Murder by Magic

by Paul Tomlinson

  “That explains why Toby Crabbe dragged Mr. Wu out of the mausoleum. He must be a hundred if he’s a day.”

  “He still has a few illusions I’ve never worked out how to do,” Vickery said.

  “Really? You do surprise me. But I suppose Terry was the brains of the outfit, wasn’t he?”

  “I certainly miss his technical expertise,” Vickery said. “I think if I did plan on returning to the stage, I’d want to secure Danny Holcroft’s services.”

  “Why him?”

  “Don’t pretend you haven’t considered him as a replacement for Bristow – I heard you had already gone after Danny.”

  “I’m afraid you have been misinformed,” Skelhorn said. “I have given no thought to replacing Bristow. He’s only been dead a couple of days.”

  “But you must have seen it coming?” Vickery said.

  “How does one foresee a murder, Vickery? Prognostication is all fake, you know.”

  “I just thought that given the circumstances...”

  Skelhorn stared at him, frowning. Then he shrugged. “Bristow was using morphine again – and he was associating with some dangerous people as a result. I did try to warn him.”

  “He didn’t look very well when I saw him last,” Vickery said.

  Skelhorn put down his fork. “You spoke to him?”

  Vickery nodded. “A few days before he was killed. The poor man was extremely agitated. He seemed convinced that his life was in danger, and said he had taken steps to ensure that he would remain safe. Whatever protection he’d put in place wasn’t enough in the end, was it?”

  Skelhorn was watching him and hadn’t resumed eating. “What else did he say to you?”

  “Not a great deal. He was in a hurry to get away.”

  “Do you have any idea what this ‘protection’ was that he was talking about?” Skelhorn asked.

  “He dropped some hints,” Vickery said, smiling. “But it doesn’t really matter now, does it? It didn’t do him any good.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “He came to the theatre the night he was killed, did I mention that?” Vickery said.

  “No, you didn’t. What did he have to say?”

  “He didn’t say anything. He just dashed in, handed me a cryptic message, then disappeared.”

  “A message?”

  “I assume it was a message,” Vickery said. “It was just random letters and numbers. I thought it might be a code, but it bears no resemblance to anything I’ve ever seen.”

  “Perhaps I could look at it for you,” Skelhorn said, “it might be something I recognise.”

  “If you want to see it, you’ll have to ask Grives – I handed it over to the police.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I thought it might be connected in some way to Bristow’s murder,” Vickery said. “By the way, did the police manage to discover his missing delivery van?”

  “Delivery van?”

  “Bristow was repairing it – before he died. It wasn’t in his workshop when it burned down. I just wondered if it had turned up.”

  Skelhorn’s lips were pale. “Not to my knowledge,” he said, “but I’m not privy to everything the police know. Unlike some.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you have your contacts, Raymond – on the inside. We could order dessert – but I’d prefer not to prolong this any more than we have to.”

  “Nobody’s keeping you here,” Skelhorn snapped, “if you’ve had enough, get out! I will take care of the bill.”

  “You seem upset, Raymond,” Vickery said. “You’re not worried, are you? Not afraid that Bristow has betrayed you?”

  “I have nothing to be concerned about,” Skelhorn said.

  “That really would be something, though, wouldn’t it? Something worthy of old Bristow? Revenge from beyond the grave!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Malloy arrived at Mallowan Crescent late in the afternoon and rang the doorbell once. Once was enough, Betty had informed him, and three times wasn’t going to get her to answer the door any quicker. He greeted her cheerfully when she opened the door, and it seemed to him that her scowl was less pronounced than previously. He decided this was a good sign and took the stairs two at a time, smiling as he went.

  “I passed Georgie Drake in the street,” Malloy said, “has he paid a visit?”

  “He was just up here,” Vickery said. He seemed troubled. “I’d sent him off to look for Bristow’s delivery van. It was a wild goose chase, of course, but I thought it might keep him out of trouble.”

  “Didn’t it?”

  “He found the van,” Vickery said.

  “That’s good, isn’t it? Malloy asked, confused by the fact that Vickery looked anything but pleased.

  “He wasn’t supposed to find it,” Vickery said.

  “Even the most incompetent detective must stumble over things sometimes,” Malloy said. “Let’s go and have a look at it.”

  “Do you think we should?” Vickery asked. “Before dinner?”

  “It’s not going to take long, is it?” Malloy said. “We drive to wherever it is. I drive it back and you drive the Alvis. If the van won’t start, we’ll tow it.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need to bring it back,” Vickery said.

  “Then we’ll be even quicker.”

  “I suppose you’re right – we ought to take a look at it.”

  “You don’t seem very enthusiastic,” Malloy said, “We might find an important piece of evidence.”

  “The delivery van is definitely evidence,” Vickery said, “I just don’t know what of.”

  “Let’s go and find out. Where did Drake say it was?”

  “There’s a breaker’s yard where they dismantle old ships – it’s there.”

  “Just once it would be nice if this investigation took us somewhere glamorous,” Malloy said.

  *

  “Doesn’t it look a little odd to you?” Vickery asked.

