Murder by Magic

by Paul Tomlinson

  “The newspaper said that the crowd all heard a shot, but that no gun was found in the box,” Vickery said.

  “Some kind of trickery was involved,” Grives said.

  “And you want Mr. Vickery to figure out how the trick was done?” Malloy asked.

  Grives didn’t answer him directly. He continued to stare down at his thick fingers. “They’re all very polite and answer my questions...”

  “But nobody tells you anything,” Vickery said.

  “Theatre people,” Grives said, “you know what they’re like.”

  “Yes, I do.” Vickery smiled briefly. “Or I did. It has been a while since I set foot...”

  “They don’t trust the police. Why is that, Vickery?” Grives asked.

  “I think you’re asking the wrong person,” Vickery said.

  Grives looked up at him, and could only nod slowly.

  “In the theatre, no one is who they seem,” Vickery said. “We’re all pretending to be someone else or something else. Not everyone has guilty secrets – but some do. The last thing they want is some outsider coming along demanding to know the truth.”

  Grives hadn’t taken his eyes off Vickery – and from his frown it could be assumed he had things to say about people with guilty secrets. But in the end, his face relaxed and he sighed.

  “Will they talk to you, do you think?” Malloy asked.

  “Possibly,” Vickery said. He and the detective were staring at each other, like opponents over a chess board, each waiting for the other to blink.

  “Will you do it?” Malloy asked.

  “If I’m asked,” Vickery said, not taking his eyes off Grives.

  “Will you ask him, for heaven’s sake?” Malloy said to the detective.

  Grives’ eyes turned to Malloy, and the contest was over. “The Commissioner is breathing down my neck,” he said, “and I’ve got nothing. I don’t even know how the man was killed...” There was a pause, and finally Grives admitted defeat. “Will you help me?”

  Vickery leaned back in his chair and pressed the fingers of both hands together in front of him. “I shall want to examine the box that was used on stage that night. I will need a free hand to search the theatre, and to question the people there in my own way. There will be no police chaperone.”

  “I can’t allow...”

  “Inspector, if anyone even suspects I am in your employ, they will tell me nothing.”

  “All right, all right, but...”

  Vickery held up a hand to silence him. “Furthermore, you must agree to take no action until I am sure we have a solution to the mystery. If you act too soon, all could be lost, and we may never know what happened.”

  “I knew it would be like this,” Grives muttered, “pushed out of my own investigation. If you think I’m...”

  “If you want my assistance, then you must allow me to assist.”

  “I am not prepared to have terms dictated to me by a...”

  “Inspector, at this point in your career, I would think the last thing you need is another unsolved case of death under suspicious circumstances,” Vickery said pointedly.

  Grives glared at him, nostrils flared, breathing heavily.

  Vickery’s stare was cold and unflinching, daring the detective to say something more. Malloy realised he hadn’t been asked here to protect Vickery, he didn’t need that: he was there to witness what was said. If Inspector Grives said the wrong thing at this point, Vickery would ensure his career in the police force came to an ignoble end. Perhaps the whole purpose of this meeting had been to bait the detective and cause him to condemn himself. And perhaps Grives was having these same thoughts because he relaxed suddenly and leaned back.

  “I will not be squeezed out of my own investigation,” he said. “You will conduct whatever examinations you see fit, Vickery, with no interference from me. Your associate,” he glanced toward Malloy, “will report to me everything you learn as you learn it. Those are my terms.”

  Vickery looked at Malloy, who shrugged and then nodded: the arrangement was acceptable to him.

  “Very well,” Vickery said. “The newspaper account said that events on stage were witnessed by one of your own constables.”

  “Colman.” Grives nodded. “He’s a good man. Gave a very thorough report. I’ll send over a copy.”

  “I shall need to speak to him myself,” Vickery said.

  Grives looked as though he was about to challenge this.

  “In for a penny...” Malloy said and winked at the detective.

