Magician's Fire

by Simon Nicholson

  “Harry!” It was Arthur again. “Why won’t you listen to us? Why won’t you…”

  The streetcar swept past and Harry flew off the hydrant. Streetcar Number 47 would take him where he needed to go, and it wasn’t hard to hold on, not after all the practice he had put into the trick of his, crossing Sixth Avenue by leaping between streetcars just like this one. More than just a trick now, he thought as he clung to the streetcar’s side, ducking to avoid a shower of sparks. He swung around, trying to see his friends.

  They were standing there, down the street. That troubled, puzzled look was back on Artie’s face. Billie stood next to him, looking a little fiercer, but she had an arm around Artie for some reason. Harry stared and tried to make them out more clearly.

  But sparks kept showering, making it impossible to see. And by the time the glittering flare had cleared, the streetcar had swerved around the corner.

  His friends were nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 11

  Harry leaped off the streetcar and landed on the sidewalk. The ride across Manhattan had blown most of the garbage smell out of his clothes, but he checked himself in a nearby grocer’s window anyway and flicked a final potato peeling from behind his ear. Then he headed for the Wesley Jones Theater, his shoeshine box clutched under his arm.

  Equipment. That was why he had come to this place, but it was also an opportunity to find out some useful information. After all, this was where Herbie’s kidnapping had taken place. Swinging his shoeshine box off his shoulder, Harry set it up by the stage door and waited for the theater folk to drift in from the surrounding streets—Bruno the Strongman, the pearl-diving ladies, the Cossack dancers. Then he noticed someone standing next to him. It was Arnold, the gangly, wide-eyed stage manager with the weak left leg.

  “Shoe shine, sir?” Harry peered up. “Just four cents, that’s half price. It’d be an honor, sir, to shine the shoes of someone who works at the Wesley Jones Theater—it’s my favorite theater in New York, sir.”

  A nice bit of patter. He could generally rely on getting himself a job, and the patter seemed to have done the trick on Arnold, although he didn’t seem very happy about it. Sadly, the stage manager lifted his good leg and dumped the shoe on the end of it onto Harry’s box.

  “Yeah, I’ll have a shoe shine.” Arnold sighed. “Anything to make things look better on a day like today! D’you hear what happened here last night, shoeshine boy?”

  “I did, sir.” Harry rubbed in a blob of polish. “Poor Herbie Lemster…”

  “Of course you’ve heard it! All of New York’s talking about it!” Arnold rubbed at his eyes. “A mystery, that’s what they’re saying. But it’s more than a mystery to us. It’s a catastrophe! The most awful thing that’s taken place at this theater! How could it happen? To one of our very own, shoeshine boy?”

  What a state Arnold was in. The bruise he had suffered falling down the stairs was still on his forehead, dark and sore looking, but that was nothing compared to the sadness of his expression. His large eyes shone with tears, one of which splashed onto the shoe Harry was polishing, messing up the shine. Harry wiped it away and repolished the leather. Then he heard another voice, and looking around, he saw a face that was gloomier still.

  “Terrible! Just terrible!”

  It was Wesley Jones. The plump theater owner had just stumbled out of a horse-drawn cab. His pink hat was battered, his clothes were crumpled, and his plump body seemed to have crumpled too, his face sagging, dark bags under his eyes, and his skin drained to a sickly white. He glanced at Harry but hardly seemed to take him in as he kept talking to his stage manager.

  “What can have become of him, Arnold? I haven’t been able to sleep all night!”

  “No one knows nothin’, Mr. Jones.” Arnold shook his head and pointed down at Harry. “You should treat yourself to a shoe shine too, Mr. Jones. This boy charges just four cents. Might cheer you up.”

  “Nothing could do that!” Wesley Jones tugged out a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. “Still, only four cents, you say? To do my shoes?”

  “Sure.” Harry finished Arnold’s toecaps with a flourish.

  “Done. Come on up to my office and do my shoes, then.” Wesley tossed Harry four cents, turned, and trod sadly into the theater. “All twenty pairs of them.”

