Carol O’Connell - Shell Game

„Sure.“ She had given up the idea of getting to the auction in time for the opening bids. So far, this had not been a profitable day.

„I told you, the first time I saw Malakhai, his shirt was buttoned up and the sleeves rolled down. I think the clothes covered up – “

„A German uniform?“

„Yes, yes.“ He smiled and slapped his hand on the desk. „Malakhai’s clothes were hiding a uniform.“ He seemed so pleased with her, as if she were his promising student. Or perhaps he was only gratified that she had been paying attention. That would be a rare event on any day spent in this office, this nicely decorated holding cell.

„That was the surest way to evade the soldiers checking the cars and jamming the sacks with their rifle butts,“ said Mr. Halpern. „Malakhai must have been the soldier who searched the mail car before the train pulled out.“

„Good idea,“ said Mallory. „So you think Malakhai was in the German Army?“

„Oh, no. It was definitely a disguise. He only said a few words to me that day. He had a child’s grasp of the language, and the accent was no good at all. I’m German-born. I promise you, he was not.“ He leaned toward her in the spirit of collaboration. „I believe he knew what was going to happen when the train made the next stop to drop off mail.“

Mallory nodded. „He probably cased the whole route.“

„So the train stopped. The car door opened for the mail drop, and Malakhai was standing there in a German uniform. He was the soldier who unloaded the mail sack with Louisa inside. As I said, he had a poor command of the German language. Yet there he was, a young boy carrying an escaped prisoner in his arms – surrounded by all those soldiers. It’s always been much more than a puzzle to me. This was a love story.“

Mr. Halpern sat back in his chair, frowning now. „Ah, but I’ll never know if I got it right.“

„You didn’t ask him? That night at Rabbi Kaplan’s house – “

„Malakhai didn’t remember how he stole Louisa from the camp. He said I had waited too long to ask. He has strokes, small ones that destroy his memories. It’s been going on for about a year. He said they happen all the time. Bits and pieces of his life are missing every other morning. So I’ll never know how he did his best trick – if I got it right or not.“

„It works for me.“ Mallory turned to the door, where the uniformed officer was waiting to carry Mr. Halpern home.

„Will I have to testify against the little man with the paint gun?“

„No, I don’t think so,“ she said. „The arresting officers have more than enough complaints to nail the freak. He’s criminally nuts.“

„That’s your perception today, Detective. Things change – and so quickly. A few years from now, when you think back on this business with the paint gun – you’ll remember me as the criminal who smoked a cigarette.“ He smiled as he patted her hand. „Not your fault. Things change.“

She motioned for the officer to come in. „He’ll take you home now. Maybe you should stay there? Just draw your pictures and forget about this place. You don’t want to be here anyway.“

„Ah, but my son.“ His sweet smile reminded her that there were loving lies to be maintained. Every day he would return to do work of no consequence. Father and son would go on pretending that he was needed here.

And now the younger Mr. Halpern was entering the old man’s office.

„Things change,“ said Mallory.

Detective Riker’s head lolled on the back of the velvet theater seat. He was staring up at the chandelier. A million sharp crystal shards dangled from a giant ball of light, and he had the sense that it might fall on him at any moment.

The fear of falling objects was common in the hazard zone of Manhattan, where pedestrians were routinely flattened by crumbling gargoyles and cornices. This lottery of city life brought out the sporting nature of New Yorkers, who kept score on direct hits – disparaging near misses and nonfatal glancing blows.

This chandelier was on much too grand a scale for a theater with only three hundred seats. Piss-elegant was the term he was looking for. Though, according to Nick Prado’s press release, it was an exact replica of the original fixture from Faustine’s.

Oliver Tree had spent a fortune re-creating his grandmother’s theater. The grand opening was three days away, and the construction work was not yet complete. The air had the smell of fresh plaster and paint.

Riker looked at his watch.

Where is she?

If Mallory didn’t arrive soon, she would miss the main event, the bidding on the platform.

He looked up at the stage, where men and women were inspecting long tables decked with magic props. During the intermission, the auctioneer had left his podium on top of the platform. The man from Hollywood was favored to make the high bid, and then Mallory’s precious evidence would be on its way to the West Coast. He wondered if the auctioneer had been nervous standing in Oliver Tree’s place and looking down at the crossbows.

Nick Prado gave Riker a friendly wave as he walked down a short flight of steps at the side of the stage. For the past hour, this man had been exuding professional charm and warmth, presuming the role of a dear and close friend. But Riker preferred the distance of a suspicious acquaintance. He disliked Prado’s wide smile that said to everyone he met, Love me. Ah, but then how could you not?

Now the man was coming toward him, swaggering up the long green carpet. And green was the color of the theater seats, the walls and their high balconies, and the long drapes gathered in golden ropes at the sides of the stage.

Prado hunkered down by Riker’s aisle seat. „Well, what do you think of the place?“

„So this is what the inside of an avocado looks like.“

„You can blame the decor on Oliver’s grandmother. Actually, it’s Federal green, the color of American money. Faustine loved tourists. That’s why she spelled out the name in English. She wasn’t sure Americans were bright enough to work out Theatre de Magie.“

Emile St. John stood at the edge of the stage, hailing his friend. Prado excused himself and walked back toward the auction crowd.

When Riker had gotten past his fear of the chandelier, he admired the ceiling fresco of characters from famous plays. None of the actors’ roles were detailed in Prado’s handout sheet, and the only one Riker could identify was the long-nosed figure of Cyrano de Bergerac. This was an obvious departure from the original painting, circa 1900. But was it a joke or a tribute? Apparently, decades had passed since the old man and the younger one had met, for Cyrano was portrayed as a teenage Charles Butler.

Riker left his chair and turned to face the lobby door.

Where is she?

Though Mallory carried a pocket watch, he knew she only consulted it for show, a prop of normalcy. She was guided by an interior clock wired directly into her brain, and she was never, never late.

He walked down the center aisle and climbed the steps leading up to the stage. When he was past the lengths of heavy green curtains, he looked up again.

Oh, more things to fall on him.

Space expanded upward for twenty feet beyond the curtain valance. A narrow suspension bridge spanned the length of the stage. This catwalk of wooden planks was none too stable, swaying high in the air as a workman stood at its center, testing the rigging that held massive backdrop screens in place over Riker’s head.

He turned his eyes down to the less hazardous display tables and made a rough head count of thirty bidders examining the remaining auction items. A small group was clustered around the base of the platform, and a lone magician stood behind the auctioneer’s podium. Franny Futura was the new target of the crossbow pistols.