“There’s not much hope for either of us, then,” Malloy said, staring out of the side window.
“In public, we appear as we must,” Vickery said, “in private we may lower our masks.”
Malloy turned to him and looked as though he was going to protest, but then he nodded. “I wish I could have seen you up there on stage,” he said. “If Charlie was good, you must have been even better.”
Vickery smiled sadly. “I had more confidence in my own abilities and a greater awareness of my craft. Sometimes that is all it takes,” he said. “I also had the best assistant a magician ever had.”
They drove on in silence for some distance.
“Do you really think Ray Skelhorn will try and employ Danny?” Malloy asked.
“Oh yes,” Vickery said.
“But why?”
“Skelhorn will want to own everything that belonged to Charlie, including his act. He’ll try and buy the tricks from Marlene, and he’ll try and persuade Danny Holcroft to work for him.”
“Because that way he will feel that he’s won?” Malloy asked. “A final act of revenge because Charlie McNair stole Marlene from him?”
“Something like that.”
“He sounds like a real charmer.”
“Our meeting with him will be... interesting,” Vickery said. “Raymond and I also have unfinished business.”
“I see,” Malloy said, frowning.
“Raymond Skelhorn offered to be an expert witness at my trial,” Vickery said. “He wished to appear for the prosecution, and demonstrate how I murdered Terry.”
Chapter Ten
“Good evening, sir, won’t you please come in.” Betty held the door open. “May I take your coat?”
“I’m not wearing a coat,” Malloy said.
“Oh. Won’t you please follow me?” She led the way upstairs.
Malloy followed, trying not to smile too broadly.
Betty tapped lightly on the door. “Mr. Malloy is here, sir,” she said, and then opened the door wide to show him in.
Vickery saw Malloy grinning behind Betty, and cast him a warning glance. “Evening, Jamie,” he said.
“At what time do you wish me to serve dinner, sir?” Betty asked.
Now Vickery had to suppress a smile. “Please bring up the food as soon as you are ready, Betty.”
The housekeeper gave a little curtsy and withdrew, closing the door behind her.
“I think I preferred it when she was rude to me,” Malloy said.
“The night is young – I’m sure we’ll get to that,” Vickery said. “Let’s enjoy it while it lasts. Aperitif?”
Vickery poured the dry sherry and then they sat in the armchairs on either side of the fireplace. A brass screen shaped like the tail of a peacock sat on the hearth, guarding the empty grate. On the other side of the room, the dining table was covered with a crisp white cloth and set with formal silverware.
“Relax, Jamie, it’s only dinner,” Vickery said.
“I feel like I have to be on my best behaviour.”
“All I ask is that you don’t antagonise Betty – at least until the food is served.”
“I’ll do my utmost to maintain the peace,” Malloy said.
“I have such a bad feeling about this,” Vickery said.
*
“I’m glad you felt able to make the effort,” Betty said.
“Pardon?” Malloy said.
Vickery had excused himself for a moment, and Malloy was standing by the window while Betty cleared the dishes.
“You slicked your hair down and put on a tie,” Betty said, “you look smart – almost like a gentleman.”
“Er, thank you.”
“He likes you, you know,” Betty said, loading plates onto a huge tray and lifting it onto a small serving trolley. Malloy knew better than to offer help: a gentleman wouldn’t do that.
“He does?”
“Yes, he does,” she said, as if she had no idea why this might be. “If you turn out to be like the last one, you’ll have me to answer to.”
“He was a scallywag?” Malloy asked.
Betty harrumphed. “That’s one word for him. Just you treat him right and don’t take advantage – that’s my last word on the subject.” She wheeled the trolley towards the door.
“How do you get that thing down the stairs?” Malloy asked.
“I don’t. I take the trays off and load them in the dumb-waiter. You know what that is, I take it?”
“I do,” Malloy said. “Thank you for dinner, Betty. I think that was the most succulent chicken I ever tasted.”
Betty seemed pleased by the compliment. “Butter under the skin,” she said and backed out of the room.
Vickery stepped back in and closed the door behind him. “You were having a conversation,” he said.
“The fragile truce still holds,” Malloy said.
Vickery approached him, regarding his face carefully – looking for claw-marks perhaps.
“We were talking about you,” Malloy said, “in case you were wondering.”
“I would have expected nothing else.”
“She’s very protective – like a mother hen.”
“Betty threatened you, then, did she?” Vickery asked.
“She warned me against being a scallywag.”
Vickery laughed. “I’m sure she didn’t use the word scallywag. More wine – or a brandy?”
They sat in the armchairs again, glasses cupped in their palms, warming the brandy.
“I have cigars if you’d like one?” Vickery said.
Malloy shook his head. “They give me a headache.”
They sat in silence for a while.
Malloy was feeling less uncomfortable now – the wine had helped. “Inspector Grives paid a call while I was dressing for dinner,” he said.
“Did he tell you he’d solved the mystery of the Marvelous Mandarin’s death?” Vickery asked.
