Magic Words

by Gerald Kolpan

  “You flatter me, sir,” Hammersmith said, “but to redocument such a—forgive me—notorious personage is a delicate thing, involving considerable risk to Hammersmith. At this point in her career, Professor, I cannot imagine there will be a single policeman or ship’s official who will not recognize the woman who has caused such a scandal in our city.”

  “Her disguise is my lookout, sir. You yourself have already attested to my capabilities of illusion. Rest assured that there will be no loose ends there. All I need from you is the paper. Cost is, of course, no object.”

  Frowning, Hammersmith rose from behind his desk and placed his hands behind his back. “As much as I would like to grant your request, Professor, I am afraid that materials of the kind you ask would not be available at any cost for such a high-profile individual. Normally, I would not shrink from the assignment—but with so much publicity surrounding the lady—”

  Alexander interrupted. “You know, Hammersmith, this may surprise you, but it seems my grandmother knew your grandmother.”

  Hammersmith fell silent, his face ashen. He walked back to his desk and sat down heavily. He knew exactly what the magician meant and what it meant for him.

  “Yes, good Isador, back in the old land! The rumor is they might even have been related, which could make you and me cousins, eh? As a relation, perhaps I could call on you and your good wife. How amazed she would be to hear your story! But perhaps you would prefer that we carry on this conversation in Yiddish, nu?”

  “No, no, Professor Herrmann. I understand your implication. What exactly is it you want of me?”

  Alexander reached into the portfolio and produced a sheaf of papers.

  “Everything you need to know about Princess Noor can be found in this document: her age, approximate date of birth, her address in Nebraska—”

  “I’m sorry, Professor, did you say Nebraska?”

  “Yes,” Alexander said. “This new passport will be the means by which we return the princess to her original identity of Miss Lady-Jane Little Feather, Ponca maiden. And if all goes as I so fervently hope, it will also return her to a life of tending fires, pounding maize, and spreading brains on hides.”

  In the rough milieu in which he had grown, it had sometimes been necessary to defend himself. But Julius Meyer had never been predisposed to violence. So it disturbed him to find that he was deriving considerable satisfaction from backhanding the face of Compars Herrmann.

  As his fingers found the magician’s mustache, he felt a surge of joy that, to his embarrassment, felt almost sensual. Hitting the professor again, he realized that such behavior could not continue. Compars was far on the high side of sixty; it was simply unfair that someone of his own age and vigor should take advantage of a man so many years his senior.

  Still, Julius told himself, he certainly seems in fine fettle. His figure still trim, his beard still black, one could easily take him for a man much younger—say forty or forty-five.

  Julius hit him again.

  The blow caused Compars to fall back against his desk. Julius took him by his vest and pushed him toward a chair. Compars pinched his nose to staunch the bleeding and looked up at his tormentor.

  “So,” he said, “it’s murder, then.”

  The three words disgusted Julius, spoken as they were with both superiority and self-pity. He smacked Compars on the top of his head as one might an errant schoolboy and threw him onto the chair’s embroidered cushion.

  “Sit down and shut up. There will be no murder. At least not today—although I imagine there are offenses you’ve committed that require it. No, you’re here to listen, and listen you will.”

  Julius pulled a chair from beneath a damask-covered side table and turned it to face him. He straddled its seat and looked straight at Compars.

  “Cousin,” he said, “we know everything.”

  Compars took a fine silk handkerchief from his now-scarlet waistcoat and put it to his face. His nose ran with blood and mucus.

  “In my young life,” Julius said, “I have seen many examples of cruelty. Indians left to starve because their camps blocked a railroad; whites staked out on anthills or buried alive up to their necks and left for coyotes. These were vicious, yes—acts of terror meant to horrify and caution the enemy. Perhaps they will someday be justified in history as acts of war. But when that fine young woman came to me and told me of your treatment of her, I knew then the difference between terror and evil—the kind of evil that can never be justified. The kind that laughs at the plight of its victims and takes pleasure in their despair.”

  Compars pulled the red cloth from his face.

  “Adelaide Scarcez is a whore,” he said, “and all whores are liars.”

  Julius put his hands over his eyes and hoped for restraint. It was bad enough that he had had to cold-cock the butler on his way upstairs. But today it seemed his discipline was deserting him for the pleasures of vengeance.

