Harry Blackstone’s entrance was far less flamboyant than Ott’s. He wore a black tux with a white tie and a white handkerchief in his pocket. He looked exactly the way he looked for every performance of his that I had seen. He walked, not marched, past tables, exchanging a word or two at each table, nodding at Phil, smiling at me. When he did get on the platform and sit, Ott turned to him and smiled, as false a smile as was inhumanly possible and passable.
When it was clear that no one else was coming, Ott rose as waiters moved from table to table with bowls of biscuits.
“Fellow prestidigitators,” he said. “We are here to honor a man who truly needs no introduction.”
Polite applause.
“Harry Blackstone is a legend,” Ott said. “There are few true legends in our profession. And most of them fade into a mysterious cabinet called Time and are heard of no more. Many of them fall before their time because someone of imagination tests them, humbles them. None have yet been able to do that to the man we honor today. But, to make the evening one to remember, I have issued a friendly challenge to this man we so admire. There will be a surprise. But first, a few of our members have agreed to perform new feats of magical legerdemain. Wayne Dutton.”
Polite applause.
A roly-poly man with a bushy head of hair and mustache rose from a table near the podium. He moved to the open space in front of Blackstone and Ott, turned to the roomful of magicians and pulled out a red ball tied to a piece of string about two feet long.
Someone groaned and whispered, “Not the dancing ball.”
“The dancing ball,” said Wayne Dutton in a very high voice that guaranteed he would never have a career in show business, at least not as a magician.
He held up his hands. His shirtsleeves were too long. He held the string and let the ball down in front of him. The ball quivered a little. Then it began to move from side-to-side and then suddenly the ball went straight up in the air and the string stiffened. The ball was balanced at the top of the string. Wayne Dutton smiled beneath his bushy mustache.
Polite applause again. One of the magicians at our table leaned over to me and said, “There’s not a man in this room who couldn’t do that when he was twelve, with the exception of old Wayne.”
“How?” I asked.
“At least four different ways,” the man said, continuing to applaud as the ball suddenly dropped and the string became a string again. “Wayne is Ott’s number two sycophant, next to Leo.”
Two other magicians presented tricks, one who kept plucking playing cards out of the air and another who made lighted cigarettes suddenly appear and disappear.
Ott stood when the applause stopped and said, “We’ll have our dinner now, unless our honored guest wishes to entertain us with a feat of magic to start the evening, though it is obviously doubtful that he could top the marvel just performed by Wayne Dutton.”
Blackstone shrugged, stood up, raised a hand and as he flicked his wrist, the lights went out. I started to get up, but the lights came back on almost instantly.
Blackstone was gone.
There was a snap of fingers at the ballroom door and there stood Blackstone, thirty feet from where he had been only a second earlier. All eyes were on him as he grinned and the lights went out again. Again it was an instant before the lights were back on again. Blackstone was no longer at the door. He was back on the platform standing behind the podium.
The applause was more than polite. A few people rose. Blackstone swept back his tuxedo tails and took his seat next to Ott, who forced himself to smile. He whispered something to Blackstone, but I was too far away to hear what it was.
Salad came and went. Tomato soup came and went. I kept my eyes on Ott who smiled, eyes darting around, looking very satisfied. The main course was served.
I was spearing a potato, my eyes on Ott who was leaning forward slightly, when the lights went out again. Again they came back almost instantly. We all looked for Blackstone on the platform, expecting a repeat of the trick he’d already done, or some variation on it. But there Blackstone sat exactly where he had been. Next to him Calvin Ott was slumped forward, his face pressed against his plate, eyes closed, a knife buried deeply in his neck.
“There!” someone shouted.
The ballroom door was open. Someone in a brown jacket stood in the doorway for a beat, turned and ran.
“Don’t let him get away!” Sixty magicians, a dentist, a landlord, a tiny translator, a phony screenwriter, and two private detectives ran for the open door. I glanced back. The satchel was still next to the dead Ott’s chair. Blackstone was hurrying toward us.
I pushed past four or five people and went through the door. I could see a man in a brown jacket running across the lobby. I ran ahead of the crowd and through the door to the street. The runner was going down the sidewalk, pushing people out of the way. I closed the distance between us, but he was younger than me and in better shape. A blur of black and white passed me, caught up with the runner, and jumped on his back.
I was panting when I caught up. Passersby stopped to watch. Magicians caught up with us. The young magician who had caught the man stood up. He had a thin mustache and wasn’t breathing hard.
Phil caught up just as I was kneeling to double check the man in the brown jacket, who was lying on his back.
“Who the hell are you?” Phil asked, grabbing his neck.
The man wasn’t even a man. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, and he was frightened.
“Nordman, Michael Nordman,” he said. “It was a joke. My head hurts.”
“A joke?” I asked.
“Or something. I don’t know. A guy gave me fifteen dollars and told me to stand outside the door. I was supposed to watch under it, and, when the lights went out, open the door, stand there for a second or two, then run away as fast as I could.”
“What guy?” asked Phil.
