The Linking Rings

by John Gaspard

  “Remember which room is yours?” Baxter called to him.

  “Not a problem, I left breadcrumbs,” came Harry’s reply from the hall. That produced smiles all around.

  Baxter turned to me. “He’s holding up nicely, don’t you think?” he asked quietly. “I mean, given the events of the last few days.”

  I was about to agree he was, when Angus chimed in.

  “If I was him,” Angus said, matching Baxter’s low volume, “the thing that would bother me the most is remembering he and Oskar flipped a coin to decide who would sit in that bloody chair.”

  “So, he must be thinking it could have been him?” Borys said.

  Angus shook his head. “That would be my first thought, doctor,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “My second thought would be, if the knife was meant for me, and they missed me the first time...”

  He let the words hang in the air, and then breathlessly finished the thought. “When might they try again?”

  Chapter 5

  The crowds of people pushing through Leicester Square were a stark contrast to the peace and quiet I’d experienced at the Baxter estate out on The Heath. Laurence Baxter had attempted to send us to the theater district with his car and driver, but we opted to hop on the Underground and experience the adventure of taking the tube. Harry led the way, his knowledge of the subway system seemingly undiminished in the several years he’d spent away from London.

  “Best transit system in the world,” he said as he marched confidently through the stations, down corridors and up seemingly endless escalators and stairs before we emerged into the brightly lit streets around the Leicester station. The sudden crush of people was simultaneously exhilarating and a little frightening.

  Confident we’d successfully made it to the right neighborhood, we searched out a restaurant for a quick dinner. Harry’s knowledge of the territory was invaluable, as he steered us past a number of chain restaurants and “tourist traps” until we found ourselves on a narrow street sprinkled with tiny, ethnic restaurants. We left the selection to Harry, who picked a small Greek bistro, and soon we were noshing away on hummus and stuffed grape leaves. It was only a matter of minutes before we found ourselves equally stuffed.

  Despite the possible murder conviction, which hovered over his head, Harry focused the conversation on local sites of interest and Megan cross-checked our planned itinerary against Harry’s past experiences. He pooh-poohed her interest in the National Portrait Gallery (“eminently boring,” he proclaimed), and instead insisted she add Highgate Cemetery to our list of must-sees. He also suggested two short day trips we hadn’t thought of and then agreed with my veto of The London Eye.

  “If it’s a view you want, grab lunch in the restaurant on the top floor of the Tate Gallery,” he said. “That’s a view worth paying for.”

  Before we knew it, dinner was over. It was time to go to the theater, and I realized that not a moment had been spent talking about Harry’s current legal issues. As it turned out, I think this was his favorite part of the evening.

  What came next certainly wasn’t.

  We had no trouble finding our playhouse among the several dotting the area, as Jake’s name shimmered in enormous letters on the marquee. In fact, the play’s title, A Pretty Taste for Paradox, appeared to be an afterthought, taking second billing to the American television star’s name.

  Given the size of the crowd milling around in front of the theater, I was concerned we wouldn’t be able to snag the necessary third ticket for Harry. Once we had made our way to the front of the box office line, a clerk behind the thick glass typed and pecked at a keyboard, searching for an elusive single seat. There was nothing available in our row, but she did eventually find a seat in The Queen’s Box, just to the left of the stage. Harry would be joining a party of three, while we would be situated in less posh seats in the stalls. Once we learned there was no intermission, we settled on a place to meet after the show and then took our seats. I looked up at the box and saw Harry as he entered and took his seat just as the house lights dimmed.

  And then A Pretty Taste for Paradox began.

  The mild applause that occurred when the curtain came up was nothing compared to the thunderous ovation Jake received when he made his first entrance. The action of the play came to a halt while the audience went nuts. Jake, for his part, just stood there smirking, that same smirk I remembered from high school plays, in which he would ad lib, break up the rest of the cast, and then just stand there like the outburst was entirely outside of his control.

  Jake’s movie-star good looks, natural charm, and ease onstage were as evident now as they had been back in high school. I recognized that immediately. He was simply performing to a larger audience, and one with the type of disposable income that doesn’t think twice about high-priced theatre tickets.

  He was playing “The American” in an extremely broad take-off of Agatha Christie-style mysteries. The story—what there was of it—concerned a series of mysterious deaths at an old English manor home and the many curious and stereotypical characters staying there. I wasn’t familiar with the play, but I got the sense it must have been slightly retooled to include in-jokes about Jake and his popular, albeit trashy, TV series.

  As the main character on Blindman’s Bluff, Jake played a lothario who pretends to be blind in order to impress and subsequently seduce women. It was a far cry from Masterpiece Theatre and was insanely popular with American audiences, but reviled by critics.

  As an apparent nod to that show, Jake blurted out his show’s most famous catchphrase—“What are you, blind?”—at odd moments in the story. This was much to the delight of the audience, although it didn’t add much to the plot or the pacing of the show.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the play or my current situation, but my mind kept turning back to the charges that hung over Harry’s head. Certainly the police must understand, I thought, that it had been the simple toss of a coin that placed Oskar, and not Harry, in the fatal seat. If the toss had gone differently, I would likely be sitting at a wake this evening instead of a slightly uncomfortable theater seat.