  Julius grabbed Compars by both ears and pulled him out of the chair, bringing his head within an inch of his own. The old man moaned.

  “I said you were here to listen, Herr Docktor. Miss Adelaide has told Alexander of all your misdeeds: her coercion, your extortion of poor Maskelyne, and your plan to reveal his substitution trunk to the public as your own. The message I bring from your brother is this: if any scandal touches Miss Adelaide—if there is so much as a notice in the papers that her petticoat was showing—it will take a better magician than you to reunite your torso with your head. Further, as of this second you will discontinue any contact with the good Jack Maskelyne; and the funds you have invested in his new invention are herewith to be considered a gift.”

  Julius pulled Compars’s ears forward for an instant and then thrust him back into the chair.

  “Blackmail? You are dead. Treachery? Dead. Retaliation—especially against Miss Scarcez? Well, as my good friend John McGarrigle would say, dead aplenty.”

  Through his fear and pain, Compars managed to smile. The whiteness of his teeth beneath the blood brought Julius a pang of nausea the likes of which he had not experienced since the crossing of the Berengaria.

  “How like my little brother this is,” he said. “I savage his little girlfriend and throw his life into chaos; yet if I am such a demon, why does he not have the courage to finish me off? Or is it his errand boy that lacks what is required?”

  Julius sighed, his hatred giving way to a bitter pity.

  “You have caused considerable heartache, Professor; but since no one is dead, neither are you. But from this day I suggest you consider yourself the favorite subject of the malakh-ha-maves: if you remember your bible …”

  “Yes,” said Compars, “the Angel of Death.”

  “Very good,” Julius said.

  Julius pulled a water pitcher from the side table with his right hand. With his left, he pulled away its embroidered cloth, sending pictures and mementos clattering to the floor. He poured some of the water over his bloody hands and wiped them clean. Without another word, he turned to leave.

  “One moment, cousin.”

  Julius turned back to face Compars. For the first time, he noticed the tooth on the magician’s lapel.

  “You have made your limits on my freedom quite clear. But you have not said whether ten days from now I may open my new show—neither have you stated if that act may contain the trick so long beloved of my dear Alexander. I assume this, too, is forbidden by you and Sasha and of course, the Angel of Death.”

  Julius threw the tablecloth on the carpet.

  “I did not mention it because it is not a condition of your staying alive. You found the substitution trunk before Alex did and bought it before he could. Thus has it always been among magicians—buy, borrow, copy, and steal—a long tradition of the roguish and reprehensible. So go ahead, Great Herrmann: the show must go on—and luck before damnation.”

  Julius dropped the pitcher to the floor. It shattered to every corner of the room. He walked to the door and then turned once mo
re toward Compars.

  “But know this. What Alexander is preparing will render your efforts futile. It will be the most spectacular illusion of the age. It will render you hack and ordinary and wipe you off the theatrical pages. That is, if he lives through it.”

  36

  BILLY ROBINSON WAS LATE FOR WORK. HE HAD MET a pretty girl in Hyde Park and she had remarked upon his black hair and almond-shaped eyes. It had taken the boy nearly ten minutes to ascertain that the innocent-looking blond was a prostitute looking for a mark. By then, he was past his appointed time.

  As he bounded up the steps of the Egyptian, he saw the posters for the upcoming performance. They covered every wall and window of the theatre and stood upright on the pavements. His heart sank. The boss was going through with it after all.

  SATURDAY EVENING, OCTOBER 6, 1883. OPENING NIGHT! 8 PM!

  EGYPTIAN HALL

  Piccadilly at Jermyn Street

  BENEFIT OF THE GREAT

  PROFESSOR ALEXANDER HERRMANN

  THE WORLD’S GREATEST MAGICIAN!

  PERFORMER BEFORE PRESIDENTS,

  KINGS AND QUEENS, THE CZAR AND CZARINA OF THE RUSSIAS, ETC.,

  WHO NOW OFFERS THE PUBLIC HIS GREATEST ILLUSION!

  THE ONE AND ONLY ORIGINAL TO HIM AND SINGULAR

  BULLET CATCH FIRING SQUAD!

  THE MOST DANGEROUS ILLUSION OF ALL TIME!

