As soon as I was out of sight of the theater I opened the bag and went through it. To my disappointment it contained only things that were clearly professional props—some scarves, a wand, and several pieces of false hair, including a variety of mustaches, a box of matches, a packet of cigarettes, and a new jar of makeup-removing cream. But nothing incriminating or threatening. No letters. No addresses.
It didn’t take long to find Morgan Highfield’s office on Lower Broadway for which I was glad, as I was now carrying two bags. Scarpelli’s was remarkably heavy, given the contents, and it seemed to get heavier by the minute. The office was in a seedy area and up on the third floor so that I was panting and sweaty by the time I made it up all those steep stairs. A balding, paunchy man was sitting with his feet up on his desk, wearing no tie and his shirt collar open, and smoking a cigar.
“And what can I do for you, little lady?” he asked, not bothering to remove his feet.
I held out the bag and said that I’d come from Miner’s Theatre, where I’d also been working and thought that he might want to forward the bag to Scarpelli.
“Thank you, my dear. Most obliged. Very kind of you,” he said. “I can certainly do that.”
“You know where he is?”
“I haven’t heard a peep from him since he took off that night,” he said. It came out smoothly enough, but I got a feeling that he did know but wasn’t going to say.
“So how will you know where to forward his things?” I asked.
“It’s my belief that he was shocked beyond belief about what happened,” he said. “So what do you do when you’ve had a shock? You go home to recover. I expect he’s gone home to Boston. And when he’s ready to pick himself up again, who’s the first one he’s going to contact? His agent, of course.”
“Boston?”
“That’s where he’s from. Poor man. I bet he just can’t face talking to anybody at the moment. I know how he feels. What a terrible tragedy.”
I nodded agreement. “I was in the theater. I witnessed it. It was horrible.”
He leaned closer to me so that his paunch draped over his desk. “I really can’t understand how it happened. He swore to me that the trick was foolproof. It’s my belief that someone tinkered with his equipment. Jammed it, you know.”
“Why would someone do that?”
He shrugged so that his impressive sagging jowls quivered. “Who knows? Out of spite, maybe. These illusionists—they’re a high-strung bunch. Always want to be the best and the first. And if one of ’em feels he’s been slighted, well, he’d find a way to get back at the person who had slighted him, wouldn’t he?”
“I don’t know. That seems excessive to me,” I said.
He nodded. “Like I said, a highly strung bunch. They’d have to be, cheating death every day. Of course it could have been one of Lily’s spurned lovers. She liked to keep a trail of men behind her. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know now. But the show must go on—that’s what we say, don’t we? I expect I’ll hear from him any day now that he’s ready to go back on.”
“Performing that same trick again?”
“Nah, I don’t think he’ll be trying that one again for a while. I can’t see any girl volunteering to take Lily’s place, can you?”
“I wouldn’t,” I said.
“You in the business, my dear?”
“I have been,” I said.
“As it happens I’m looking for a girl at the moment—rest of the summer in Atlantic City. What can you do?”
“I’ve been a magician’s assistant,” I said.
“Have you? Who have you worked with?”
“Houdini,” I said. “I help out when Bess isn’t feeling well.”
“Then you’ve been on the Continent with him?”
“No, only over here.”
“So you know more than me about what happened the other night. Some say he’s on the run and he killed that guy. Others say he’s feeding the fishes at the bottom of the river. What do you think?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “About Atlantic City. How soon do you need to know?”
“As soon as possible. I need a girl to take over on Tuesday.”
“I’ll get back to you,” I said. “But in the meantime, do you have the address where Scarpelli was staying while he was in New York? He told me that his landlady might have an extra room and I’m looking for one for a friend.”
“I expect she would. These theatrical boardinghouses—people are always coming and going, aren’t they?”
“So what’s the address?”
“Ma Becker’s. If you’re in the business, you’ll know Ma Becker, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes, Ma Becker.” I tried to look confident as I said this. “I’ve had friends that stayed there. What street was it on again—Canal, was it?”
“Delancey,” he said.
“That’s right. I know I’ve been there. Thanks for your time and I’m glad that Signor Scarpelli will be getting his props back when he asks for them.”
“When he does, I’ll let him know that you did him the favor. What was your name again, miss?”
The Last Illusion
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