Murder by Magic

by Paul Tomlinson

  “It’s locked,” Abigail said.

  Malloy grinned at her and winked. “Himself has a way with locks,” he said.

  Vickery bent and looked closely at the keyhole. He reached into his overcoat pocket and brought out a large bunch of brass mortice-lock keys. Sorting through them, he selected one and slid it into the lock. He turned the key gently, as if probing the lock, then withdrew the key and selected another. He repeated the process and then tried a third key. The lock clicked open, and the door swung inwards.

  “I’m out of practice,” Vickery apologised. He put the keys back in his pocket.

  “I’ll go in first,” Malloy said.

  “It’s back that way,” Abigail said, pointing along a dark corridor.

  Vickery nodded, and the three of them moved quietly along the corridor, trying to avoid the debris on the floor. Eventually, they reached another locked door.

  “He’s in there,” Abigail whispered.

  Malloy listened at the door. Hearing nothing he shook his head. “How do you want to proceed?” he asked.

  Vickery knocked loudly on the door with the handle of his revolver. The sound echoed along the corridor.

  “What are you doing?” Abigail whispered.

  “Nobody’s home,” Malloy said.

  “You don’t know that,” Abigail said.

  Vickery nodded to Malloy, who stepped back. Malloy rushed at the door, putting his shoulder to it. There was a loud cracking sound and dust rained down. The second time he hit the door, it flew inwards.

  “Oh, no!” Abigail said, pushing past them and running towards the centre of the room.

  “Wait!” Malloy cautioned.

  The big room was empty, except for the rubbish that lay on the floor. Damp had fetched the wallpaper off and it curled towards the floor. Two small dirty windows about eight feet off the ground let in almost no moonlight, and the skylights in the roof above looked equally opaque.

  The pile of broken wood in the middle of the floor had once been a chair.

  “We have to find him!” Abigail said, looking around wildly.

  Vickery walked to another part of the room. Glass crunched under the leather soles of his shoes. He looked up, and then directed his lamp around the room, pausing at various points. “Danny is no longer here,” he said.

  “What have they done to him?” Abigail asked.

  “They have done nothing to him,” Vickery assured her, “because they have not had the opportunity. Danny is a very resourceful young man, and he has escaped.”

  “How can you be sure?” Abigail said.

  Vickery directed his lamp light back towards the broken chair. “His arms and legs were tied to the chair – breaking it allowed him to free himself. There are scuff-marks on the wall here,” he directed the light towards them, “showing where he climbed up and then stood on the transom above the window to reach the metal beams overhead. From there, he climbed to the skylight, which he broke so he could make his way out onto the roof.”

  “That’s exactly what I would have done,” Malloy said, grinning. “Where’s she off to?”

  Abigail was running back the way they had come.

  “Quickly!” Vickery said.

  They ran after her.

  Reaching the street door, they looked up and down the road, but there was no sign of Abigail, and no sound of footsteps to indicate which direction she had taken.

  “Damn!” Malloy said. “What now?”

  “Supper,” Vickery said, pulling the warehouse door closed behind them and relocking it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Have you worn make-up before?” Vickery asked.

  “Only at weekends,” Malloy said, leaning forward in the chair and peering at his face in the dressing room mirror. “Do I really need it? I thought it was just for clowns and young actors playing wrinkly old men.”

  “The stage lights are so bright no one will be able to see your features,” Vickery said. “Your expression will be lost.”

  “That’s good. If they can’t see my face, they won’t know how scared I am,” Malloy said.

  “You only need a bit of subtle shading to stop you looking like a ghost,” Vickery said, picking up a pot and a small piece of sponge. He set to work on Malloy’s face. “How are you feeling now?”

  “Better, thanks,” Malloy said. “I’m sorry about...”

  “I know performers, who have worked on stage their whole lives, who vomit before every performance,” Vickery said.

  “I’m hoping it’s just a first-night thing,” Malloy said. “I look like a pantomime dame,” he said, pushing his lips into an exaggerated pucker.

  “You look like a handsome leading man.”