  SIX SHARPSHOOTERS

  ALL ARMED WITH MUZZLE-LOADING RIFLES

  WILL AIM AND FIRE AT THE GREAT HERRMANN

  WHO WILL THEN ATTEMPT TO CATCH

  THEIR MUSKET BALLS IN HIS MOUTH AND

  DISPLAY THEM UPON A SILVER PLATTER!

  OVER 50 MAGICIANS HAVE DIED

  DURING THE PERFORMANCE OF THIS DEADLY TRICK. THEY FACED

  ONLY A SINGLE GUN. THE GREAT HERRMANN WILL FACE SIX!

  DUE TO THE EXTREME PERIL

  THE BULLET CATCH FIRING SQUAD WILL BE PERFORMED ONLY

  ONCE—ON THIS EVENING!

  FOR THE PROTECTION OF THE LADIES, THE MANAGEMENT WILL

  PROVIDE AMPLE TIME TO EXIT THE AUDITORIUM BEFORE THE

  FIRING SQUAD BEGINS. A LICENSED AND QUALIFIED DOCTOR

  AND NURSE WILL BE ON THE PREMISES SHOULD THERE BE ANY

  UNEXPECTED INCIDENTS OF FAINTING OR HYSTERIA.

  NO ONE WILL BE ADMITTED ONCE THE CURTAIN HAS GONE UP!

  Damn thing’s bad luck, he thought, running through the lobby and into the theatre. Even the boss himself said so. Now he wants to try it with six guns.

  Billy clattered down a flight of stairs and into the men’s lounge. He opened a door marked PRIVATE and quietly stepped into a makeshift workshop beneath the stage. Dropping his coat and hat onto a battered chair, he sat down at his workbench, hoping to appear as if he had been there since his appointed hour.

  Looking across the room, Billy saw Alexander hunched over a set of old wooden molds, dark protective goggles over his eyes. Beside him sat an iron pot hissing over a gas flame. Periodically, he would dip a tiny ladle into the pot and then pour a steaming gray liquid into each mold. The air smelled of burnt sugar.

  “Mr. Robinson, come here.”

  Now I’m for it, Billy thought. It wasn’t the first time he had been caught tardy in the past few months. He only hoped that the professor would be good enough to provide him with his ship passage back to Hell’s Kitchen.

  “Mr. Robinson, please stir that solution, would you? It wouldn’t do for it to harden before we wish it to.”

  Billy sighed in relief. He took the ladle and dipped it into the pot. The liquid popped and bubbled.

  “Might I ask, sir, exactly what we are doing today?”

  Alexander smiled. “No questions, no answers. No answers, no learning. What we are doing here today Bill, is manufacturing ammunition.”

  “Ammunition, sir?”

  “Exactly. Watch.”

  Alexander put the ladle down on the bench. He reached for one of the wooden molds and opened it.

  Inside were eighteen nearly perfect musket balls. Their texture was exact, as was their color and even the slight pitting and surface variations one noted in a piece of shot. Alexander picked up a small box with a picture of a tall brick structure on it. It read: SPARKS SHOT TOWER • PHILADELPHIA, PA. He reached inside, removed a ball, and placed it side by side with the one he had just created.

  “Well, Bill?”

  “They’re identical, boss. But why make your own shot when you’ve already bought a box?”

  The magician took up the two balls and held them on either side of his head.

  “This one,” Alex said, turning to his right, “is Mr. Sparks’s ball—made in a big tower where they drop molten lead from the top to the bottom where it lands in a water bath, producing what you see here. Up to a few hundred yards, this little fellow can make one considerably dead.”

  Alex now turned to his left. “This one is mine. It is the same shape and approximately the same weight as its brother. But …”

  Alex took the musket ball, popped it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

  “Here, try one.”

  Billy took one of the balls and, ascertaining that he had the correct one, placed it on his tongue.

  “Lovely flavor,” Alex said. “Now, what does the magician always ask an audience member to do for this trick?”

  “Well, the first thing is, they write their initials on the ball.”

  “Excellent! Only on opening night, I shall ask six members of our audience to mark a half dozen of Mr. Sparks’s fine Philadelphia musket balls. Using misdirection, the true bullets will then be hidden within my mouth. These sweet little creations will then be loaded into the muskets, and with a great roll of drums and business with blindfolds, fired directly at my head. Bang! The moment the powder in the rifles explodes, my little candies will vaporize harmlessly. Once the din subsides, and the ladies who have fainted are cleared away, one by one I will spit the balls secreted in my mouth onto the promised silver tray. The patrons will then each positively identify their individual initials and voilà—applause followed by money.”

