The Last Illusion

“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.