Stuart Kaminsky - Now You See It

“You’re late,” the man said.

The turbaned man turned and started down the corridor. Phil reached out and grabbed his arm spinning him around.

“Look Ott,” Phil said softly. “I …”

“He’s not Ott,” I said.

He was too short and heavy to be Calvin Ott.

“I don’t give a damn who he is,” Phil said, nose to nose with the now wide-eyed man. “I want to know where he was all night, every goddamn minute.”

The man looked at me hopefully.

“Phil, whoever shot Gwen and me dropped the turban and whiskers. Cawelti’s got them.”

“There could be a second set,” said Phil.

“There are seven sets,” the man said, his voice rising. “And I don’t know any Gwen and …”

“Leo, who was at the …?”

A man stood at the end of the corridor, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

“That’s Ott,” I said.

“Keller,” Ott corrected. “The name is Marcus Keller.”

Keller or Ott wasn’t wearing a turban or a beard. We weren’t looking for a man dressed like the one who had shot Gwen. We were looking for someone who had lost the disguise.

“Would your friend please release my guest,” Ott said, pointing his drink at Phil whose right hand was now firmly around the turbaned man’s neck.

“He’s my brother,” I said. “And my partner. And he has a very bad temper.”

“And a voice of his own,” said Phil, letting the man go. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I understand you were a policeman,” said Ott, emphasizing the word “were.”

The man Ott had called “Leo” staggered back. It was not a magic moment for him.

“I could call a real policeman and have him take you away,” said Ott, sweeping his cigarette-bearing hand in a broad arc.

“Not before I convince you to tell us what the hell is going on here,” Phil said, taking a menacing step toward Ott who stood his ground.

“It’s the anniversary of the death of Dranabadur,” Ott said, looking at a poster on his left.

I remembered it now from the last time I had been here. The turbaned man, the emerald, the whiskers. I looked at it again. Dranabadur’s dark face filled the poster with the words: Dranabadur, the Orient’s Master of the Singing Blade of Death.

“Leo, are you alright?” Ott asked casually.

“Yes,” Leo gasped, moving past Ott.

“Come,” Ott said with a smile I didn’t like as he turned his back on us and began to walk. “Dranabadur was a little known genius. Died twenty-seven years ago at exactly one-fifty-three in the morning, if the hospital report is to be believed.”

We followed him as he talked.

“Dranabadur’s real name was Irving Frankel,” Ott said. “Born in Brookline, Massachusetts, of less than noble or Oriental origin. He was a genius and went to his death without revealing the secret of his most famous trick, the singing blade.”

“What killed him?” I asked.

“The blade, of course,” said Ott, stepping into the living room that looked the same as when I’d last seen it, except it was now full of people. There were seven of them, all men, or, at least, I thought they were all men. They were all wearing white suits, beards, and turbans with a green stone. They were also all standing and facing us. Some of them had drinks in their hand.

The little chubby one called Leo, who had greeted us at the door, moved to join the others.

“Where’s your costume?” Phil asked Ott.

“I never wear one for these events,” he said. “I lead the service. And I provide the reward of fifty thousand dollars to the one who solves Dranabadur’s illusion of the singing blade, solves it and gives me exclusive and binding rights to it.”

He looked at his watch.

“Hey,” Phil said, stepping in front of Ott who smiled more broadly, a mistake when dealing with my brother.

I could see that Phil was giving serious consideration to committing mayhem.

“We can talk after the memorial service,” said Ott, taking a step to his right so that he could see past Phil.

I touched Phil’s arm, realizing too late that instead of restraining him, it might turn him on me.

“We’re about to begin,” Ott announced.

“Oh Christ,” sighed Phil. “This is bullshit, Tobias.”

I shrugged. One of the Dranabadurs standing near the wall on our right reached up and flicked a switch. The room went dark. Then a dim green glow came from the ceiling. Light danced green on the well-polished head of the dark skull of Bombay, still sitting in the same place he had last faced me.

“Magic,” said Ott, his face green, his smile more than a little nuts. “We live to perform, to dazzle, to mystify. We honor at the anniversary of their moment of departure those who have come before us, those who have achieved.…” He hesitated trying to find the right words.

“The highest plateau of deception,” one of the whiskered group supplied.

“Yes, thank you,” Ott said. “The highest plateau of deception. Dranabadur’s singing blade remains among the list of eighteen illusions of magic that have never been duplicated, the secrets of which have never been revealed and have gone to the grave with their creators.”

There was a pause during which Ott took a long drink, looked at Phil and me and then back at the group of costumed guests.

“Another year,” said Ott. “Has anyone solved the mystery? Can anyone claim the reward?”

“Yes,” came a voice from the corridor behind us.

A startled Ott swung around, the remains of his drink spraying me. In the green glow, a figure stepped out of the corridor and into the room.

“Stephen, the lights,” Ott called.

The green glow disappeared. There was an instant of darkness and then light.

The man who had stepped out of the corridor was Blackstone.

“I didn’t invite you,” said Ott, clearly shaken, his voice rising.

Blackstone was wearing his tux and tails from the show. His white hair billowed. His mustache caught the light.

“The singing blade,” Blackstone said.

“You don’t know how it was done,” Ott said.

“But I do,” said Blackstone. “And it is not for sale, nor do I ever intend to perform it. There are some secrets which are better not revealed. The legend of Dranabadur would be gone.”

“You lie,” Ott challenged, his voice quivering.

“No,” said Blackstone calmly, facing the frozen costumed group in front of him and looking at them as he named “Wayne, Paul, Walter, Milton, Steven, Bill, Richard, Leo.”

“What do you want?” Ott demanded.

“What do I want? A man of questionable motive and character was murdered at the theater tonight during my performance. A young woman in my troupe was shot tonight by a man dressed as …”

He pointed dramatically at each of the people in front of him.

“… Dranabadur. Knowing of this annual party, it seemed a reasonable place to come for answers.”

I watched Ott’s face. Tension. Then a series of quick contortions and decisions. Throw the magician out of his house? This was Blackstone. The eight men in costume behind him might not want to take part of the blame from throwing Blackstone out. They might even go with him. Ott’s face loosened a little. Phil and I had been hired to find out why Ott had set up the testimonial dinner for Blackstone. How would it look if he threw out of his home the man he was going to honor on Wednesday?

“Forgive me,” Ott said. “I was … of course you are welcome, anytime.”

“Mr. Pevsner, Mr. Peters,” said Blackstone. “I assume you are here seeking the same answers. Please.”

Ott moved to the side to sulk and pour himself another drink. The stage had been taken from him. I think he was shaking.