Chapter Four
“The manager knows you?” Malloy asked.
“Everyone knows the local bobbies – they’ve either come to us for help, or they’ve had their collar felt. Toby Crabbe’s brother has the chip shop up the road – I know him quite well.”
“When you went with the manager, what did you see?” Vickery asked.
“He led me through a door, into ‘the wings’ I think they call it. They’d got the box down, it was sitting on the stage behind the curtains, still wrapped in the chains. They wanted to get it open, but the magician’s assistant couldn’t be found. No one else knew where the keys were for the padlocks.
“The manager wanted to know if I could get skeleton keys, or call a locksmith. I could have sent for one, but I thought we shouldn’t wait for that. I told them to get a crowbar so I could jemmy it open. He wasn’t keen on that, as you might imagine.
“If there’s a man trapped in there, he might be suffocating, I said. That was enough to get them moving. They came back with a couple of iron bars – gave one of them to me.”
“And the box was sitting on the stage all of this time?” Vickery asked.
Colman nodded. “We had to go out onto the stage, behind the curtains. I could hear Dora singing on the other side of them. The manager put his finger to his lips, wanting us to be quiet. But as you’d imagine, trying to pry iron rings off the sides of a box can’t be done silent. Dora heard us for sure, because she missed a few words, and then sang more loudly as she twigged what was going on behind her. I think the audience might have heard some of it too, but we hadn’t time to worry about that.”
“You got the box open?” Malloy asked.
“We did,” Colman said. “And there he was, curled up in the bottom – shot through the heart.”
“One question before you continue: Did you smell anything as you opened the box?” Vickery asked.
“Yessir, there was that smell you get when a gun’s been fired – like when a firework has gone off.”
“Thank you,” Vickery said.
“There was some confusion because the theatre people thought it should be the magician’s assistant in the box. They all knew how the trick worked, and it wasn’t the man himself who should have been in there. The magician was supposed to come in through the doors at the back of the theatre and walk down the aisle through the audience. But that night, it was him in the box.”
“And there was no gun in the box with him, you are certain of that?” Vickery asked.
“Absolutely,” Colman said, nodding vigorously. “I was the one who reached in to lift him out, and there was nothing in the box under him, and nothing in the pockets of his robe.”
“Robe?” Malloy asked.
“He was wearing a loose sort of a cloak-thing, with stars and moons all over it. Red it was, like old velvet curtains.”
“Who else was on the stage at that time?” Vickery asked.
“There was just the manager and the chap with the beard who had come up from the audience to help lock the box up – he was one of the stagehands, it turned out.”
“And no one touched the body before you did? No one could have taken the gun before you saw it?” Vickery asked.
“No, sir. They all stood back. I don’t think any of them wanted to touch him.”
Vickery pursed his lips and steepled his fingers in front of them.
“A man shot dead in a locked box without a gun,” Malloy said.
“That’s certainly what we’re supposed to believe happened,” Vickery said.
“It was some sort of trick, wasn’t it?” Colman asked.
“I think it was,” Vickery said.
“Do you know how it was done?” Malloy asked.
“I can think of several ways it might be done. What I can’t understand is why someone would do it,” Vickery said.
“It must have been the magician’s assistant that did it,” Malloy said. “He had access to all of the paraphernalia, and he went missing straight after the murder.”
“But he didn’t,” Colman said. “He was found knocked senseless in the magician’s dressing room, a lump on his head the size of a goose egg.”
“Not the assistant then,” Malloy conceded.
Vickery picked up his hat. “Thank you for your time, constable, you have been most helpful.” He got to his feet.
Colman looked up at him. “You’ll tell me how it was done, won’t you? When you figure it all out?” He asked.
“We will, Ernie, we will. And we’ll all have pie and chips from Larry Crabbe’s to celebrate the unravelling of the mystery.”
Colman stood up to shake Vickery’s hand. “You’re a good sort, Mr. Vickery, I can tell that. No matter what Inspector Grives thinks about you.”
“What did you make of our friend, the constable?” Vickery asked as they walked away from the Butcher’s Arms.
“He seemed honest enough, for a policeman, and I think he told us everything he saw,” Malloy said.
“I doubt he’ll ever make detective,” Vickery said, “there’s a lot he missed. I wish we could have been there that night.”
“Grives would probably have arrested us for the murder if we had been,” Malloy said.
They reached the corner and Vickery hailed a taxi.
“What’s our next move?” Malloy asked. He climbed into the taxi behind Vickery.
“Home to change, cocktails, and then dinner, I think,” Vickery said.
“I meant the investigation,” Malloy said.
“I know, but I don’t want to think about the next step until tomorrow. And I’d prefer not to talk about dead people over dinner,” Vickery said.
“Betty will cook us dinner?” Malloy asked.
“She would if I asked her. But I don’t think we should risk it – I might find myself with another dead man to deal with.”
“Then where...?”
“I think I can find us a little restaurant where the two of us won’t look out of place,” Vickery said. “Shall we stop by your place and pick up your dinner jacket?”
