Murder by Magic

by Paul Tomlinson

  Archie shook his head. “No fool like an old fool, that’s what they say.”

  “And what are they saying about Jamie and me?”

  “Jamie? That’s his name, is it?” Archie asked. “No scandal that I’ve heard so far.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “You appeared on stage with a young male assistant – so there was obviously speculation,” Archie said.

  Vickery knew he was fishing for information, and refused to take the bait.

  “There’s not many magicians appearing with a man for an assistant,” Archie said, unwilling to give up.

  “Most of them need a pretty young woman to distract attention away from the clumsiness of their own hands,” Vickery said.

  “I’ve often thought the ideal thing would be to have a woman magician,” Archie said. “As long as she was pretty, no one would be looking at her hands.” He chuckled again. “It’ll never happen, of course.”

  “We already have female magicians,” Vickery said.

  “Not in the Circle, we don’t.”

  “That day will come.”

  “There you go talking about change again,” Archie said. “You let women into everything and there’ll be nothing left for us. You won’t even be able to get a quiet drink in a place like this. Where is that blasted waiter?” He raised his empty glass, trying to get the man’s attention.

  “Does Skelhorn still have the same assistant?” Vickery asked. “What was her name – Constance something?”

  “Oh, she’s long gone,” Archie said, giving up and putting his glass on the table. “He has some green-eyed Irish beauty now, with genuine red hair.”

  “What happened to Constance?”

  “Her name wasn’t Constance – that’s just what he called her on stage. I forget what her proper name was.”

  “Abigail Lovelace?” Vickery suggested.

  “Could have been,” Archie said. “Could have been John Bull, for all I know.”

  “Not in that frock,” Vickery said. “Did she leave him?”

  “In a manner of speaking. There was some sort of hoo-ha, and word is that Ray Skelhorn had to pay her to keep quiet. But you never know how much of what you hear is true. Ah, there he is – see if you can attract his attention.”

  Vickery raised his empty glass half-an-inch, and the waiter came hurrying over to them. He took away their empty glasses, his expression barely changing when Archie told him to bring them the ‘good stuff’ this time.

  “And no one’s seen her since?” Vickery said.

  “Who?”

  “Constance – or John Bull, or whatever her name was.”

  “Not that I know of,” Archie said. “Not planning on looking her up, are you, Vickery? Didn’t think she was your type.”

  “Idle curiosity,” Vickery said. “Her name came up in conversation.”

  “Ask Arnie Pettigrew, if you really want to know. He reckons he spotted her a few months back in a pub near Chinatown – said she was amusing folks with a few card tricks. Sounds like she learned a thing or two during her time with Skelhorn. I don’t think anyone else has taken her on though – you want them young and pretty for an assistant.”

  Vickery sat staring into the middle distance. The waiter returned, and Archie signalled that the drinks should go on Vickery’s bill. He sipped his drink, grimaced, and then leaned towards Vickery.

  “Anything wrong, old chap?”

  “No, no – talking with you is always most enlightening,” Vickery said.

  “It is? Well, always glad to be of service – even if I don’t know what I’ve done.” Archie said. “Not going, are you?”

  Vickery was on his feet, rebuttoning his jacket. “I want to nip across to Aquarius Square before it gets dark.”

  “They’ll be closed,” Archie said. “And you’ve no need for shop-bought tricks, surely?”

  “No, I just want to catch up with Abe,” Vickery said. “I feel I’ve been out of circulation for too long. He’ll unlock the door for me, I’m sure.”

  “If he doesn’t, you can unlock it yourself, can’t you?” Archie said. “Say ‘hello’ from me.”

  “I will,” Vickery said. “I’ll get the bill on the way out.”

  Archie raised his glass in salute. When he was alone, he reached for Vickery’s untouched glass and topped up his own with the whisky.

  *

  “Any luck at the hat shop?” Malloy asked.

  “No,” Vickery said. “That style is sold everywhere, apparently.”

  “Ah, well,” Malloy said. “Stroke of luck you spotting it in the window, though.”