  “I feel like a berk.”

  “Stand up and let me redo your tie.”

  “What’s wrong with my tie?” Malloy looked at his bow-tie in the mirror: it sat at a thirty-degree angle. He tilted his head to try and make it look straight. When that didn’t work, he stood up and faced Vickery. “I hate wearing ties.”

  Vickery fixed the tie and then helped Malloy into the dove grey tuxedo jacket. “I think you look rather dashing,” he said.

  Malloy regarded himself in the mirror. “If I went outside looking like this, I’d be laughed at and given a kicking – and I’d deserve it.”

  Vickery pulled on his own jacket, and then the two men stood and looked at their reflections in the mirror: Malloy all in grey with a white carnation in his buttonhole; Vickery in black with a red one.

  “Another whisky, please, waiter,” Malloy said in upper-class tones. He reached for his glass.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea on an empty stomach,” Vickery cautioned.

  “Just one more to steady my nerves.”

  Vickery relented and poured a splash of whisky into the glass.

  “You’ll have to do better than that if you’re expecting a tip,” Malloy said.

  “I do not look like a waiter,” Vickery said.

  “Who else wears a jacket with tails?”

  “What do you know about style?” Vickery asked, adjusting his cuffs and pulling on white gloves.

  “I’m sure I’d know it if I saw it,” Malloy said. “Has big blond Bryan bear checked your equipment?”

  “He gave it a thorough going over, and says everything’s in perfect working order,” Vickery said.

  “It must be a relief to hear that, given the age of your apparatus, and the fact it hasn’t been used for years.”

  “The age of an implement is irrelevant if it is properly maintained.”

  “And Bryan is handling that for you, is he?”

  “He’s doing a splendid job,” Vickery said, “he has a very delicate touch.”

  There was a tap on the door and Toby poked his head into the room.

  “I’m sorry, did I interrupt something?” the theatre manager asked.

  “No, no, Mr. Vickery was just saying how good young Bryan is with his hands,” Malloy said.

  “Ignore him,” Vickery said. “How are we doing?”

  “Packed house!” Toby said, beaming.

  Malloy groaned.

  “You two look like you’re ready for a wedding,” Toby said.

  “Really, Toby!” Vickery said. “Mr. Malloy and I barely know each other.”

  “I saw Inspector Grives come in,” Toby said.

  “I gave him complimentary tickets,” Vickery said. “I also sent some over to Raymond Skelhorn, but I doubt we’ll see him.”

  “No great shame there,” Malloy said.

  Toby nodded. “I’ve looked at the introduction you wrote, dedicating the performance to Charlie and Terry – it’s a nice touch,” he said.

  “I’m sure you’ll do it justice,” Vickery said. “I don’t feel able to say the words myself.”

  “I understand,” Toby said.

  “Has anyone seen Danny Holcroft?” Vickery asked. “I had hoped he might be here.”

  Toby shook his head. “No sign of him. M
arlene’s worried – every time I see her she’s pacing about or pulling at her earrings. Sometimes she’s doing both at once.”

  “She’s going through a very trying time,” Vickery said. “Let me know if Danny shows himself.”

  “I will.” Toby backed out. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

  As the door closed, they could hear laughter and applause from the auditorium.

  “Sounds like Eddie’s going down well,” Vickery said. “We can go and watch from the wings if you’d like.”

  “I can hear better jokes at the Bull’s Head,” Malloy said.

  “True, but you couldn’t tell any of those on stage. We should go out as soon as we hear Dora start singing Maddy Minchin, the Shepherd and the Ewe.”

  “Will we hear it from here?” Malloy asked.

  “You’d hear it on the other side of the river,” Vickery said.

  There was a knock on the door. “Five minutes!”

  “That’s not nearly long enough,” Malloy wailed, reaching for his whisky glass.

  “You’ll just have to do what you can with what you’ve got,” Vickery said.

  Malloy almost choked on his drink.

