Magician's Fire

by Simon Nicholson

  “Houdini! Houdini! Houdini!”

  The name thundered out of the auditorium’s gloom. Harry bowed to the cheering audience again, and on either side of him, Billie and Arthur took bows too. Then they swapped places, Billie taking the central bow, then Arthur, then Harry again. The applause swelled, the curtain fell, and the three friends headed off into the wings.

  “That new curtain call works well, I think.” Harry led the way up.

  “You bet!” Billie snatched up her ukulele and picked out a tune. “Only fair we all get a turn!”

  “Which fits in well with how things are these days at the Herbie Lemster Theater, don’t you think?” said Arthur, as they reached the top of the stairs.

  A quick knock, and they swept into the office. The marble mantelpiece was still there, but new bolts fixed it to the wall and a fire crackled comfortingly in its grate. More comforting still was the sight, across the desk, of Herbie Lemster, writing in a ledger and sipping a cup of tea. His gray hair was neatly combed, he was wearing a brand-new suit, and the wrinkles of his face were arranged in a cheerful expression as he greeted Harry and his friends.

  “Come in! Make yourselves comfortable!”

  “How’s business, Herbie?” Harry dropped into a chair.

  “Splendid! Your act in particular is going down tremendously well. Spectacular trickery! Although it’s hardly surprising, given that you were taught by an expert.” Herbie winked and pushed three envelopes across the desk. “Mind you, all the acts at this theater are impressive. That’s why everyone gets their fair share of the takings.”

  “No trouble taking over the ownership, then?” Arthur inquired.

  “How could there be? Legally, it still belongs to Jones, but he and his stage manager aren’t coming back anytime soon. They’re wanted by the police for extortion, blackmail, false imprisonment, and attempted murder. Along with various infringements of New York plumbing regulations.”

  “Last I heard, they were in Mexico City, scraping together a living with a street-theater act.” Billie smiled. “Arnold juggles tin cans while Wesley tries to play a half-smashed-up saxophone.”

  “A rotten act for two rotten fellows.” Herbie chuckled. “Anyway, I just did a deal with a bank. They purchased the theater on behalf of us performers and, given the publicity surrounding recent events, offered a very fair rate of interest. As long as we manage it well, we’ll own the place outright in just a couple years. It’ll be all of ours equally, although my fellow performers also suggested we paint my name on the front.” Herbie blushed. “After all, why not take advantage of the excitement regarding my famous disappearance, eh? Wouldn’t you agree, Boris?”

  “Of course, dear Mr. Herbie! Of course!”

  That familiar voice boomed across the office. Harry swung around and saw the burly magician stooped over a tiny table, stirring liquids in test tubes. Plumes of orange smoke rose around his face, but his expression was plain to see. Those tiny eyes twinkled, and a smile curved under that long, thin nose.

  “At last, my dream is true! No more lonely life on the magician’s road—I have found my home here with my oldest friend! Have I not, Herbie?”

  “You have, dear Boris!” Herbie Lemster sprang from his desk and put an arm around the hefty figure.

  “We must celebrate our good fortune, Herbie. And we shall!” Boris lifted a test tube. “In honor of the occasion, I have invented a new Magician’s Fire. Orange version!”

  A happy picture. Behind the two men, the mantelpiece stood, lined with newly taken photographs of the theater’s performers—the Cossack dancers, the man who told jokes, Bruno the Strongman, and all the others, all in new outfits and with cheery expressions. But cheeriest of all were Herbie and Boris, reunited at last.

  Harry felt a smile curve on his own face as he took in the happy pair and, in particular, the spindly shape of Herbie. Herbie, who had started everything. Down by his side, Harry’s fingers were fluttering as he remembered that very first meeting in the middle of the New York winter, that trick with the flaming matches…

  “Talking of magical powders and so on, Herbie…” Billie was trying to sound casual. “I don’t suppose you’d finally consider giving us a few clues about some of those other tricks you do? The Bicycling over Spikes, perhaps? Spider up Sleeve?”

