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

I cannot deny that this was often a cause of friction between myself and the dear departed, especially since I am egalitarian when it comes to romance and do not differentiate between patrician blood and plebeian. However, it was the circus that separated me from my wife, in particular the lure of a certain lion tamer from Stamboul, but that is irrelevant.

The point is, I am well used to duchesses, countesses, princesses, and the like coming backstage to compliment me on my show, and not all of them were as charming and attractive as you. (By no means.) But you were the first, madam, to make overtures without the slightest twinkle in your eye. Indeed, I have seen generals draw up battle campaigns with more humour and flair, although none, I admit, with quite such dogged determination.

And only a fool would not stop to ask himself why.

At this stage, I think we need to backtrack. Perhaps, though, when you have paused with the bottle, you might allow me a snifter before I continue? After all, it is not every day a man meets his own killer...

Ah, that’s better. Please don’t think I didn’t appreciate the champagne you brought earlier, but the thing about vodka is that it goes smack! to where it is needed. Straight to the point, as it were — unlike me. But then, as a magician of certain renown, I do have to be aware of my own shortcomings, just as I am aware of my strengths.

Which brings us back to the matter of observation.

I cannot (obviously!) read minds. What I can read are reactions, and over the years I have trained myself to observe the tiniest changes in facial muscles, eye responses, body language, and human behaviour. From this, I have honed an act in which I can “predict” all manner of things, ranging from what people have in their pockets to the words they have already written on a board I have not seen. None of the volunteers suspects that subliminal messages have already been planted both on the stage and inside their heads, and my mind-reading act both reinforces The Great Rivorsky’s invincibility and serves as an interlude between what are, quite frankly, some very dangerous stunts.

I am not sure whether your eyes are glazing over due to the vodka or what you perceive to be another digression, but I merely wish to stress that, as a matter of course, I miss nothing. Everything that passes before me is absorbed, filed away in a corner of my professional mind, and some of it will be used though most of it will not, but nothing is ever discarded.

Take that scene at the train station.

Innocuous enough. As The Great Rivorsky’s entourage disembarks, so a file of chained prisoners shuffles along on the adjacent platform. Even without the presence of a heavily armed guard, it was obvious that these were not petty criminals on the move, but dangerous men bound for transportation, and a dirtier, smellier, uglier bunch of fellows I have not seen in my life. Perhaps it was the effect of the steam swirling from the locomotives, but to my mind it was as though their hideous crimes formed one vast aura of menace around them, and as they shambled along, rage and bitterness etched on their faces, one realised that, if by some sudden chance they broke free from their shackles, they would happily jump the nearest individual to demand money with menaces and place no value whatsoever on human life.

Except one.

The one at the end.

He stood out, not because he was smaller or taller than the rest, or any the less ugly — there is nothing attractive about a scar bisecting a man’s eye — but because of his expression. There was none of the others’ surliness distorting his features, no feral glint in his eye, none of the constantly watching for opportunities for the chance to escape. Instead, there was an air of resignation about him that was lacking among the other convicts, an air of what one might almost call calmness.

All of this, as I say, was absorbed whilst supervising the discharging of assistants, trunks, animals, and boxed scenery — tasks I frankly cannot afford to delegate, since this wouldn’t be the first time poor Pepe’s been left behind on a train. Being small, he snuggles into the luggage rack quite compactly and, being Spanish, it takes nothing short of an explosion to wake him. Nevertheless, as two of the guards passed us, I could not fail to catch the words “Devil’s Island,” and I confess, madam, a cold shiver ran down my back.

Devil’s Island! That abomination of a penal settlement in that godforsaken corner of the Atlantic Ocean where only the most hardened of criminals is despatched and where the combination of noxious climate, brutal conditions, and hard labour has claimed the lives of hundreds of prisoners over the years. With its reputation as a place from which escape is impossible, the island is aptly named. Few who are sent to Devil’s Island ever return.

But as our little group disembarked at the station, there was no time to dwell on the fate of those wretches who had condemned themselves to Hell through their own crimes. That clumsy oaf of a station porter had dropped the properties box on its head, so that swords, knives, and pistols were bouncing over the platform like raindrops. With so many women and small children in the vicinity, it was imperative we gather the weapons up fast, because The Great Rivorsky never pushes blunt swords into the basket in which his assistant is crouched, and to prove their deadliness I always slice a melon in half before we start. I repeat, some of my acts are extremely dangerous.

So there we were, in total chaos, when suddenly there was a shout.

“Look out!” a voice cried. “Look out behind you!”

Without doubt, madam, that warning saved lives. The first chain of convicts had seen the box drop and in the blink of an eye were charging down on the weapons. There is no doubt in my mind that those devils would have used the knives to hold innocent civilians hostage, killing us if their demands were not met, for these are men with nothing to lose and everything to fight for — except, of course, the salvation of their souls, where the battle is already lost.

But at the warning, I spun round and, realising immediately the danger that was unfolding, began kicking the weapons under the wheels of the train, out of harm’s way. But the prisoners were gaining faster than I could scatter the blades and the guards were only beginning to shoulder their rifles. Thank the Lord, bloodshed was averted when a judicious dwarf lunged for their collectively bound ankles, collapsing the criminal chain in one pounce.

Pepe and I made the headlines. Unfortunately for him, poor little chap, you cannot always see Pepe on account of the fact that editors tend to crop photographs to fit the available space, but the point is, The Great Rivorsky made the front page. Exactly how advantageous this was I cannot stress too strongly, although full houses and additional performances were not a foregone conclusion until the following day, when I was back in the headlines (sans dwarf this time) for correcting a miscarriage of justice.

You see, Contessa, the first thing I did once the convicts had been subdued was to let the captain of the guard know who was responsible for saving our lives. After all, one doesn’t wish to think about what torments lay in store for the prisoner who betrayed his own kind, especially when he is isolated on a place like Devil’s Island! So I asked the captain if there was any way of compensating the Hungarian prisoner.

What? I didn’t mention that the warning was given in Hungarian? Apologies, madame, but so much was happening, even in my mind as I relived those terrible moments, that one tends to overlook certain details in the telling. But it was purely because the shout came in my native tongue that I spun round.