  Vickery smiled. “I told you it ruins the magic when you know how it’s done.”

  “You didn’t locate Miss Lovelace then?”

  “I had an early evening drink with Archie Wincombe at the club, and then I went over to the magic emporium in search of more gossip.”

  “Meanwhile, I was wearing out shoe-leather walking from theatre to theatre trying to locate our elusive double-act.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not even a sniff,” Malloy said. “It looks like we both found a fat load of nothing today.”

  “Did I say I hadn’t found anything?” Vickery asked. “I don’t remember saying that.”

  Malloy scowled. “You have that smug look on your face again,” he said. “I don’t like that look.”

  “I think I’ve earned the right to feel smug.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “All right. What if I told you that I had learned where we can find Abigail Lovelace? That I also know what guilty secret she is trying to keep from Danny Holcroft? And that I have a good idea where you will be able to find out the names and whereabouts of your mysterious double-act?”

  “You found out all that while sitting in your club drinking cheap whisky?”

  “How did you know I was drinking cheap whisky?”

  “Sherlock Holmes could identify a hundred types of tobacco ash – I can recognise the smell of liquors on a man’s breath.”

  “It was two-hundred-and-forty-three types of ash,” Vickery said, “and you heard me tell Betty I needed something to take away the taste of the whisky.”

  “Now who’s spoiling the magic?” Malloy said.

  “At the club, I had a conversation that led me to wonder if our Miss Lovelace might be dabbling in a little sleight of hand herself,” Vickery said, “and Abe Tischler at the emporium confirmed my suspicion.”

  “Abigail Lovelace is performing on stage somewhere as a magician’s assistant?” Malloy asked.

  “She is performing as a magician,” Vickery said.

  “Is that allowed?”

  “Women have been associated with magic for centuries.”

  “Yes, but they used to burn them if they were found out,” Malloy said.

  “Not since the late 1600s.”

  “Does she have a stage name – the ‘Amazing Abigail,’ or something?”

  “That sounds ridiculous,” Vickery said.

  “Unlike ‘The Great Vicari’?” Malloy said the name in an over-the-top circus barker’s voice.

  “We seem to be straying from the point,” Vickery said.

  “The point being that I trudged all over the city and came back with nothing, while you accomplished miracles on a brief stroll?”

  “That’s why I’m the Great Vicari.”

  “I thought it was a reference to the size of your head. What did you find out about Tweedledee and Tweedledum?”

  “Who?”

  “Our kidnapping double-act.”

  “I didn’t find out anything as such – it’s more an inspired guess.”

  “A guess? You guessed where they are?”

  “Not precisely. But to find out who they are, and where they are, I think I know where you should go tomorrow.”

  “A Tarot reader?”

  “If you want to know about your future, I can make a prediction,” Vickery said, smiling.

 
“It’s going to involve more walking, isn’t it?”

       

   

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “I’m looking for Vernay and Arnaud,” Malloy said.

  “Do they owe you money?”

  “No.”

  “Then I am Arnaud.” The fat man offered his hand, and Malloy shook it. “Vernay is putting his ‘ead in the bowl.” Arnaud mimed vomiting. “English food.”

  “I would apologise – but I’m not English,” Malloy said.

  “No? That is good. Do you ‘ave money for breakfast?”

  “Do you know a good place to eat?” Malloy said.

  Arnaud smiled. “Let us go to the boulangerie. We will bring back coffee for Vernay, and he may speak with you then.”

  The early morning sun worked its magic on the dingy surroundings, drawing from the grey buildings a variety of muted reds and earth tones. Vernay shouted cordially to the people they passed, in French and English, and once in Yiddish. Malloy could easily imagine himself to be somewhere on the continent.

  “‘Ow did you find us?” Arnaud asked.

  “I visited a couple of theatre agents and asked if they knew two Frenchmen – a tall one and a... less tall one,” Malloy said. He’d actually said ‘fat one,’ and Arnaud probably guessed that.