  “But that seems so simple, boss.”

  “That’s as may be, Billy. But we’re still dealing with firearms here. The slightest bit of carelessness and I could easily join the others who have fallen victim to this illusion. And now if you will be so kind as to return to work—we have much to do between now and the big night. It would also suit me well if from now on you wouldn’t set your own hours.”

  Billy gulped and his stomach flipped over. He bowed and returned to his bench.

  Alexander walked across the dirty floor and stopped at the old table that served as his desk. At its center was a handbill, yellow with bold red type.

  THE TRIUMPHANT RETURN OF THE ONE,

  THE ONLY AND THE ORIGINAL

  GREAT HERRMANN!

  (PROFESSOR CARL HERRMANN)

  WHO, AFTER SEVERAL YEARS IN RETIREMENT, IS BACK TO AMUSE AND

  AMAZE YOUNG AND OLD ALIKE IN HIS GREAT NEW SHOW AT THE

  OPERA COMIQUE

  EASTERN STRAND AT HOLYWELL STREET,

  SATURDAY EVENING, OCTOBER 6, 8 PM

  Professor Herrmann is not to be confused with his younger

  brother, Alexander, currently appearing at the Egyptian Theatre.

  ALEXANDER HERRMANN IS A MERE IMITATOR

  HAVING LEARNED HIS ENTIRE ART FROM HIS ESTEEMED

  PREDECESSOR!

  ON THIS NIGHT AND ALL SUBSEQUENT NIGHTS PROFESSOR

  HERRMANN WILL INTRODUCE THE GREATEST MAGICAL

  MARVEL EVER SEEN BY MAN. HIS OWN CREATION,

  THE SUBSTITUTION TRUNK

  Never before seen in Britain or anywhere else on the globe. Opening

  night will see its World Premiere. All those in attendance will consider

  themselves fortunate indeed to have witnessed magic history!

  SPLENDID NEW SCENERY! MAGNIFICENT WARDROBE!

  ALL TICKETS TO ALEXANDER HERRMANN’S PERFORMANCE

  WILL BE HONORED
HERE. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVED.

  HUZZAH!

  Alexander smiled. In a way, such bold words were a relief. At last, he and Compars would be going head to head in the same city on the same night. The next morning’s papers would decide the winner.

  He put the handbill back on the table and picked up the passport he had ordered from Hammersmith. Old Isador had lived up to his reputation. He doubted if anyone in customs or the Foreign Service could distinguish this document from the genuine article; its cover and paper were identical to that used by the United States; and every typeface, stamp, and official signature was exact.

  Alex put the passport in a gray envelope, scrawled a message on a slip of paper, folded it, and whistled for his page.

  “You are to take this to Mr. Julius Meyer at Brown’s Hotel. If he is not in, you will wait for him. If he doesn’t show up until tomorrow, you will wait for him. You are to put this envelope in his hand and bid him read this note. He will understand.”

  The page, a small red-faced Scot of about twelve, nodded and took the papers. When he reached the street, he unfolded the note. It read:

  HERE IS THE PAPER. YOU TAKE THE PRIZE.

  From the London Pall Mall Gazette

  1 October 1883

  MAGICIAN’S ASSISTANT KIDNAPPED

  Woman who scandalized two continents vanishes!

  Police believe Arab caliph has recaptured famous beauty for harem!

  FAMOUS MAGICIAN HERRMANN REPORTED CRESTFALLEN!

  The woman known to the theatre-going public as Princess Noor-Al-Haya has been reported kidnapped said her friend and employer, the world-famous magician known as the Great Herrmann.

  The incident is reported to have occurred yesterday night or morning at the apartments shared by Professor Alexander Herrmann, the princess, her chaperone, Miss Adelaide Scarcez, and Mr. Seamus Dowie, Herrmann’s assistant.

  According to Police Inspector Lestrade, around midnight, three Eastern-appearing men, wearing the traditional dress of their native lands, abducted the young woman from her bed. An unwrapped turban was found at the scene, indicating that the young woman put up a struggle.