John Case - The Murder Artist

“Cortisol?”

“Stress hormone.” He taps the paper. “Read about it today. No good for you.”

We roll along for a few more minutes.

“What’d it say on the postcard, anyway?” Pinky asks. “Besides this stuff about real magic? ”

“It said: ‘Finished with the castle. Doing real magic now.’”

“That’s it? What castle?”

“I don’t know. Diment didn’t know, either.”

“Hunh,” Pinky says. “A castle. In California.”

I’m semiconscious when it comes to me. It’s like a bubble rising to the surface: Karl Kavanaugh sitting across from me in a booth at the Peppermill in Vegas.

He’s talking about the history of magic and how at one point, the center of magic relocated from Chicago to L.A. There was a club in L.A. The Magic Castle.

“Karl. It’s Alex Callahan.”

“Yeah, sure. How you doing? You back in town?”

“No. Actually, I’m in New Orleans. I’m just… following up on something.”

“With the Gabler murders?”

“Right.” For a moment I can’t remember how much I told Kavanaugh. Did I tell him about the boys? I don’t think so.

“How’s that going?”

“I’m making progress,” I tell him. “Reason I called – remember when you were telling me about the Magic Castle? Is that still in business?”

“Very much so. They have shows every weekend, different stages going simultaneously. Dinner and magic, that kind of thing. If you want to attend, I’d be happy to sponsor you.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Well, it’s a club . You can’t just buy tickets. You have to be a member or the guest of a member. Or belong to the Society of American Magicians.”

“I don’t know about attending a show – but thanks for the offer. The thing is, the guy I’m looking for, the one who killed the Gabler twins – I think he might have worked there.”

“ Really . Got a name?”

“Maître Carrefour. His real name is Boudreaux.”

“Carrefour. Boudreaux. Hmmmm.” A pause. “No bells ringing, but that doesn’t mean much. The L.A. scene is kind of its own thing, pretty insular. And I don’t get over there much anymore.”

“Do you know someone at the Castle I could talk to?”

“Sure. Let me think.” A pause. “John DeLand, the curator, he’d be your best bet. Knows everything and everyone.”

“Got a number?”

He gives it to me, then offers to call DeLand on my behalf. “Magicians can be a little… cliquish. There’s a tendency to circle the wagons when someone starts asking questions about one of our own. If you’d like, I could grease the tracks…?”

I’m in a borrowed cubicle in the back of Pinky’s office in the French Quarter, checking my e-mail, when Kavanaugh gets back to me.

“John DeLand will be more than happy to talk to you. And yes, he remembers Carrefour – who worked at the Castle off and on for a couple of years.”

“Great. Thanks! And DeLand – he’s at this number you gave me?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Although – if I could give you some advice…?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I don’t know what your budget is, but if funds allow, it might be worth your while to go out to L.A.”

“Oh?” Actually, I’d been thinking the same thing. If Boudreaux worked at the Castle on a regular basis, he must have lived somewhere. Must have had friends, a landlord, a life. Which meant footprints.

“Thing is,” Kavanaugh says, “John’s an awfully good source, but there’ll be other magicians at the Castle who also knew Carrefour. John will be able to tell you who.”

“Right.”

“And then there’s John himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” A laugh. “John’s simply never quite made it out of the nineteenth century. He’s one of those older guys who shouts into the phone as if it’s some kind of cups-and-wires contraption. You’d do much better to sit down with him. He’s more… ah… forthcoming in person.”

“Hunh.”

“We magicians,” Karl says, “we’re at our best live and in person.” A pause. “Now, isn’t that a strange phrase, when you think about it?”

“I see what you mean,” I tell Karl, although I’m not really paying attention. I’m tapping the keyboard to see what kind of flight I can get to L.A.

“Live! And in Person!” Karl intones in a hyped-up announcer’s voice. “I mean, what’s the alternative?”

The Magic Castle is a moldering Victorian mansion in the hills above Hollywood. And John DeLand looks right at home in it. His hair is white and wispy, his eyes pale blue and sharp. Half-glasses perch on his long nose. He’s dressed in a shiny black suit with an old-fashioned cut and a vest with a watch fob. The word waistcoat comes to mind. The only anomalous note is the big blue digital watch with a velcro strap on his left wrist.

He meets me downstairs and takes me up a winding staircase to his office. “I’ve got just about an hour,” he tells me, “although certainly we can talk more tomorrow. If I can talk, that is. I’ve got an appointment with the periodontist. He’s promised to scour my gums into submission.”

The door creaks open automatically when he speaks into a little brass grille: “Harry Houdini.”

His office is straight out of Dickens: a cavernous space furnished with heavy Victorian antiques – lots of columns and curlicued wood and threadbare velvet. It’s entirely cluttered, every surface covered: books, globes, crystal balls, cards, statues, skulls, plants, automata, crates, gadgets, papers, pamphlets, objets of every sort. Antique posters advertising various magic acts and magicians hang from every available patch of wall, with magic wands, jeweled scepters, and so on interspersed between them. Cats repose on the windowsills.

DeLand gestures toward a heavy carved wooden chair. “Not very comfy, but the felines don’t like it, so you’ll be spared the decorative dusting of cat hair.”

He moves behind his huge black desk, which is two inches deep in paper, picking up a long-haired black cat from his chair before he sits down. He holds the cat in his arms and strokes her. “So you’re here about Carrefour. And your interest, Karl tells me, is a murder case?”

“That’s right. A series of murders.”

“Oh, dear. And you think Carrefour is involved?”

“Yes.”

He sits back in his chair and regards me with his pale blue eyes. “You don’t say. And you’re… what? A police detective? I only ask because we magicians are a kind of… oh… a brotherhood, I guess you’d say. If I’m to contribute to your effort to find Carrefour, I’d like to know to what end. And I’d like to know, as well, exactly how your inquiries brought you to the Magic Castle.” He smiles his detached smile and strokes the cat, which purrs loudly.

“I’m not with the police,” I start. “My interest is personal.” As I tell him the compressed version of my story, DeLand’s detached smile fades into a look of alarm.

“How terrible,” he says, in a shaky voice. “I’m so very sorry. Of course I’ll help you in any way I can.” He picks up a black telephone. “Starting with a word to bookkeeping and the Society of Magicians. Obviously Carrefour was a member of SAM, as well as a member of the Castle. He’ll have paid dues and literature will have been sent to him – we ought to have an address and telephone number.”

When he’s finished shouting instructions over the phone, he replaces the handset and strokes the cat. “Now, what can I tell you?”

“Why don’t you just talk about Carrefour? Whatever you remember.”

“I’m not certain how he came to perform here,” DeLand starts. “Someone else might remember. Could be he came reputation in hand, already booked for a night or two. There’s an equally good chance that he just… came to a show, and went on from there.”