Murder by Magic

by Paul Tomlinson

  “That is private information – between me and my client,” Drake said, folding his arms again.

  “Take that as a yes,” Malloy said.

  “Take it any way you like – I’m not saying another word.”

  “You had been working for Marlene for about a week at that point?” Vickery asked.

  “A week and a bit, yes,” Drake said.

  “You said you had nothing significant to report to her that night at the theatre,” Vickery said. “That implies you had informed her of Charlie’s infidelity at an earlier point.”

  “I ain’t implying nothing,” Drake said.

  “When you told her, was she upset?” Malloy asked.

  “Not another word!” Drake said.

  “Angry enough to kill her husband?” Malloy asked.

  “Good lord, no! She was upset – of course she was. But she could never kill anyone. Herself perhaps – you know what women are like. She would never hurt him.”

  Vickery got to his feet. “Thank you, Georgie, you’ve been most helpful,” he said.

  Drake looked up at him confused. “I have? But I didn’t tell you nothing.”

  “Quite so. But as an experienced investigator yourself, you know we sometimes have to read between the lines,” Vickery said.

  “Well, yes, but...” Drake stood, looking from Vickery to Malloy and back.

  “I’ll show you to the door, shall I?” Malloy asked, standing and taking Drake’s arm to lead him away.

  Drake shook him off: “I can see myself out.”

  “He was hiding something,” Malloy said after they had heard the street door bang shut behind Drake.

  “You think so?” Vickery asked, a twinkle in his eye.

  “The way he twisted around to avoid looking you in the eye, you’d think he was guilty of Charlie McNair’s murder,” Malloy said.

  “Perhaps he was,” Vickery said, “I rather think he’d do anything for the lovely Marlene.”

  “Drake is in love with her?”

  “I think he would like to be,” Vickery said.

  “Why didn’t I see that?”

  “You did. You just didn’t want to believe that she might be drawn to a man like that.”

  “You really think anyone could be attracted to him?” Malloy asked.

  “You have to admit, he does have a certain rough masculine charm,” Vickery said.

  “No,” Malloy insisted, “he doesn’t.”

  Vickery laughed. “I do wish you could see your face right now.”

  “Is that why you invited him here?” Malloy asked. “Because you suspected a relationship between Drake and Marlene McNair?”

  “I recognised him instantly from the description Toby gave us. I have had a number of encounters with Georgie Drake.”

  “Professionally speaking, you mean?” Malloy said.

  “I’m not sure I would regard him as a professional,” Vickery said and winked.

  “You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you?”

  “What sort of man do you think I am, Jamie?”

  “A wicked one.”

  Vickery beamed as if he had been paid the grandest compliment.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The thin man was leaning into the engine of an old Morris delivery van. He turned quickly when their shadows fell across him, eyes bulging. “You can’t be here,” he said.

  “Hello, Bristow,” Vickery said.

  “How do you know about this place?” Bristow asked. “Does he know about it?”

  The workshop was a dilapidated lean-to up against the back of a Victorian factory building, in the shadow of a railway viaduct.

  “No one knows we’re here,” Vickery assured him.

  “He’ll find out. Please go away!” Bristow’s voice was a harsh rasp, barely louder than a whisper. He was pale and scrawny: bony elbows and shoulders were outlined sharply under his collarless shirt, and the veins of his neck and on the backs of his hands were a dark blue under the sickly translucent skin. There was a bird-like jerkiness to his movements.

  “We only want a quick word,” Vickery said.

  “Quick word? I have nothing to say,” Bristow said decisively, nodding his head for emphasis.

  Motioning for Malloy to stay back, Vickery moved towards the frightened man.

  “Don’t do this to me, please?” Bristow said. “You know how he can be.” He backed away, towards the rear of the workshop.

  “No harm will come to you,” Vickery said.

  Bristow moved quickly, darting back into the shadows. He walked with a pronounced limp.  Vickery followed, and Malloy moved along the other side of the delivery van, blocking any possible escape.

