The Last Illusion

“Just be careful,” Daniel muttered as he hailed a hansom cab for me. “One illusionist’s assistant has already come to a tragic end this week.”


Then he helped me up into the cab, gave some money to the driver, and hurried back into the theater.





Twenty


Early the next morning I was leaving Patchin Place, on my way to Bess Houdini’s house, when I bumped into Gus coming home with a bag of fresh rolls and the morning paper.

“You’re up bright and early,” she said. “Come and have breakfast and hear about our ordeal at the cottage.”

“Ordeal?”

“My dear, you were so right not to have accompanied us. If we’d known what a boring and bigoted bunch they would be, we’d never have gone. Nothing but tittle-tattle and gossip of the most idle sort, and worse still, my cousin’s wife’s mother spent the whole weekend trying to get me together with her unmarried son—who had pimples and a stutter—and kept lecturing me on how life was passing me by and I’d be doomed to be a hopeless spinster. She was quite put out when I told her that I didn’t mind that prospect at all.”

“I’d love to come and hear all about it,” I said, “but I’m afraid I’m working. I take it you haven’t read that paper you are carrying yet.”

“I haven’t, but the newsboy was yelling something about a murder in the theater and Houdini having vanished,” she said.

“That’s right. I was at the theater last night. I saw the whole thing firsthand. And Houdini’s wife is expecting me.”

“My dear Molly, what an exciting life you lead,” Gus said, eyeing me with envy. Most women would have been reaching for their smelling salts by this time. “I do wish we could come with you. I don’t suppose you could take us along—as your assistants, maybe?”

I smiled. “No, I couldn’t take you with me.”

She sighed. “You will keep us au fait, won’t you? I can’t wait to tell Sid. She’ll be positively agog.”

So we parted and I caught my train northward. As we made our slow progress, I had time to think. My head was clear after a night’s sleep and I found myself full of energy and ready for anything. I went through the whole performance of the night before, wondering if I had overlooked anything. Was there anything I had observed while I was waiting in the wings to go onstage? Anyone who had been near the trunk? Anything lying there that shouldn’t have been? I could think of nothing. Of course I had been wound up and nervous about going onstage so I may have overlooked a good deal, but the point was that Houdini wouldn’t have overlooked anything. He was meticulous in his preparation.

So it all came down to whether he was victim or murder suspect. If he had cleverly planned this whole thing, then did Bess know about it? If so, she was a brilliant actress. But then she was a stage performer—it was her job. I found myself wondering if I had been deliberately hired as the stool pigeon—someone who knew nothing of the theater, little about the Houdinis’ act, to be an alibi of sorts for them. I had found myself used by my clients before and I didn’t like to think of myself as gullible enough to have been made a fool of again. But I did see how the whole thing could have been part of a well-orchestrated plan—Bess locked in the trunk, me persuaded to take her place so that there was no suggestion that Houdini had accomplished the switch with an accomplice.

I didn’t know whether to wish that he was a murderer or that he was the victim, because I rather liked him. I was still deep in these thoughts as I disembarked from the train and made my way along 102nd Street, so I was startled when a large figure in blue uniform stepped out to intercept me as I went to mount the steps to the Houdinis’ front door. I had forgotten that Daniel had promised Bess Houdini protection when he sent her home the night before.

“Just a moment, miss,” the constable said.

“St. Michael and all the angels spare me,” I muttered. Now I’d have to go through another round of explanations before I was admitted and frankly I could no longer remember if I was supposed to be Bess’s dear friend or the detective come to keep an eye on her. This whole thing was becoming tiring. But to my relief the constable said, “It’s Miss Murphy, isn’t it? The captain said to expect you. He’ll be by later himself.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I promised Mrs. Houdini last night that I’d stay with her today so I’ll definitely be here.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard any word about him yet, have you?” the constable asked hopefully. “Houdini, I mean. They haven’t found him yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” I said.

“Well, good luck to you then.” He resumed his position beside the front door and I gave a good rap on the knocker.

The door was opened by Houdini’s mother. “You?” she said, pointing at me accusingly. “Where is my boy?”