Julius slowly rose from his place between the rocks. Prophet John stood where he had fought, his rifle now empty. Above him, seated upon a magnificent pinto, sat a tall brave. He was somewhat older than his surviving troops, and his buckskins were adorned with the history of his victories. From his moccasins to his knees, he was soaked with blood.
During the attack, Julius had hardly known fear. The arrows had flown too swift; the gunfire had cracked too loud. But now, seeing the Indian above him, he became truly frightened. He had seen the face on posters above amounts of reward money; a photograph in the newspaper office window warned of his atrocities.
It was one thing to be quickly massacred; it was another to become the prisoner of Chased By Owls.
10
ALEXANDER HERRMANN HADN’T SO MUCH AS PALMED THE Queen of Hearts as he strode from the wings and onto the stage; yet the applause was more fitting for the end of a performance than the beginning. As he bowed to the audience, the sound came toward him in waves. It felt, he said later, like the ocean at the height of summer but it smelled not of salt, but of money. For the past two hundred nights, every seat—and all the places to stand—had sold to someone. Men cheered, women fainted, and louts screamed “fake” from the nosebleed seats while being treated to “Cutting Off The Bird’s Head,” “The Goldfish Bowl From Thin Air,” and “The Original Floating Boy.”
At first, the sages of London’s press dismissed this “Alexander the Great” as a colonial interloper, someone who could teach the great magicians of Britain exactly nothing. But before his tenth performance had ended, Fleet Street had changed its mind. The papers hailed him as “a genius,” a “rival for Robert-Houdin,” and “a modern-day Merlin.” The Times wrote, “he has brought the ingenuity of America to the hoary old world of stage magic.” The Illustrated London News went so far as to credit the supernatural:
“Professor Herrmann’s prestidigitations are so calculated to amaze that it fair makes one wonder if some arrangement has not been made with the spirit world or even a bargain concluded for the mountebank’s soul.”
Alexander wished it had been that easy.
Almost from the moment they had combined their efforts, Compars and Alexander had begun piling up money. In a matter of months, enough had rolled in to allow the elder Herrmann to purchase a small castle in Austria. With his brother now comfortably ensconced near Vienna, Alex had received permission to leave America, the better to mine the plentiful pesetas, marks, pounds sterling, and lire of the old land.
To this end, Alexander had now toured Europe for over a year with barely a stop for pleasure or rest. When he had first arrived in Spain, the houses had been nearly empty; by the time he departed, there were fistfights over tickets. Still, this made little difference in Germany, and he had been obliged to start again, this time in a theatre in Hamburg so small that to load in his equipment, he had to cut a hole in the roof. Before a month was out, crowds were queuing up and Alex found it necessary to move to the Friedrich-Wilhelm-Städtisches Theater in Berlin where, on opening night, he pulled a banana from the trousers of Frederick I, Grand Duke of Baden.
Nothing, however, equaled his reception in England. From the moment of his first appearance, Londoners both high and humble vied for whatever seats they could afford. It was rumored that the ninth Viscount Arbuthnott had offered to fight a duel with a fellow peer over the royal box. During a matinée, an East Londoner named Richard Little had been dangled from the third balcony by a man who demanded to take his place on the bench.
Despite the chaos, Alex was grateful for the warm reception and determined to give his all for the public—some of whom had gone without luncheon or dinner to save the few shillings needed to see him. By the end of each performance, he was soaked through with perspiration, his voice hoarse, his fingertips bleeding from the sharp edges of cards.
But in spite of these efforts, he also knew that part of what had made London a unique success could be credited not only to what the show was but where it was. If ever a theatre had been designed to make its patrons believe the unbelievable it was the magnificent old pile in Piccadilly known as the Egyptian Hall.
Its façade, five stories tall, could have been the passage to the tomb of Isis and Osiris, both of whom stood fifteen feet high above its entrance. Its sand-colored frontage had been molded to resemble the stones from a pharaoh’s resting place. Mighty columns framed the stepped doorway; and just above the two statues sat a pair of golden lions, back to back, topped by a woman with a face like Cleopatra and the wings of a desert eagle.
