Stuart Kaminsky - Now You See It

“Somebody?” I asked. “Who?”

“What’s the difference?” Cawelti said, looking at Blackstone again. “Who turned them out the first time, when you did that trick about getting across the room?”

“A young man in our show,” said Blackstone.

“How did you get across the room and back in less than a second?” asked Cawelti.

“If I tell you, the illusion is spoiled.”

“Fine,” said Cawelti. “You can tell it to a jury if it gets that far.”

“Unlikely,” came a voice from the open door behind Alexander.

Martin Leib, the best lawyer money can buy, filled the doorway. Marty was immaculately dressed in the best suit his clients’ money could buy.

Before Cawelti had shown up, I had called Marty’s number. He hadn’t been there, but his wife had taken the message and said she would find him.

Now Marty moved past Alexander gracefully, briefcase in hand, and said, “From what I’ve been able to gather, no one saw my client commit the crime.”

“No one else could have,” said Cawelti.

“That remains to be seen,” said Marty, moving to the table against which Cawelti was leaning.

He placed his briefcase on the table, opened it, and pulled out a cigar box. He held the box up, opened it, showed it to Cawelti and to all of us, closed the box, and handed it to Cawelti.

I thought I heard Blackstone let out a small chuckle at my side, but he said nothing.

“Open it,” said Marty.

“What the hell are you …?”

“Indulge me,” said Marty, adjusting his jacket.

Cawelti opened the cigar box. A white dove flew out and almost hit him in the face. The dove flapped its way around the room and came to rest on a small table at the back of the room.

“I can put you on the stand and make you swear the box was empty,” said Marty. “But, given what you have just seen, all you could honestly say is that you thought the box was empty.”

Marty looked at Blackstone, who nodded his approval.

“God, I’ve always wanted to do something like that,” Marty said. “I’d almost take on this case for nothing for the pure satisfaction of this moment. Almost.”

Gunther applauded. We joined him. Marty dropped his head in a near bow, and Cawelti turned bright red as Shelly came back through the door. The dentist was zipping his pants and pushing his glasses back on his nose.

“What did I miss?” he asked, looking around.

“Sit down!” Cawelti boomed.

Shelly hurried to sit, and Pancho whispered into his ear to explain what had happened.

“Would you like to see another one?” Marty asked.

“No,” shot Calwelti.

“So,” said Marty, “are you going to arrest my client? Put him in handcuffs? I’ll give you a hundred dollars to your ten that he’d be out of them in less than eight seconds. Was my client wearing gloves when all this happened?”

“What?” asked Cawelti.

Marty looked at us.

We all shook our heads.

“Well,” said Marty. “I’ve just been told by Joe Moark, one of your men, who’s in the ballroom, that there are no fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

“That son-of-a-bitch,” said Cawelti. “Blackstone could have dumped the gloves.”

“Where?” asked Marty. “Have you searched my client?”

Cawelti didn’t answer.

I thought of some place Blackstone could have dumped a pair of gloves, plus the missing black satchel.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” Marty looked at Blackstone, who nodded. “And you’ve searched everyone in this room?”

We all nodded “yes.”

“He dropped them somewhere in the confusion,” said Cawelti.

“Let me know when you find them,” Marty said, snapping closed the cigar box and returning it to his briefcase. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from the briefcase and held it up as if he were going to do another trick.

“Signed by Judge Froug,” he said, handing it to Cawelti.

Cawelti didn’t go down easily. He looked at the paper, refolded it, jammed it into his pocket, and said,

“In my office, tomorrow morning at nine.”

In the lobby, Blackstone moved to Marty’s side and said, “Marvin Morosco.”

“Marvin Morosco is right,” said Marty.

“Who’s Marvin Morosco?” I asked.

“The dove in the cigar box,” said Blackstone. “It’s one of his.”

“Ah, yes,” said Marty. “I borrowed it from Mr. Morosco. I came across him in the lobby before the show I did for Detective Cawelti. It will go on your bill for my services, of course.”

“Of course,” said Blackstone. “And what would you have done if Detective Cawelti had taken you up on your offer of a second piece of magic?”

Marty shrugged his shoulders.

“I would have resorted to the last refuge of a gifted lawyer, verbal prestidigitation. Nine, tomorrow. My office.”

He handed Blackstone a card and walked confidently away.

On the street in front of the hotel we formed a huddle, six mismatched penguins. If we had a tin cup and could carry a tune, we probably could have picked up some loose change singing Carolina In The Morning and doing a soft shoe with our hands in our pockets.

“There was definitely something about the dead Mr. Ott,” said Gunther.

“What?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But I will sit in my room this night in darkness and re-create the events of this evening,” said Gunther.

“You do that,” said Phil.

“We’ll solve it,” Shelly said, his face pink, a fresh cigar in the corner of his mouth.

He looked at Pancho who nodded, either in agreement or falling asleep. Shelly put a hand on Pancho’s shoulder and ambled away saying, “Great material for the movie, huh?”

“I have a question,” said Jeremy, who hadn’t spoken for the past half hour. He looked at Blackstone and said, “Your brother.”

Blackstone smiled.

“That’s not a question,” said Blackstone.

“Is it an answer?” said Jeremy.

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Phil asked impatiently.

“The illusion in the ballroom at dinner,” said Jeremy.

“Yes,” said Blackstone. “Would you like to explain how I did it?”

Jeremy looked up at the night sky. We all looked up wondering what he saw. There was nothing up there but stars.

“When the lights went out the first time,” Jeremy said, “you hid.”

“Under the podium,” Blackstone supplied. “I came to the hotel this afternoon and with the help of my brother, switched podiums, placed the new, larger one closer to the wall and when the lights went out, I ducked behind and under the podium.”

“And when the lights came on,” said Jeremy, “it was Peter, your brother standing near the door, not you. He clapped so that everyone would look in his direction and not at the stage.”

Blackstone nodded.

“And when the lights went out again, your brother went through the door and out and you stood up behind the podium.”

“You have the eye of a true magician,” said Blackstone.

“But neither the dexterity nor calling,” said Jeremy.

“Hold it,” I said. “Your alibi for the killing of Cunningham in the dressing room was that you were onstage. If Cawelti figures out how the trick in the ballroom was done, he might also figure that it was Pete onstage that night while you were killing Cunningham.”

“How likely is it that one of those magicians,” Phil said, nodding at the hotel entrance, “will figure out how you did the disappearing act in there?”

“At least six of them have already done so,” said Blackstone.

“Marty’s tomorrow at nine. I might be a little late,” I said.

“Why?” asked Phil.

“I’ve got to see a wild man about a thousand and one nights,” I said.