by Неизвестный
Alexander dropped the envelope in an effort to catch and steady the falling vase, which slopped water onto the stage floor and carpet. He righted the vase and back-pedaled away from Mrs. Pierpont, who came after him again, tears brimming from her eyes.
The audience gasped in unison.
“This means so much to me!” she blurted out.
Alexander stepped onto the carpet, which sparked sharply, sending a staggering jolt through him. He recoiled, fell away, dropped to one knee, his pajh tipping backward off his head, precariously hanging from his neck by the narrow wires that went up his collar.
A man sitting in the second row, near the aisle, sprang out of his seat, ran to the stage, and jumped up onto it, like an Indian climbing up on a pony. He slid several feet across the apron and stopped in front of Mrs. Pierpont, rising quickly to his feet and bracing himself between her and the fallen performer.
Mrs. Pierpont held her hands to her face in terror as she stared over the man’s shoulder at the fallen Alexander, still down on one knee. “Are you alright?” she asked fearfully.
Alexander opened his eyes halfway and robotically rose to his feet. He raised his hands and rubbed his temples as if dialing in a radio only he could hear, while his eyes remained hooded, unfocused, as if heavily sedated.
“Beware of the fire and pretense of magic!” said Alexander in an accented voice, sounding like a Russian woman’s. “It comes in two days, on opening night. You have a different name now, but your treachery will be punished. There will come a reckoning that will unmask your cold heart and shallow tricks. Вы ответственны за смертельные случаи в моей семье! May all of your deaths be long and painful!”
The audience gasped.
Alexander’s female assistant climbed up through the trap door. She squatted low, reached through the curtain, grabbed the carpet by an edge and yanked it hard, tossing it safely into the middle of the stage behind the closed curtain. She stood up, slid through the curtain, and approached Alexander, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“Are you alright?” she asked him, while grabbing the pajh and holding it in place against his back.
“I’m fine, Sylvie. Just a little stunned is all. What the hell happened?”
She leaned in close. “We need to rewire the carpet and clean up the water spill. Probably take twenty minutes. Do you want to continue with the show?
“Certainly. The show must go on!”
“Announce an early intermission then, and I’ll escort you back stage and fix you up.”
“Of course. My foot feels like it’s on fire.”
“We’ll check it out. You might have a burn. I didn’t know you spoke Russian.”
Alexander gazed into Sylvie’s eyes, a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t. Why would you say that?”
4
Two days later
The chattering in the packed Paramount Theater quieted as soon as the houselights dimmed. Below the stage the orchestra played a lively introduction with reeds, horns, and strings, showing off their range, while the spotlight shining from high above broadcast a large beam onto the closed curtain, drawing the audience’s attention to the front apron. The bright light panned across the draped burgundy fabric, narrowing and increasing its intense focus until it locked on the left side of the stage, where a tuxedo clad Master of Ceremonies brushed back the crushed velvet curtain and stepped into the light, marching energetically to the forefront of the apron. He nodded to the conductor and the music stopped.
In the front of the second balcony, Alan and Vera sat together, with Alan taking the seat closest to the side aisle. He shifted his weight subtly and laced his arms through Vera’s arm, sliding underneath her wrap, clasping a gloved hand. She squeezed a response, acknowledging the gesture, tugging the hand into her lap without glancing his way.
“You be careful doing that,” she whispered. “You’re out in public, and someone might see you.”
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to tonight’s double bill presentation at the Paramount, Seattle’s premier theater!” boomed the on stage voice, “I am Nikolai Ivanovich, and it’s a true joy to have so many in our audience tonight. Although we love presenting the latest movies from Paramount, we’re pleased to see that the persistent rumors of vaudeville’s eminent demise have been grossly exaggerated. The world will always have an appetite for live entertainment, where there are no cinematic re-takes and camera fakery. In tonight’s magical opening act, remember that anything is possible when a master magician takes the stage. It’s up to you to determine what is real and what is illusion—not an easy task, I warn you. Please enjoy yourselves. You’re in the presence now of the renowned Frederic St. Laurent.”
The packed crowd applauded warmly, and the announcer waited patiently for the audience to settle down.
“Following his magical conjuring, in which Monsieur St. Laurent promises to entertain you with his act, the likes of which you’ve never seen before, we will present our feature performance: the amazing Madam Natasha Zarenko, who will display her deadly skills in the impalement arts with knives, bullwhips and of course her exquisite target girls...”
The audience erupted in cheers, whoops, and whistles. Alan gave Vera a sideways glance, his brow knitted.
“From what I hear,” said Vera, “she’s decent with the whip but not much of a knife thrower—but these guys don’t care. They know that before it’s over, her girls will be naked on stage—trust me.”
Alan flicked his brow high. “Wow! This is going to be much better than I thought!”
“Sure! Like you didn’t know...”
“I wanted something vaudevillian for you tonight.”
“Looks like we’re going to get a healthy dash of burlesque.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Maybe I’ll pick up some pointers—in case being a detective doesn’t work out for me, I could always return to the stage.”