  Grives got to his feet. “All right,” he said.

  “Thank you, inspector. Mr. Malloy will see you out.”

  “That went as well as expected,” Vickery said when Malloy came back upstairs.

  “It did?” Malloy said.

  “Dreadful man. I really did want to give him a hard time.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t,” Malloy said, smiling. “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you.”

  “You don’t mind getting involved in this?” Vickery asked. “I’d do it on my own, but...”

  “I’m quite looking forward to it, to tell you the truth,” Malloy said. “You and me made quite the team at old Fulbright’s party, didn’t we?”

  “Indeed, we did. But this time things may prove a little more challenging. For me at least. I haven’t set foot in a theatre since Terry was killed.”  

   

  Chapter Three

  Constable Evan Colman was a bachelor and lived in the Baldersbridge Section House where he had a cubicle and shared a kitchen and mess room with almost a hundred other young policemen. Vickery and Malloy had agreed to meet him at the Butcher’s Arms across the road, where they were more likely to find a quiet corner to talk. Vickery had decided that they shouldn’t take the Alvis because it was a toff’s car: they would take the tram instead.

  The lower deck was filled with women in headscarves clutching shopping bags and baskets, so they made their way up the narrow stairs onto the top deck. Young men in rumpled suits occupied the seats at the back, and the air was thick with their cigarette smoke. As the tram creaked and rattled on its way, they took seats at the front, looking out through the curved windows down on the grey city streets. Malloy was grinning like a boy on Blackpool sea front, and his enthusiasm for the experience made Vickery smile too.

  “If the constable is uncomfortable speaking to me, I may excuse myself and leave it to you to question him,” Vickery said. He was wearing an old wool coat and a faded homburg, but his neat moustache and white shirt collar made it obvious he was no ordinary working man.

  “What do we need to find out from him?” Malloy asked.

  “The poor man will have written his account, and given a verbal report to his superiors. And he will have retold his story many times to colleagues and friends so that it is quite polished and well-paced by now,” Vickery said. “We will need him to start over fresh, recalling every detail as if for the first time. It is very important for him to tell us only what he actually saw, and not what he thinks ought to have been there.”

  Malloy nodded. “We need to know exactly what happened, and in what order – the sequence of events is important, I remember that much.”

  The rumbling of the tram’s wheels slowed and there was a loud screeching as it navigated a bend.

  “Another couple of stops,” Malloy said, peering out of the window, which was now speckled with light rain.

  It was after two, and most of the lunchtime drinkers were gone. The saloon bar was quiet, with only a couple of men leaning on the bar, and the pin-tables were all empty. Constable Colman had taken a table at the back, and there was an empty pint mug and an empty plate in front of him. Colman was about thirty and looked like a rugby player whose muscle was quickly turning to fat. His gingerish hair had been stretched across the top of his head to try and hide his baldness, and his moustache looked like something a youth might grow. He was wearing his uniform, with the top button unfastened.
He stood up as Malloy approached; Vickery went to the bar to order three pints of bitter from a bored barmaid.

  Vickery carried the three mugs to the table and set them down carefully, not spilling a drop.

  “Mr. Vickery,” the constable said, extending his hand.

  “Constable.”

  “It’s Ernie when I’m off-duty.”

  Vickery removed his hat and sat down. The three men all reached for their beers and raised them in salute.

  “How long have you worked in this division?” Vickery asked.

  “Since I got my warrant card,” Colman said. “I was a bit older than some of the lads because I’d been at sea beforehand.”

  “Merchant seaman,” Vickery said, “in the Far East – China?”

  Colman nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Your ring,” Vickery said, “the jade is almost black.”

  Colman looked down, turning the ring on his little finger. “Brought it back for my mum,” he said sadly.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Vickery said.

  “It’s almost six months,” Colman said.

  “She must have been very proud when you were sworn in.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But we never had much time for the police in our family – except when they came for my dad.”