Inside, the Egyptian Hall was no less impressive. Throughout its many rooms, history unfolded as mythology and architecture overwhelmed the senses. Giant pilasters lined the walls, their capitals in styles from palm frond to elephant. Every floor and ceiling seemed populated by a race of human-animals. There was Bast, part cat, part woman; Set, with the head of an aardvark; and Khonsu, who carried the moon in the beak of a falcon.
Before every performance, Alexander would wander the great rooms enjoying the attention of their puzzled attendees. Even in Victorian London, known for its dandies and eccentrics, there were few figures more remarkable than Alexander the Great. Now six feet tall, Alex had grown lean and muscular. His hair, center-parted, was trained into curls and dyed jet-black, as was his devil’s beard. A high white collar offset an inky velvet opera cloak lined not with the usual white silk, but a blood-red satin that faded to purple in the shadows. Just above its brocade fasteners rode rows of gold medals, each a gift from a king or queen. The whole was crowned by a shining silk hat, concave to the top, its grosgrain band a perfect match for the cape’s scarlet interior.
Alexander held up his hands to both acknowledge and quiet the applause.
“Thank you, thank you, gentlemen and ladies. The generosity of the London public continues to amaze and astound even one whose livelihood it is to amaze and astound. And so, I welcome you to this, my two-hundredth performance in your great city. Two hundred performances at which, I am happy to say, no seat has gone unfilled.”
The crowd exploded again, their applause muffled by gloves in the orchestra and amplified by shouts above the mezzanine.
“In fact, my good friends, I am so happy to have your company here tonight that I have decided to prepare a small sweetmeat for your pleasure. But first, I will need the assistance of a gentleman in the audience who might still be in possession of his hat.”
Immediately, a well-dressed man near the front of the house stood and raised his black beaver stovepipe.
“Ah! I see we have an admirer of the late President Lincoln with us tonight—and now, if you please.”
The stovepipe was passed over the heads of the patrons until it reached the apron of the stage. With the grace of a practiced juggler, Alexander rolled it from his right hand, down his arm, behind his neck, across his left arm and into his left hand. The audience laughed and cheered.
“A very fine but otherwise ordinary beaver topper,” Alexander said, throwing the hat in the air and catching it behind his back. “We know it is not a trick hat because that would involve an unthinkable deception on the part of the young Duke Alfred of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, whom I thank tonight for his assistance.”
As the Duke stood and the crowd applauded, Seamus Dowie wheeled a table onto the stage. It held four oversized containers, each marked in huge letters: FLOUR, SUGAR, MILK, and EGGS. Beside these sat an equally large china bowl, a wooden spoon the size of a small oar and a tall candle, already burning. Seamus helped Alexander off with his cloak and coat.
“Maestro, if you would be so kind?”
To the tune of a cheerful waltz, Alexander plucked the big spoon from the table and began to mix the ingredients in the big bowl: the flour into the sugar; the sugar into the eggs; the milk to blend in all together. He kept up a steady patter, sometimes imitating a French chef de cuisine, other times becoming an old English grandmother, “maikin’ a dessert fer the wee ones.”
“Very good
! We now have the perfect mixture for a cake.” He dipped his finger into the white concoction and put it to his lips. “And if I say so, a right good one. Now all that remains is to bake it. But wait!”
Alexander looked around the stage in mock dismay. “It seems my assistants have tripped me up again. They have neglected to include an oven here on the Egyptian stage. Oh, well … no matter.”
The audience gasped as Alexander slowly poured the entire contents of the giant bowl into Duke Alfred’s hat and gave it a few shakes.
“And now, for the baking.”
Alexander took the hat in his left hand and, whistling a merry tune, held it over the flaming candle, keeping it close enough to appear to do the job but not so close as to singe the stovepipe.
“Voilà!”
With a flourish, Alexander reached inside and, with a sudden tug, produced a lovely pink and white three-layer cake, properly decorated and iced. On its surface were nine lighted candles.
