***
‘Thank you, my dear ladies and gentlemen! You really are too kind,’ announced The Great Medini, moving downstage to address his audience. ‘And now we come to the grand finale of the performance!’
He stole a quick glance at Girardi. The Italian was poised upstage to his right, arms akimbo, still playing the part of the faithful slave.
To most people in the auditorium Medini’s face was the perfect mask of demonic mystery—the pointed beard and heavily made up eyes giving him a Mephistophelean aura in the eerie green light of the stage. However, to those in the front rows of the stalls it was plain to see the beads of sweat pushing their way through the greasepaint and the slight tremor in the willowy, outstretched fingers. But any that did notice these small signs of disquiet merely put them down to the passion and energy of the performance.
Medini closed his eyes and allowed the applause to fade. His mind dwelt for a moment on the vision of a terrified old woman, gagged and bound to a chair in a suburban shed … He took a deep breath and continued with his patter.
‘The great Harry Houdini first performed his legendary Chinese Water Torture illusion in nineteen-eleven. As many of you will be aware, Mr. Houdini’s radiant light was snuffed out far too soon, some six years ago now; but rest assured that his legend lives on in the memory of his fellow prestidigitators and in all of those fortunate individuals who ever witnessed the great man perform.’
The magician hesitated—something had caught his eye, high up above the heads of the crowd, moving about amongst the rigging. But the stage lights were far too bright for him to make out any detail, and he now found his glance wondering to the golden cage suspended before the Royal box … and then past it, to the bearded countenance of His Royal Highness, George V. And although he had never met his King in the flesh before, that Victorian era moustache and those bagged, melancholic eyes, were as familiar to him as the face of a close friend—features that he’d handled in his nimble conjurer’s fingers thousands of times before, forcing them to dance across his knuckles, disappear into thin air, materialize in the ears of children …
He risked a brief glance back at his wife Gladys, who stood upstage just a few feet from the brutish hands of the murderous gorilla, Boyd. The terrified woman wore a forced show business grin on her heavily made-up face, but her eyes glimmered with fear behind the fronds of her thick false lashes.
Medini steeled himself, fixed his stare to the middle distance and soldiered on.
‘And so it is in honour of that legendary artist—and of course, of our majestic audience …’ A small bow now in the direction of the Royal box. ‘… that I present to you—for the first time since Houdini’s death—the world famous Chinese Water Torture … with, naturally, a little elaborate twist of my own … Maestro, please!’
As the orchestra slipped into “In the Hall of the Mountain King” Medini moved swiftly to a wide satin ribbon hanging above the stage. He gave the ribbon a tug, thus unveiling a large glass-panelled water tank, above which was suspended a giant sized clock.
Now the conductor brought the orchestra to pianissimo as the performer stepped forward to address his audience once more.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. It has long been the custom for a man’s mortality to be measured by the sands of Death’s hourglass. But tonight we break with tradition a little, for the clock you see before you may indeed be the measure of the last four minutes of my life. As you can see, there is but one hand, and the face of the clock is divided into four one-minute portions.
Four minutes—that doesn’t sound very long now, does it, ladies and gentlemen? But, alas, that is all I shall be afforded to escape from a straitjacket, shackles and handcuffs whilst immersed, head-first, in two hundred and fifty gallons of water!’
A murmur of delight rippled through the auditorium.
‘Watch the clock carefully, I implore you! For, if we approach that fourth minute and I have yet to escape from the tank … well, then my trusted assistant, Sulaiman, will attempt to smash the glass with a hatchet in order to release me. Even then there will be but a slim chance of survival—four minutes is at the very limit of the period a man can hold his breath for whilst exerting himself underwater. So, my good friends—wish me luck! My fate lies in the hands of the gods!’
***
Red-faced and breathless, General Swales bowled into the Palladium’s foyer accompanied by a phalanx of SIS agents, Special Branch officers and uniformed bobbies.
