The Last Illusion

“Quite.” He gave something between a laugh and a dry cough.


Thunder rumbled again nearby and what sounded like hail was bouncing off the carriage roof with a clatter like loud applause.

“Did you come with Mr. Wilkie from Washington?” I asked because the silence was making me uneasy.

“No, I was already here,” he said. “I met him at the station.”

Ah, so it was later than I thought. I stole another glance at him. It was dark in the carriage and his hair and face looked like one of those floating heads that spiritualists can conjure up. The carriage slowed, and the rain abated for a moment so that I could hear the clip-clopping of other horses’ hooves and the chime of a large clock. One, two, three, four. I counted the strokes. Then I sat up, suddenly alert. I hadn’t misjudged the time. It was four o’clock. Mr. Wilkie couldn’t possibly have arrived in New York yet. And at the same time several unconnected thoughts raced through my mind. The passage that Mr. Wilkie had circled in the magazine: something about the problem with illusionists is that you think they are working on one side of the stage when really they are on the other. “I’m a keen amateur magician,” Smith had just said.

And that advertisement for the deception cabinet. Light wood on top, ebony underneath. Works both sides. Used for the most dangerous tricks. And made in Germany. Houdini had been describing Anthony Smith. He even had a Germanic look to him. There were faces like his in those photographs of the German royal court—proud, haughty young officers with light hair. And I knew why I had been uneasy ever since I stepped into the carriage. Anthony Smith was a double agent. That was why Houdini insisted on meeting Mr. Wilkie in person, why he could send nothing by mail. He knew that among Mr. Wilkie’s team of men there was one that couldn’t be trusted.

And now I was alone in a carriage with him. I stole a quick glance in his direction and noticed that the blind on his window was down. Also that he had locked my door behind me. I had no idea where he intended to take me but it certainly wasn’t to meet Mr. Wilkie. My one chance was to show no alarm, to act naturally, and wait for an opportunity to jump out. It was, after all, still daylight and the streets would still be full of people. There would be constables on every corner. I put my bag on my knee, pretending to brush it down with the now-sodden handkerchief, but in reality to hide the door latch. I then leaned across, waited for the noise of the rain to pick up again, and flipped the lock open. Now one swift turn and I could jump out.

It did go through my mind that I would have no proof of my suspicions if I left the carriage now, but I wouldn’t be much use trying to testify as a corpse either, and I had seen what Smith and his kind had done to those who stood in their way. I looked out of the window, trying to see where we might be going but it was still raining too hard to recognize in which direction we were heading. The carriage was not rattling too much so we were not going over cobbles. That meant a major thoroughfare—probably one of the avenues. It would be helpful to know where to run if I made it safely to the street. Surely he wouldn’t have the nerve to chase me in broad daylight, especially if I screamed for help?

I would like to have hitched up my skirt as it would be a long jump down from the carriage, but I couldn’t do that without his noticing and I worried about taking the bag of scrapbooks with me. I didn’t want to leave it behind. It might even show a snapshot of Anthony Smith in Germany, but it was definitely going to be an encumbrance when I tried to jump out.

We clipped on for a good while at a steady pace. My brain raced desperately for something to say.

“So what kind of tricks do you like to perform, Mr. Smith?” I asked.

“Me? Only the small stuff—cards, linking rings, that kind of thing.”

“So none of the more impressive tricks that illusionists are doing these days?” I said gaily. At least I was attempting to sound gay and girlish. “Of course they are terribly dangerous, aren’t they? Do you know I was actually in the theater when that poor girl was sliced open with the saw. It was all I could do not to faint.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” he said. “No, I don’t think I’d ever attempt to saw someone in half.”

“And what kind of tricks does Mr. Wilkie like to perform?” I prattled on.

“I really couldn’t say.” He snapped the words out and I realized that he too was feeling the tension now.

“Then I’ll have to insist that he give me a demonstration when we’re together,” I said. “Are we nearly there?”

“Who knows, in this infernal downpour,” he said.

The carriage came abruptly to a halt and I thought I heard the driver shouting a curse. I didn’t wait for a second. My hand turned the door handle and pushed it open. Rain came flying into my face. I grabbed the bag, stood up, and—was just conscious of a swift movement behind me.





Thirty-three