There was little of interest to see while we were close to the airport, but Spoder directed me to the coastal freeway and I drove towards the holiday town of Corlynne. After thirty-five kilometres we turned off the freeway and began following a narrow road with breathtaking sea, forest and mountain vistas. A blend of flowery scents rushed in through the open car windows. This still being the out-season of intense heat and tropical storms, traffic was light.
Spoder refused to say anything in detail about what we would find when we reached Corlynne. He had only read police reports and old newspaper accounts and wanted to see the place for himself, discovering it at the same time as I did. It hardly silenced him, though. He regaled me with his views on everything else, looking down from time to time at the road map on his lap. I said little, trying to seem interested while in fact relishing the scenery, the mature broadleaf trees of the Sekonda forest, the rocky coastline. I kept glancing at my wristwatch. Spoder had said we could do this trip within the day, but it was already past noon. The occasional signs indicating that Corlynne lay ahead gave no indication of distance. I kept up the speed.
Eventually we started passing small houses built close to the sea. Not long after that we were driving slowly through the centre of the town, which Spoder confirmed was Corlynne. He put aside the map and opened the police file, riffling through the pages.
‘We’re looking for a place called Bonnzo’s Carnival Sideshows,’ he said. ‘On the other side of the town, but not far. It says here it is open all year round, although out of season some of the rides will not be in use.’
‘Bonnzo’s Carnival?’ I said. ‘Are you certain that’s right?’
‘I’m just following the notes, sir.’ He was looking from side to side as we moved away from the main part of the town. Three minutes later, in an area of dunes and scrubland, he pointed forward and past me, indicating an untidy shambles of old-looking carnival rides and sideshows. Although other cars were parked outside it did not look as if it was open. There was a kind of portal with a painted but faded sign overhead, announcing Bonnzo’s Holiday Park. Ghastly clown faces had been painted around the words.
I halted the car. ‘And this is where Dever Antterland was murdered?’
‘It’s described in the file as Bonnzo’s Carnival Sideshows.’ He held it up for me to see. ‘It’s obviously the same place. Police officers writing up notes at the end of the day don’t always get every detail right.’
We left the car and stood on the scorching, sandy ground, regarding the holiday park. Close to the road and to our left were two rows of sideshow shacks. All the ones we could see had their shutters drawn down. Immediately to our right was a large wooden building, painted off-white, with lurid, brightly coloured images of ghosts, vampires, skeletons, witches, scary black cats, and so on. This too was closed, with a green waterproof sheet pulled down across the part of the building where the ticket office and ride entrance were located. There was a carousel, not shrouded or covered, and a race track for electric cars.
Immediately next to the carousel was a burger bar, offering soft drinks, ice creams, hot dogs, pizzas. The lights were on, radiating bright and blinking messages about prices and meal deals. A young woman was standing behind the counter, watching us expectantly.
Beyond, with curving and geometric lines crossing against the sky, stood a traditional wooden rollercoaster. I could see workers on various parts of the track, high on the structure, hammering and drilling. One was in a suspended cradle, painting. At the base of the structure a man in a metal face guard was welding one of the support girders – a brilliant blue flame, a cascade of scattering yellow sparks. Further on, and to each side of the rollercoaster I could see other high rides, some more modern and technological in appearance than the old coaster.
Spoder and I had continued to walk slowly into the park, beneath the arch. Suddenly, loud pop music came on, over-amplified and screeching, and the lights of the carousel flashed into life.
The woman selling burgers and drinks came out of her concession and approached us.
‘May I help you gentlemen? We’re closed for maintenance right now, but we can start up any of the rides if they are not being worked on.’
‘Thank you,’ Spoder said, glancing at me as if for a decision. I shrugged. He had the file, he knew what he was looking for and I did not. ‘We’re interested in the magic museum you have here.’
‘Willer’s World of Wonders? Sure thing. It’s closed at the moment, but I can open it up for you. You do understand there is no magic show these days? When the season begins we’re hoping—’
‘We’d simply like to see inside.’
‘No problem. These days we maintain it as a museum, an exhibition of magical history. You can go in and look around, but it’s also a memorial to the magician who built the museum. All his apparatus is still in there. There’s a case of his magical props, and several working illusions children can try. I’ll have those switched on for you.’
‘Did you know the magician?’ I said.
‘Willer the Wonder? No – he was here before my partner and I took over the place. He died while performing a trick, or so the story goes. There are many stories about him. He left detailed instructions about maintaining what he called his temple of wonders, which we try to follow. As far as we know it is exactly as he left it. The guys service it every year. I’ll come with you. We can’t let anyone in there without supervision. Willer was adamant about that. His cabinets can trap you inside if you don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘Yes, we’d be grateful if you’d show us around,’ I said.
‘I have to run the concession,’ she said. ‘But – are you gentlemen hungry? If you’d like to have lunch now I could close up afterwards and take you down to Willer’s.’
One of the guys high on the rollercoaster began noisily banging a wooden slat. The pop record came to an end and another one started immediately.
‘Would you like to ride the carousel before you eat?’ she said.
