Carol O’Connell - Shell Game

Nick walked around the back of the coffin and shook his head as he examined the somewhat clumsy cable outlet leading under the hinged side. „There’ll be critics in the audience on opening night. I went to a lot of trouble to make that happen, Franny. You don’t want to screw it up, do you?“ He glanced at the cloth squares neatly folded on the floor beside the coffin. „So you’re going to cover the boxes while you make your exit.“

„Of course. There’s no other way.“

„Well, there’s Max’s way. He stayed in the coffin, screaming for help, watching the pendulum drop lower and lower. I could tell you how he pulled it off.“

Franny shook his head slowly as he mopped the inside of the coffin with a towel.

Nick smiled. „You’re using breakaway cuffs, right? We can adjust the pendulum so the lowest part of the arc swings in front of the coffin.“ He gestured to the panel of gears. „That’s why the table and the base are painted black. You couldn’t see where Max’s tuxedo cummerbund left off and the backdrop began. Of course there’s a risk with every mechanical thing. But you could perform the best trick of the festival.“

After cleaning the seeds and juice on the coffin bed, Franny looked at the microphone, dry as a bone. „I don’t think so, Nick.“

„They’d talk about it for years and years if you risked your life – just a little.“

Franny looked at the seeds on the floor. The cleaning crew would take care of the rest of this mess. He wadded up the towel and threw it into the wings.

„I’d give my eyes,“ said Nick, „for the chance to see it done right, just one more time. It was so hypnotic – and terrifying.“ He walked all around the coffin, inspecting the lead-rimmed holes at both ends. „I can improve on your version. Nothing risky. We could put a mechanism in the box where your legs are supposed to be. Something to break the glass so it looks like you’re in there trying to kick your way out. Max kicked out a pane in every performance. Just a touch of violence to startle the audience. That’s all you need. I’ll take care of the preparations for you.“

„No – sorry. I mean – thank you, but Emile is giving me a hand. He’s coming back. In fact, he’ll be here any minute.“ Why had he said that?

„We have to go now, Franny. We’ll leave Emile a polite note at the front office.“

„Where? Go where?“

Nick rapped on the wooden table. „Maybe – just before you go on stage – we could have a raven fly out. He could perch on the platform. And the knocking.“ He rapped on the wood again. „Oh, definitely. We must have knocking. New York has a literate theater crowd. I know they’d get it.“

Franny shook his head.

Nick shrugged. „Overkill? I suppose it would be a bit much. But we should definitely have a talk about those chorus boys. You need help with this act.“

„Emile will – “

„Emile can’t help you now, Franny. He’s doing Max’s hanged man illusion downtown, remember? I hope Oliver didn’t botch that one too. When I left Emile, he was still testing his props. I don’t think he’ll make it up this way for quite a while.“

Franny pressed the lever to raise the pendulum again. „My assistants are coming back soon. I should – “

Nick shook his head slowly. „We had an agreement, Franny.“

„I never told Mallory anything.“

„Because I had Faustine’s death to give her.“ He looked up at the razor hanging in the air. „My sources tell me Mallory’s in charge of the case now. It’s an official inquiry into Oliver’s death.“ He stopped a moment to listen to the ticking of the gears.

Franny turned his eyes toward the catwalk where he had been safe.

„Maybe we can amplify that sound with a small microphone,“ said Nick. „Tick, tick, tick. More suspense, don’t you think?“ He turned around to look at the lobby door, then glanced at his watch. „Mallory will come for you soon, Franny. Relentless child. She’ll drag you into the police station. You know what happens in those places. You won’t get out again until you fold and tell her everything.“

Would she come at night?

„Ah, what a creature,“ said Nick. „She has the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen – on a living woman.“

„Did you really think Oliver was – “

„Oliver is dead. He’s not the problem, Franny. Now what shall we do with you? Can’t leave you here.“ He stood up and waved toward the exit light. „Shall we?“

„What about Malakhai? He’s already talked to her.“

„What of it? He’s the best documented lunatic on the planet.“

Though there was no gun, no raised fist, not even the hint of force, Franny walked toward the exit sign. He was not a willing companion, yet he offered no resistance. In his own private world, the storm troopers had never left. Shadow soldiers marched behind him as he passed through the stage door and into the street. He could almost hear marching footsteps traveling along with them as he and Nick walked down Broadway. Franny squinted in the noonday sunlight. There were pedestrians on the sidewalk.

Two policemen rolled by in a patrol car. There were many people he might have cried out to. But he went quietly, crying only a little – afraid to make a scene in public.

Every old thing was new again.

The walls echoed that theme with murals depicting the Prohibition era of speakeasy flappers and bathtub gin. On the low stage, musicians were playing vintage jazz. And best of all, there were ashtrays on the tables. Detective Riker sat in his own cloud of smoke and stared at the gardenia on the windowsill. He could swear it had not been there a moment ago.

The bar crowd was very young, except for the few gray heads of magicians he recognized. He had avoided them for the past half hour, not wanting to begin the interviews until Mallory arrived. She was late again, and this worried him. There was a time when he could have set a watch by her appearance.

Charles Butler was rushing the door, and this was Riker’s first clue that Mallory had arrived, for he could only see her blond curls and bits of white satin between the bodies of other patrons.

Wait. Satin?

And now he caught the flash of golden strappy heels where running shoes should be. His only good view of her was the reflection in the window. A white tuxedo floated in the night-dark glass. Elegant lines of material flowed over her body and threw off sparks of reflected light. She was carrying a purse instead of her knapsack.

He had been robbed; this was not his Mallory. She was late, the way a woman is late, and she was even dressed like a woman. There was no blouse worn beneath her jacket, and he had a vague feeling that it would be wrong to stare at that reckless neckline – almost incest. He had never mistaken NYPD for real family, but Mallory had always been a source of confusion. And now the kid was changing her rigid patterns and her style.

He hated change.

Riker put the blame on her new habit of sharing wine with suspects. Well, that would have to stop. This was what happened when amateur drinkers were set loose in bars and liquor stores.

She draped her leather trench coat over Charles’s arm, as though he were a living coat tree – not that he appeared to mind. His face was so happy and hopeful. Now Charles raised his empty hands, perhaps as a prelude to peacemaking, assurance that he came to her unarmed. Suddenly, a gardenia appeared in his right hand.

Mallory’s smile was strained, and Riker guessed that she was damn sick of tricks.

She slipped the flower stem through the boutonniere slit in her lapel. And now the black leather coat was flying Riker’s way. He caught it in midair and watched Charles lead Mallory toward the musicians. He held her in a slow dance to an old blues tune from the forties.