The Last Illusion

“If you’re one of those reporters you can turn right around and get out before I call some of our stagehands and have you thrown out,” he said in surly fashion. I should add that most stage doorkeepers are surly too, at least until they know you.

“Nothing of the sort,” I said. “You see I went up onstage with my young man when he tried to help, and the doctor was asking for blankets to cover the poor dying girl. So I covered her with my wrap until they could come up with something warmer. I came back just on the off chance that it had been discarded here in the theater. I know it’s probably covered in blood and beyond using again, but I was particularly fond of it.”

He stared at me for a while, trying to size me up.

“I didn’t see it personally,” he said.

“I don’t know if the girl was carried out of the front door or she came through this way.”

“Out the front. I certainly didn’t see her leave. They’d have never got a stretcher out through here. Too many steps and the alley’s too darned narrow.”

I put my head prettily on one side, in the way that children always think is endearing. “Would you mind if I took a look for my lost wrap? I know it’s probably been thrown out by now, but I’d kick myself if it was still lying in a rubbish bin. I was rather fond of it, you know.”

Another long pause, then he said, “You’re probably going to cost me my job, but go on with you. There’s nobody around at this hour anyway, so you can’t do no harm. But don’t go doing any snooping into dressing rooms or the like. Not that you can get at the illusionists’ props. Always locked up good and proper, they are.”

“Really? So does each illusionist lock his props away separately or are they all in one locked room?”

This made him laugh. “Listen, girlie, that lot wouldn’t trust their own grandmothers. They live in constant mortal fear that a rival illusionist is going to steal their tricks. You hear of the brotherhood of magicians. Don’t you believe it. Rivals, that’s what they are. They’d cut each other’s throats if they had a chance.” Then he realized what he had said. “Didn’t really mean that,” he stammered.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” I said soothingly. “But from what they are saying, I understand there was little love lost between the one who calls himself Scarpelli and Houdini.”

“They all hate Houdini’s guts,” the old man said confidentially. “Just because he can get himself publicity like nobody else—and he gets paid for it too. But none of them can do what he does—challenging police departments all over the country, defying anyone to come up with a lock or a jail cell that can hold him. And I’ve watched him, young lady. If they’re illusions I’ll eat my hat. If you ask me, I reckon the man’s not quite natural. One of the stagehands said he had to be in league with the devil and I’m half inclined to believe him.”

“How about Scarpelli. Did he get along just fine with the others?”

“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.—?”