“I don’t know his name,” the kid said. “My head hurts. I was working down the street at Hudson’s Restaurant yesterday. He came over to me and told me what he wanted. There was going to be an envelope with fifteen dollars for me at the hotel desk. It was there, so I did it.”
Around us, magicians were shoving, talking, shouting. Phil pulled the kid up by the arm, ripped his own collar off his neck, and started dragging Nordman back to the hotel.
Cars slowed down to watch us parade back through the lobby and into the ballroom. It was empty, except for Ott at the table facedown with a knife in his neck.
“That’s him,” said Nordman, pointing at Ott.
“The one who paid you to run away?” I asked.
“That’s him. What happened to him?”
No one answered.
“Get them out of here,” Phil said to Jeremy, nodding at the magicians. “Put them somewhere, but don’t let any of them go.”
Jeremy was next to me now. He heard what Phil had said and turned to wrestle the magicians back into the lobby.
“Can you handle it?” I asked.
Jeremy nodded calmly and began to herd the crowd away from the door. Phil moved quickly past the tables and stepped up on the platform.
The knife was deep in Ott’s neck, with blood—a lot of it—seeping from the wound. We didn’t have to check, but we did. No pulse. I wanted to lift Ott’s face out of the plate, but I knew better.
We looked at each other thinking the same thing. One of us had to say it.
“Lights were out no more than a second.”
“Only one person was close enough to do this,” said Phil, looking at the dead magician.
“Unless he was a contortionist and killed himself,” I said.
“Knife is straight down and deep,” said Phil.
“Blackstone,” I said.
“Blackstone,” Phil agreed.
“Phil,” I said. “The satchel’s gone.”
Chapter 12
Ask for a coin. In your hand is a handkerchief spread over the fingers of one hand. Ask someone to place the coi
n in the center of the handkerchief. Poke it down showing that the coin is still there. Reach over with the other hand, snap the handkerchief. The coin is gone. Show that both your hands are empty, wipe your brow with the handkerchief and put it in your pocket. Solution: Before you place the handkerchief over your fingers, put a rubber band around your thumb and first two fingers of the hand, which will hold the handkerchief. As you touch the end of the handkerchief, let the rubber band slip over the coin. Snap the handkerchief. Show your hands are empty.
—from the Blackstone, The Magic Detective radio show
“SIXTY WITNESSES,” SAID CAWELTI, leaning back against the table, arms folded, smile on his pink face.
“Sixty-six,” Gunther corrected. “Plus at least one waiter.”
Cawelti glared at Gunther for a second, shook his head and looked at Blackstone who sat in front of him. The set-up was makeshift: two rows of chairs, four chairs in the first row, three in the second. It was a small meeting room in the hotel, rearranged quickly for Cawelti’s show.
A huge cop named Brian Alexander stood at the door to the room. He was a good guy, considered the toughest man in the Wilshire station, and we all knew he was there for one reason, which was to protect Cawelti from my brother. Alexander didn’t look comfortable.
It was Cawelti’s show, and he was going to play it out, trying to make us all squirm. It was his moment of triumph. It would be a very short moment.
In the ballroom, police lab guys were looking at Ott’s body. In another room, the magicians were being interviewed by four detectives. All of them were coming up with the same story that pointed to our client as a murderer.
Blackstone sat in the first row of chairs with me on one side of him and Phil on the other. Gunther sat next to me. In the second row sat Shelly, Pancho, and Jeremy.
“Ott threatened you,” Cawelti said, pointing at Blackstone.
Blackstone nodded his agreement.
“You all heard the threat,” Cawelti said, looking at each of us. “Right?”
We all nodded, except for Shelly who said, “right.”
“So you killed him before he could nail you,” said Cawelti, looking at Blackstone.
“Incorrect,” said Blackstone.
“Come on,” said Cawelti, folding his arms again. “No one was within twenty feet of the victim but you. Lights go off. Lights come back on. How long were they out? A second? Two?”
No one answered.
“Not enough time for anyone to stand, let alone get up on that stage and stab Ott,” said Cawelti. “Not enough time for anyone to do it but you. Right?”
He pointed again at Blackstone, who was lost in thought.
“Pardon me,” said Blackstone, looking up. “What did you say?”
“I said you killed Ott,” Cawelti shouted.
“No,” said Blackstone. “It was an illusion.”
“It didn’t happen,” said Cawelti. “That what you’re telling me? We walk back in that ballroom and Ott is alive? That what you’re telling me?”
“No,” said Blackstone. “He is dead. The ultimate trick designed to create the illusion that I was the only one who could have killed Ott.”
Cawelti looked at the ceiling and then at the carpeted floor.
“If you’ll give me a little time, I’ll figure out how it was done,” said the magician.
“Like Sherlock Holmes?” asked Cawelti.
“Something like that,” said Blackstone, straightening the lapels on his jacket.
“And Cunningham, you didn’t kill him in that dressing room?” Cawelti hammered.
“I was onstage before more than a thousand witnesses,” Blackstone said. “I didn’t know the man and there are witnesses who saw the real killer.”
“You could have …” Cawelti began.
“Show’s over,” said Phil, standing.
Cawelti’s eyes turned toward my brother and then to Alexander at the door.