  “You know the thing I miss most, apart from the wine?” Arnaud said. “French cheese. ‘ere all of the cheese is ‘ard.” His lip curled. “Warm bread with ‘ard cheese – pah!” He spat into the gutter. “Do you ‘ave cigarettes? We ‘ave nothing, as you may guess from our chambres.”

  Malloy took a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and offered them to the Frenchman. Arnaud took two, putting one between his lips and the other behind his ear. Malloy took one for himself and lit their cigarettes with a wooden match.

  “Why do you seek out Vernay and Arnaud, I am wondering,” Arnaud said, the cigarette seemingly stuck to his lower lip.

  “I believe you know a friend of mine,” Malloy said.

  Arnaud raised a suspicious eyebrow. “You are police?”

  Malloy laughed. “No. I am a magician’s assistant.”

  Arnaud’s shoulders relaxed. “Ah, then you are a performer too. Vernay and I were acrobats, before...” He placed both hands on his belly and shook it.

  “I heard Vernay was a strongman,” Malloy said.

  “Pfft,” Arnaud said, “‘e like to tell people that. He is not so strong.”

  “And his stomach is weak?” Malloy said.

  Arnaud laughed. “I like you, Malloy. I will let you buy me breakfast, and then you will tell me why you have come ‘ere.”

  “And will Vernay step out of the shadows and join us?” Malloy asked.

  Arnaud laughed again, and this time he was joined by a booming laugh off to their left. A big man stepped out of the shadows and lumbered towards them. He took the cigarette from behind Arnaud’s ear and put it between his lips. Then he took the cigarette from his friend’s lips to light his own.

  “You mentioned coffee,” Malloy said.

  “I did,” Arnaud said. “Sadly, there is the small matter of an unpaid bill...” He shrugged. “We dare not show our faces.”

  “If the debt was settled, we would not be chased away?” Malloy asked.

  “We would be welcomed with open arms!” Arnaud said.

  This gave Malloy some concern about the amount owed, but it proved to be a small sum. The shop owner accepted his coins gratefully and brewed them a big metal pot of coffee, which they took outside and drank from enamel mugs. Their table was an old packing case, but the croissant aubeurre were as good as any Malloy had ever tasted. The big man, Vernay, ate four of them, licking apricot conserve from his huge fingers in a surprisingly delicate way.

  “You said you worked on the stage,” Arnaud said.

  Malloy nodded. “For the first time last week.”

  “Who is this magician you work for – perhaps we ‘ave ‘eard of ‘im?”

  “The Great Vicari,” Malloy said, with a hint of pride in his voice.

  The big Frenchman snorted.

  “What?” Malloy asked.

  “You should pick a lesser name,” Arnaud said, “no one will believe you work for him.”

  “And he is retired,” Vernay said.

  “He came out of retirement for three performances at the Hawksgrove Palais,” Malloy said, annoyed that they doubted him. “He stood in at short notice when Charlie – the Marvelous Mandarin was murdered.”

  Arnaud looked at Vernay, who shrugged his massive shoulders.

  “C’est possible,” Vernay said, “le magician Chinois est mort.” He made a shooting gesture with his fingers.

  “Still, I do not believe you work for ‘im,” Arnaud said. “The Great Vicari is a rich man – you have money for breakfast, but you do not look wealthy to me.”

  “I’m his assistant.”

  “So you say, monsieur, but what proof do you offer?” Arnaud said.

  Malloy sighed. “All right, what sort of car would the Great Vicari drive?” he asked.

  Vernay frowned, not understanding the question.

  “Quel type d’automobile?” Arnaud said.

  Vernay smiled and stretched out his arms. “Un grande chariot!”

  Malloy led them back to where the Alvis was parked in a quiet side street. “Une grande chariot?” he asked.

  Vernay grinned at him, and Arnaud gave a low theatrical bow. “Seigneur,” he said.

  The two men admired the curves and the gleaming paintwork of the Alvis Speed 20, and Vernay muttered something.

  “It is almost as pretty as a Citroën,” Arnaud translated. “Perhaps even more beautiful.”

  “And a little grander than your car,” Malloy said.