  “It would be useful.” Arthur chuckled. “Harry never did work anything out that night. Obviously, I know he’s meant to figure them out himself, part of the game and all that. But a few hints would be most useful…”

  “Would they, indeed?” Herbie Lemster chuckled as he helped Boris mix the contents of the test tube. “I’ll think about it. But it strikes me that young Harry’s perfectly skilled at unmasking secrets already. He exposed the truth of Wesley Jones’s doings, didn’t he? Not to mention making a few other discoveries along the way, I hear.” He looked up. “Not about magic perhaps, but important nonetheless…”

  Those wrinkle-surrounded eyes gleamed at Harry. They flicked over to Arthur and Billie, and then back to Harry again. The old magician’s expression was mysterious, but to Harry the remark he had made was perfectly clear. Not much else was, because just then Boris chuckled and tilted the test tube, and with a thundering explosion, the room filled with orange smoke, thick and swirling. Billie waved at the plumes, Arthur wheezed, and Harry stumbled to the window, but by the time he had rattled it up and cleared the air, the two magicians had gone. So much for clues about tricks. He dropped back into his chair and counted the money inside the brown envelope Herbie had given him.

  How things have changed. Harry lifted a hand and examined it through the smoke. Traces of boot polish stain could be seen on his fingertips, but that was all. Strange to think of the job he had once had, lugging that shoeshine box around in an attempt to earn a few cents. The shoeshine box was long-ago abandoned, and he had changed his lodgings, leaving behind the rather dilapidated boarding house of Mrs. Mack. And it’s not just me who’s finding things a bit different.

  “How’d you think Mawkin’s Glue Factory is managing without you, Billie?”

  “Don’t ask me. Never gone near the place, and I’m not planning to either.” Billie flicked through the contents of her brown envelope too. “I’m done with gloop stirring. Same goes for all the other crummy work I’ve done—floor sweeping, garbage picking, and all the rest…”

  “You really have done some terrible jobs, Billie.” Arthur nodded thoughtfully.

  “It’s true. Come to think of it, nothing much about the road from New Orleans has been that easy, what with escaping from orphanages, trying to jump trains, and generally having to scratch a living together any way I could. Still, like I always say, it’s not the sticky situations that matter; it’s how you get out of them.”

  Another tap of the brown envelope, and there was a particularly wide grin on Billie’s face, even by her standards. “And I don’t think I’ve ever managed to wriggle my way out as spectacularly as this. Ending up in a real, proper job, doing stuff I actually like, and making some proper cash too!”

  “You’re right. We've found a pretty good earner,” Arthur chipped in. “Not that I personally need the money, which is why I give most of it to the two of you.” He pulled two handfuls of notes out of his envelope and handed one to Harry, the other to Billie. “Although I am going to keep a bit back, if that’s all right, to help fund my new special membership cards to the Boston, Paris, and London libraries, in case I need books that aren’t in New York. They’ll mail them right to me, you know. Might be handy if we get around to thinking up some new tricks for the show.”

  “Absolutely, Artie…” Harry hesitated, remembering something. “By the way, the boarding school plan. Went off well?”

  “Certainly did!” Arthur fished in his pockets. More paper ribbon spilled out, along with various envelopes and a book, which he thumped onto the table. Techniques of Famous Forgers, the title said. �
��So, that letter we snatched way back was just the beginning. Ever since, Father’s servants have been writing letters to the school, and the school’s been busily writing back, but none of those letters have ever arrived, because I’ve intercepted them, obviously.

  “Picked up the school’s ones as they fell through the mailbox, grabbed the servants’ ones just before they were posted.” He reached into another pocket and pulled out a little twisted length of metal. “This pick you made me for the mailbox outside my house came in handy, Harry.”

  “No problem.” Harry smiled.

  “So anyway, instead of the servants and the school getting the letters they expect, they’re getting ones specially forged by me.” As Arthur tapped the book, Harry saw no sign of the shadowy kink on his friend’s forehead. “Just yesterday, the servants opened the very last letter from the school, in fact by me. It described all the final arrangements.”

  “Which were?”

  “A cab called at the house just this morning. I boarded it with all my luggage, looking mournful and all that. But instead of taking me 452 miles away, like Father wanted, it brought me right here.” Arthur jerked a thumb at a couple trunks piled in the corner of Herbie’s office. “I thought I might make myself at home in one of the dressing rooms. Until the end of term, that is.”

  “What about the school?” asked Billie. “Won’t they think it’s odd when you don’t arrive?”

  “Not really because the last letter they got announced that Father had changed his mind and was sending me to a slightly cheaper school down the road from them instead. They’ll be so annoyed that they’ll just throw the letter in the trash. As for Father himself, I doubt he’ll find out anytime soon. He’s just set off on yet another business trip. Back to London, this time.”

  “London?”