He placed the cake on the table and tilted the Duke’s hat toward the audience, revealing that it was not only undamaged, but also as dry and free of foodstuffs as when first surrendered. Alexander then tipped the hat to the patrons and passed it back to the properly grateful Alfred, who rose to his feet and applauded with such enthusiasm that his young wife lifted her silk fan to hide her embarrassment. After the proper number of bows, Alexander again held up his hands for silence.
“Thank you, gentlemen and ladies. And now, if I may, I would like to call to the stage one Master Sidney Lydon.”
As more applause rained down, a beaming youngster in his Sunday best nervously approached the proscenium and joined Alexander onstage. The wizard picked up the cake and held it high, placing his remaining hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Now, Sidney … have we ever met?”
“No, sir, never,” the boy said, even these few words betraying his Cockney heritage.
“And am I perhaps acquainted with your mother or father?”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“And yet, Sidney, there is something I know about you. In fact, I know that today is indeed your birthday! And how old are you today, Sidney?”
“Nine, sir. If you please.”
“Nine! And would you be so kind, Sidney, as to count the number of candles on my little cake?”
Sidney shyly raised his index finger and slowly counted each burning head.
“Nine, sir.”
“Very fine. Now, can you read, Sidney?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Good! Then, Sidney, I am going to lower the cake down so that you can see its top. When I do, would you be so kind as to read to me and all of our friends what is written there?”
The drums played a roll. Alexander lowered the cake slowly, building as much suspense as possible, until he again laid it on the table.
“Come, come, Sidney. What does the miracle cake, mixed by Alexander the Great and baked in the hat of a nobleman, say?”
Sidney peered over the top of the cake. His eyes widened in disbelief.
“It says … Happy Birthday, Master Sidney Lydon.”
From nowhere, Alexander whipped out an oversized hand mirror. He held it above the top of the cake so that the nearby audience could read the amazing greeting in its reflection.
Now the crowd was on its feet, clapping and stamping, crying out “bravo!” and “well done, yank!” Even the various inebriates in the theatre’s upper reaches managed to applaud as the magician presented the cake to the boy and Seamus Dowie escorted him back to his tearful mother.
When the demonstration at last subsided, Alexander bowed again.
“Please don’t be disappointed, gentlemen and ladies. I promised you a sweetmeat, and a sweetmeat you shall enjoy. At the conclusion of this performance, you are invited to our theatre’s foyer, there to partake of London’s biggest birthday cake. A cake inscribed with the names of all those under twelve in tonight’s audience celebrating their nativities tonight!”
For the next hour, Alexander built wonder upon wonder. He caused a lemon to give up a six-foot silk; produced a bowl of live goldfish from the ether; burned the Lord Mayor’s handkerchief, then restored it to him; “killed” Seamus Dowie with a knife throw to the chest and brought him back to life. With each illusion, the gasps became longer and the applause louder. It was only after an encore that included the famous “floating boy” that he was finally permitted to leave the stage.
The man in the brown checked suit had watched the entire presentation from the wings, his brow taut with concentration, his hands moving in nearly exact unison with those of the performer. When Alexander would pick up a wand, the man’s hands would pantomime the gesture; when the magician would stretch a long silk, so would the man, his bald head bobbing in exact time to the music.
“I’ll be askin’ ya ta refrain, sir.”
The bald man turned at the sound of the Derry brogue and was met with a right to the nose. When he regained consciousness, he found himself sprawled on a watered silk divan in an ornate dressing room and facing Seamus Dowie; his red hair had fallen over his forehead and he was gingerly rubbing his knuckles.
“Don’t expect no apologies, mister,” Dowie said. “I don’t know how ya got in here but yer not the first to be tryin’ an steal the boss’s business. Yez are all alike: jackals what wants to be eatin’ off the lion once he’s made the kill. Well, soon’s he’s done with the public, we’ll be after findin’ out what ya know, and then we’ll be callin’ in the police and press boys ta expose ya fer what ya are.”
