The Last Illusion

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” she called back, and left the room.

I didn’t wait a second longer. I dashed over to the wardrobe and opened it. The loud clattering of the machinery in the basement hid any noise that the opening door made. I had no idea what I was looking for and I found myself looking at a black suit and a cape. Hardly a revelation but it did show that he hadn’t taken his costume with him, so he had never returned here after that night. On the floor, half hidden under the cape, was an canvas bag identical to the one I had carried to the manager’s office. I lifted it out and opened it. It was empty. I was about to stuff it back when it occurred to me that it was heavy, just as the one I had carried to the office was heavy, given the number of items in it.

I opened it again and fished around at the bottom. The canvas was only loosely sewn. It came loose, I snapped the remaining threads, and beneath it I pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills. I could hardly believe my eyes. Hastily I stuffed them back and put the bag back where I had found it.

What could this mean? Scarpelli had left town owing people money. He hadn’t paid his rent and yet he had all this money. Was it possible he was also a crook—a robber? And Lily had found out and was about to go to the police so he killed her?

The noise of the machinery was overpowering. Why had he stayed here when he had enough money in that bag alone to stay at a good hotel? Unless. . . . Slowly things pieced themselves together in my mind. The sound of that machine was identical to the sound I had heard before that morning—the sound of the printing press at the magazine. What if that money was forged? Scarpelli had been in Philadelphia and now Secret Service men were in that city investigating the flood of forged banknotes there. I couldn’t wait to share my suspicion with Daniel. Then I remembered that I couldn’t let Daniel know what I’d been doing. He had forbidden me to investigate anything to do with Scarpelli. So I’d have to tell Mr. Wilkie instead. Another coup when I saw him later this afternoon.

I heard slow steps coming up the stairs. I closed the wardrobe again and was looking out of the window when Ma Becker reappeared.

“Ah, still here?” she asked. “Ain’t no use setting your heart on this room because I’ll have to wait until I get word from Alfred. And who knows when that will be.”

“Thank you for your time,” I said. “I’ll let my friend know about the other room.”

She followed me down the stairs. I bet she’s part of it too, I found myself thinking as I peered down the basement steps before I went on my way. Ma Becker was still standing at the door, hands on hips, watching me go. She must be in on it. Someone who was as keen on money as she wouldn’t leave the best room empty when she had a chance to rent it again, especially if she was owed money for it by someone who had disappeared into the blue, as she put it. That little smirk had given her away.



The chime of a clock reminded me that I had better make my way back to the theater for the matinee. I threaded my way between pushcarts and women with shopping baskets until I reached the Bowery and joined the line waiting to go into the theater. I noticed some men of the press watching with interest. Were they anticipating yet another disaster?

Gradually the line moved forward until I was in the blissful cool of the theater. I made my way around to the stage box. It was exactly where Bess and Houdini’s brother had sat on that fateful night. What was I doing here? I wondered. Even if this Mr. Summer had been in Germany with Houdini, he hadn’t been in the theater when Houdini disappeared. So what did I hope to gain from watching his performance? Then I reasoned there was nowhere else I should be, apart from back with Bess, and frankly, I was glad to sit and rest after a day of rushing around in the heat.

The orchestra struck up a lively tune and the show began. It started with a pair of comedians in blackface who exchanged a string of corny jokes and then did a soft-shoe dance. Then followed a female singer who probably broke the heart of every male in the audience by singing, “The Boy I Love Is up in the Gallery.”

Finally the announcer boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Summer time! Back from a triumphant tour of Europe, where he played to kings and nobles, it’s that master of magic, that prince of prestidigitators, Stevie Summer, with the lovely, the exotic, that dangerous feline, Kitty.”