The Last Illusion

“I’ll go and see if I can find the manager in his office then,” I said, sounding a lot braver than I felt. I pushed open the frosted glass swing doors and stood in the darkness and silence of the theater. Every step forward I took, I felt more reluctant. Did I really need to know where Scarpelli had taken rooms in New York? Was it at all relevant to Houdini’s disappearance? And surely the police must have searched his rooms most thoroughly. So was I putting myself in danger for nothing?

I had to come up with a good, convincing lie. Why would I need Scarpelli’s address? Think, I commanded myself. Use your brain. But my brain refused to work. I went along the side aisle, up the steps, and pushed open the pass door. The backstage area was eerily quiet and shrouded props loomed like ghosts ahead of me. Mercifully, there was a small light on in the narrow hallway leading to the manager’s office and light shone from a half-open door. I tapped on the door nervously, then pushed it farther open and went in. The office was empty. I couldn’t believe my luck. Now all I had to do was to find some kind of file or card system that he kept on the performers. Of course it was possible that there was nothing of the kind in this little back office and that the circuit that owned this theater took care of all the booking arrangements, but surely a theater manager must be able to get in touch with his performers?

The desktop was messy in the extreme, but seemed to be all random papers, plus a couple of ashtrays that needed emptying. I went to the filing cabinet on the wall and pulled out the top drawer. It contained financial statements and I didn’t feel comfortable going through them. I closed it again and tried the drawers below. The bottom drawer contained contracts. I found one for Scarpelli (alias Alfred Rosen), and noted that the address stated, “represented by Morgan Highfield management, 294 Broadway.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. It would be easier to face his manager and I might even learn something from him. Just as I was closing the drawer I heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming toward me. I spun around guiltily as Mr. Irving came into his office. He started in surprise when he saw me, frowned, and tried to place me.

“Miss—uh?”

“I’m Bess Houdini’s friend, remember? I was the one who filled in as Houdini’s assistant when Bess was taken ill,” I said.

“Ah, of course.” I detected no flicker of interest.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I was very upset when I left the theater that night, and I rather fear that I left behind a small cameo brooch that I always wear for good luck. It was given to me by my departed mother, you see. So I just wondered if it had been turned in to you?”

He frowned even harder. “A cameo brooch? I haven’t seen one. Nobody’s mentioned it.”

“Oh, dear. That’s a pity,” I said. “Then it might have fallen on my way into the cab and somebody’s nabbed it.”

“Too bad,” he said. His expression was unreadable. Had he glimpsed me at his file cabinet? Did he suspect me of being anything more than a friend of the Houdinis?

“You can come and check the lost property closet if you like,” he said. “Someone may have just put it there without telling me.”

Again I hesitated. Was my gut telling me not to go with him?

“That’s all right,” I said. “I really shouldn’t trouble you anymore. I’ll give it up for lost.”

“The closet’s right here,” he said, literally steering me back down the passage. “I’d hate for you to lose your beloved trinket.” And he opened a door in the passage.

I was truly expecting to be shoved inside, or to find it led to a flight of dark stairs, but it was a perfectly normal closet. I looked through it for what seemed the required amount of time and was about to close it when I noticed a bag on the bottom shelf. It was a canvas bag and across it was painted in bold letters SCARPELLI.

“That’s Signor Scarpelli’s bag,” I said. “So I see he never came back to collect it.”

“Nobody’s heard a squeak from him after he took Lily off in an ambulance,” Mr. Irving said. “If you want to know what I think, I think he’s scared he’ll be charged with a crime. The police didn’t think it was an accident, you see. So he’s lying low for a while.”

“I could take it to his manager, if you like,” I said. “I’m on my way there right now.”

“Are you? What for?”

I attempted to look coy. “He also represents a friend of mine who’s away on tour. I need his address on the West Coast. He promised to write but he hasn’t. I expect he’s been too busy.”

“Yes, I expect so.” He gave me an understanding smile. “Well, I suppose you could take the bag to his manager. It’s only cluttering up the place here.”

And he handed me the canvas bag. I went off triumphantly. I had done something risky and I had succeeded. I always love it when things go right.





Thirty