  There was also the question of motive, of which there was precious little on Harry’s part. I didn’t know much about Oskar’s relationship with the other Magi, but I couldn’t imagine that anyone, including the London police, would take the position that a pilfered card move from thirty years before was considered a strong enough motive for a minor assault, let alone a cold-blooded murder.

  As the show dragged on, I kept drifting back to these thoughts, thinking I must be the only one in the theater not enjoying the play. However, a quick glance at Megan and the expression on her face told me I wasn’t alone. I looked up at Harry and could see his attention had wandered from the stage. He was looking around the old theater, which clearly offered more of interest than the play.

  The conclusion of the show when it (blessedly) arrived was delayed, if only briefly, by a quick polling of the audience. At the moment of climax, the action on stage froze, and one of the actors stepped out of the story and up to the footlights.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in what was probably a fair Cockney accent (but what do I know, I was raised on Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins), “it’s time to reveal the identity of the killer. But that is not for us to decide. You have seen all the evidence, you have listened to each of the suspects being interrogated, and now you are going to decide who is tonight’s killer!”

  The hubbub this created suggested the majority of the audience was aware of this feature of the show, while the minority—such as Megan and myself—needed to get ourselves up to speed on this new twist.

  The voting process involved a small, remote-control-style device, which was attached to the armrest of each seat. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I pulled it from its slot and examined the face of the device. There were five buttons, labeled one through five and
then a green button at the bottom labeled “ENTER.”

  The actor at the footlights then introduced the five suspects, who each stepped forward in a fun or menacing manner as they held up a large cardboard number. Then voting commenced. The theatre became more energized than at any point in the evening as the actor counted down from ten, and the patrons conferred with their seatmates before pressing one of the numbers and casting their votes.

  I was torn on who to vote for, so I sneaked a peek at Megan’s choice—the charming malaproping old British Colonel who had some of the best lines in the show—and simply followed her lead, then looked up to see the results.

  A video tally screen consisting of five columns had been lowered, and the screen was awash with a flurry of numbers as the end of the countdown approached and voting finished.

  “And our murderer is...Number Three, the American! There’s a surprise,” the actor said dryly from the footlights. There was wild applause and cheering, and then as Jake stepped forward we also heard some good-natured booing.

  The key moments of the play were then recreated, with Jake narrating the action, showing how he got away with each of the murders. Given that the story was structured so any one of five characters could, conceivably, be the murderer, the solutions he presented strained credibility, to say the least. But the audience didn’t seem to care, and at the end they gave the cast a rousing round of applause. Jake was even called back out to take a final bow of his own.

  As the curtain descended and the applause died down, I turned to Megan.

  “Are we going to the stage door to say hello?” she asked. Her tone suggested “no” would be her preferred answer.

  “I thought we might,” I said.

  “What can we possibly say?” Megan said. “I mean, without telling the truth?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe Harry will have an idea.”

  I looked up at the Queen’s Box. Harry was waiting patiently for the others to exit before he could leave. I caught his eye. He shook his head and gave me not one, but two thumbs down. I got the distinct impression, for this moment at least, he would have preferred to possess at least a couple more thumbs.

  “Then again, maybe he won’t,” I told her as we stood up and headed up the aisle.

  “Looks like we could have dodged a bullet on this one,” Harry said quietly, “had we only taken a slightly closer look at the critical blurbs heralded on these posters.”

  We were standing at the fringe of a large crowd of people who had gathered around the theatre’s stage door, ostensibly to catch a glimpse of the departing cast. However, given the chatter going on around us, it was clear the primary target of this potential love fest was none other than my old high school chum, Jake North.

  I looked over at the posters on the theatre’s outer walls—bright, colorful sales tools with more than their share of exclamation points. Large, capitalized words like “Hysterical,” “Stunning,” and “A Bright Light” touted A Pretty Taste for Paradox as the one show to see this season in London’s West End.

  “Turns out,” Harry continued, as he stepped up to the poster for a closer inspection, “‘Hysterical’ refers to the costumes, which were, at best, amusing. ‘Stunning’ is in reference to the set, which ironically, was the least wooden thing on the stage. And without the benefit of my glasses, I can’t quite read what ‘A Bright Light’ refers to. However, if my personal experience is any indication, it may have been the errant lighting instrument, which was shining in my eyes for the majority of the ordeal.”

  My intended witty riposte was cut short by a sudden cheer from the crowd as the stage door swung open and Jake North stepped out of the theatre. He feigned a look of surprise at the gathered crowd, putting a hand first to his mouth and then to his heart to demonstrate his intense humility toward their completely understandable affection for him.

  In what sounded like a practiced speech, an unctuous underling who clung to his side announced, “Mr. North would love to sign autographs, but he must rush off to a previously scheduled television appearance. Watch for him later tonight on BBC Four!”