  When they got to the back of the workshop, Bristow had disappeared.

  “Where?” Malloy asked.

  Vickery pointed down to the floor, where a small trapdoor had been thrown open. Rusty staples in the wall formed a ladder down into the darkness.

  “What sort of man has an escape tunnel?” Malloy asked.

  “A frightened one,” Vickery said. “Come on, we’ll catch up with him later.”

  Vickery and Malloy walked across a patch of waste ground to where the Alvis was parked.

  “So that was Bristow?” Malloy said.

  “Yes,” Vickery said. “I was trying to recall if I’d ever heard anyone use his Christian name. I have no idea what it is, he’s always been just Bristow.”

  “What happened to him?” Malloy asked.

  “He took a wrong turn and found himself lost,” Vickery said. “You should have seen the illusions he built, Jamie – the most intricate mechanisms I have ever seen. Even up close they fooled the eye. Fooled my eye, and I knew what to look for.”

  “He doesn’t look like he could even get that old van started,” Malloy said.

  “Bristow’s gone downhill since I saw him last,” Vickery said. “Such a shame.”

  “He seems terrified of Skelhorn – he won’t even say his name.”

  “If you speak the devil’s true name out loud, he may appear,” Vickery said.

  They got into the car and started back towards town.

  “When he was younger, just starting out, Bristow worked for old Santoro,” Vickery said. “It was clear, even then, that he would produce great things. Skelhorn lured him away somehow – the promise of all the money they would earn together, I suppose. But things soured between them very quickly. They were accused of stealing the secrets of tricks from other magicians. The stories might have been true – I could easily believe it of Skelhorn. But I suspect Bristow had only to see a trick performed once, and he could devise a way of duplicating it.”

  “You’re describing a very different man to the one I just saw,” Malloy said.

  “He was different then. Bristow wanted to get away from Skelhorn and try to start over. Recover his good name. But Skelhorn didn’t want to lose his golden goose. He used money, and then threats. After that, no one knows what really happened between them.”

  “Bristow became a morphine addict, it looks like,” Malloy said.

  “Walking home one evening, Bristow was attacked and robbed by two men. One of them deliberately stamped on his knee and broke it. Some say Skelhorn sent those men – and that he paid for the morphine that helped ease Bristow’s pain.”

  “Do you think Skelhorn did it?”

  “I think he’s capable of doing it,” Vickery said. “Bristow was a broken man after that. We can only imagine what his life has been like – the sort of things he’s had to do to survive. The morphine helps dull the pain. And the guilt.”

  Malloy was gripping the steering wheel tightly. “That puts a different slant on things,” he said.

  Bristow let himself into the dingy two-room flat and carefully fastened the locks, chain, and bolts. Malloy had never seen so much security on one door. The thin man snapped on the bare overhead bulb and turned. He gave out an involuntary cry when he saw them standing there.

  “How did you g-get in?�
�� he stammered, eyes darting furtively around the room. Bristow’s face looked like candle wax and was covered with a sheen of sweat; his dark stubble stood out starkly against it. His eye-sockets were deeply shadowed, but his eyes bulged like boiled eggs and his eyelids were rimmed with red. 

  “You don’t look well, Bristow,” Vickery said.

  “It’s almost time for my medicine,” Bristow said.

  “We won’t keep you long,” Vickery said.

  “If he knows I’ve spoken to you...”

  “What will he do?” Malloy asked.

  “You don’t know what he’s like,” Bristow said. His eyes kept moving from Malloy to Vickery and back.

  “What is he like?” Malloy asked.

  Bristow shook his head as if he dare not express an opinion out loud. Thin nervous fingers massaged his throat, the knuckles looking swollen. “What do you want from me?”

  “Tell me what he’s been up to lately,” Vickery said.

  Bristow shook his head violently. “No. I don’t know anything. I promise.”

