Seven

I arrived home to find Daniel standing outside my house and hammering on my door. He had just turned away with a disgruntled expression when he caught sight of me entering Patchin Place.

“Ah, there you are.” His face lit up. “I really must get you set up with a telephone, Molly. I never know whether I’ll find you at home or not.”

“I do have a business to conduct,” I said. “I’m not yet the obedient little wife sitting home and waiting expectantly for her husband’s return.”

“I can’t see you ever being the obedient little wife.” Daniel looked at me fondly. “In fact sometimes I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. But no time for chitchat, Molly. I’ve arranged to get off early this evening and I want us to go and see a house.”

“What sort of house?” I asked cautiously.

“It’s a simple brownstone on West Twenty-first,” he said, “but I think it might do very well for us.”

“Oh,” I said, finally realizing what he was talking about. “For when we get married, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

“But Daniel, we haven’t even set a date yet.”

“I know, but it’s not often that the right property becomes available, so one has to strike while the iron is hot.”

I looked fondly around Patchin Place. “I’m sorry, but I have to meet a client this evening,” I said.

“Send a message and cancel it.”

“I can’t, Daniel. This is an important case for me with a new client. Besides,” I added, probably unwisely, “I really like my current address. Why can you not consider it for both of us? It’s close to headquarters, it’s quiet, and it’s big enough for the two of us.”

“For the two of us, yes,” he said. “But we’ll need room for a servant, and then when the children start arriving . . .” He paused. “And I am the youngest police captain on the force. I need an address with some prestige.”

“Then why not the new Ansonia building?” I said flippantly. “Or I gather that the Dakota is still very much in fashion. Or a mansion on Fifth Avenue would do at a pinch.”

He frowned. “Not that much prestige,” he said. “I still only have a policeman’s salary.”

I reached out and put my hand on his lapel. “Daniel, please let’s not rush into things.”

“Are you getting cold feet?”

“About marrying you? No, of course not. But you keep talking about children and servants and I’m not sure that I’m ready to give up my own life yet.”

He scowled. “Molly, we’ve been through this a hundred times before. A man in my position can’t have a wife who works, especially not as a private detective. It simply isn’t done. It would go against our whole code of ethics. And I’d be a laughingstock—nasty little jokes about getting my wife to solve my cases for me.” He took my hands in his. “I make enough money, Molly. I can support you. We will live a good life together.”

I stood there, looking up at him, not knowing what to say next. Because in truth I didn’t know what I wanted myself. I wanted to marry Daniel, but I didn’t want to become a wife—not in the way that was accepted for wives to behave—a submissive adornment only good for dinner parties and having children. I wanted to be Molly Murphy, free to come and go as she pleased, free to make her own friends.

“You don’t want to live here because you don’t approve of my friendship with Sid and Gus,” I said.

Daniel flushed. “I must admit that—that their views and behavior could be detrimental to my career,” he said. “But of course I’m not going to forbid you to see them.”

“That’s big of you.”

“But neither do I want you under their constant influence.”

“I’m not under anybody’s influence,” I said hotly. “You should know that better than anyone, Daniel Sullivan.”

“Molly,” he said calmly, “I just want our marriage to get off to a good start. I don’t want to live where you can run across the street to your friends every time we have an argument.”

“You must think little of me if you imagine that I’d do that,” I said, breaking free of his grip. “Anyway, this conversation is going nowhere, Daniel. I am not ready to look at houses yet and I have an appointment with a client for which I must get ready soon.”

“Then I guess that’s that,” he said grumpily. “Very well, Molly, perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me when you are ready to set a date for our wedding and to start making concrete plans for our future. I’m over thirty, Molly. I want a home and a family. I love you but I’m not going to wait forever.”

He started to walk away.

“Daniel!” I called after him. “Don’t be like that. I do want to marry you. And we will set a date, just as soon as we get our current cases settled. I promise.”

He turned back. “Really? That’s a promise? This will be your last case?”

“I didn’t exactly say that.”

“Then think about it Molly. Think which is more important to you, a life with me, or this constant striving to prove your independence.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “I must go. I’m already late.”