The crowd laughed at something the announcer said, and he held up his hand, as if begging their indulgence a moment, before continuing. “The Paramount is very proud to present to you, all the way from Paris, France, the world’s most famous prestidigitator, Frederic St. Laurent!”
The Paramount’s celebrated organist led the musical accompaniment as the curtains drew to the side, seemingly chasing the master of ceremonies off the stage. The spotlight narrowed its focused beam on a dapper gentleman standing center stage, wearing a swallow-tailed tuxedo with a top hat. The audience applauded, but it somehow lacked the enthusiasm Alan had expected to hear, given the size of the standing room only crowd. They must have come because of the newspaper stories—or maybe the strippers, he figured. Like gawkers to a train wreck, many of them hoping the predictions of death on stage during tonight’s opening would prove true.
Alan didn’t buy into the prediction, but local and national news organizations had fun with Alexander’s vision, laughing it off as old-fashioned theatrics, a modern day version of the Old West taunt: “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us!” They dismissed it as trivial banter between performers with over-sized egos and enormous bank accounts—Alexander’s in particular. Unverified rumors had him as one of the country’s richest men, a con man with a scurrilous hunger for women, including multiple marriages and bigamy.
St. Laurent took a deep bow and nodded his appreciation to the audience, showing no traces of apprehension. Immediately behind him stood a beauty wearing a strapless bustier, high heels, and black stockings with a fancy bow at the top, halfway up her thighs. She stepped out of his shadow into the focused light, and stood at his side. She bent over stiff-legged and picked up an empty bird cage from a small table. The low, nearly flat cage appeared to be mounted on a tray with a small drapery edge, and while holding it underneath with one hand, she drew a fel
t strap over her head and across her shoulders. She stretched her free arm over the top of the cage and opened a light-weight door on the top. Her every move in the high heels required several steps, shifting her weight from one leg to the other leg, often locking her knees, which somehow required her to flex her muscles and accentuate her strong limbs, firm derriere, and small waist, strategic actions Alan knew were not lost on the predominantly male audience—or the man directing the spotlight’s beam.
St. Laurent joined in conspicuously watching his assistant, and then he glanced back to the audience as if reading their minds. He smiled knowingly. “I see that some of you are quite taken with my new assistant, Miss Yvette LaPierre. But I don’t want you to worry about her tonight, because Alexander’s prediction of death is more likely a wish for my demise, not hers.”
“That’s not her name,” said Vera. “I recognize her but can’t think of her real name. By the end of the show I’ll have it.”
Because Vera had once been involved in burlesque and had been around a number of vaudeville acts, Alan thought taking her to a live show would be the perfect surprise for her birthday. His tastes ran more toward Gary Cooper Westerns than magic and knife-throwing, but this happened to be the closest thing in town to vaudeville. He had purchased the tickets days before Alexander made his prediction, when sales for the performance were anything but brisk. Alan wondered if the traveling magician had encouraged his arch rival to make the far-fetched prognostication to help drive business to both of their shows.
“Don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen,” boomed St. Laurent in a French accent, as his assistant fussed with the cage and a butterfly net. “The Paramount’s management has taken necessary precautions and spared no expense for your safety this evening.”
“The accent’s not right,” whispered Vera.
“In what way?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s too formal, but it’s not like any I’ve heard before. So I suspect the name is fake, too.”
“Where’s he from?
“Overseas somewhere, but not France. I’m not as skilled with European accents as I am American. I’ll have to hear more before I can say. Need to catch him off guard to be sure.”
“You will note that the Paramount has engaged Fire Chief Bill Grayson and his second in command, Al Jeffries, to be on hand for our fire display later in the show,” said St. Laurent. “They’re seated in the front row and have come here tonight to reassure you of the many measures taken for your personal safety. They of course will not hesitate to stop tonight’s performance—if they thought any of you were in peril.”
The two oversized fire commanders stood for the polite applause, doffed their hats in salute to the crowd and waved awkwardly before sitting down.
Alan leaned close to Vera. “Everyone loves firemen,” he said. “Wonder how much this is costing the Paramount?”
Vera nodded but kept her eyes straight ahead. “If they were here for our safety,” she said, “they’d be stationed backstage with charged hoses—right next to the fire props. Problem is that magicians are notoriously paranoid. They don’t want anyone seeing their secrets. So St. Laurent undoubtedly nixed that idea, and their seats in the front row are bought and paid for by the house. You can bet Chief Grayson has his chubby fingers crossed, while patting the fat wallet in his tunic. He brought a lackey with him to blame, in case anything goes wrong.”
“You spent a lot of time in theaters,” said Alan. “Did you learn magic tricks?”
“Actually, quite a few. After my start in the circus, I took a stab at dodging swords inside the closed coffins, but then I got too curvy and outgrew the props, so they found other outfits I could wear—and things I might do to sell tickets.”
“How come I didn’t know this?”
“Being a box jumper has never come up, and don’t ask me to reveal magic secrets, because I’ve taken the oath.”
