “That’s right. I am.”

  “Well, I’d like to engage your services.”

  Of course my brain
went straight to divorce. As I’d mentioned, I didn’t like handling divorce cases in the first place, and I had no wish to cross swords with a man like Houdini—reputed to be in league with the devil.

  “Really?” I tried to sound only mildly interested. “May I offer you a cup of tea or a glass of water?”

  “A glass of water would be swell, if you don’t mind. It’s hot and muggy out there today, isn’t it?”

  I went and got her the glass of water, then sat across from her, waiting patiently while she drank it.

  “So what sort of assignment did you have in mind, Mrs. Houdini?” I asked when I thought she’d had long enough to compose herself. My sainted mother would be impressed at the way I’d learned patience at last.

  “I want to hire you to protect my husband,” she said.

  I couldn’t have been more surprised. I started to say, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” but I swallowed it back. “You want me to protect your husband?” I repeated.

  “I think that someone’s trying to kill him,” she said.

  My mind went immediately to the horrifying scene I had witnessed. “Is this because of what happened to Scarpelli’s assistant the other night?”

  “That did make me think that it wasn’t just my nerves and I hadn’t just been imagining it,” she said.

  “If someone’s trying to kill him, then surely it’s a matter for the police,” I said.

  She shook her head vehemently. “No, that wouldn’t do at all. Harry would never countenance it. He’s a very proud man, Miss Murphy. You might even say a very vain man. He’d hate the thought that he couldn’t take care of himself. And he’d hate the thought even more that someone wanted him dead. That’s why I came to you.”

  “What exactly do you think I can do?” I asked.

  “Two things, I hope. Keep an eye on him and find out who wants him dead.”

  I tried to compose my racing thoughts. One part of my brain was saying this was a plum assignment and I could forever after advertise that I’d been hired by none other than the premier magician of our time, the great Houdini. But the more sensible part of my brain was asking me how I could ever protect a man who risked his life on a daily basis and how I could ever hope to discover who might want him dead. But I’ve always loved a good challenge, and I had no other case on the books.