“Not in so many words. But he strongly hinted he would like to declare Charlie’s death a suicide and wants us to tell him how the deed was done, just to tie up the loose ends.”
“Bless him,” Vickery said. “Does he have a theory he’d like us to prove?”
“The Inspector thinks Charlie shot himself before the show – that the wound was mortal, but did not kill him instantly. He performed the opening of his act, then climbed into the box. He set off some sort of firework to mimic the sound of a gunshot, and then succumbed to his injury.”
Vickery sipped from his glass and thought about this. “That’s not bad,” he said. “I wonder if the Inspector came up with it on his own.”
“You think it could have happened that way?” Malloy asked.
“Do you?”
Malloy looked at the ceiling and thought about it. “It would explain the change of costume,” he said. “The thicker red fabric would hide the blood.”
“That’s true...”
“But?” Malloy said.
“But there is other evidence which does not support the Inspector’s theory. For starters, we know the bullet killed Charlie almost immediately.”
“We do?”
Vickery nodded. “If Charlie’s heart had continued to beat for an hour after he was shot, there would have been a great deal more blood – the bottom of the box would have been stained with it.”
“Oh,” Malloy said. “How did Charlie do it, then?”
“Do what?”
“Kill himself?”
“He didn’t,” Vickery said. “Charlie McNair was murdered.”
“You’re certain? But how...?” Malloy asked.
“How did someone else kill him if he was sealed up in a box?”
“Don’t tell me it was magic.”
“There’s no such thing as magic, Jamie.”
“If you were going to kill someone in a locked box, how would you do it?” Malloy asked.
“I’d cheat
.”
Malloy gave him a schoolmarmish look, but Vickery was undaunted.
“I’d have to cheat because there’s no other way to do it,” he said. “Charlie McNair wasn’t shot inside that box – but that’s what people think they saw. Someone created the illusion, and the audience believed it was real.”
“All right – if you were going to kill someone and make it appear they had died in a locked box; how would you do it?” Malloy asked.
“I’ve been giving that careful thought,” Vickery said. “Mysterious goings-on in locked rooms have been reported since ancient times – Daniel is said to have solved one such mystery.”
“Daniel who?”
“The Book of Daniel,” Vickery said.
“I wasn’t much for Bible study,” Malloy said. “But if you’re talking about hidden doors and secret passageways – Charlie’s box didn’t have any of those.”
“There was a secret door in the bottom of the box, and a passageway under the stage,” Vickery said. “But even without those, there are ways to make it look like the murder happened in a locked place.”
“Assuming the killer didn’t use an orangutan or a snake, how could it be done?” Malloy asked.
Vickery smiled. “The most important question we need to answer is, when did the victim die? Our murderer wishes us to believe that Charlie died in the box – shot while the audience saw it suspended in the air. But there are two other possibilities: Charlie was killed before he was sealed in the box, or he was killed after the box was opened on the stage.”
“I don’t see how he could have been killed after the box was opened,” Malloy said. “Constable Colman prised the box open, and he said Charlie McNair was dead in the bottom of the box.”
“This is the least likely possibility, I will admit. But we shouldn’t dismiss it out of hand. Suppose Charlie did climb into the box. The explosion people heard may not have been a gunshot, but instead the popping of a phial of ether or some other sleeping gas. When the box was opened, Charlie lay in the bottom of the box – unconscious, but not dead. In the confusion that followed, he was then fatally shot, without our constable or other witnesses being aware of the fact.”
“But someone would have heard the gunshot,” Malloy said.
“There are ways to muffle the sound,” Vickery said.
“Do you think it could have happened that way?” Malloy asked.
“I think it’s very unlikely. If someone is carefully planning a murder, they aren’t going to choose a method that involves such levels of risk and uncertainty. Even without the presence of our friend the policeman, the chances of error and discovery were too high.”
“If Charlie wasn’t killed when he was in the box, and didn’t die after the box was opened...”
“Then he was murdered before the box was sealed,” Vickery said.
“But he was alive when he climbed into the box – the audience saw him.”
“Did they, though?” Vickery asked, smiling.
Malloy stared at him. “They saw someone who looked like Charlie climb into the box,” he said.
Vickery nodded.
“Danny Holcroft?” Malloy said.
“The magician’s assistant would be an obvious choice,” Vickery said.
“But if Charlie was already dead before the show started...”
“... then it was Danny Holcroft who appeared on stage that night as the Marvelous Mandarin.”
“But he told us he wasn’t good enough to fool an audience with his performance,” Malloy said.
“That’s right – he told us.”
Malloy leaned back in his chair, feeling deflated. “Danny Holcroft is the murderer?”
“Given the circumstances of Charlie’s death, we must consider the possibility that Danny Holcroft is either the killer or was complicit in the murder.” Vickery appeared no more satisfied with this explanation than Malloy.
“What proof do we have?” Malloy asked.
“Almost none,” Vickery admitted.
“But if Charlie was murdered, Danny Holcroft is the most obvious suspect.”