  “Bit of a rogue, was he?” Malloy asked.

  Colman smiled. “Just a bit. I’ve arrested him twice myself, the old fool. It’s just a game to him.” He took another swallow of his beer, looking over the rim of his mug at Vickery. He smiled again.

  “And what did Inspector Grives tell you about me?” Vickery asked.

  Colman looked shocked, as if Vickery had read his thoughts. “How... He told me your secret.”

  “Did he, now?” Vickery said.

  “I’ll not breathe a word to a soul,” Colman promised.

  Vickery stared at him as if trying to decide whether the constable could be trusted. “Mr. Malloy, fetch us some more beers if you’d be so kind. What time do they close the doors?”

  “Three o’clock,” Colman said. “But we can sit here all afternoon – Fred won’t throw us out.”

  “I’d like you to tell us about the night of the murder,” Vickery said.

  “Well, sir, it was like this...” Colman began, settling himself back to retell his story.

  “What sort of an evening was it?” Vickery asked.

  Colman frowned: he had expected to retell the tale as he had before, and now found himself without a script. “What kind of evening?”

  “The weather?” Vickery prompted.

  “It was a typical summer evening,” Colman said. “Raining.”

  Malloy returned with their drinks and sat down.

  “I want you to tell us everything that you saw at the theatre,” Vickery said.

  “I wrote everything down in my report – took me ages. Those typewriters are hard work. I could hardly bend my fingers next day. Grives said he’d give you a copy...”

  “We would like to hear it in your own words,” Vickery said. “Describe it so we can picture it in our own minds, if you would.”

  Colman looked like a man who had suddenly been asked to complete an exam paper.

  “Well, sir, as I said, on the evening in question it had rained, and people were turning up at the theatre with their umbrellas. This was the old Hawksgrove Palais, as you know, where they still do a variety show. It’s a bit old-fashioned, I suppose, but you can have an evening out for less than a shilling. A  lot of people go to the moving pictures now, but I’d sooner see a live show: you always have that sense that something unexpected could happen.”

  “And on that evening, it did,” Malloy said. He took a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket and offered one to Colman. He lit both cigarettes from his match.

  “It was warm in the theatre, and a bit humid on account of everyone having got wet,” Colman continued. “It was a bit noisy in the stalls, but no more than usual – just an ordinary night. Everyone quietened down when the curtain went up.

  “There was a comedian on first, I’d seen him before, and I don’t really think much of him. You hear better jokes at the station if I’m honest. He was pretending he was saucy, but he wouldn’t have made your grandmother blush.

  “Then there was a couple of girls with big legs doing tap-dancing, which the men seemed to like. It left me feeling breathless, their little feet clattering like castanets. Then someone singing a bit of opera, Gilbert and Sullivant, or something. Not my cup of tea, I like something with a chorus you can join in with.” He drew on his cigarette and then tapped the ash into the dull brass ashtray on the table. “The magic act came on after the interval.”

  “Had you seen Charlie perform his act before?” Vickery asked.

  “Charlie?”

  “The Mysterious Mandarin.”

  “Oh, no. They tend to have different magic acts at the Palais – I’ve seen a few, but never this one before. He was quite good. You could tell from the make-up that he wasn’t really Chinese. He tried to sound foreign, but I think he was from Yorkshire.”

  “Who does that remind me of?” Malloy said, blowing out smoke.

  Vickery wafted the smoke away and gave him a ‘be quiet’ look, but he was half-smiling at the same time.

  “He did this trick with a vase full of water, that he put a bunch of flowers into, and then he made the whole thing disappear. I don’t know how he did it, it was too big for him to slip it up his sleeve. I suppose you know, don’t you, Mr. Vickery?”

  “It’s not a new trick,” Vickery said.

  “I suppose not. He did some card tricks too – I don’t expect any of those would have fooled you. But what everyone was waiting for was the epsca... escapology. You know, the Houdini stuff?”