‘No, thanks.’ Spoder and I exchanged a quick look. ‘But we’ll have something to eat. Thank you.’
She went behind the counter, threw a hidden switch and the lights and music from the carousel instantly died.
Spoder and I took a table under the shade of an awning, perching on unsteady little stools. In a while she brought us burgers with onion rings and salad, a huge plate each of curly fries, iced fizzy drinks in plastic beakers with lids and coloured straws, and afterwards two cups of extremely weak coffee.
‘Delicious!’
That was Spoder, not me.
17
Into the Cabinets of Death
She told us her name was Ketty. She and her partner owned and managed the park together. No, neither of them was called Bonnzo – they didn’t know where the name came from, but the park had been here for many years and that was what it was always called.
She walked us through the heat of the unshaded aisles between the sideshows, past several children’s rides and other food concessions. All closed. There were several larger rides. They were compactly arranged to save space. For instance, built between the main supports of the wooden rollercoaster, which Ketty told us was more than fifty years old and still in working order, was a compact modern mini-coaster, with a steel skeleton and several terrifying twists, turns and sudden plunges. The cars would pass with minimal headroom beneath the wooden trusses of the rollercoaster. Many of the other rides were positioned close to each other, ingeniously taking up a minimum of space.
One of the largest rides was called the Scrambler: mobile cars, circulating on metal tracks, were spun by the turning of the main platform, moving speedily across several gradients. Next to this was a square building, painted red all over. The lintel carried cursive lettering painted in gold: Willer’s World of Wonder and Magical Memories! There were three steps up from the ground, a narrow walkway and a solid door.
‘We have retained as much as possible of Willer’s original sche
me,’ Ketty said, as we paused beside the door. ‘He operated it as a theatre while he was still alive. Inside he had a small auditorium with three rows of seats, and a stage with lights and curtains. We removed the stage so visitors can walk around and look at the exhibits, but the seats are still there. In the season we often arrange with magicians on the island to come here to put on magic shows.’ She banged her fist against the door. ‘This is Willer’s famous unopenable door.’
There was no handle.
Spoder reached past me, and pushed a hand against it. It did not shift. I pushed too, but it seemed pointless to try. It was jammed tight.
‘This door is the only way in and out of the building,’ Ketty said. ‘There are no other exits at all, not even secret ones. It can’t be opened from either side.’ Then she said, without having seemed to move, or have touched anything: ‘The door is now openable.’
It swung freely with a fingertips touch. From the darkness within a long gust of moist air was expelled. It felt hot and humid, even as we stood in the sunlight. The door swung slowly back to the closed position.
‘I’ll put the ventilators on,’ Ketty said. ‘There are no windows.’
She threw a switch on the wall beside the door.
I tried the door again with my hand. It opened smoothly. Lights were now on inside the building. Fans could be heard.
Ketty said: ‘We’ll give it a couple of minutes to cool off. We normally do not allow the public in here unaccompanied. The door is still a problem for us. We have a concealed override outside, which only I and my partner, plus a few members of the staff, know how to use. Willer left explicit instructions that there must be none inside. Although this is not the original door, which at one point was damaged, it was rebuilt exactly to Willer’s own design. But the door itself is separate from the switching. Willer devised a clever system – when he was inside the building he had secret switches for both opening and locking the door. Two of them were concealed on the stage, and we found and removed them when the stage was taken down. But we know there are others because Willer’s instructions warned against touching them – we’ve never been able to locate them. Obviously, if the public has access we can’t take any risks, which is why we have the override. The visitors can handle and manipulate the illusions on display, but we always warn them never to touch anything else. The other switches must be somewhere inside – the kids love knowing that, and they run around putting their hands on everything they see.’
‘Do they ever find them?’
‘Not yet. We ransacked the place when we remodelled. This was a secret system designed by Willer. He knew exactly how to hide something like that.’
‘Did Mr Willer lock the door on the day he was murdered?’
Ketty looked sharply at Spoder. ‘Why do you say he was murdered?’
Spoder held up the file. ‘I’m a former police officer, ma’am. Some of my colleagues investigated Willer’s death.’
‘Does this mean the police are re-opening the case?’ Ketty said. ‘We should have been warned. We’re running a business here.’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ I said quickly. ‘We’re just here out of interest. I wanted to see the place where it happened.’
‘Willer died a decade ago. It’s in the past, forgotten. Few people have ever heard about what happened. We don’t want to lose business. Most of the people who come here are families.’
‘On the other hand, you might get an extra boost,’ Spoder said. ‘Kids love macabre scenes. Mine certainly did.’ This came as a startling surprise. I had no idea Spoder had children. How little we sometimes know of the people we work with! While I was still digesting this thought, he went on: ‘We have a professional interest in this. My companion here is Todd Fremde, the novelist, the thriller writer. You possibly know his books? I retired from the police years ago, as I told you.’
‘Then what’s that file you’re holding?’ Ketty said. ‘Is it something connected with the police? Is it for a book?’
