Carol O’Connell - Shell Game

Prado planted himself in front of the reporter’s wheelchair. „Ladies and gentlemen – a few moments, please?“ He drew Mallory back to the wall, saying, „This is great stuff, but I think you’re making it too complex.“ The wave of his hand took in the whole crowd of reporters. „They need something short – headline material.“

„Futura knows who killed Louisa, doesn’t he?“

A woman had crept close to their conversation, and now she was thrusting her microphone in Mallory’s face. „Louisa? Is that what you said? Is that killed as in murdered? You mean the dead woman in Malakhai’s act?“

Prado bowed to Mallory. „Excellent. Your work is done.“ He walked on down the street, followed by the throng of cameramen and reporters.

Assuming Futura was still alive, he would stay that way for the rest of the day. The press corps would be on Prado’s back for hours – almost as good as a police tail. If she only had a bigger share of the Special Crimes budget, she would not have to improvise this way.

„That was rather good,“ said a familiar voice behind her.

Malakhai was leaning against the frame of an open door. In the daylight, she could see a few strands of light brown, reminders of a time when his hair was the color of lions. His blue shirtsleeves were rolled back, and the khaki pants bore traces of a morning’s work in the dusty knees.

„You handle the press better than Nick does.“ His dark blue eyes were smiling, drawing her closer. And for a moment, she felt inexplicably lighter, made of less solid stuff. She was casting about for something to say, when he dropped his cigarette and smashed it under his heel. „I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but my show is already sold out. I didn’t need the boost.“ He rubbed the gooseflesh on his arms. „It’s cold. Come inside.“

She followed him into the building and up the stairs to a storage area, where chairs were racked against one wall. Beside a lighting panel of monitors and switches, two large drawing room doors stood open to an expanse of polished blond wood. A tall metal scaffolding dominated the stage. It had not been here the day she interviewed the stage manager. Cables hung down and trailed across the floorboards to the lighting panel.

„I thought you finished rigging your props.“

„I’ve made a few changes.“

Mallory followed him through the doors and onto the stage of white-paneled walls, columns and cornices trimmed in gold. She had never seen the main hall from this side of the footlights. Rows of empty red velvet seats stretched back across vast space. She looked up at the balconies stacked to the height of a seven-story building. Their four tiers were fronted by bold curving lines. And at the top of the hall was a halo of light with an outer ring of satellite stars.

On Saturday night, three thousand people would fill this hall, and curiously, she felt their absence. The room was lit for the show and awaiting its audience. There was tension in the silent emptiness, like the moment before a dam burst, as if the crowd were only held back by the lobby doors. This void wanted to be filled.

Malakhai was halfway up the metal ladder at the back of the scaffolding. „You don’t mind if I work while we talk? The lighting takes a lot of preparation.“

She was looking at the top balcony near the ceiling. „How will they see you from the cheap seats?“

„They’re going to mount a giant screen on the wall to project the more intricate illusions. That’s why the lighting is critical. One mistake and the whole act is ruined. But I think most of the audience is coming to hear Louisa’s Concerto. I never used the music to accompany the act. It was always the other way around.“

She followed him up the metal ladder to the top of the scaffolding. „Did you hear the news about Futura?“

He stood before a board of switches and lights on a metal folding stand. „You found him?“

„Not yet,“ she said. „He’s hiding or dead.“

Malakhai smiled at this. „Probably just another one of Nick’s publicity scams.“ He flipped a series of switches, and the overhead light hit the back wall in bright circles of primary colors. „I’m sure he’ll turn up again.“

„He knows who killed Oliver, and so do you.“

„So I’m not a suspect in Oliver’s death anymore?“

„Well, I like to keep all my options open.“ She watched him flip a switch on his extension lightboard. The houselights dimmed. He flipped another switch, and she watched two spotlights chase one another across the floor. „A programmed routine?“ She looked up to see the bank of lights hanging from the top of the stage alcove. „I didn’t know you were so high-tech.“

„I’m not. Fortunately, I can afford to hire people who are.“

„You don’t trust the lighting director?“

„It isn’t a matter of trust.“

„It’s about control,“ said Mallory. „Like Max Candle and his fully automated platform.“

„I was about to say that I only use the board for rehearsals. But I suppose I am a bit like Max. We were very close.“

A shadow slipped along a back wall and disappeared through a side door. She turned on Malakhai. „How do you make the shadow?“

„I’ll never tell. That’s my gift to you, Mallory. At three o’clock some morning, you’ll be lying awake, and it’ll cross your mind that the shadow might’ve been Louisa.“

„You don’t believe in her any more than I do.“

„Oh, but I do. Creating absolute faith is a magician’s game – always has been.“ He pulled a black scarf from his pocket and held it up to her. Slowly, he lifted it to expose five floating cards. „And behold a miracle – a royal flush. Oh, I forgot.“ The cards fell to the floor, and he kicked them aside. „You’ve already seen that one, and you didn’t like it.“

Mallory stared at the rod of lights suspended above her head. He might be doing a projection with spotlights and silhouettes, but she could see no evidence of it. There were other racks of lights, at both ends of the third-tier balcony, but neither of them was lit. She looked down at the extension board. Perhaps the answer was here. A dedicated unbeliever, she hunted for Louisa’s shadow in a bank of lights and switches.

Malakhai folded his arms and watched her for a moment. „When Picasso paid a visit, he always warned a man that he came to steal.“

„Did you know Picasso?“

„No, and now you’ve ruined a perfectly good story. I’ll have to tell you another one. How about the liberation of Paris?“

„I’d rather hear about the night Louisa died. You didn’t stick around very long, so what happened to the body?“

„Emile took care of her. He was anxious to get me out of the city, and quickly. I was half crazy and dangerous to everyone. Louisa was buried in the St. John family plot.“

Mallory looked up from the board. „So St. John had possession of the body – all the evidence of a murder. After the war, did he tell you how she really died? Or did he cover it up? The day of the parade – was he the man you wanted to shoot?“

„May I?“ He motioned her to move aside, then resumed his work at the board. „You’re getting ahead of the story. When we got to London, Max and I were split up. We didn’t meet again until the liberation of Paris.“

„The battalions converged on Paris the same day. I already know that.“

„Then why don’t you tell the rest of it, Mallory?“ He hit a switch and a silver orb rose from the stage and floated toward her head. She was backing up to the edge of the scaffold when it veered upward and popped against the heat of a spotlight – only a balloon.

The houselights went dark, but for the tiny lamps that trimmed the balconies, stars in close formation.