  The Great Vicari began his act by brandishing the newly-purchased black top hat and telling the audience he intended to bake a fruitcake in it. He placed the hat on a round table that was covered with a floor-length fringed tablecloth. He asked the ladies of the audience to call out the ingredients. Malloy then produced these from a plain box which sat on a stool at stage right, handing them to the magician and trying not to draw any attention to himself. Flour, eggs, raisins, sugar, butter, and finally milk were all poured into the hat – producing a certain amount of mess, and audience laughter, in the process. The Great Vicari then pulled a large wooden spoon from Malloy’s left ear and stirred the raw ingredients in the hat. “What do we need to do now?” he asked the audience.

  “Bake it!”

  The hat was passed to Malloy, who was instructed to keep stirring it, while the Great Vicari produced a candle from Malloy’s right ear. He placed it on the table and lit it with a large wooden match. A huge flame burst from the candle and shot upwards, causing a gasp from the audience.

  “Oops!” the magician said, “a more moderate oven is required, I think.” He mimed a turning motion, apparently adjusting the flame down to a more usual size. He took the hat from Malloy, who stood holding the dripping spoon.

  The Great Vicari passed the hat over the candle flame once, twice, three times. He sniffed the hat and nodded approvingly. “And now we must turn it out,” he said. He carried the top hat over to Malloy, turned it the right way up, and sat it on Malloy’s head. Anyone who expected to see raw cake mixture drip down his face was disappointed. “There is now a big fruitcake under the hat,” the Great Vicari said.

  Malloy adopted an exaggerated expression of offence, and the audience laughed. Moving behind him, the magician placed his hands on either side of the top hat and carefully lifted it. A large, perfectly-baked fruitcake sat balanced on Malloy’s head.

  The audience applauded. The applause grew louder when the Great Vicari took the cake over to the table and sliced it into good-sized chunks, which Malloy threw into the audience to be caught and consumed by enthusiastic theatre-goers. Some gallant young gentlemen even shared their cake with their young ladies.

  The Great Vicari picked up the milk pitcher, which was still almost filled with milk. He asked Malloy if he would save it for later. When his assistant nodded, the magician poured the milk into the handkerchief pocket of Malloy’s jacket, but the expected wet stain did not appear. There was a small amount of milk left in the pitcher, which the magician poured into a glass and drank.

  The magician dragged the table back out of the way, then Malloy and the audience were challenged to a game of ‘find the lady,’ using three five-foot tall playing cards on castors. In five attempts, Malloy failed to find the Queen once. At one point, the magician even got his assistant to stand embracing the Queen as the cards were moved – but even this failed.

  “I cannot understand why,” the Great Vicari said, turning all three cards on their little wheels, revealing them all to be the Queen of Hearts.

  Shaking his head, Malloy pushed the cards offstage. He returned with an ordinary bentwood chair, which he set down sideways to the audience. He sat down on it, hands resting on his knees. The Great Vicari covered him completely with a large white sheet. His outline was still visible under it.

  “I shall now make my assistant vanish, right in front of your eyes!” He whipped the sheet away, revealing an empty chair. When the applause faded, the Great Vicari swirled the sheet back and forth in dramatic fashion. “And now, I shall bring him back into our world!”

  He swung the sheet up and over the empty chair, covering it, and waved his white gloved hands in a magicianly way. “Please remain absolutely silent – if this goes wrong, we may lose him forever!” The outline of the chair, clearly visible under the sheet, remained unchanged. The Great Vicari jabbed his hands towards it as if trying to intensify his magic. The white sheet did not move.

  Unseen by the magician, the cloth on the table behind him had begun to rise, gradually becoming the draped form of a male figure. Several people, inspired by their Christmas pantomime experiences, called out ‘He’s behind you!’

  The Great Vicari turned and, putting his hands on his hips, stared up at what appeared to be a shrouded man standing on his table. He turned and shrugged, then pushed the covered chair offstage into the wings. He returned and looked up at the shape on the table. He gripped the edge of the table cloth and whipped it away to reveal – nothing.

  “He wasn’t behind me,” the magician said to the audience. At that moment, a ghostly white sheet in the shape of a man drifted down behind him and floated on the spot where the chair had sat.

