He produced a bouquet of flowers from a tiny Chinese lantern, which he lit by blowing on it, tossing the flowers to a young lass in a red-and-green tartan. She caught them gracefully, batting her eyelashes at him before her husband pulled her along the pavement. The magician loved the effect he had on women, but he enjoyed the reactions from husbands even more.
He cut a fresh white length of rope in half, then quarters, making it whole again by blowing on it. He pulled half crowns from behind the ears of astonished boys and made a dove appear beneath the hat of a young girl. He made bright silk handkerchiefs disappear into his clenched fist and reappear in the purses of fashionable ladies, who blushed and tittered and lowered their eyes before his searching gaze. He did all of this and more, gathering quite a crowd around him, as shoppers leaving and entering the market were drawn by the increasing number of spectators straining to see over the heads of the people in front of them.
It was all a prelude, an overture, to the main event, the skill he truly excelled at: card tricks. He was a wizard with a deck of playing cards, and could make them dance and leap as though they were alive. His hands, always supple, moved with lightning swiftness; buoyed by his constant stream of commentary, he could fool even the keenest eye.
“Who would like to pick a card?” he asked, tossing an entire pack into the air, flipping them over one by one with lightning speed so that they returned to his hands like fifty-two boomerangs. Jaws dropped among his spectators, who burst into enthusiastic applause, followed by excited chattering.
“Did ye see that, Mary?”
“’At fella’s a wonder, he is!”
“I never seen anythin’ like it.”
“Lord Almighty in heaven!”
“More like the devil, if ye ask me.”
He smiled and fanned the cards out in front of him in a perfect half-moon. “Go ahead—pick a card, any card.” He looked over the crowd, their faces as open and trusting as children’s. He had them—they were truly in his power now. He took a deep breath and smiled at his subjects, catching the eye of a grubby, sad-faced street Arab. The boy frowned and shoved his hands into his pockets. The magician beamed at him. “What’s your name?”
“Freddie,” the boy replied, gazing down at his shabby shoes.
“Pick a card, Freddie. Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to bite.”
Hesitantly, the boy reached for a card, and the magician felt a surge of pleasure. It was going to be a good night.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Long after the firing of the One O’Clock Gun high atop the volcanic Castle Rock, the shadows were lengthening in the Edinburgh police station. After shining bravely all morning, the weary February sky had finally surrendered to a mottled cloud cover threatening to cast the city into another midwinter gloom. The three men huddled in DCI Crawford’s office poring over evidence hardly noticed the change in the air, so intent were they on unraveling the puzzle of one man’s identity.
“It would be a great help to us, Chief Inspector, if we could locate the shop where those cards were purchased,” DCI Crawford remarked.
“Malheureusement, they are very common in Paris,” the Frenchman replied. “We look already, of course, though with no result définitif. But I must return to Paris. I will try to turn over more stones, eh?”
“My sources have located a shop in Edinburgh that sells them,” Ian said.
Crawford looked at him curiously, his bushy eyebrows drawn together. “And what ‘sources’ might those be?”
“Sergeant Dickerson,” Ian lied. He had no desire to explain George Pearson or his interest in the case to DCI Crawford.
“Where the blazes is he, by the way?”
Ian considered telling the truth about the sergeant’s whereabouts but decided against it. “Interviewing potential witnesses, sir.”
Crawford grunted and slid into his chair. “Very well—if you can trust him not to muck it up.”
“Dickerson’s a good man. There are one or two other points I intend to investigate.”
“Such as . . . ?”
“I detected the aroma of opium on Kerry O’Donohue.”
“Indeed?”
“I have some ideas as to where he may have procured the opium.”
Chief Inspector Gerard raised a thick black eyebrow. “Vraiment? I would like to stay, but I take the train to London this evening. Before I leave, would either of you care to join me for a late lunch, as my guest?”
“Very kind of you, but I must be getting home to my wife,” Crawford said. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Certainement. Et vous, monsieur?” Gerard asked Ian.
“Thank you, but I have another interview to conduct this afternoon.”
Inspector Gerard shook his head. “I must say, I fail to comprehend the Scottish indifference to food. In France, we consider meals to be sacro-saint—what is your expression for this?”
“The same,” said Ian. “Sacrosanct.”
“Oui, c’est la même chose. To us, it is very important, the eating of good food, the sensual plaisir, you know?”
“Blame Scottish Presbyterianism,” said Crawford. “We’re a bunch of bloody stoics. Though we do like our sweets,” he added, popping a biscuit into his mouth.
“C’est important to refresh the mind and body, no?” said Gerard.
“I envy your Gallic sensuality,” Crawford said, “but I’m too old to change. Go and enjoy your lunch.”
“Merci. It has been a privilege working with you,” Gerard said, offering his hand, which Ian and Crawford shook warmly. In spite of the initial friction between them, Ian would be sorry to see the Frenchman go, and he suspected the chief inspector felt the same. “I call on you tomorrow,” said Gerard, putting on his hat and coat.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” said Crawford. “I’ll be at church in the morning.”
“Et vous, monsieur?” Gerard asked Ian.
“I usually spend Sundays with my aunt.”
“And when will that aunt of yours give me an answer about the photography?” Crawford said. “‘Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing.’”
“My apologies, sir—she said she would be delighted.”
“You could have told me earlier,” Crawford grunted. “Tell her I’m glad to hear it.”
“I’ll also convey your excellent knowledge of Robert Burns. She is also a devotee of his writing.”
“Good on her for appreciating a proper Scottish poet.”
“You will please contact me if there are further developments?” Gerard interrupted impatiently.
“We will,” said Crawford. “Goodbye, Chief Inspector, and thank you.” After Gerard had gone, Crawford ate another biscuit and offered Ian the tin. “Sorry about yesterday. My wife . . . She’s not well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Ian replied, taking a biscuit. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“I’d rather not go into it. Thanks for carrying on without me.”
“Not at all, sir. And now I’d like to get out on my interview.”
“Take another biscuit for the road.”
“Ta very much,” said Ian, taking one. As he approached the stairs leading down to the ground floor, he heard a familiar voice.
“Hullo, Guv’nur!”
He turned to see Derek McNair, his face even grimier than usual, leaning on the banister. “It’s about time you showed up,” said Ian. “Where the hell have you been?”