‘You there!’ he barked at Potterton. ‘Take me to His Majesty’s box—immediately!’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the manager, holding an index finger up as an introduction to his important announcement. ‘Only first, I must just deliver—’
‘Not now man! There’s no time. Come on—move! Up those stairs!’
Potterton began to splutter an objection but found himself being swept along with the unstoppable tide of policemen. It was only when they had paused to enter the auditorium that he managed to grab the General’s attention.
‘Commissioner, sir—I have an important message for you.’
‘A message?’
‘From Harley, Commissioner.’
‘Harley? Well why the blazes didn’t you say something sooner, man? What is it? Come on, out with it! This is a matter of state security!’
‘Well, as I was trying to tell you—Harley says that … that he’s still not sure about the details of the plot.’
‘Is that it? That’s the message?’
‘That’s what he said, sir.’
‘And where is Harley now?’
‘I’m not too sure, Commissioner—he ran off somewhere with the other two gentlemen.’
‘Very well. Gentlemen, we can’t take any chances with this one—I suggest we prepare to evacuate the building … Chesterton, take half a dozen men and man the exits.’
‘Yes, sir!’ said the SIS agent, quickly selecting a group of officers and disappearing down the stairs.
‘Is an evacuation really necessary, Commissioner?’ asked Potterton, sheepishly. ‘After all, we are only ten minutes or so away from the final curtain, and—’
‘And it will be the final curtain for you, sir, if you do not stop your interruptions! What is your name?’
‘Potterton, Commissioner.’
‘Well, Mr. Potterton, you will stand there and keep quiet! That man—Bristow, isn’t it?
‘That’s right, General. What do you need, sir?’ said the Detective Sergeant, pushing his way through to Swales.
‘You’ll be in charge of co-ordinating the evacuation. Distribute your men around the various floors of the auditorium and wait for the signal—three short blasts of the whistle. Do not make a move before that signal—we need to assess the situation first. We can’t afford to spook the enemy into detonating that bomb prematurely. And make sure your men are calm at all times—we don’t want a stampede on our hands. Understood?’
‘Understood, sir!’ said Bristow.
‘Commander Taylor, choose two of your best men and come with me. Our priority will be to rescue His Majesty.’
***
High above the audience Harley and the stagehand had now made it across to the narrow ladder at the far end of the lower of the two catwalks.
‘Well, Smith,’ whispered Harley, peering up into the darkness at the bogus rigger—Saint Clair’s cousin, Hugo Carstairs. ‘I don’t reckon the lad could have seen us—he doesn’t seem to have budged an inch since we last looked.’
‘Yeah,’ replied Smith, close to Harley’s ear. ‘It was a stroke of luck the orchestra starting up like that—kept him distracted.’
‘He does seem kind of transfixed with what’s going on down below. D’you think he’s waiting for a cue?’
‘I doubt it. My guess is that his bottle’s gone with the height; I reckon he’s frozen to the spot. I’ve seen it a fair few times before.’
‘Yeah, but if he’s got a shooter he can still stop us getting to that cage, can’t he? R
egardless of how milky he is about the drop.’ Harley placed a hand on the rigger’s shoulder. ‘Listen, Smith, I’ve been thinking—I can’t have you climbing up there with me, it’s too dangerous … we’ll be sitting ducks.’
‘What? You expect me to stay down ’ere like a lemon and watch you try to do it all on yer tod? Get out of it! Besides, I wasn’t planning on climbing that ladder.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, what rigger needs a ladder when there’s all these lines about?’ said Smith, pointing to the ropes criss-crossing through the gloom. ‘I reckon if we get our timing right I can shin up one of these behind matey-boy just as you appear at the end of his catwalk. You distract him with that gun of yours and I make a swing at him … What d’you reckon?’
‘Well, Smith—you’re a game one alright, ain’t yer? … Well, if you’re really up for it I reckon it sounds like a plan to me.’
‘Alright, guv’nor, on my lead then,’ said the stagehand, making his way back along the catwalk and hoisting himself monkey-like up one of the ropes.