  “He’s behind you!” the audience chanted.

  The Great Vicari turned. He regarded the ‘ghost’ suspiciously and then poked the apparently empty sheet. A distinct ‘Ow!’ was heard by the audience. A second jab brought the same response. The magician took hold of the bottom edge of the sheet and pulled it away. Malloy stood there, rubbing his side where he had been poked.

  The Great Vicari pretended to be annoyed with him, pointing at the table and indicating that his assistant should carry it offstage. Malloy shrugged and did as he was asked.

  The stage was now clear of furniture. A large, brightly-painted box was lowered slowly to the stage. The magician flipped open the top of it. When his assistant returned, he indicated that he was to get into the box. Malloy shook his head, making it a broad gesture. The Great Vicari pointed into the box more forcefully. Again Malloy shook his head.

  The magician caught a sword tossed from the wings and pointed it at Malloy – who quickly scrambled into the box. The lid was closed and fastened shut. And then the sword was thrust into the box. A scream came from inside. There was nervous laughter from the audience. Another sword was thrown, and the Great Vicari caught it and plunged it into the side of the box. Another fake scream brought more laughter. More swords were thrown and caught, faster and faster, and each one was thrust into one of the sides or the top of the box. A dozen swords in all, until the box looked like a giant pincushion. There were no screams accompanying the later swords.

  The Great Vicari knocked loudly on the side of the box and listened. There were two widely spaced and feeble knocks, apparently from inside the box.

  The magician pulled out the swords, sliding them across the floor so that they disappeared into the wings. Then he flipped open the box, and Malloy popped up, grinning. He climbed out of the box, and they both took a bow. Malloy briefly turned his back to the audience, revealing three bright red, wet ‘stab wounds’ in the back of his jacket: the Great Vicari quickly turned him around to hide this.

  A quick gesture from a white-gloved hand brought a bright green flash at Malloy’s feet and a cloud of smoke and Malloy was gone. The Great Vicari bo
wed as the audience applauded, then made another gesture. There was a bright purple flash and at his own feet, and he too disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Malloy turned as Vickery entered the dressing room. “What do you think?” Malloy had applied his own make-up ready for the second performance.

  Vickery smiled. “This time you do look like a pantomime dame.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t,” Malloy said.

  “I’ll smooth it out in a minute,” Vickery said. “How’s your stomach today?”

  “It’s fine. It must have been something I ate yesterday.”

  “You didn’t eat. It must have been something you drank.”

  “I needed a bit of extra courage, that’s all,” Malloy said. “What’s that?”

  Vickery was holding a small envelope made from cheap paper. He took out his pocket knife and sliced it open. Inside was a small piece of pasteboard that looked like it had been torn from some sort of box. It was mottled with dark fingerprints.

  “Bristow came to the stage door and handed it to me,” Vickery said.

  “Is it a message?”

  “Of sorts.” Vickery handed the dirty card to Malloy.

  “What does it mean?” Malloy asked.

  There was something scrawled on the card in thick pencil letters:

  HMH 452

  26 E4

  “It means Bristow is cashing in his insurance policy,” Vickery said.

  “I don’t understand.” Malloy handed the card back.

  “He fears for his life – and wants us to take action if anything happens to him.”

  “You know all that from a handful of letters and numbers? What is it, magician’s code?”

  Vickery tucked the card into his jacket pocket. “It isn’t code,” he said. “I wish Bristow hadn’t dashed off. I would like to speak with him again. And I’m sure we could find somewhere safe for him to stay.”

  “You could get Betty to be his guard dog,” Malloy suggested.

  “I’ll tell her that, shall I?”

  “Please don’t.”

  *

  The two-and-a-half litre engine moved the Alvis quietly through the dark city streets. Malloy gripped the steering wheel tightly, his muscles still tingling with the energy that had flowed through them when he was on stage. “Two nights down, one to go,” he said. There was a hint of sadness in his voice. “It all seems to have happened so quickly.”