The Last Illusion

I smiled at them politely, then turned to walk down the platform. So Mr. Smith was not to be told of my mission. Or maybe Wilkie was waiting until the train left the station, just in case the wrong person was listening. I decided, as I went to find out the platform for the returning train, that I should make a terrible spy. I’d surely spill the beans to the wrong person.

As I came to the end of the platform newsboys were waving early editions of the evening newspaper. “Philly Flooded with False Money,” the headline read. So Daniel’s case had spread from New York. Or maybe the forger had found the police too hot on his heels and had moved on. That’s probably what the obnoxious Mr. Smith had been doing in Philadelphia, I decided.

And as the train pulled out of Philadelphia Station, I noticed a poster on the wall advertising Signor Scarpelli—Prince of Magicians. I tried to see what date was on it—whether it was an old poster or not, but the train had already gathered speed and whisked me past it.





Twenty-five


During the long journey back I studied the magazines I had been given. Mahatma magazine was the official organ of the American Association of Magicians, with reports from all over the world. Wilkie had placed a pencil mark next to “Our Berlin Correspondent,” whom I presumed was Houdini. And I saw that in several issues he had written articles under his own name, including, interestingly enough, how to use chemicals to create an ink that vanishes after a few seconds as well as various invisible inks. Useful for a spy as well as a magician, I decided.

In The Dramatic Mirror he wrote under his own name. I read through everything he had written. All his reports sounded innocuous enough, and even looking for a double meaning, I couldn’t find a single one. I wondered if I’d have better luck back at the Houdinis’ house. What sort of thing would he have seen in Germany? Surely nothing that might threaten the might of the United States of America? Whatever it was, it was enough to have him kidnapped and probably killed.

The magazines made fascinating reading for an outsider like myself. I learned how to use mirrors to make a box appear empty. I even amused myself by reading the classified advertisements. It seemed that one could buy almost any kind of unlikely contraption. I was intrigued by something called a “deception cabinet.” Fine, light wood on top, ebony below. Opens two ways. And the afterthought, “suitable for the most dangerous tricks, so watch out.” I was about to move on when something about it caught my attention. “Made in Germany.” But then I presumed that many clever devices were manufactured in that country.

I wondered how one operated a deception cabinet. Maybe I’ll give up being a detective and start a new career as a magician with my deception cabinet, I thought with a chuckle. Then I remembered that an illusionist’s life was no safer than a detectives’—less safe, in fact.

It was with heavy heart that I made my way from the ferry to the Houdinis’ house. I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with a possibly hysterical Bess. Another constable stood guard outside and I was admitted again by Houdini’s mother. She looked at me with the same hostile glare with which she had greeted me on previous occasions, but she didn’t ask, “Where’s my boy?” this time, making me wonder whether they had received bad news.

“How is Bess?” I asked.

“She wait for you,” the old woman said, now apparently accusing me because I hadn’t been there. “All day she ask me why you not come?”

“I’m sorry. I know, I should have been here, but I had important business. I’ll go up to her now, shall I?”

She shrugged as if it was no business of hers, but I felt her eyes following me all the way up the stairs. Bess seemed to be asleep, so I tiptoed into the room and went over to the magazines and papers on top of the dresser. I searched diligently but didn’t come across anything that I thought would be of significance. But then I decided that Houdini was hardly likely to leave something so vital that it could only be imparted to one man out in full view, especially when someone had already tried to break into the house once. My gaze fell to the suitcase under the bed, where Houdini kept the details of his illusions. I dropped to my knees and was pulling it out when Bess stirred.

“Molly. You came back! I was so worried that something bad had happened to you,” she said, staring at me with those big, helpless eyes. Of course then I felt terrible. It had never occurred to me that my absence would have given her something else to worry about.

“I’m so sorry, I should have been here with you. Something came up and I had to leave in a hurry, but it was thoughtless of me not to let you know that I was all right.” This of course was partially a lie. I’d been kidnapped and bundled into a train. Not exactly all right, then. But I smiled at her brightly. “I’ve been working on your behalf, trying to find out what might have happened to your husband,” I said.

“Is there any news yet?”

“I have none, I’m afraid. I don’t know how the police are getting on,” I said. “Let’s just hope for the best, shall we? Have you eaten anything?”