Then he stalked off without kissing me. I let myself into the house feeling sober and a little scared. I didn’t want to lose Daniel, did I? But I didn’t want to lose Sid and Gus and my independence either. Why did women have to settle for one or the other? It just didn’t seem fair.

An hour or so later I was on my way to Miner’s Theatre, dressed in the black-and-white two-piece, which still managed to look smart, in spite of a few stains and rips. My hair was more or less tamed into a bun with the jaunty black hat perched on top. I was also wearing rouge and lipstick, which felt strange. But I had to look the part. As I rode the trolley southward I had time to reflect upon what I had undertaken. I had seen a girl killed onstage in what appeared to be no more than a horrible accident. I had witnessed Bess Houdini’s attack of hysteria on seeing that girl, and her nervous disposition. And there was really nothing she had told me that fully convinced me that someone was out to kill her husband. But I had a well-developed sixth sense myself. If she sensed danger, then I couldn’t completely dismiss it. Besides, it was a challenging case and if nothing else, I dearly wanted to get to the bottom of the Scarpelli accident before the police did. If I was going to leave my profession, then I was going out with a bang!

I went around to the stage door of the theater. The doorkeeper recognized me instantly. “You back again? Lost another shawl?” he asked.

I gave a nonchalant laugh. “No, tonight I’m here to see the show as guest of Mrs. Houdini,” I said. “I helped her the other day when she became upset after seeing Scarpelli’s assistant lying there with blood all over her. She was grateful and when she heard that the show was sold out for the rest of its run, she invited me to come and watch it from backstage.”

“I see.” He was staring at me hard. He started to say something, then he shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if you’ve been invited by one of the performers, then I guess there’s nothing more for me to say. I’ll have the callboy send up a message to them that you’re here.”

“I’m sure I can find my way,” I said.

“I’m sure you can but it’s more than my job’s worth to have an outsider wandering around backstage when illusionists are setting up their acts. They are so cagey about their secrets that they wouldn’t even allow their own mothers anywhere near them.”

At that moment a reporter showed up. “So what’s the news on Scarpelli, then?” he asked. “Has he been found? Has the girl’s body been found?”

“No good asking me anything, son,” the doorkeeper said calmly. “I’m just the guy who guards the door. Nobody tells me anything. If you want to know that, you’d better ask the police. All I can tell you is that his name’s not on the bill tonight. Now beat it.”

While they were talking I had moved down the little passageway that led to the backstage area. I wasn’t intending to make a run for it, but I thought I might just be able to see what was going on back there. As I came near the end of the hall I heard voices. Two men talking. One of them said, “I don’t know what you’re doing here. I told your boss I’d get it to him and I will.”

“He just wanted to make sure that it reached him safely,” the other voice said. “If what you’ve hinted is true, then this is serious stuff.”

“It sure is. Very serious.”

“Then we’ll be watching your back,” the second voice said. “You can’t be too careful. I’d hurry up and hand it over, if I were you.”

“Not until I can deliver it to your boss personally,” said the other voice. “This is too important to take any risk.”

Before I could move back to the doorkeeper’s booth a man came past me. He was slim, well dressed with neatly parted blond hair, and carrying a silver-tipped cane. He pushed past me arrogantly, not pausing to apologize when he knocked my arm.

“Who was that gentleman?” I asked the doorkeeper as he disappeared into the night. “He didn’t look like a theater type.”

“Never seen him before in my life,” the doorkeeper said. “I don’t know how he got in here either. Must have come from front of house.”

“So you can get backstage from the front of the theater, can you?” I asked.

“There’s the pass door, isn’t there? Every theater has a pass door.”

Of course, I realized that I knew that. I’d used one myself before now. So all those theories about the backstage area being carefully guarded were wrong. Anyone could have gotten through the pass door if they were willing to take that risk. And it might have taken only a second or two to tamper with Scarpelli’s equipment.

The callboy appeared then and was instructed to tell Mrs. Houdini that I was waiting down by the stage door. A few minutes later he returned, breathless.

“Mrs. Houdini says she’ll meet you in the wings, on the dressing room side,” he said. “Come with me.”