  “You work for him – no one’s closer to him than you,” Vickery said.

  “But he doesn’t tell me anything. I just build things. That’s all. Just build things.” He was nodding again, seeking their agreement.

  “I bet you see things, don’t you, Bristow? You never miss anything. And hear things?” Vickery said.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Bristow knows to mind his own business. I do.”

  “Why do you think we’re here, Bristow?” Vickery asked.

  “Because of what happened to poor Charlie,” Bristow said.

  “That’s right. Do you know what happened to him?” Vickery asked.

  “He was killed. They made it look like he killed himself. Inside a locked box,” Bristow said.

  “Do you know who ‘they’ are, Bristow?” Malloy asked.

  Bristow shook his head vigorously. “No one ever knows. I told you, I don’t know anything.”

  “I think you know who killed Charlie,” Malloy said.

  “I don’t! No one does. He didn’t kill Charlie,” Bristow said.

  “If no one knows who did it, how can you be sure he didn’t?” Malloy asked.

  “He never hurts people,” Bristow said, “he’s afraid of getting caught.”

  “Did he wish that Charlie was dead?” Vickery asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bristow whispered.

  “What do you know, Bristow?” Malloy asked, beginning to feel they were wasting their time.

  Bristow sensed Malloy’s dissatisfaction and wanted to appease him. “I know that he and Charlie had a meeting,” he said. “And I know it was the first time they spoke to each other for twenty years – because he said so.”

  “When did this meeting take place?” Vickery asked.

  “Before Charlie was killed,” Bristow said, nodding.

  Malloy sighed.

  “How long before Charlie died?” Vickery asked.

  “Two days,” Bristow said.

  “Did anyone hear what they said to each other?” Vickery asked.

  “I need my medicine now,” Bristow said.

  “Do you know what they talked about?” Vickery asked.

  More head shaking. “Nobody was there, so nobody heard them talk.”

  “Nobody but you?” Vickery prompted.

  “I wasn’t in the room. Why would I be? No reason to be there,” Bristow said.

  “But you might have stood outside the room?” Vickery said.

  “If I did, I shouldn’t have done,” Bristow said.

  “Of course not. And you shouldn’t have heard anything that was said inside the room,” Vickery said.

  “But I did! It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. And I didn’t hear very much. I promise!”

  “We believe you, Bristow,” Vickery said. “Why don’t you tell us what you heard – and then you can forget all about it. No one will ever know you were there.”

  “No one?”

  Vickery shook his head and smiled.

  “Not even him?”

  “Especially not him,” Vickery said. “Tell me what you heard.”

  “I didn’t hear more than a few words.”

  “Were they arguing?” Malloy asked.

  Bristow shook his head. “No, not arguing. Not violent at all. No, it was more like they were – frosty.”

  “Frosty?” Malloy asked.

  Bristow nodded. “Very cold to each other. And I heard him say, ‘It’s your choice, Charles. If you do this, you are responsible for the consequences.’ What do you think he meant?”

  “I don’t know,” Vickery said. “That was all you heard?”

  “That was all of it. The door started to open, and I needed to be somewhere else. Can I have my medicine now? I need to have my medicine.”

  “We are going to go now. You can forget that we were ever here,” Vickery said.

  “Forget?” Bristow said, and nodded. “That’s what the medicine is for.”

  Malloy went to the door and began unlocking it.

  As Vickery moved towards the door, Bristow called to him and he turned back.

  “I want you to know that I don’t have anything against you, Mr. Vickery. I never have,” Bristow said. “But sometimes a man is put in a position where he has to do things – things he doesn’t want to do.”

  “I know,” Vickery said.

  “Do you?” Bristow seemed relieved. He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but then he shook himself and turned away.

  “Lock the door behind us,” Vickery said.

  Bristow hurried forward and grabbed Vickery’s arm, gripping it tightly. “He takes lives and he ruins them. You will find that is at the bottom of all this, I guarantee you,” Bristow said.