  Twenty pairs? All for just four cents? Still, at least he had been invited into the theater. Harry’s eyes flicked around as Wesley Jones led him through the gloomy backstage area, up a rickety staircase, and along various corridors. What a ramshackle building it was. In particular, the plumbing seemed completely chaotic, with countless pipes winding along the walls, taps and dials jutting off from them. Everywhere he looked, he could see pipes, many of them wobbling with the sheer pressure of the water inside, a few even sprouting leaks, but he reminded himself that he was hardly here to carry out a plumbing check.

  Polish Wesley’s shoes, perhaps do a bit more chatting, and slink off for the equipment. Harry followed Wesley all the way to his office, a surprisingly well-kept room with wallpaper that more or less clung to the wall, a plush rug, and a mantelpiece with various framed photographs on it. And, of course, there were Wesley’s shoes, a whole rack of them in a cupboard. The plump theater owner collapsed into a chair by the desk, and Harry started work, unscrewing polish cans, fluttering cloths, and plunging into the conversation.

  “So, hasn’t anyone discovered anything about—”

  “About poor Herbie? Nothing at all!” Wesley sank even further into his chair, his arms trailing over the sides. “The police were here late into the night. Detectives too. They worked the whole building over, bottom to top. But they ain’t discovered a thing!” His face sagged, his eyes wet and mournful. “People say it’s a trick gone wrong. They say it’s dark forces. They say it’s all kind of stuff. But what have they actually found out? Nothing!”

  “Nothing, Mr. Jones?” Harry kept polishing.

  “Not a darn thing!” One of Wesley’s hands pounded the arm of his chair, while the other fluttered a handkerchief over his face, collecting the tears from his eyes. “All we’ve got is one thundering explosion, one storm of purple smoke, an intruder that no one actually saw, and some yelled-out words that no one understands. It’s terrible, shoeshine boy. Just terrible!”

  No information whatsoever. Harry tried to make out his reflection in the shoe he was polishing, which, for some reason, remained murky no matter how hard he rubbed. Perhaps he should tell Wesley what he knew? The distressed theater owner would almost certainly want to hear Harry’s discovery about Herbie being kidnapped for his tricks—wouldn’t he?

  Possibly, thought Harry, polishing on. But, like the police, the theater owner was hardly going to take the word of a kid, particularly not a scruffy shoeshine boy reduced to cleaning twenty pairs of shoes for four cents. Like the police, at best Wesley would probably just make a few inquiries at the Hotel Crosby, and that would only alert Zell with disastrous results.

  “What do you think, Arnold?” Wesley swung toward the office door, through which the stage manager had entered, his left leg dragging behind him. In his hands, he carried a tray with a teapot and cups on it, along with, curiously, a leather bag with a wrench protruding from it. “Who could be behind this horrible deed? Who’d want to harm Herbie? He hadn’t an enemy in the world.”

  “Absolutely not, Mr. Jones! I never heard of no one not liking the guy, and I can’t imagine it neither. He really was one gentle fella…”

  The tea tray rattled in Arnold’s wobbly grip, and he nearly dropped it, the leather bag also slithering out of his grasp. It was up to Harry, lightning quick, to leap across the rug and catch the teapot, the cups, and the saucers before they hit the rug. He just managed to grab the bag too, which he saw was full of all kinds of wrenches and other tools. Meanwhile, Wesley rose from his chair and lowered the unsteady Arnold into it in his place.

  “F
orgive my stage manager! He was so very fond of poor Herbie. Mind you, you’re fond of all our fine company, aren’t you, Arnold?” Wesley nodded at his stage manager’s weakened leg. “He used to be a performer himself, a trapeze artist, until his unfortunate injury. So he knows how delicate performers can be, how carefully they must be looked after. You attend to their every need, do you not, Arnold?”

  “That I do, Mr. Jones.” Arnold lifted a feeble hand toward the bag of tools, which Harry gave him. “Was just about to do that plumbing job, sir.”

  “Ah yes, the plumbing.” Wesley flung an arm at one of the theater’s many wobbling pipes, which snaked across the office’s ceiling. “We are attempting to install running water in every performer’s dressing room. We prize our performers, so no effort shall be spared on their behalf. And none of them is prized more greatly than—”

  “Than poor Herbie Lemster!” Arnold stared at the rug.

