The Last Illusion

“The sort of people who want divorces do,” Gus said. “I know among my family and their set it is the done thing to divorce these days. It used to be such a scandal. Now, it’s fashionable.”


“I hate divorce cases,” I said. “I find them so underhanded and unpleasant—lurking outside bedroom windows is not my cup of tea.”

“So will you give up your career when you marry?” Sid asked.

“Obviously Daniel wants me to, and I have to confess that it is sometimes a little too dangerous, but I do so enjoy being my own woman and having my own money. Let’s just say it’s a small detail we still need to work out before we marry.”

I finished my coffee and got up. “I shouldn’t detain you any longer. I’m sure you have a busy day ahead.”

“I suppose we do,” Gus said. “Sid has to plan the agenda for the next suffragist meeting that we are going to host at our house and I have promised to paint something with a Mongolian theme for our yurt.”

I chuckled as I left them. Such a delightful existence, I thought. Then I reminded myself that their lifestyle was frowned upon by most respectable households. They had essentially cut themselves off from the majority of polite society where they belonged.





Three


I walked to the post office to see if any requests had come into P. Riley and Associates, which was the name of the small detective agency I had inherited when my mentor, Paddy Riley, was murdered. There were none. And no prospects of a job on the horizon. I had never been good at soliciting business. Now I might have to swallow my pride and visit my friends like the playwright Ryan O’Hare who was up on all the theater gossip, to see who might be in need of my services—and could afford to pay me.

I returned home and immediately went through my file of people who had hired me previously. I composed a letter suggesting I’d be delighted to assist any friends they might refer to me, then I tore it up again. Somehow it sounded like groveling and I’ve never been good at that. So I got up, swept the kitchen, picked some flowers from my tiny square of back garden, then paced with annoyance. Idleness did not sit easily with me. I couldn’t picture myself as a lady of leisure. What on earth did they do all day? There was no way I’d be happy discussing my dressmaker or the best place to buy feathers.

Around lunchtime I was about to go in search of Ryan at his rooms at the Hotel Lafayette on Washington Square when there was a fierce rap on my front door and Daniel stormed in without waiting for me to answer it.

“That damned woman,” he blustered.

“Such language, Daniel. Really your speech has deteriorated since you became betrothed to me,” I said with mock severity. “I hope you aren’t already starting to disregard my delicate sensibilities.”

“I apologize,” he said, then seemed to realize what I had said to him. “Since when did you have delicate sensibilities?”

“I may yet learn to acquire them,” I said. “I understand they are deemed a useful attribute. So which woman has annoyed you so much that you resort to swearing in a lady’s presence?”

He pulled up a chair and stretched out his long legs. “Why—the girl who was cut in half last night.”

“She didn’t seem to be in a state to offend anyone,” I said. “Don’t tell me that she survived after all.”

“I couldn’t tell you that. It’s hardly likely but this morning she’s nowhere to be found. My men tried all the hospitals and none of them seems to have admitted her or even treated her.”

“She was probably dead before she could be admitted,” I pointed out. “She’d lost so much blood and was on the verge of death when I saw her.”

“I also tried the morgue,” he snapped. “And what’s more that Scarpelli fellow himself has vanished.”

“Vanished? A good illusionist indeed.”

“Well, he did leave a note for the theater proprietor saying that he couldn’t face anyone after what he had done and needed time to be alone with his grief.”

“There you are then,” I said. “That explains it all. I remember his saying that he wanted to break the news to Lily’s parents in person. What’s the betting he’s taken her body home to them so that she can be buried in the family plot.”

“A possibility, I suppose,” he said grudgingly because obviously he hadn’t thought of it. “But now we have no idea where her home is and no chance of finding him. My personal opinion is that he’s just pulled off a nice little murder and has skipped town before we have a chance to find out whether he had a motive.”

“What motive could he have?” I asked.

“Several I can think of. She was becoming a burden to him. She was blackmailing him. Maybe he was living with her and had left a respectable wife at home somewhere. Or maybe she was in the family way and was insisting that he marry her.”

“Do you always think the worst of people and come up with dark motives?” I asked.

He smiled. “Experience has taught me to expect the worst and take nothing for granted.”