The big Irishman rose from his chair and opened the door. Just beyond it, he could see Alex signing his final autograph of the evening and taking the card of a particularly attractive young woman. Seamus gestured to him from the doorway. Alex blew a few kisses to the backstage stragglers and, swirling his cape behind him, strode into the dressing room. The bald man sat up straight on the divan.
“What’s all this, then?”
“Found ’im stage right flies makin’ head notes on our whole play. T’ink he’s been here before. Knows yer patter like he wrote it. Knows yer music like his mother’s lullabies. I’ve already fisted ’im. Figured to give ya a turn before we put ’im out a’ business, permanent.”
Alexander stared at the bald man but made no move to strike him. Instead, he moved forward and, reaching out slowly, took the fabric of his lapel between his thumb and forefinger.
“Very nice,” he said. “Ravenscroft?”
“No,” the man said. “Actually, a new fellow. A co-religionist named Landau in New York.”
Alex nodded. “Well, the suit looks just fine, but you, dear brother … you look like hell.”
The man ran his hand over his clean pate and smiled.
“It is amazing how attractive a bit of hair and beard makes a man and how hideous he can be when all that’s left is the face beneath.”
Compars Herrmann turned his gaze toward the stunned Seamus. The redhead quickly bowed to his old master and began to murmur an apology.
“Don’t be remorseful, Mr. Dowie,” Compars said, massaging his jaw. “You did your job. And that roundhouse of yours left me more convinced than ever that my successor is in the most capable of hands.”
Alex laughed and again pointed to his brother’s pate. “I assume this great sacrifice has a purpose?”
Compars picked up an open bottle of champagne and poured three glasses.
“Yes, dear boy. I did it for you: the same reason I have made so many sacrifices. Considering the current state of your skills, it is likely that you may inhabit this theatre for five, six, even seven hundred performances. But if it were known that the original—me—was here in Europe, the spotlight would fall off of the copy—you. That, we cannot have.” He placed the bottle back in its bucket and passed the glasses to Alex and Seamus. He clicked his heels, saluted, and took a deep draught.
It had been over two years since Alexander had seen his brother; but Compars’s condescension still rankle
d. In that time, Alex had become used to being his own man, making his own decisions, even changing small features of the act to suit himself. Tonight, as hairless as a moth larva, his brother had returned, making his usual dramatic entrance, attempting to upstage him even if the audience consisted only of a single mystified Irishman.
“I suppose I can only be grateful that my big brother has seen fit to visit me—and in such an unbecoming state. But somehow, I have the feeling that this is more than a social call. What? Have you come to inspect the paint on the Spirit Cabinet? Or maybe you’re just concerned about the overall health of the doves.”
Compars gave a slight smile and walked to a desk by the door. As he poured himself a second glass, he noticed a large paper diagram in the center of the blotter.
The blue-lined schematic was almost a work of art in itself. It depicted a large steamer trunk, surrounded by arcane mechanisms and various sliding panels. The renderings were exquisite in their clarity and simplicity, obviously the work of a master draughtsman; but their beauty was marred by dozens of notations and corrections scribbled across their surface. “NO!” read one, “DAMN FOOL!” another. The big paper looked as if it had been crumpled into a tiny ball and then unfolded again. In a rectangle at the right-hand corner the title read:
SUBSTITUTION TRUNK: DESIGN NO. 17.
Compars took another sip of champagne and set his glass on the desk, carefully avoiding the large sheet of beige vellum.
“You are as perceptive as you are adroit, brother. Yes, I am here for reasons other than the social or the exhibition of my new nakedness, so I’ll make this brief. As the newspapers will report tomorrow, yours truly, Compars … known as Carl in America and everywhere as the master of the mysterious, showman unique and magician extraordinary … has officially retired—which for you only means that ‘Alexander the Great’ no longer exists. As of this moment, little Sasha, you are the Great Herrmann.”
11
WITH A SHOUT, LEMUEL NORCROSS TURNED LEFT OUT of McCullough’s alley and onto Farnam Street. He performed two expert cartwheels and landed on the boardwalk in front of the M. Meyer Tobacco Company.
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