  Vickery looked into Bristow’s eyes. “Do you know something else? Something you should tell us?”

  “Somebody should kill him, Mr. Vickery, for what he’s done. For what he’s made people do.”

  “If he’s guilty, he will face justice,” Vickery said.

  Bristow’s grip tightened. “But he won’t, Mr. Vickery. You don’t understand. He’s the captain, but his finger is never on the trigger. He only gives the orders. You’ll never find any evidence to convict him – he’s too smart for that!”

  “Tell us what you know,” Malloy urged.

  “I can’t tell – I’ve got to protect myself. You don’t know how long it took me to find something. It keeps me alive. He knows I have it – but he doesn’t know where it’s hid.”

  “If you have evidence of a crime, you must hand it over,” Vickery said.

  Bristow shook his head firmly. “If I give it up, I am a dead man for sure.”

  “Hand it over to me, and we’ll make sure you’re kept safe,” Vickery said.

  “You can’t make me that promise. How could you keep it? He’s a magician, Mr. Vickery. Even if you put me in a locked room, he’d find a way to kill me – from the other side of the city.”

  “There is no magic, Bristow, only illusions. You know that,” Vickery said.

  “I’ve seen things,” Bristow insisted. “Things you can’t do with mechanics and sleight of hand. He’s sold his soul, Mr. Vickery – how else could a man do what he does to people?” Bristow’s face was wet with perspiration now, and he stared without blinking. “You can’t save me. It’s too late for Bristow. But promise me you’ll try and save the girl?”

  “The girl?” Vickery said.

  Bristow nodded. “She’s so beautiful. And she’s not bad. But he is poisoning her mind. It is the things he’s done to her. He has broken her – but she can still be fixed, I reckon. If you help her before it’s too late. Before he gets her under his spell again. Go now – help her!”

  Bristow almost pushed them out, banging the door shut behind them.

  “He’s crazy,” Malloy said, as they made their way out. “Half of what he said didn’t make any sense – all those dark hints and nothing concrete.”
/>   Vickery was deep in thought. “But then there’s the other half,” he said. “There were things he said that make me wonder.”

  “You can’t trust anything he said – his brain’s addled,” Malloy said.

  “Poor Bristow. We must try and get him somewhere safe – get some treatment for him.”

  “He’s beyond help.”

  “I do hope you’re wrong, Jamie.”

  *

  “That’s a top hat,” Malloy said.

  The black silk hat sat on the dining table in front of Vickery, who was looking at it unhappily. “Your powers of observation are improving,” he said.

  “You said you didn’t wear a top hat.”

  “I don’t – it’s a cliché. And they look ridiculous.”

  “What’s that one for then?”

  “I’m going to bake a cake in it.”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

  “It’s an illusion – you put raw ingredients into the hat, and then pull out a fully-baked cake.”

  “What sort of cake?”

  “Fruitcake, what else?” Vickery said.

  “Were you about to demonstrate this illusion?” Malloy asked hopefully.

  “I was – but it appears we left some cake in it the last time we used it.”

  “When did you last use it?”

  “1927.”

  “I thought fruitcake was supposed to keep for ages?”

  “This one has the appearance and consistency of tar. And it has a dead mouse on top of it,” Vickery said.

  “At least it didn’t die hungry,” Malloy said. “It’s time for a fresh cake, then?”

  “It’s time for a fresh hat,” Vickery said, pushing it away from him and wrinkling his nose.  

  Chapter Seventeen

  “If we keep eating here, I’ll end up looking like Fatty Arbuckle,” Malloy said.

  They threaded their way across the restaurant towards a raised area at the back, where it was quieter.

  “I asked Marlene to join us at half-past,” Vickery said.

  “Do you think it was a good idea to bring her here? Giancarlo won’t be able to keep his hands to himself.”

  “She’ll enjoy the attention,” Vickery said, unbuttoning his jacket and sitting down. “And the Chianti will help her relax.”