  “We ‘ave no car,” Arnaud said.

  “You drove a little blue car last week,” Malloy said.

  “That did not belong to us,” Arnaud said. “It was loaned to us by a man near ‘ere.”

  “Loaned?” Malloy asked.

  “We gave it back,” Arnaud said. He looked longingly at the Alvis. “May I drive it?”

  “No,” Malloy said firmly. He unlocked the doors. “But you can have a ride. If you’d like?”

  Arnaud grinned and spoke to his friend in French. Vernay’s eyes widened and he smiled.

  “‘e will sit in the back, like an ambassador,” Arnaud said. “I will sit in the front and talk with you.”

  Vernay filled the back seat of the car and had to duck his head to see out of the windows. Malloy drove slowly, planning a circular route that would take them the long way around Prince Albert Park.

  “You came with questions,” Arnaud said, “relating to your ‘friend’ who we did work for?” There was curiosity rather than suspicion in his voice.

  “Was that the first time you have done such work?” Malloy asked.

  “Not the first, no. We take what assignments we can to pay our expenses,” Arnaud said. “But this is the first work we do for ‘er.”

  “It was an unusual request, wasn’t it?” Malloy asked. “Or do your assignments often involve kidnap?”

  Arnaud turned and stared at him. Malloy kept his eyes on the road ahead.

  “Kidnap?” Arnaud said. “It was not an abduction – not really. ‘e came with us willingly.”

  “After you told him the woman he loved was in danger?” Malloy said.

  “It seems to me that you ‘ave all the answers already,” Arnaud said. “Perhaps you were also a conspirator in madame’s plot?”

  “Did madame tell you her name?” Malloy asked.

  “She told us her name was ‘Missus Ambrose.’ It wasn’t, of course, but you do not argue when madame offers you a guinea.”

  “Mrs. Ambrose asked you to pick up this man and drive him to an empty warehouse,” Malloy said. “There you were to tie him to a chair, and leave him.”

  “That is what we were asked to do,” Arnaud said, nodding.

  �
�Did madame say why she wanted this done?”

  “Madame Ambrose said it was punishment because ‘e had been unfaithful to ‘er. She would leave him there for two ‘owers, and then go and give ‘im the good telling off. She would only release ‘im when he apologise.”

  “That seemed a reasonable explanation to you, did it?” Malloy asked.

  Arnaud shrugged. “A guinea is a guinea.”

  “You weren’t worried that something could happen to the man after you left him?”

  “Of course we were. We sat in the little car and smoked cigarettes, waiting to see what ‘appened. We saw you and your friend arrive. You looked like gentlemen, so we thought ‘e must be all right. We drove away. You released ‘im, didn’t you?”

  “He escaped before we got there,” Malloy said.

  “‘e did? But we bound him tightly.”

  “He broke the chair.”

  “Ah, he is what you call an enterprising chap, eh?” Arnaud said. “Where is ‘e now?”

  “In a police cell,” Malloy said.

  Arnaud’s face registered concern. “‘e did not injure madame?”

  “He did not hurt anyone,” Malloy said. “Mr. Vickery and I are doing what we can to get him released.”

  “Then I wish you bonne chance,” Arnaud said. “You may drop us at the corner here, where people will see us getting out of this beautiful automobile.”

  Malloy braked the car to a gentle stop. “Stay here,” he said. He got out and opened the doors for his two passengers, standing smartly beside the car while they exited. He could hear the big man’s bones popping as he unfolded himself.

  Arnaud climbed out of the front seat, looking as regal as he was able. “Perhaps you could salute?” he said, from the corner of his mouth. He nodded a friendly greeting toward the curious men who had gathered on the pavement.

  Malloy saluted smartly, looking straight ahead.

  “If I had a shilling, I would give you a tip,” Arnaud whispered.

  “I’m not giving you a shilling,” Malloy said, his lips barely moving.

   

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Betty showed Walter McNair up to the sitting room, where Vickery and Malloy stood waiting. She hovered by the door while the men exchanged greetings.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Vickery,” Walter said.