***
Down on the stage the music ramped up a notch in volume and tempo as Girardi started to pull on a rope and tackle to hoist The Great Medini upside down above the tank of water. The magician was left suspended for a moment, swinging gently in the eerie green light, as Girardi nimbly mounted a ladder to secure a hood over his head.
Those members of the audience close enough to the stage would have noticed that the Italian seemed to take extra care in fastening the leather strap around the neck.
Then the former acrobat, warming now to his new role, dismounted the podium with an accomplished back-flip, grasped the rope in two hands and sent the trussed up Medini plunging with a splash into the water below.
Following proceedings from the wings Boyd took this as a cue to flick a switch on the control board. Above the stage the giant clock began its countdown as a curtain was raised to veil the secrets of the tank from the audience.
***
‘Look—there’s the big lummox, there,’ whispered Rosen, pointing at Boyd through a gap in the curtains between the crossover and the wings.
‘Why don’t I just take a shot at him now?’ asked Pearson. ‘Put a round in his thigh—take him down where he stands.’
‘Because, Albert,’ replied Rosen, ‘you couldn’t guarantee that he would go down. Not straight away, anyway … not before flicking one of those switches on that contraption in front of him. Then—boom! We all go up in smoke.’
‘What? From this range? I couldn’t miss.’
‘Probably not. But that’s not what I’m saying. He’s not called “Iron” Billy for nothing, you know—hard as nails, that one. Even if you do put one in him, he may not go down. Not unless you’re prepared to shoot him in the nut, of course—but, then again, with our Billy that’s probably the toughest part.’
‘I’m not sure I could shoot a man in the head, just like that. If he were to draw his weapon that’s another matter … but just standing there, in cold blood? Don’t think I could do that. Just wounding him’s different though.’
‘What about the fact that he may have just set the timer on that bomb, soon to blow us all sky-high? You, me, the punters … the King and Queen … Uncle Tom Cobley an’ all?’
‘But we don’t know that for sure, do we? It’s just one of Harley’s guesses.’
‘He was right about that Lady Euphemia, weren’t he? And let’s face it—he’s usually right about most things.’
‘Don’t think that’s good enough, Solly; not to shoot a man in the head in cold blood.’
‘Well, nobody’s gonna think any worse of yer for that, Albert … So that leaves us with only one way to go, don’t it?’
‘Which is?’
‘A lightning strike from the Yiddish Thunderbolt, of course. I rush him, barge him away from the desk and clip him a right hook on the jaw. Mind you, you’ve gotta look sharp after that, Albert—even a right hook from Solly the Smoke ain’t gonna put this little baby to bed. If I go toe-to-toe with him it’s gonna be a proper old-fashioned slugging match. So when I give him a dig that’s your cue to pop one in his thigh—once he’s away from those switches, that is.’
‘Harley wanted me to take out Girardi.’
‘Well, first thing’s first, eh Albert?’ said Rosen, limbering up a little, throwing punches into the air.
A few feet away in the orchestra pit the conductor watched as the ticking hand of the oversized clock counted down the remaining few seconds of the first minute, taking this as a signal for a key change, increasing the sense of urgency with the frenetic, striding music.
***
General Swales rushed into the small corridor with Commander Snip Taylor and his two officers in tow. He made a quick check that the escape route was still clear of danger and then rapped on the door.
‘Your Majesty? Are you in there, sir? It’s me, General Swales.’
There was no obvious reply from within.
‘Damn music!’ said the General, turning to Taylor. ‘Can’t bally well hear meself think!’
He knocked again, louder this time.
‘Your Majesty! I need to talk to you—it’s most urgent, sir!’
Taylor tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Sir Frederic—don’t you think it peculiar that there’s no one from the King’s Guard on duty here?’
Swales took another look down the corridor.
‘Not just peculiar, Taylor—downright fishy, I’d say. Where’s that damned manager gone?’
‘He ran off as soon as we got here, sir,’ said one of Taylor’s men.
‘You don’t think that …’ Swales walked back to the door and turned the handle. He threw the door wide open … to reveal a small store cupboard, packed with cleaning equipment.