‘Some notes I made,’ Spoder said. Then he added untruthfully: ‘Directions on how to get here from the airport, mostly.’
I said, intending to change the subject: ‘What we’d be interested to hear is anything you know about the day he died. Was the park open to the public that day, for example?’
‘Are you really a writer? Would I know your books?’
‘Look, my books aren’t important to this. Please tell me about the day Willer died?’
‘There were people here, I believe, but at the time it happened Willer was alone in the museum – the theatre as it was then. It was the end of the day and the park was about to close. I don’t know much about it. I wasn’t involved in the park at the time – I was still at school ten years ago. Vejo, that’s my partner, Vejo and I bought the rights to the park about four years ago. I found out about Willer’s death from a few things people said to me.’ She indicated the interior of the building. ‘Let me just check the atmosphere in there.’
As soon as she was inside, I said to Spoder: ‘I didn’t know you had children.’
‘Yes sir, a boy and a girl.’
‘Do they still live with you?’
‘No – they’re long gone. They’re twenty-five now, and left Salay after university. I see them two or three times a year. The boy’s on Muriseay, and the girl works on Paneron.’
‘They’re the same age?’
‘Yes.’
‘So they are . . . twins?’
‘Yes. Fraternal twins, not identical, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Spoder, I’m really glad you told me that.’
‘They’re the love of my life, sir.’
Ketty appeared at the door, indicating we should enter the building. Spoder walked ahead of me.
Like the exterior of the building, the walls inside were painted a deep red, giving a muted feeling to the place, crypt-like. The lights were against the walls, throwing indirect illumination below. Under most of the lights were the showcases, and some working examples of apparatus.
There was a large glass case with several familiar pieces of magical paraphernalia: opera hats, decks of cards, red and white billiard balls, wands, handkerchiefs, candles, cups, and so on. A plaster clown stood in one corner – when you walked towards him his face creased magically, and horribly, into a broad smile. There were two weights you could not pick up separately, but which became inexplicably lighter when you lifted them together. Inside one long glass case was a display of dozens of books about magic. Some of these were open at pages showing the way tricks could be prepared and performed. One of them was a large, authoritative-looking tome in solid binding. My habit on seeing a book, any book, is if possible to turn to the front pages to see what inscription is there. Ketty was not watching me. This volume had a handwritten dedication: To my dear son Willer on his sixteenth birthday. The handwriting was squarish, unremarkable, and there was no signature.
Mounted on the walls above and beside the cases were several posters advertising magicians or magic shows from past decades. There were also several photographs of Willer, Dever Antterland, in the middle of his act or posing for a publicity shot.
I regarded these with interest. I still could not help thinking of him as the certain killer of his twin brother, Lew Antterland. From that point of view his work as a magician, entertaining children and families on holiday, was difficult to reconcile. Before seeing this I suppose I had imagined he retreated into the fairground life as a way of cleverly reinventing himself, hiding away in plain sight. Yet as I wandered around the little museum it struck me with some force that Dever Antterland had devoted much of his life to magic. Two large photographs showed him surrounded by smiling and laughing children – one of them was holding a glass tumbler in which a pencil had been mysteriously thrust through the side. Another picture was of three adults sitting around a baize-covered table, watching with rapt attention as he manipulated coins. One of the coins appeared to be hovering above his hand.
/> Performance magic takes years of dedication, endless hours of rehearsal. You do not take up magic on a whim: it is a lifetime commitment. What was the powerful change that overtook him, I wondered, that converted Willer into a murderer, that made him take the irreversible step into the dark night of the soul?
Ketty was waiting by the door.
The stage on which Willer performed had been at the rear of the room. All trace of it was gone, but the overhead runners where the curtains or stage lights had hung were still in place.
Two painted wooden or metal cabinets stood close to each other, where the stage had been, with their doors open. There was a third one behind them, slightly larger, set close against the back wall. I walked over and looked at the nearest of them. A showcard on the door said: Willer’s famous vanishing cabinet – see if you can detect the false door.
I peered inside, reaching in with my hand. All four of the internal walls were painted matt black, and felt solid and unyielding to the touch. I stepped a little nearer and pressed more firmly, trying to find any weakness, or joint, or part of a wall that felt different from the rest. Before I realized I had found the key, the cabinet wall on the right slid swiftly to one side, marginally narrowing the space inside the cabinet but making extra room in a triangular cavity that had opened up. Any young or slim person could easily be concealed there. From even a short distance away the interior of the cabinet looked exactly as it had before.
The cabinet next to it used a different system for concealing someone. The doors front and back both opened fully, revealing an indisputably vacant space inside. This cabinet was mounted on castors. Photographs showed that the magician could rotate the cabinet for the audience to see through to the other side. He could even walk through it himself to ‘prove’ that there was nowhere for anyone else to be hidden. But the secret here was not a mechanical device. When both doors were fully open the magician, with perfect timing and a trained assistant, could rotate the apparatus swiftly, while the assistant moved nimbly from the concealment of one open door to the next, ending up inside as the doors were closed, ready for a magical production moments later.
The Evidence Page 14