“What oath is that?”
“The Magician’s Oath...” Vera trailed off softly through pursed lips. “Now, shhh! I’ll tell you later. Watch the show.”
Yvette LaPierre handed St. Laurent the sturdy butterfly net, and then curtsied, while steadying the bird cage with her free hand.
“If your hearing is finely tuned,” said St. Laurent, cupping his hand to his ear, “then you might also hear the fluttering of wings about the stage, where it seems doves are circling about us, invisible to the naked eye. I use my hearing, much like a bat does, to track the doves, but it’s very unlikely that you’ll be able to see them until they’ve been caught and caged. Here, let me demonstrate.”
St. Laurent’s brushy eyebrows knitted low as he stared off into the distance and raised his net slowly into the air. He took a half a step forward, and then retraced it, stepping backward, his eyes flitting around the stage as if his mind’s eye were tracking a stinging insect. Standing nearby, LaPierre followed his every move, keeping herself close to the magician, shifting weight on her legs at every opportunity.
“The secret to catching these elusive creatures,” said St. Laurent, “is to patiently wait for them to come to you. In that respect it’s a lot like catching house flies, except you wouldn’t want to pin these darling creatures to a window and squish them.”
St. Laurent reached out with the net on the extended pole, like a cat pawing at a dangling strand of yarn, and then quickly he struck at something, wheeled sharply, and slammed the net down on the open cage while LaPierre bounced up on her toes to catch it. White wings spread quickly and fluttered around the cage to the oohs and awes of the audience. Inside the small cage, the dove sidestepped over to a corner, as if making room for company, and settled down to roost.
St. Laurent repeated the catch two more times, and as he slammed the invisible birds into the waiting cage, Miss LaPierre jumped up on her toes, lifting the cage up to the rapidly descending net, catching it with the open door as the two forces slammed together.
Vera tugged on Alan’s arm and leaned toward him. “Have you got this one figured out yet, or are you busy staring at Yvette’s heaving cleavage and shapely legs?”
“I’m happy just watching her,” said Alan. “I didn’t know I had to figure out the tricks.”
Vera dropped Alan’s hand on her leg and then brushed it away in faux rage. “Rascal!”
While the crowd applauded, Miss LaPierre took quick mincing steps across the stage and handed the props and doves to an attendant dressed as a eunuch in a harem, with a turban and silk slippers with curled toes. She returned carrying four silver rings, large enough to pass a grapefruit through and handed them to St. Laurent, who moved down stage, closer to the apron.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to observe these rings closely.”
St. Laurent clanged the rings together, demonstrating they were solid, and then he tossed the first one to his opposite hand and smiled. He continued tossing the others while counting out loud, clinking the second, third, and fourth against those in his hands as he drew his palms closer together.
“Listen to them talk to each other,” St. Laurent said with a smile. “I discovered these enchanted rings on my recent trip to Singapore. The story is that they had been smuggled out of China from up near the Great Wall, and reportedly cost all who touched them their lives. The person who gave them to me believed them to be cursed and spat on the ground as I took delivery of them.”
St. Laurent held the rings up in front of him and splayed them out. “Now watch as I link them all together.”
The magician did as promised, and then he passed one ring through another ring, even though they appeared to be identical in size.
“He’s very smooth,” said Alan.
Vera nodded. “Countless hours of practice go into every illusion before you show it to the public. You have to be able to make these moves in your sleep.”
The crowd clapped
enthusiastically and St. Laurent bowed graciously, before handing the rings to Miss LaPierre. She set them inside a box and covered them with a cloth, while he stepped forward, walking out onto the front apron.
“For our next trick,” said St. Laurent, “I would like the Fire Chief and his deputy to join me on the stage. I need men with visual acuity and sharp acumen to bear witness to this next feat.”
The spotlight lowered to the front of the audience. The two firemen sat for a moment and then exchanged glances, the junior officer apparently waiting for a nod of approval. The chief finally gave it, shrugged his shoulders, and both men finally rose to their feet, accepting polite applause.
“Looks like he didn’t see this coming,” said Vera. “The best Grayson can do is be a good sport. Nobody likes to be made a fool of, but he can hardly say no to them with all their money in his pocket.”
A spotlight followed Chief Grayson as he led the way up a set of stairs to the left of the apron. He ascended quickly, tipped his hat, and smiled to the crowd, as a few in the audience yelled out encouragement, calling him familiarly by his first name.
St. Laurent performed a version of the shell game, but instead of shells and a pea, he used a brightly colored ball and metal drinking glasses, visible to the upper reaches of the theater. His hands moved deftly and the fire chiefs picked the wrong glass on every occasion. Then one of them accused St. Laurent of palming the soft orange ball, only to find a white tennis ball inside the next overturned cup.
“This guy is very good,” said Alan. “He could make a lot of money on the street corner with that.”
“That’s a good point, Champ. Don’t ever play for money with guys on the street. They work in teams. Even if you somehow win, which you won’t, they won’t let you out of their sight before the friends take their money back.”