“He is,” Vickery said. “And that makes me wonder if we are missing something vital.”
“What do you mean?”
“We know that Danny Holcroft is capable of planning and executing the most elaborate and convincing stage illusions,” Vickery said, “so why would he engineer a murder in such a way that he was the only suspect?”
“He thought we’d all accept the suicide theory,” Malloy said.
“Even so, I can’t accept that he would paint himself into a corner like this. He would have allowed for the possibility of discovery, and made sure he had some sort of alibi in place,” Vickery said.
“He claims to have been knocked unconscious – presumably by the killer.”
Vickery nodded slowly. “He does.”
“It doesn’t feel right, somehow,” Malloy said. “What does Danny stand to gain from murdering Charlie? Without Charlie, he doesn’t have a job, does he? He said he couldn’t take over the act...” His voice trailed off.
“He told us that, didn’t he?” Vickery said.
“Do you really think he did it?”
Vickery sighed. “I don’t like the fact that everything points to him. It’s too convenient.”
“As if the murderer wants us to believe that Danny Holcroft is the killer?”
“We must speak with Danny again. I’m sure there are things he hasn’t told us,” Vickery said.
“Perhaps he is protecting someone?” Malloy suggested.
“That is a possibility, of course.”
“Was Charlie McNair a wealthy man?” Malloy asked.
“His father imported Chinese silk. Charlie got the theatre bug from his mother.”
“But the costume from his father?”
“I hadn’t thought of that. His father left him a substantial inheritance. There’s a house somewhere, land with tenant farmers, that sort of thing.”
“And he didn’t lose his money?” Malloy asked.
“Land and property, so it doesn’t really go anywhere near the banks. Charlie carried on performing in the theatre because he wanted to, not because he had to.”
“How did Marlene feel about that?”
“The theatre is in her blood too – that’s how they met.”
“She and Walter stand to inherit his estate?” Malloy asked.
“I haven’t seen the will, but I would assume so – there’s no other family.”
“Maybe the wife and the son did it to get their hands on the money?”
“Money, love, or revenge, it almost always comes down to one of those three,” Vickery said, “and the victim was standing in the way of the murderer achieving whichever one it is.”
“That makes it sound a bit clinical,” Malloy said. “Someone has to work themselves up into a desperate emotional state in order to take that irreversible step, don’t they?”
“Murder can be committed when someone is in the grip of intense, burning rage – or it can occur when they have been ground down and the barrier to their taking action has been worn away. The latter cases can be the hardest to solve, and are desperately sad for all concerned, including the murderer.”
“I would think that the most difficult murderer to outwit would be someone like you,” Malloy said. Then he looked down at his drink. “But only one of the people in this room has ever killed a man.”
“We have both been accused of murder,” Vicary said.
“But you didn’t kill Terry.”
“No, I didn’t kill Terry,” Vickery said.
“But you did kill someone else...?”
“Are you asking me to incriminate myself, Mr. Malloy?” Vickery asked. He smiled and took another sip of brandy.
Chapter Eleven
“Detective Inspector Grives, how lovely to see you again!” Vickery said.
Grives eyed him suspiciously. “Vickery,” he said, “Malloy,” he nodded towards each in turn
, and then took a seat on the sofa, holding his hat. He did not look comfortable.
“You’ve come to tell us you’ve solved the mystery of Charlie McNair’s death, have you?” Vickery asked.
Grives looked down at his hat, turning it in his fingers. “You were wrong about it being suicide,” he said.
“Was I?” Vickery said.
Grives nodded. “I’ve had the report from the pathologist,” he said.
“It says that Charlie McNair was dead before he was put into the box,” Vickery said. “He was shot through the heart, at fairly close range. There are fibres of fabric carried into the body by the bullet, but not from the red robe. Oh, and the robe was placed on the body after death.”
“Who has told you all this?” Grives demanded.
“No one has told me anything, Inspector. It was just a lucky guess,” Vickery said.
Grives scowled at him.
“Does the report give a time of death?” Vickery asked.
“What, you don’t know that already?” Grives asked.
“I never saw the body,” Vickery said. “But I would estimate that death occurred at least an hour before the body was found – and perhaps as much as two hours before.”
“You do know,” Grives said, disappointed now.
“If Charlie was killed an hour or more before his show that night,” Malloy said, “that means someone else appeared on stage as the Marvelous Mandarin.”
Vickery nodded. “Perhaps it was Danny Holcroft,” he said, “perhaps it was someone else.”
“But Danny Holcroft was found unconscious in the dressing room,” Grives said.
“Who do you suspect is guilty of the murder, Inspector?” Vickery asked.
Grives leaned back and stroked his chin. “In my experience, when investigating a premeditated murder, the killer is always someone known to the victim, and usually someone very close to them,” he said, staring at Vickery. “Though it’s not always possible to find enough evidence to convict them.”
“Do go on, Inspector,” Vickery said. “It’s always fascinating to observe the workings of a professional.”
“Well, as I see it, we have four possible suspects,” Grives said.
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