The Last Illusion

“He’s with her,” Theo said, “if he’s not at the theater, checking on the props and making sure nothing else goes wrong. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t want me to join him in the act tonight. There’s no way Bess is going to be fit to go onstage.”


That, of course, would ruin everything. It seemed I had to see Bess today somehow or I’d be out of a job again.

“Would you tell Bess I called?” I said, biting back my frustration. “My name’s Molly. Molly Murphy.”

“I’ll tell her if I see her,” he said. “They might keep her there for a while.”

“And where would ‘there’ be?”

He shrugged. “Some doc’s place. That’s all I know.”

It appeared that all I could do was to go home and wait until Bess Houdini contacted me. And if she was sedated and under a doctor’s care, she was hardly likely to be in a mental state to think about her dear friend Molly whom she had hired to protect her husband.

It was now way past midday and my stomach reminded me that I’d had nothing to eat. I told myself that I should probably save the money and try to hold out until I got home, but when I passed a corner delicatessen I gave in and bought myself a pastrami sandwich. Pastrami was another new food for me. I ordered it after asking for ham and getting a funny look from the man behind the counter and the patrons. It wasn’t half bad either, served with sour pickles!

The journey back to Greenwich Village seemed to take an eternity. It was stiflingly hot in carriage and the atmosphere grew worse as more and more people crowded in. If I’d been the kind of young lady who swooned, I’d have definitely done so. As it was I sat in my corner and tried to make enough space to fan myself with the empty envelope.

My muslin was a crumpled mess and soaked with sweat by the time I reached my front door. I let myself in and stood in the hallway, relishing the cool darkness. A long drink of water and then a cold wash were in order. Then I noticed that something was stuck in my letter box.

Inside was a note written in a shaky hand.

Molly, I must speak with you immediately. I am at a private clinic at 95th Street and Park Avenue. Could you come right away?



It was signed “Bess.”





Twelve


I have to confess that I uttered some words that should never escape from a lady’s lips. Actually some swear words that a lady shouldn’t even know. But I was alone and I figured they were justified at this point. This day had been one annoyance after another. And now to find that I would have to make that same unpleasant train journey all over again was a last straw. But it had to be done if I wanted this job. And I did want the job. Having witnessed the two accidents with my own eyes, I was itching to sink my teeth into this kind of case. And nobody ever said a detective’s work was easy. I took off my crumpled dress, washed it out, splashed cold water over my body, then put on a blouse and skirt before setting out once more.

It was now midafternoon and the heat radiated from the sidewalks and the brick of the buildings. It was like walking through an oven. I passed a horse that had collapsed while pulling a cart loaded with barrels. Small boys stood around staring curiously while the driver cursed and attempted to free it from the harness as it lay dying. I stared at it with pity, wishing there was something I could do, but dead horses were an all too frequent sight in New York in summer. As my train bore me northward again I thought longingly of Central Park and the boating lake and ice cream sodas and I told myself that when I was a married lady, I wouldn’t have to venture out on hot afternoons if I didn’t want to.

When I alighted, I came down the steps to a lively scene. Small boys had set off a fire hydrant and were running through the jet of water, squealing with glee while a constable tried to drive them off, and grownups stood around shouting encouragement and applauding. I stood watching for a while, enjoying the feel of the spray floating toward me, before I dragged myself off. I turned back once, as the scene brought back memories of my childhood in Ireland. I recalled a small skinny girl running through the spray as giant waves crashed onto the beach, daring my brothers to follow me. Then, of course, I remembered the beating I had received afterward for running around in my underclothes and for leading my brothers astray. Life was not all easy, even in those days. I sighed and set off to find the address on Ninety-fifth Street and Park.

I suppose I was expecting a hospital, but the red-and-white brick house wasn’t bigger than those surrounding it. In fact I would have walked right past it if a polished brass plate to one side of the front door hadn’t caught my eye. It said ASHER CLINIC. Dr. Frederick Asher. I rang the doorbell and it was opened by a nurse in a smart, crisply starched uniform.

“Yes?” she said, appraising me and my somewhat crumpled skirt and cheap straw hat.

“I believe you have a Mrs. Harry Houdini here at the moment?”