  The underling repeated this announcement as he, with the help of three beefed-up bodyguards, forged a path for Jake through the crowd, snaking him toward a waiting car at the curb. Fans pushed, waved programs, and called his name lovingly, but all they got in return was a smirk and a wave from Jake, who seemed to be relishing his role as the lead salmon heading upstream through a river of fans.

  It was looking like we were going to be spared the embarrassment of telling him what we thought of the show, when he happened to turn my way just before getting into the stretch limo.

  Our eyes locked for a second, and I could see the wheels spinning as he tried to place me in this out-of-context environment. And then all the cherries lined up, and it clicked for him.

  “Eli,” he said, stammering a bit. “You’re. Here. In. London.”

  “Just for a few days,” I yelled back.

  “Cool,” he said, looking around for a moment like he had forgotten why he was standing there. The underling pointed toward the open car door. Jake turned back to me.

  “We should talk. Or something. Great to see you!” he added, then slipped into the car. It was already moving before he had shut the door.

  “Well, thank goodness,” Megan sighed as the crowd began to disperse. “I couldn’t think of one positive thing to say to him about the show.”

  “My go-to has always been, ‘Boy, it sure looked like you were having fun up there,’” I suggested. I turned to Harry, but he was staring after the car, scratching his beard thoughtfully.

  “It’s probably apocryphal,” he said. “But they say Noah Webster was once discovered by his wife while in the midst of canoodling with the chambermaid. ‘Noah, I am surprised by you,’ she bellowed at him. And he looked over and said, ‘No, my dear. I am surprised. You are shocked.’”

  Harry continued to the watch the car until it turned a corner and disappeared from sight. I knew enough not to ask, that the explanation would come at Harry’s pace, not mine. A few moments after the car was gone, he turned back to the two of us.

  “Your friend Jake,” he finally said. “He was either surprised or shocked to see you. The trouble is, I can’t quite figure which it was.”

  Chapter 6

  The subway ride back to Hampstead Heath was a quiet one for the three of us. It might have been a product of our shared jet lag, or a physical reaction to slogging through A Pretty Taste for Paradox. I was leaning toward the latter, and Harry must have agreed, for out of the blue he said, “It just didn’t work.”

  “What didn’t work?” I asked.

  “The play we just saw,” he said, still clearly annoyed by the experience. “A mystery should have a solution, a single solution that is clean and clear and elegant. Not five muddled solutions. Nonsense, it was just nonsense.”

  “And not even clever nonsense,” I added.

  “Not in the least,” he agreed.

  We sat for several moments in silence, rocking with the movement of the subway car. And then, a thought occurred to me. “Of course, you’ve always been a fan of Anthony Berkley’s novel, The Poisoned Chocolates Case, and that mystery had how many solutions? Five?”

  “Six,” he said. “But that book was really more of a parody of the genre, don’t you think?”

  “So was Jake’s play.”

  “Not in the same class,” he countered. “It did not satisfy. Solving mysteries is in our DNA, I think. It’s one of the few skills humans can hold over other species. Our eyes are poor, we’re not that strong, we can’t run fast...”

  “Speak for yourself,” I interjected, but he rolled right over me.

  “But we can string together ideas—pieces of evidence—to tell a story. To solve a mystery,” he said. “It’s something McHugh and I have discussed at length, from his pe
rspective of a police investigation and my perspective of a magician creating a story for an audience. Our audience wants—needs—a satisfying solution to a story. Without it, they feel cheated.”

  He looked up at me. “Don’t you feel a little cheated? I know I do.”

  “Sure,” I said, smiling at him. “But keep in mind I paid for all three tickets. So, if nothing else, I get to hold the title of most cheated.”

  “Let it so be bestowed,” he said.

  I’m not sure why that made me feel better, but it did. If only a little.

  As we rode along, I began to think about the mystery we were in the midst of. Harry was a murder suspect. Someone wanted him or Oskar dead and—perhaps—didn’t care which one it was. Both men were magicians and Magi. And both appeared on that stage together the other night for the first time, in what? Forty years?

  Why them? Why now?

  I mulled over these questions and others, reaching nothing resembling a conclusion by the time we had reached Hampstead Heath.

  “Is that Dr. Harry Marks I spy, slouching toward Baxter’s Folly?”

  The voice was vaguely familiar, but the laugh that followed made it immediately clear that it belonged to Roy Templeton.

  The three of us turned in unison to see Templeton and his wife and stage partner, Roxanne, on the same path a few yards behind us. We were, as he had correctly observed, heading up the lane toward Laurence Baxter’s mansion. There was a smattering of stars in the sky and a half moon, but most of the ambient light seemed to emanate from the skyline of London, visible across the heath.

  “Dr. Templeton,” Harry said, clearly thrilled. “I heard rumors of your presence in this vicinity, but no proof as of yet.”

  “Here is my proof, and I think it’s safe to say it’s at least eighty proof, or better!”