He set off again at another lively trot. I tried to keep up, while avoiding the normal hazards of the backstage. It was still poorly lit back there, although chinks of light shone through the closed curtains and the excited murmur of the audience could be clearly heard. I noticed that the locks and tarpaulins had been removed from those mysterious heaps and boxes beside the stage. A tall man in a long black cape, lined with scarlet, was standing beside one of the big crates, extracting glass trolleys, birdcages, velvet drapes. I remembered him as the opening act on the bill: Marvo the Magnificent. He looked up in annoyance as he heard our footsteps approaching.

“What’s she doing here?” he demanded.

“Guest of the Houdinis,” the callboy said.

“Then keep her away from me,” Marvo snapped, waving me away as if I was an annoying fly.

“I saw your act the other night,” I said, giving him my winning smile. “I was most impressed. I still can’t imagine how you make those birds appear and disappear.”

“Magic, my dear,” he said smoothly. “Now keep out of my way, like a good girl. I have to prepare in peace.”

“I was here the other night when that awful accident happened to Scarpelli’s assistant,” I said. “I bet that has upset all of your magicians.”

“Illusionists, if you don’t mind. We are all illusionists. And if you want my opinion, Scarpelli was asking for trouble.”

“He was? How?”

“Sawing a girl in half? I mean, really! The act has never been tried, at least not in living memory although they claim an illusionist in France had performed it long ago. They will keep taking greater and greater risks to impress the public. And the horrid thing is that the public has come to expect greater and greater risk. It’s Houdini, you know. He’s setting the bar too high—putting his life in jeopardy every night. They all try to compete, but they can’t, can they? I, with my doves and my gentle sleight of hand, am no longer anything more than a warm-up act, however good I am. Now please be a good girl and buzz off.”

I retreated as instructed and found a chair tucked between two of the side curtains that gave me an excellent view of the stage, also the occasional sneaking glance at Marvo the Magnificent. I was especially interested to see how and where he managed to secrete his doves, but no birds were in evidence as he wheeled out his props table and placed it in the center of the stage.

I heard sounds of the orchestra warming up beyond the curtains and picked up the tension that is always evident just before a show is due to start. Stagehands scurried around, steering well clear of the magician’s props, I noticed. I was just wondering whether Bess would put in an appearance before the show started when she came toward me, arms open.

“Molly!” she exclaimed. I remembered that it had been “Miss Murphy” when we were discussing business at my house, but then it came to me that she was giving the impression of dear friends meeting.

I stood up and extended my own arms. “Bess. How good of you to invite me. I’m so thrilled.”

We embraced and while our heads were together she whispered, “I haven’t said a word to Harry. He’s not in a good mood, tonight. Something’s upset him particularly. So we’ll have to tread carefully. Somehow I’ll have to convince him that you need to take my place for a while.”

“Could I not be your dresser or something?” I asked. “I really can’t picture myself onstage in tights and spangles like you. I’m not graceful, for one thing, and I’m not decorative. And it must take years to be able to do all the things you do.”

“But my dresser would stay up in our room,” she said. “I need you beside him, onstage.”

“Beginners, please. Five minutes to curtain,” the callboy announced, crossing the stage. Marvo the Magnificent ran a comb through his hair, patted it into place, then strode out onto the stage. Bess vanished and I was left alone, surrounded by curtains in my own little world. The orchestra struck up a lively tune and I felt that thrill of excitement that one always gets when the curtain goes up on a show.

The theater manager came out onto the stage and the music became softer. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to Miner’s Theatre and an evening of illusion starring an assembly of the greatest illusionists the world has ever known. We begin with a performance of prestidigitation that will take your breath away. Direct from his triumphant tour of the West Coast, it’s Marvo the Magnificent!”

Marvo strode out, his hands outstretched to the audience. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket, crumpled it up, threw it into the air, and it turned into a dove that fluttered and wheeled before coming to rest on his shoulder. Even sitting a few feet away and watching him in side view I couldn’t see how it was done. The audience clapped. More feats of sleight of hand followed, culminating in the disappearance of a cage full of doves from under a velvet drape. The audience clapped, without much enthusiasm. Marvo took as many bows as the applause would allow, then made his exit right past me.

“Good audience tonight,” he said. I couldn’t tell if it was to me or someone I couldn’t see standing in the wings.

