The Last Illusion

“Damn it,” Daniel muttered.

I wanted to grab on to Daniel’s arm but forced myself not to. I had my reputation of being a fearless detective to live up to. But instead of being in total darkness we found the floor painted with thin stripes of light from above. Light was shining through the cracks in the floorboards and ahead of us was a larger square of light.

“We must be under the stage,” Daniel said, looking up. And indeed this part of the basement was cleaner and tidier, as if more frequently used.

“That square of light would be where the prompter stands,” I said. “You can get down here from the front of the stage—at least you could in the last theater I worked in.”

“Ah, yes. Steps up to your left,” Daniel said. “And what have we here?”

He paused by a square wood-and-metal platform, raised just above floor level, then he looked up, looked around, and nodded. “I’ve an idea,” he said. “Hawkins!” he yelled.

“Yes, Captain? Where are you?” came the voice from above.

“Under the stage. I want you to listen carefully. Draw a chalk line on the floor around the trunk and then move it carefully to one side.”

“Right you are, Captain.”

“What is it, Daniel?”

“Just a hunch.”

We waited, then heard the trunk being dragged aside. Once the trunk was gone, a thin rectangle of light shone down.

“Stand back, Hawkins!” Daniel shouted. He went over to the wall and pulled a lever. A trapdoor opened up on the stage, sending light flooding down to us.

“Aha, so that was how it was done.” Daniel sounded jubilant. “Now watch this.” He raised a second lever and the platform beside us ascended at great speed.

“You see that!” He was almost like a small boy who has found a new toy that works as well as he hoped. “That’s how they did it, Molly. The trapdoor opened—this platform was waiting below to whisk the first trunk down. The trunk was hauled off and the second trunk substituted. Then up it went, shoved into place, trapdoor closed again.”

“How did you work that out?” I was rather jealous of his detective skills.

He grinned. “I saw a production of Faust not too long ago. The devil appeared miraculously from a trapdoor in the middle of the stage.”

“So someone had to make sure that the trunk was placed in the right position to fall through the hole when it was opened,” I said.

He nodded. “Who helped you carry the trunk onto the stage?”

“I really didn’t notice. You’re told never to turn your back to the audience and the lights are quite blinding. I was just conscious that somebody helped me. I thought it was a stagehand, but it could have been anyone.”

“Someone who knew exactly what he was doing,” Daniel said. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ll have my boys come back and dust that platform for fingerprints.”

“Do you think this fingerprinting idea actually works?” I asked as Daniel made his way to the steps on our left.

“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” Daniel said. “No two fingerprints are alike, you know. A fingerprint can provide absolute proof. The hard part is trying to persuade judges to make them admissible evidence in a court of law. No one’s ever succeeded yet.”

He opened the little door at the top of the steps, pushed aside a curtain, and we were up in the wings again.





Twenty-three


It was close to lunch hour by the time I arrived home. Washington Square was deserted in the midday heat. Even the customary little boys who made the constable’s life a misery by trying to climb into the fountain had given up and gone home. I felt my dress sticking to my back as I hurried up Patchin Place. It was no weather for hurrying, but on the train ride home I had come to a decision. I was going to go to Atlantic City today. So what if Daniel had forbidden me to go? He didn’t yet have authority over me, and I suppose part of my decision was simply to prove this fact to myself. And the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Houdini’s brother Dash had to have participated in switching the trunks. I also had reluctantly come to think that Houdini himself had to have been involved. Would he not have noticed and done something if the trunk had been placed differently from usual? I sighed. Poor Bess. Either her husband was a wanted criminal or a kidnap victim.

This last thought made me reconsider my rash decision. I was leaving Bess alone when she needed me and I was going to visit someone who may have just killed a man most brutally—who may have even killed two men. Then I told myself I had been hired to find out the truth not be a nursemaid. I was just doing the job for which she had hired me.

I was approaching my house when I saw Gus waving from her front window. She opened the window and beckoned me over. “Ah, there you are,” she said. “There was a man at your door not too long ago.”

“What kind of man?”

“Ordinary looking. Respectable. Young.”