The Last Illusion

I stopped at this thought. Houdini hadn’t delivered and his act had gone wrong. Was that a warning from a gang as to what could happen to him if the money wasn’t forthcoming? Were any of the powerful gangs now demanding protection money of theatrical performers? That would be another thing to ask Daniel in the morning.

The sound of a distant police whistle and the clatter of feet on cobbles made me pause and look up from my thoughts. In a backwater like Patchin Place it was easy to forget that I was in the heart of a big city. But every now and then something happened to remind me that crimes were happening every minute. Someone was having a pocket picked or jewelry stolen or their head bashed in at this very moment, and I was never completely safe. I stood up, half resolved to close my open window, then told myself that my nerves were on edge and I was being silly. But it did make me pause to wonder if perhaps Daniel was right. Had I really had my fill of this kind of work and the danger it brought me and wouldn’t it be wonderful to know I was safe, loved, and protected, and would never have to jump from a rooftop or take a fearful risk again? I had half promised Daniel that this would be my last case. Did I really mean it?



The morning dawned with the sun shining in fiercely through my window at six o’clock and the day promising to be a scorcher. Not ideal weather to be running around on a case. If I were married, I told myself, I’d go to stay with Daniel’s mother out in Westchester during this kind of weather. I’d sit on a shady porch, sip lemonade, and play croquet. Maybe one day my husband would be able to afford to build me a house on Long Island, or on the Hudson, where I could escape from the heat in the summer while he toiled on in the city. The idea of being a wife was beginning to show some benefits after all!

I got up, washed, and dressed. There was no way I could wear Oona Sheehan’s theatrical two-piece on a day like this. I’d expire with heat. The Houdinis would just have to put up with me in my usual muslin, however untheatrical it looked. There was no point in my going to visit them too early: theatrical folk are notoriously late risers. So now I was all ready, champing at the bit, with nowhere to go.

Ryan had offered to take me to his dressmaker, of course, but not before ten o’clock. And I wasn’t going to order a costume at this stage, not until I knew a lot more about what had happened and what would be involved. I decided I could always pay a call on Daniel at his rooms, just in case he had not gone into work early. I’d bring supplies and promise to come by later to cook him dinner. If that wasn’t extending the olive branch, then I don’t know what was. I went across to the market and bought lettuce and cucumber for a salad. I even threw caution to the winds and purchased a tomato. Then I went to the delicatessen and came away with some lovely slices of cold boneless leg of pork, stuffed with sage and onion. Some small potatoes and we were ready for a delicious summer meal.

I took the Sixth Avenue El up to Twenty-third Street and walked toward Daniel’s apartment on the corner of Ninth Avenue with great anticipation. Our time spent together recently had been tense and uneasy. I suppose it’s always that way before a marriage. I realized I was possibly being the difficult one, unwilling to let go to one ounce of independence. If I hadn’t known people like Sid and Gus and Nellie Bly, that newspaper reporter whose risky exploits are legend, I suppose I should just have succumbed to the notion that wives were supposed to be submissive. But I had never been submissive to anybody, even when I lived in a cottage in Ireland and we were as poor as church mice.





Ten


I reached Daniel’s building, already feeling the heat of the day at this hour, and made my way up the stairs. If he wasn’t at home, then I’d get the key from Mrs. O’Shea, who lived on the ground floor, and have the meal all ready for him in his meat safe when he returned. I had just tapped on his door when I thought I heard voices. The voices stopped and footsteps came to the door.

Daniel opened the door. “Yes?” he demanded impatiently, then he saw me. “Molly! Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I’ve come to make amends for my behavior last night. I come bearing gifts—or rather the ingredients to make you a nice meal.”

He gave a rather embarrassed smile. “Why, that’s good of you. Much appreciated. Unfortunately I’ve got company at the moment or I’d ask you in.” He held out his hands to take the basket from me.

“Don’t leave the little lady standing outside, Sullivan. Invite her in, for God’s sake. I’m anxious to know what kind of young woman comes to cook for you.”

Daniel’s face flushed red. “This is actually my intended, Mr. Wilkie. Come on in, Molly, and let me introduce you.”

I stepped into the room. A pleasant-looking man with light brown hair and neat mustache was seated in Daniel’s leather armchair. He was probably in his forties and had a distinguished air about him, but he rose to his feet as I came in and gave me an encouraging smile.