His act was followed by the magician with the card tricks. Unlike the others with their fancy names he was introduced as Billy Robinson and his only distinguishing feature seemed to be a drooping mustache, which gave his face a lugubrious appearance. His card tricks received only lukewarm applause even though I thought they were pretty clever myself. Then followed Abdullah, the Fakir from Egypt, who was a last-minute replacement for Scarpelli. Apparently he had come straight from his success at the Cairo Pavilion on Coney Island. He was a fire-eater and sword swallower—in fact I remembered seeing him there. He got a better reception, especially when a whole long cavalry sword that had previously sliced an apple in half disappeared down his gullet. But the audience was clearly waiting for the high point. I could hear the murmur of anticipation.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the act you’ve all been waiting for,” the theater manager announced. I didn’t think this was particularly diplomatic to those acts that had preceded. “Straight from his amazing successes in Germany and Russia, where he played to kings and emperors, Miner’s Theatre is proud to present Houdini, King of Handcuffs!”

There was a tremendous roar from the crowd and Houdini swept onto the stage, resplendent in white tie and tails. His smile lit up the whole stage and I saw instantly that this man had presence. Bess stood out of the spotlight to one side while he accepted the applause. At last he held up his hands. “Please. You are too kind. We have magic to please you all tonight. Tricks of the mind and feats of strength and endurance that will take your breath away. And, as always, my hundred-dollar challenge. Anyone who presents me with a pair of handcuffs from which I can’t escape will earn one hundred dollars.”

An excited buzz ran through the audience.

“Any takers tonight?” Houdini paced the front of the stage.

“Any legitimate pair of handcuffs,” he went on. “Several times while I was in Germany some guy too smart for his own good brought me handcuffs that had been tampered with. Locks that were plugged so that they wouldn’t open. But in America we play fair, don’t we? We like a good fair fight and a good challenge. So remember, if you come up here with your cuffs, I may want to try them out on you first.”

A laugh went around the audience at this.

“What, no takers tonight?”

“Down here!” A shout went up from the audience. One man was making his way toward the stage. Houdini greeted him like an old friend. “Oh, it’s you again, Cunning. Still haven’t given up, have you? Still trying to catch me out.” He turned back to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen. This man is a fellow illusionist and he’s determined to get the better of me. Well, let’s see what you’ve come up with this time.”

A pair of monstrous-looking handcuffs were passed across to Houdini. He examined them, then handed them back and nodded. “Seem fair enough. Where did you dig these up?”

“The new regulation handcuffs of the Chicago Police Department. State-of-the-art, these are.”

Houdini looked amused. “Okay, let’s give it a shot, shall we? Let’s see what the Chicago police department can do.”

“Behind your back,” the man insisted. “And in full view of the audience. No funny business.”

“No funny business, he states.” Houdini gave the audience an amused look.

“And I get to search you first.”

“I’m not stripping naked as I’ve done at quite a few police stations,” Houdini said. “There are ladies present.”

“Take off your jacket and shirt at least.”

“Very well.” Houdini was still in good humor. Bess came forward and he removed his jacket and then his shirt. Underneath he was wearing what looked like a shiny red singlet. I saw what Ryan had meant about Houdini’s torso. He was as well muscled as any bodybuilder.

“Right, turn around,” the man commanded.

Houdini turned. The man put on the handcuffs, high on his forearms so that his arms were jammed together at a strange angle. It looked very cruel to me. I could see them digging into Houdini’s flesh, but he didn’t complain or even make any comment.

“Right, let’s see you get out of that,” the man said with satisfaction.

Houdini wriggled and jiggled and shook his shoulders a bit. He turned away from the audience, then back again. Suddenly there was a clatter and the handcuffs fell to the floor. Houdini picked them up and handed them to the visibly shaken man.

“Really, Cunning, I’m surprised at you. I thought you could come up with something better than that. Even my dear Bess could escape from those.” He turned to her and she came back with his shirt and coat, helping him to dress.

The man left the stage to catcalls. “There you go, fellows,” Houdini said to the audience. “If you plan to commit a crime, then I suggest Chicago. You’d be out of their handcuffs in no time at all.”

As the fellow magician departed one fact clicked into place in my head—something that had been bothering me while I had watched the act. The other voice I had heard speaking in low tones in that hallway had been Houdini’s.