Тимоти Уилльямз - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 769 & 770, September/October 2005

Copyright (c); 2005 by James Powell.

“When I wrote ‘The Great Rivorsky’ (EQMM 8/01), I fully intended him to be a one-off,” Marilyn Todd told us. “But that’s the trouble when you write about a magician. You just can’t make him disappear! So here he is again... still with an eye for the ladies.” Ms. Todd is also the author of the Claudia Sefarius series. See Widow’s Pique (’04).

It can be a terrible strain at times, being The Great Rivorsky. You would not believe, madam, the burden it puts on a man, and I do not say this merely on account of that unfortunate incident back in Montmartre. In all honesty, who could have predicted that our volunteer from the audience had only recently been released from an institution? Indeed, it wasn’t until he threw off his clothes and began braying like a donkey that I had so much as an inkling.

Of course, much of the problem lies in the word “Great.” You have no idea of the responsibilities that are heaped upon my shoulders because of that one tiny word! And when the expectations of the audience are already raised to the highest level, you will appreciate that any failure to carry through is apt to induce missile-throwing of an accuracy that Wild Bill Hickok’s Indian show would be proud of.

Not that the fault was ours, I might add. This was Salzburg, and I swear the wires for the levitation act in that little fleapit were used by Noah for winching up elephants onto the Ark and could not have seen a single sliver of grease on them since. This is the problem when travelling performances book their venues six months in advance. Theatres change hands, so you never know what you might get, and in Salzburg, Pepe, our resident dwarf, was forever having to shin up those wires to release Mimi while I entertained the crowds with anecdotes of our travels and pretended that lengthy levitation was part of the act. But that night — the night the wire snapped and pinged poor Mimi into the wings — those Austrians really showed their skills in the throwing department. No doubt their dexterity is honed from generations of hurling objects across deep Alpine valleys (hams, cows, cheeses — who knows?), but all the same, six stitches in a dwarf is no laughing matter.

Flawed translation doesn’t help, either. With your breeding and education you will naturally be aware that the German for great is grosse. Imagine my horror, then, when we arrived in Lyon to find that some inept Frog had used my Berlin posters as the basis for his translation, stupidly putting an “a” in place of the “o” and thus urging the crowds to flock to The FAT Rivorsky. Alas, it was only under the first deluge of distressed fruit that the matter was brought to my notice, but frankly I blame the French for paying to gawp at grotesque overweight freaks. In fact, had it not been for my assistant, Inga, being hit square in the eye with an overripe greengage, I would have said it served those Lyonnaises right.

Yes, yes, of course I comforted poor little Inga. Under the circumstances, it was only natural to loosen her corset, and can I help it if she later took it upon herself to show me more than just her appreciation? She has a magnificent... constitution, does Inga, and as you know from experience, ma chere comtesse, I do have an eye for the ladies.

Ah, you are admiring the photograph of the dear departed, I see. Beautiful, was she not? Such hair! Such cheekbones! Such embonpoint! Dead, madam? No, no, my dear wife isn’t dead, she merely departed. Somewhere between Stockholm and Vienna, if I remember correctly, and my, how I miss her. My wife was the best contortionist this side of the Urals, and no woman before or after could fold herself up inside that little box you see in the corner and have me walk offstage with her tucked under my arm.

Now, then, Contessa, my deepest apologies, since we seem to have digressed, but as always with good conversation, one topic tends to roll into another, does it not? Where were we? Of course.

It started with your coming backstage to compliment me on my magic show, discussing the complexities of making elephants disappear over the champagne and the dangers of catching bullets in the teeth over the caviar (and here I must both thank and compliment you on your extreme generosity). Then, if my memory serves me correctly, the talk switched to my skills as a mesmerist before moving on to my mind-reading act, sawing the lady in half, thrusting swords into the basket in which my assistant is crouching, until finally the focus turned to the somewhat unusual subject of poison.

For — and forgive me if I have this wrong, madam — but you did come here this evening to kill me, did you not?

Smelling salts! Quick, quick, someone fetch smelling salts! Not me, Pepe, you imbecile! It’s la comtesse italienne who has swooned — but look, she’s coming round. Would you mind fetching some water?

Ah, you would prefer something stronger, Contessa? I quite understand, and as luck would have it, I happen to have a bottle of vodka right here in my trunk, because, in this business, one never knows when liquid fortification might come in useful, and frankly, I think I will join you.

Yes, yes, thank you, Pepe, you may go now — although if you wouldn’t mind closing the door as you leave, the lady and I would like a little privacy — oh, and Pepe: Before you slope off to that tavern off the Boulevard de la Reine (and don’t think I don’t know about you and that strumpet from the Comedie — just make sure you don’t get her pregnant like you did those Siamese twins in Milan), would you mind frisking the footlights boy before he leaves?

Five nights in succession, Contessa, that boy walked out into the rain, snug inside his long flowing cape. Indeed, it wasn’t until I searched for our missing rabbit that I discovered the scoundrel had been robbing me blind of my capes. Silk linings, too. Personally, I would have fired the rogue on the spot, but the theatre manager insists footlight skills are hard to find here in Marseille, and who knows? Perhaps working with gas all day affects the boy’s brains.

There. A cushion under your feet will soon ease the nausea, and maybe another vodka will settle the—? My, my, it’s not every day one sees countesses swigging straight from the bottle, but I think we both agree that attempted murder counts as exceptional circumstances. But rest assured, madam, your enthusiastic thirst-quenching will remain our little secret. Ah, yes. Discretion... I see from your sudden upraising of eyebrows that you thought I was about to elaborate on the subject of secrets, and so I shall, madam, so I shall. But not yet. For like all good magicians, the knack comes from laying the groundwork, a principle I instill in every young person wishing to study the art of illusion. The more solid the foundations, the stronger the act — and the stronger the act, the more breathtaking the denouement. The Great Rivorsky would be merely Rivorsky, were it not for the long hours spent on detailed observation, rehearsal, and training, and without the “Great,” how could I have hoped to perform before the court of the Russian Tsar, give private shows to Bertie, Prince of Wales, or entertain the very cream of European aristocracy?

Which, of course, brings us back to discretion. I have, as I say, rubbed shoulders with the best of them (and that Austrian archduke, Francis Ferdinand, will go far, mark my words, for I doubt we’ve heard the last of that gentleman). But as I was saying, it is because I have a certain rapport with the ladies — it is my life’s mission to make people happy, after all — it would not be a lie to say that more than one blue-blooded filly has twiddled my moustache during the course of my tours.