  “Indeed!” Wesley tottered to the mantelpiece and the row of framed photographs which, Harry could now see, were of the theater’s performers—Bruno the Strongman, the juggling acrobats, and the rest. “Why, I count him as one of my dearest friends. He has worked happily at this theater for no less than ten years.”

  A plump hand grabbed one of the framed photographs and held it aloft. Staring out of it, Herbie’s face was wan and wrinkled. “He just did occasional appearances for me at first, but as our acquaintance grew, he did more and more until, in the end, he asked to become one of my regular acts, performing every night at the theater that I am proud to say he considers his true home.”

  “His home, nice and cozy.” Arnold sadly contemplated a wrench.

  “Yet it is his home no longer. Because he has disappeared. Disappeared!” Wesley held up the photograph, looked at Harry, and looked back at the picture again. “I don’t suppose you polish picture frames, do you?”

  Harry had just finished the shoes. He was about to protest that he had no silver polish, but Wesley had already fetched a small can out of a drawer and tossed it to him. For the next ten minutes, Harry polished the frame, the odd green polish making his skin itch. Herbie’s face stared up at him, wrinkled, mysterious, and offering no help whatsoever. But the mystery will be solved, Harry decided, placing the photograph back on the mantelpiece.

  He made his way down through the theater. Wesley and Arnold had left him alone to do the polishing task, and Harry knew it would be easy to slink off unnoticed, but he decided to visit the other performers. Maybe they’ll be more helpful. Visiting their dressing rooms, he offered to shine their shoes and tried to ask a few questions. In the corner of each room, a sink gurgled mournfully, the result of Arnold’s plumbing work, Harry deduced.

  Not a scrap, not a snippet. The performers had no information for him. Still quivering with the shock of what had happened, they would be in an even worse state if they knew Herbie’s possible fate, that he was probably being held captive by Boris Zell and forced to give up his tricks. Good thing I’m on the case, thought Harry as he slid out of the final dressing room and headed off toward his main task, the gathering of equipment.

  Creeping down to the murky backstage area, he sought the place where he had sheltered the previous night after being swept in with the crowd. The wooden seaweed stood there, but he also made out several coils of rope hanging on the nearby wall, some with iron hooks on the end. Perfect. Harry chose the best rope, more than forty feet long, along with a medium-sized hook, and stuffed them under his jacket.

  “Lost, shoeshine boy?”

  It was Arnold. He was staring at Harry from a little way off in the backstage gloom. Harry wriggled, and the bulge in his jacket slid around the back. He walked toward the stage manager, his shoeshine box swinging from his hand.

  “Took a wrong turn. Couldn’t see where I was going.” It was believable enough since the backstage area was very dark. “Sorry about that, Mr. Stage Manager.”

  Arnold said nothing. Wrapped up in mournful thoughts about Herbie, he also was clearly having more trouble with the theater’s plumbing. His shirtsleeves were soaked with water, and he had a wrench clutched in each hand. Silently, the limping figure led Harry to the stage door. Harry hurried out, but he must have accidentally knocked the stage manager off balance, because Arnold swayed and then steadied himself by gripping Harry’s shoulder with a surprisingly fast, strong hand.

  “Thanks for dropping by, shoeshine boy.”

  Another wobble. But Arnold steadied himself, and the hand let go. Harry offered a smile and hurried away from the theater.

  The coil of rope and the hook were tucked neatly inside his jacket.

  Chapter 12

  Harry stopped off at the West Side docks, a favorite spot for practicing his tricks, quiet except for the lapping of the Hudson and the horns of passing ships. Among the warehouses and cranes, he spent nearly half an hour with the rope and hook, swinging them, spinning them, sending them flying. The trick was hard in all sorts of ways, and the way it needed to be set up was no exception.

  Patiently, he perfected the throw, judging the flick of his wrist and jerking back his arm at exactly the right moment. By the time it worked, his arms and fingers ached from the practice. Herbie’s depending on it, he thought, and the pain vanished as he ran off, weaving through the crowds, cabs, and horses at double speed, back toward the looming Hotel Crosby.