‘God’s teeth!’ exclaimed Swales, fending off the handle of a mop that had launched itself out at him. ‘The little toad’s in on it, Commander! He’s led us up the bloody garden path!’
‘Alright, men!’ barked Taylor to the two SIS officers. ‘Get yourself into that auditorium and identify where the Royal Box is—come on, look lively, now!’
***
The clock above the stage ticked its way through the last few seconds of minute number two—halfway through the allotted time; but as the orchestra performed another key change the conductor glanced up from the score to see Girardi signalling to the wings for the clock to be stopped. Then, with a leering grin cutting through his black grease paint, the Italian strode purposefully downstage and held up his hand.
‘Stop the music!’ he yelled into the pit. ‘Stop the music!’
The conductor brought the orchestra to a clattering halt; the resulting effect was one of musicians stumbling down a flight of stairs.
An anxious silence settled on the auditorium. Surprised at this sudden turn of events the audience waited expectantly for an explanation. A cough … a small flurry of whispers … and then Girardi addressed his audience.
‘Ladies and gentlemen! As you can see behind me we have stopped Medini’s clock … Why? … Well, my friends, it is simple—there is no longer anything to measure!’
Girardi now walked upstage to grab hold of the satin ribbon.
‘You see, The Great Medini … he is already dead!’
The curtain dropped to reveal the shackled and hooded corpse of the magician, floating in water now fogged with swirling clouds of blood.
For a moment the audience remained silent, not quite believing what they saw, expecting at any moment to see Medini appear from the wings, or fly down from the gods on a wire. But Gladys Chadwick was close enough to the tank to see that this was no stage illusion. She clasped her trembling hands to her face and gaped, dumbstruck at the sight of her dead husband suspended in the tank like a pickled specimen in a jar. And then she found her voice … and screamed.
Taking its lead from the newly-widowed assistant, the audience erupted into a shrieking panic. Wives and daughters shielded their eyes and
shrunk into the defensive embrace of their loved ones. People began to leap up and clamber over their neighbours to get to the aisles—just a handful at first, but before long there were dozens scrambling over the seats to make good their escape.
But they all stopped dead in their tracks when Girardi fired the first shot.
‘Sit down! All of you!’ he shouted, firing the pistol again into a chandelier, showering the stalls with shards of glass. Now he had their complete attention.
‘That’s better … Thank you!’
With his Beretta trained on the audience, Girardi now bent down to retrieve a Thompson submachine gun that he’d secreted behind the podium. The sight of this movie gangster’s weapon held resonance with a certain proportion of the audience and a collective gasp rippled around the auditorium.
‘Look, my friends! Like Jimmy Cagney, eh? Public Enemy … And we have plenty of bullets … enough for every one of you … Please remember this! … Now, aren’t we all growing a little bored with this stage magic? With the doves and the cards and the lovely assistant?’
He turned to the distraught Gladys and pointed with the muzzle of the Thompson gun, indicating he wanted her to sit down on the steps of the podium. ‘Personally, I would like to see some real magic. And so—’
Girardi’s speech was cut short by the tumbling figure of Hugo Carstairs, plummeting headlong from the catwalk above. His fall was arrested only a few feet above the heads of the audience by the jerking brake of the rope tied about his waist. The young man bellowed in agony and then began to painfully kick his legs to spin himself so that he faced the stage.
‘Get me down, Girardi! Oh God! … My ribs! … Cut me down, I tell you! Get that brute of yours to—’
Girardi calmly raised his pistol and put a bullet through Carstairs’ chest. ‘Amatore …’ he muttered, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows at Boyd in the wings.
In the stalls a portly grandmother attempted to stifle the shrieks of her grandson as he struggled to escape the slow drip of blood now escaping from the corpse swinging above his head.
‘Apologies for the interruption,’ said Girardi with a smile.
The audience hung on the Italian’s every word now; the auditorium silent apart from a soft chorus of weeping.
Mask of the Verdoy Page 55