Malloy stared at him, convinced Vickery was serious until his smile gave him away. “For future reference, I do own evening wear,” Malloy said.
“Pyjamas don’t count,” Vickery said.
“I don’t wear pyjamas.”
“Betty won’t approve of that.”
“Then don’t tell her,” Malloy said.
“You’re right, we shouldn’t,” Vickery said. “We’ll let it be a surprise.”
Malloy laughed.
Chapter Five
Vickery’s garage was at the end of a narrow lane that ran past the bottom of the gardens of the houses on the crescent. Malloy fetched the Alvis and drove it around to the front, and expressed surprise when Vickery climbed into the front seat next to him.
“You’re not my chauffeur, Jamie,” Vickery said, as they pulled away from the kerb. “It’s a nice morning, let’s have a steady drive over there.”
“Not hungover, are you?” Malloy asked.
“Not on a couple of bottles of champagne, no.”
“Is that all we drank?”
“That’s all I drank.”
The Hawksgrove Palais Theatre’s red Victorian bricks were dulled by decades of soot, and the wrought-iron that formed the arches across the front of it were painted in a thick, dark green paint that was flaking badly. Posters fixed to the front columns, and a faded yellow and blue advertisement for Bovril painted on the end of the building did little to brighten the place up.
“Is that the kind of place you used to work in?” Malloy asked as they drew up opposite.
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s a bit shabby,” Malloy said.
“I’ve worked in worse places. And far better ones,” Vickery said. “One should never visit theatres in daylight.”
“Do you miss it –
performing?”
“Sometimes,” Vickery said. “But I don’t think I’d enjoy it now. Audiences have changed – they’re not so easy to fool anymore. And I have changed.”
Malloy reached for the door handle, but Vickery made no move to get out of the car.
“Is anything wrong?” Malloy asked, trying to read Vickery’s expression.
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Vickery was staring across the road at the theatre.
“You haven’t been into a theatre since...?”
“I never had any reason to,” Vickery said.
“Shall I go in and have a look around, ask who saw what...?”
Vickery inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly, then he opened the car door. Without another word, he led the way across the road and around the theatre to the stage door.
Vickery rapped firmly on the door. It was thrown open by an unshaved man in an undershirt; the elastic braces holding up his trousers were different colours, and on his feet, were moth-eaten red tartan carpet slippers. His hair stuck out in points at the sides like a clown’s but was died brown instead of crimson.
“What do you want?” He demanded. Then the anger left his face, and his bushy eyebrows rose. “Ben? Ben Vickery?”
“Hello, Toby. Put the kettle on, will you?” Vickery said.
Toby Crabbe was the manager of the Palais, and like his theatre had known better days.
“I’ve something stronger than tea if you’d like?” he said, showing them in and shutting the door behind them.
Inside the walls were painted in dark Victorian colours and the woodwork was varnished a dark glossy brown. The air was heavy with the smell of old cigarette smoke, dust, and something that may have been greasepaint. Threadbare carpet that had once been red covered some of the floor; the rest was the same dark varnished wood. Dim yellow light created a sort of perpetual dusk, and Malloy half-expected to see it coming from sputtering gas lamps.
“You’re here because of Charlie, aren’t you?” Toby asked, leading them through to his office.
The room was piled high will old playbills, rolled posters, and other theatrical ephemera. There were framed photographs on one wall, but Malloy couldn’t see any faces he recognised.
“I thought I should stop by and pay my respects,” Vickery said. “This is my associate Jamie Malloy.”
Toby Crabbe nodded a greeting. He struck a match and lit the gas on a two-burner stove that was connected to a gas tap by a piece of ancient rubber hose. He shook the kettle to make sure there was water in it and set it on the flame.
“We’ve closed the theatre for a few days, out of respect,” Toby said. “I’m desperately trying to find someone to fill the gap in the bill. Got a conjuror coming over from France, but he can’t be here for a fortnight, and we’re supposed to open again Friday night.” He shrugged.
“You’ll find someone,” Vickery said.
“Aye, but I’ll have to pay through the nose to get them. I’ve already had a couple of booking agents sniffing around. Bloody sharks. Why couldn’t he wait until the end of his run to get shot? Damned inconvenient.” His crooked smile was supposed to indicate he was joking.
“Police baffled the newspaper said. What happened here?” Vickery asked.
“I wish I could tell you,” Toby said. “It was a rum business.”
“You don’t believe a man was shot inside a locked box, surely?” Vickery said.
“I don’t know what to believe. Charlie is dead. He was shot. We found him in his box.” Toby shrugged. “I need to rinse some cups. And find a spoon.” He shuffled out.
“You and Terry performed here?” Malloy asked.
Vickery shook his head. “I know Toby from years ago. He used to do a strongman act – could bend an iron bar round the back of his head, and support the weight of a young woman using only his teeth.”
“I couldn’t pick her up now,” Toby said, re-entering with three wet cups and a dessert spoon. “It’d take three strong lads with a block and tackle.”