“Charge him, book him, and tell the reporters you arrested him,” said Phil. “And when we prove he didn’t do it, we tell the reporters that you are a pisshead which they already know.”
“I need to use the bathroom,” Shelly said behind me.
“Suffer,” said Cawelti, trying to stare Phil down.
“I am,” whined Shelly.
“Something was different,” said Gunther.
We all looked at him.
“Something was different?” Cawelti repeated, looking at Gunther. “What the hell does that mean?”
“The dead man,” said Gunther. “He did not look the same when we came back after chasing that young man. Something had changed.”
“What?” asked Cawelti.
“I’m not certain,” said Gunther. “But I am certain that something was different.”
“Very helpful,” said Cawelti.
I looked at Blackstone. He was looking at Gunther and I could see that the magician was beginning to get an idea.
“I’ve got to pee, really, “ said Shelly. “Now.”
“Oh for Chrissake,” said Cawelti with a sigh. “Go pee and get your ass back here in one minute flat.”
Shelly got up. So did Pancho.
“Where the hell are you going?” Cawelti asked.
“With him,” said Pancho.
“Sit down.”
Pancho sat as Shelly waddled toward the door. Alexander took a step to one side to let him pass.
“John,” I said.
“Detective Cawelti,” he corrected.
“I thought we were friends,” I said.
“Cut the shit Peters. Your client is burnt toast.”
“Why would he turn out the lights-and kill Ott, knowing that when they came back on he’d be the only possible suspect?” I asked.
“He didn’t know the lights would come back on so fast,” said Cawelti. “He pulled the lights-off trick earlier to be sure it would work. This time it didn’t work. Somebody turned the lights back on too fast.”
“Somebody?” I asked. “Who?”
“What’s the difference?” Cawelti said, looking at Blackstone again. “Who turned them out the first time, when you did that trick about getting across the room?”
“A young man in our show,” said Blackstone.
“How did you get across the room and back in less than a second?” asked Cawelti.
“If I tell you, the illusion is spoiled.”
“Fine,” said Cawelti. “You can tell it to a jury if it gets that far.”
“Unlikely,” came a voice from the open door behind Alexander.
Martin Leib, the best lawyer money can buy, filled the doorway. Marty was immaculately dressed in the best suit his clients’ money could buy.
Before Cawelti had shown up, I had called Marty’s number. He hadn’t been there, but his wife had taken the message and said she would find him.
Now Marty moved past Alexander gracefully, briefcase in hand, and said, “From what I’ve been able to gather, no one saw my client commit the crime.”
“No one else could have,” said Cawelti.
“That remains to be seen,” said Marty, moving to the table against which Cawelti was leaning.
He placed his briefcase on the table, opened it, and pulled out a cigar box. He held the box up, opened it, showed it to Cawelti and to all of us, closed the box, and handed it to Cawelti.
I thought I heard Blackstone let out a small chuckle at my side, but he said nothing.
“Open it,” said Marty.
“What the hell are you …?”
“Indulge me,” said Marty, adjusting his jacket.
Cawelti opened the cigar box. A white dove flew out and almost hit him in the face. The dove flapped its way around the room and came to rest on a small table at the back of the room.
“I can put you on the stand and make you swear the box was empty,” said Marty. “But, given what you have just seen, all you could honestly say is that you thought the box was empty.”
Marty looked at Blackstone, who
nodded his approval.
“God, I’ve always wanted to do something like that,” Marty said. “I’d almost take on this case for nothing for the pure satisfaction of this moment. Almost.”
Gunther applauded. We joined him. Marty dropped his head in a near bow, and Cawelti turned bright red as Shelly came back through the door. The dentist was zipping his pants and pushing his glasses back on his nose.
“What did I miss?” he asked, looking around.
“Sit down!” Cawelti boomed.
Shelly hurried to sit, and Pancho whispered into his ear to explain what had happened.
“Would you like to see another one?” Marty asked.
“No,” shot Calwelti.
“So,” said Marty, “are you going to arrest my client? Put him in handcuffs? I’ll give you a hundred dollars to your ten that he’d be out of them in less than eight seconds. Was my client wearing gloves when all this happened?”
“What?” asked Cawelti.
Marty looked at us.
We all shook our heads.
“Well,” said Marty. “I’ve just been told by Joe Moark, one of your men, who’s in the ballroom, that there are no fingerprints on the murder weapon.”
“That son-of-a-bitch,” said Cawelti. “Blackstone could have dumped the gloves.”
“Where?” asked Marty. “Have you searched my client?”
Cawelti didn’t answer.
I thought of some place Blackstone could have dumped a pair of gloves, plus the missing black satchel.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” Marty looked at Blackstone, who nodded. “And you’ve searched everyone in this room?”
We all nodded “yes.”
“He dropped them somewhere in the confusion,” said Cawelti.
“Let me know when you find them,” Marty said, snapping closed the cigar box and returning it to his briefcase. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from the briefcase and held it up as if he were going to do another trick.
“Signed by Judge Froug,” he said, handing it to Cawelti.
Now You See It: A Toby Peters Mystery Page 12