  Vickery nodded.

  Colman leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette. “The other stuff had been performed in front of this shiny blue curtain, and now this was whisked up to show the box. From where I sat, the box looked very smart – it was painted a baby blue colour, with a different colour star painted on each side, and on the lid. It was about four feet on a side, I would say. Close-up it looks a bit battered, but as I say, where the audience is sat it looks good enough.

  “The Mysterious... Charlie is going to be locked in it, so he calls for a couple of volunteers from the audience. I always fancied being one of those that fastens the chains and the locks, but I never go up. Someone might tell the sergeant I was on stage making a fool of myself. So two blokes go up, one of them was Bryan Simmons, I think, and I’m sure the other one was someone worked in the theatre. They put someone in the audience sometimes don’t they, magicians?”

  “Sometimes they do,” Vickery admitted.

  “He gets in the box and closes the lid, and he’s told them to lift the chains up and wrap them around the box and fasten them shut on top with these big padlocks like you use on a factory yard gate.

  “Then the box is lifted up, and it was spinning gently, so you could see the different colour stars. There was a drum beat, meant to sound like a clock ticking, I suppose. The manager told me later that there was supposed to be a flash and puff of smoke, and the sides of the box were supposed to drop down and show him not there and a chicken there instead. Only it didn’t happen. The drum ticking seemed to go on for too long, and people started to fidget and mutter. Someone in the audience said, ‘Is he stuck?’ in a loud voice, and a couple of girls giggled. And then, just when I thought men were going to start jeering and slow hand-clapping, there was the sound of a gunshot, and it went dead quiet. Even the drumbeat stopped.”

  “You are certain it was a gunshot?” Vickery asked.

  Colman shook his head. “No, sir, but it sounded like a gunshot, I’m sure of that. I’ve fired a revolver myself, and I’ve heard one fired at a distance. It sounded like a gunshot.”

  Vickery nodded his approval.

  “Could you tell where the sound came from?” Malloy asked.
/>   “It was muffled, and it seemed to come from inside the box, but I can’t really be sure. It might have come from offstage, or under the stage even, but the way the box moved made me think it came from inside.”

  “How did it move?” Malloy asked.

  “It was hanging there, suspended on its rope, and still spinning slowly,” Colman said. “When the shot came, the box seemed to jerk, like someone had given it a whack. The rope shook too, and I’m sure I heard chains rattle against the sides of the box.”

  “The box jerked and then the rope seemed to shake, is that correct?” Vickery asked.

  Colman thought about this, as if trying to see it again in his mind. He nodded. “That’s how it seemed to me: the box moved, and the vibration seemed to travel up the rope.”

  “Thank you, constable, that may be an important detail,” Vickery said.

  “What happened then?” Malloy asked.

  “The shot had been loud enough to startle everybody. Some folks gasped, some laughed, and there were a couple of women screamed. Even the drummer missed his beat and then he stopped. Of course, people began chattering then. Someone said afterwards that she’d seen blood dripping from the box, but I didn’t see that. I wasn’t close enough. I heard someone – the manager, I suppose – shouting ‘get the curtain down.’ And then that bloke with the moustache got up and said he was sorry but there had been a technical problem, and the curtain came down behind him.”

  “People stayed in their seats?” Malloy asked.

  “No one moved, that I could see. Nobody knew what happened, not really – they all thought something had gone wrong with the magician’s act, and they thought it was a bit of a laugh. They got Dora up on stage in front of the curtain, and she sang one of them songs that’s a bit near the knuckle, and everyone seemed happy.”

  “But you got up and went backstage?” Vickery asked.

  “No, not at first. I was settling back and singing along with everyone else when I felt the bloke next to me tugging at my sleeve. The manager was standing in the aisle – I could tell from his face something was wrong. He was gesturing for me to leave my seat and go with him, so I did.”