“How is Elsie?” Vickery asked.
“Fat,” Toby said. “Fat and happy. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”
“I’ll call again.”
Toby stared at him, then nodded. “Maybe you will.” He spooned tea into a big battered teapot and poured the boiling water over the leaves. He stirred it with the dessert spoon, and it sounded like someone mixing cement in a tin bucket. “Did you see milk on the doorstep?” he asked.
“I’ll go and look,” Malloy said.
“The police haven’t worked out how Charlie was killed?” Vickery asked.
“You know what they’re like,” Toby said, “less brains than a dish of stewed prunes.”
“We’ve both had our run-ins with them, haven’t we?” Vickery said.
“You should have a look at the box, see if you can figure out how it was done,” Toby said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” He smiled slyly.
“I will admit that I was intrigued when I read the account in the newspaper,” Vickery said.
“It looks like the blue-tits have been at it,” Malloy said, appearing with the bottle of milk. The cardboard top looked like it had been attacked with an ice-pick.
“Them or the rats,” Toby said, taking the bottle. He poured thick brown tea into the cups and left his guests to add their own milk. There was a rusty cigar tin with sugar lumps in but both Vickery and Malloy decided to avoid it.
“I’ll show you the box when you’ve finished your brew,” Toby said. “No one’s supposed to touch it, but I doubt that detective will be able to find his way back here.”
Malloy snorted, and then drained his cup. Vickery sipped his and then set it aside.
“I’ll give you the tour,” Toby said, carrying his cup with him.
The magician’s box had been carried into a storage room and covered with a piece of old canvas. Toby switched on the bare overhead bulb and pulled the cover off the box.
“Not much of a coffin, is it?” Toby said.
Vickery bent over and examined the lid of the box, running his fingers over the surface of it. Then he knelt on the dusty floor and examined each of the sides in turn.
“Those holes in the side...?” Malloy said.
“That’s where we prised the metal rings off, so we could get it open,” Toby said.
“They’re the only holes in it?” Malloy asked.
“There’s three small holes drilled in the top, not big enough to get a bullet through,” Toby said. “I think they were there so he could breathe inside it.”
“That would make sense,” Malloy said.
Vickery lifted the lid of the box, and Malloy edged closer so he could get a look inside. There wasn’t much to see – it looked like the inside of a tea crate. There was no evidence it had contained a dead man that he could see. He moved away and joined Toby, who was leaning in the open doorway.
“How’d you end up partnered with the Great Vicari?” Toby asked quietly.
“He helped me out when the law wanted to put a rope around my neck,” Malloy said.
Toby nodded. “He does things like that.”
“You knew him before?” Malloy said.
Toby sipped lukewarm tea and nodded. “Saw him perform half-a-dozen times in various places. He was top of the bill in those days. Him and Terry built all their own apparatus – didn’t have an engineer like most of the others. There’s people, even today, would pay good money for the secrets of Vickery’s illusions.”
“I didn’t realise magic tricks were bought and sold,” Malloy said.
Toby nodded. “They can be sold. Or stolen. A man can make a decent living with just a couple of good illusions. Showpieces.”
“Did Charlie design his own apparatus?” Malloy asked, nodding towards the box.
“He couldn’t build a house of cards,” Toby said. “He bought his act from some old bloke that retired, and his assistant, Danny Holcroft, came up with a few new twists on old ideas. Danny buil
t that box: saw someone perform something similar, and then figured out how to make it work.”
“I think I’ve seen all there is to see,” Vickery said, standing and dusting off his knees.
“Find anything interesting?” Toby asked.
“From the lingering smell, and the black residue inside, I’d say there was definitely some kind of charge set off in there,” Vickery said, “but probably not a gunshot. I think it was there just to make the sound everyone heard.”
“The police didn’t say that,” Toby said.
“They will. Eventually,” Vickery said. “Did you watch Charlie perform that night?”
“I was there, in the wings, but I’d seen it three or four times already that week, so I wasn’t really watching him.”
“Was there anything unusual that night – anything different from previous shows?” Malloy asked.
“No, nothing. Except the costume – he wore the red one instead of the blue one, but that’s not much of a clue, is it?” Toby said.
“We can’t tell at this stage what might be important,” Vickery said. “Did you speak to him before he went on stage? Did he say anything? Was he upset or distracted?”
Toby looked uncomfortable. “You should speak to Marlene.”
“His wife?” Vickery said.
“Charlie had been worried because he thought she was going to leave him,” Toby said.
“Was she?” Malloy asked. “Was she seeing someone else?”
Toby shrugged. “I never saw her with anyone. But she was away from the theatre a lot of the time.”
“And he remained faithful to her?” Vickery asked.
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Malloy asked.
“I don’t know anything,” Toby said. “Not for sure. I heard them arguing, but which of them was accusing the other, I couldn’t tell. And I didn’t want to know. I just wanted him to be done and gone on to the next booking because the pair of them were causing a bad atmosphere here, you know?”
Murder by Magic Page 3