  “He’ll be gone nearly six months. So it looks like he’ll continue to pay no attention to me, boarding school or not.” A frown, but it was a very slight one. “I know, it’s a strange business. But the truth is, I’ve pretty much gotten used to it these days. Is it really such a bad thing, him wanting me out of his way? When it ends up with him accidentally having me sent to a place like this, where I can spend as much time as I like doing the best job in the world?” The frown was gone, and in its place was a grin as big as Billie’s. “Not to mention doing it with the best friends in the world, eh?”

  “Absolutely, Artie,” said Harry.

  He watched his friends. Billie was nodding at what Arthur had said, and had reached across and taken hold of his hand. Harry reached out and took hold of the other one. Arthur smiled, and Harry realized that, if he leaned forward, he could just reach across and grab Billie’s spare hand. He did so, and for a moment the three of them sat like that, the fire beneath the mantelpiece warming them with its flickering glow. Yes, things have turned out nicely, Harry reflected…

  And we’ve just gotten started.

  Releasing his friends’ hands and leaning back, he thought about what Arthur had said just now about researching new tricks. Good point. Thrilling though the Wesley Jones cage trick was, audiences would grow bored of it eventually, and new tricks would have to be devised, ones that were even more spectacular, even more death defying.

  But that won’t be so hard, Harry thought, feeling the warmth of the fire and glancing across at his friends. Not as if I’m on my own. Settling back in his chair, he started wondering what the next tricks would be…

  “Master Harry? This just handed in for you at the stage door.”

  It was Bruno the Strongman. He was standing in the doorway, holding up an envelope. Harry rose from his chair and trod across the rug, his boots still warm. He took the letter and opened it as Bruno shuffled away. A sheet of paper, pale green in color, was inside. Burned into the bottom left corner, a symbol of a bird surrounded by black. And the letter’s words were just as curious.

  To Harry, Billie, and Arthur,

  You have impressed us greatly. But your greatest achievements lie ahead of you—we will make sure of it.

  Sent with the consent of

  The Order of the White Crow

  “The Order of the White Crow?” Arthur peered over Harry’s shoulder.

  “We will make sure of it…” Billie inspected the letter too. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Harry said nothing. He just let Billie slide the pale green paper out of his hands and headed for the window. Just handed in at the stage door. The sash was still open, and he leaned out of it, immediately remembering the tightrope walk into the Hotel Crosby and being thrown into air by the ecstatic crowd just a few days ago.

  There he was. The man in the pale suit. The one Harry had glimpsed ten stories up, the one who had written in the notebook as the crowd cheered. He was standing just a short distance down the street, staring directly up at Herbie Lemster’s office window. And he stayed like that, staring, as Harry felt a strange twitching sensation in the fingers of his right hand.

  He held them up. Their tips were smeared with a pale green dust. Looking closer, he saw that the greenness seemed to have become part of the skin and that traces of it could even be seen underneath the skin, dissolving into the pinkness of his fingers. But he couldn’t look at his hand any longer because his legs were feeling weak and he needed his hand to grip the wall. He heard two thuds behind him.

  Unsteadily, he swung around. He saw Billie sprawled on the rug and Arthur collapsed in a chair. Both of them were unconscious, their heads lolling, their bodies limp. The pale green letter stood upright, pinched between Arthur’s finger and thumb. Harry took a step forward, but his legs were even weaker, and his knees slammed into the rug. He crawled to his friends. They were still breathing. They almost looked quite peaceful as they lay there, sound asleep.

  The door opened. Harry watched it and tried to look up, but his head was too heavy. He saw a pair of polished shoes and the hems of some pale suit trousers step into the room. They crossed to a point just a short distance from him.

  “Your greatest achievements do indeed lie ahead of you,” a voice said. “You’ll discover more shortly, when you wake up.”

  Harry tipped forward onto the rug. He landed right next to the polished shoes. He saw his own face reflected back to him in the gleaming leather. It was curved, out of shape. Who was this man? What was his purpose? Most importantly, what did he mean by “greatest achievements”? Harry felt those strange little twitches quivering through his body again, and his heart pounded as he readied himself for whatever lay ahead…

  But, for the time being, his eyes flickered shut.

  And he stopped seeing anything at all.

  To be continued…

  About the Author

  Simon Nicholson grew up in Raynes Park, London. He worked in theater for a while before starting to write stories, mainly for children. Since then, he has written plays, books, and over a hundred episodes of children’s television series, and has been nominated for BAFTA and RTS awards. He lives in Winchester with his young family—and lots of books about Houdini.