  Billie and Arthur were right—there was no way on earth he could walk, sneak, or crawl back into that hotel. But walking, sneaking, or crawling wasn’t what he had in mind. Tall though the drab hotel was, even taller buildings stood nearby, including the one across the street from it, an office building of some kind. A fire escape ran up that building’s side, its rickety iron girders no more than twenty feet away from the hotel. Fixing his gaze on a spot about two-thirds of the way up the fire escape, Harry walked even faster, the coiled rope and hook dangling from his hand.

  “Harry? Where have you been?”

  Arthur was running toward him through the crowd. He had a slightly unusual look, his tie sticking out, his hair in a mess, his face flushed pink. What’s he been doing? Looking around, Harry saw no sign of Billie and wondered what she was doing too. But then he spotted a clock over a nearby shop and knew there was no time for that. It had been nearly two hours since he had last been at the hotel, and Boris Zell could have been getting up to all manner of things. It was time to begin.

  “I’ve been practicing, Artie!” He held up the rope. “Look!”

  Odd. Usually, Arthur reacted to news of a new trick with interest, his eyes widening, sometimes his mouth falling wide open. But that wasn’t happening now. Arthur just blinked at the rope, his face turning a little pinker, even red. Maybe I just need to explain it a bit more, Harry thought as he sprang toward the fire escape that ran up the side of the building near the hotel.

  “Harry!” Arthur called after him. “Wait! I’ve got something to tell you… Me and Billie, we’ve…”

  “Everyone at Hotel Crosby will be looking for me, Artie.” Harry clanged up the iron stairs. “But that doesn’t mean they’ll be looking up—true?”

  “Looking up? What do you mean?”

  Harry sprinted upward, nearly ten stories, until he was level with the Hotel Crosby’s roof. Pulling the rope off his shoulder, he twirled it, narrowed his eyes, and threw it. His arm ached from the practice, but it had definitely been worth it, because the hook at the rope’s end soared neatly across the twenty-foot gap. It clanged against the railing that ran around the Hotel Crosby roof, looped around, and caught hold. Harry hauled at the rope until it was iron tight. Artie’ll understand the trick now. From farther down the fire escape, he heard footsteps, and he turned to greet his even more red-faced friend, who was struggling up the last flight of steps toward him.

  “The tightrope trick! Remember? Billie strung the rope between two trees! I walked across it and wriggled my hands free of twenty-five knot
s at the same time.”

  “Harry…listen…” Arthur was out of breath. “Please, I…”

  “If I can walk a tightrope while doing that, I can easily walk one with my hands free! I know it’s higher up, but as long I stay on the rope, who cares how high it is?” Harry tore off his boots, tied the laces, and hung them around his neck. His bare feet flexed, ready for the walk. “So once I’m across, I just jump onto the roof and get into the hotel from there—”

  “Harry!” Arthur had reached the fire escape landing and seen the taut rope. His face turned redder still, and he sputtered the words breathlessly out. “Why aren’t you listening to me? We’re a team, remember? Me, Billie, and—”

  “I know we’re a team! Just let me finish, Artie! So I go down into Room 760 and get in. I discover everything I can, then I run back up to the roof. I just need you to guard the rope, Artie—Artie?”

  He had explained it all fairly clearly. Yes, he had been talking very fast, but surely the trick was plain to see. Particularly when he was actually balanced on the railing, one foot on the rope, the breeze from the street curling up around him. But Arthur still wasn’t reacting in the usual way. He was just standing there, staring at the rope with that troubled look on his reddened face. Then he swung around, stomped over to the other side of the fire escape, and peered down. Makes no sense at all, thought Harry.

  Unless…

  “Where’s Billie?”

  “At last! Paying attention to me! There she is—down there!”

  “What?”

  “If you’d only listened, you’d already know. You see, you don’t need to break into the hotel.”

  “Don’t need to?” Harry looked down at the quivering rope. “But I’m almost there already—”

  “So’s Billie.” Arthur shot an arm down at the street. “Look—right down there!”

  Harry jumped down from the rope and leaped to the other side of the fire escape. And it was, he had to admit it, pretty astonishing.