  They had driven right into the breaker’s yard, around shadowy heaps of salvaged steel and the rusting hulks of old fishing vessels and canal barges that lay at various angles. Sitting in the Alvis, they stared out through the windscreen at the delivery van. It’s cream and green paintwork was mottled with rust and the front wheel-arch on one side had been replaced with one from a different coloured vehicle. In the fading light, it was almost impossible to read the sign painted on the side – Hest n’s Thr at Pa till ’s.

  “It’s a four-wheeled vehicle in the middle of a boat graveyard,” Malloy said, “yes, it looks out of place.”

  “I don’t like it. It smells fishy.”

  “No, that’s the old trawler lying over there.”

  “I think this is a trap,” Vickery said.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Georgie Drake didn’t find this. How could he? You can’t even see it from the street. Somebody knew he was looking for it, and they told him it was here.”

  “He has friends who are better at finding things than him – I don’t find that hard to believe,” Malloy said.

  “Georgie having friends is the part I’m struggling with,” Vickery said.

  Malloy laughed. “Come on, let’s go and have a look at it. See if Bristow left us something to find.” He opened the car door and was startled when Vickery leaned across and gripped his arm, holding him back.

  “I don’t want us to take any chances with this,” Vickery said.

  The concern in his voice gave Malloy pause. “How do you want to proceed?”

  “Were you any good at cricket?” Vickery asked.

  “I never played, why do you ask?”

  “How good is your bowling arm? Could you hit the side of that van from here?”

  Malloy looked out at the van, then back at Vickery. “Probably, why?”

  “I want you to throw something at it. Something heavy. And I want you to throw it hard.”

  “From here?” Malloy asked.

  “I think this is a safe distance.”
>
  “Safe from what?”

  “From whatever is in there.” Vickery opened his door and climbed out. “Look for something metal, about the size of a cricket ball.”

  They parted and began searching the piles of scrap for something suitable.

  “This might do it,” Malloy said. He returned with a rusty cogwheel a little larger than a saucer.

  “That’s not a cricket ball,” Vickery said.

  Malloy wrapped his hand over the top of the wheel and gripped it with his fingers. “Discus,” he said.

  “You were a discus thrower?”

  “Briefly,” Malloy said, “when I was eleven. I knocked the headmaster out and they wouldn’t let me throw after that.” He took up a position, swinging his arm around behind him, preparing for the throw. “You want me to hit the side of the van – somewhere near the middle?”

  “That would be ideal.”

  Malloy backed up, and then moved forward quickly, spinning like an Olympic discus thrower. He released the metal cogwheel and sent it arcing into the air. It sailed over the top of the delivery van, clearing it by a good six feet, and hit something on the other side with a loud clang.

  “Practice shot,” Malloy said, “just getting the range. Don’t worry, there’s a whole pile of those wheels over here.”

  “It looks like being a late supper then,” Vickery muttered.

  Malloy selected another rusty cogwheel and took up his position again. He spun once, twice, and released the wheel. It whirled through the air, almost horizontally this time. It hit the side of the van with a dull thud and seemed to hang there as if it had embedded itself. There was no time to see for sure because almost instantly, the back of the delivery van seemed to swell, and then it burst and orange flame and smoke blew outwards in an expanding ball.

  The force of the blast knocked Malloy from his feet. Vickery’s position was less exposed: he raised a gloved hand to protect his eyes. The hot blast of air lifted his hat and sent it spinning end over end into the darkness.

  The echoes of the explosion died and bits of burning debris rained down around them. Malloy scrambled to his feet, dusting off his trousers.

  “You knew that was going to happen,” he said.

  “I suspected something like that might happen,” Vickery said. He sniffed the air.

  “That’s not petrol or paraffin,” Malloy said, “it smells sweet.”

  “Nitro-glycerine.”

  “That was meant for us,” Malloy said, pointing at the burning remains of the van. “What kind of person sets a trap using nitro-glycerine?”

  “One with steady hands,” Vickery said.

  “That rules out Bristow, then,” Malloy said.

  “This trap was set after Bristow was dead,” Vickery said.

  “Is that the sort of thing a magician would do?”

  “A magician could do it,” Vickery said, “or a magician’s assistant. But I can’t think of many who would take such a risk.”

  “But you can think of one,” Malloy said. It wasn’t a question. “Someone lured us here so they could blow us up. Can you believe that?”

  “That’s not the most remarkable thing about it,” Vickery said.

  “It isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “What is the most remarkable thing about it?” Malloy asked.

  “That wasn’t Bristow’s delivery van.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “I didn’t think I should call on you at home,” Skelhorn said.

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Vickery said, “Betty has instructions to kill you on sight.”

  “You have a guard dog called Betty?”

  “Something like that,” Vickery said.

  They were walking through the park in the warm gold  September sunshine. Malloy followed a few feet behind them. It was early morning and there was no one else about.

  “We’ve known each other a good few years now, haven’t we, Ben?” Skelhorn said.

  “I’m sure a few of them must have been good,” Vickery said.

  “Don’t be like that. We’ve had our differences, I’ll admit. But when it comes down to it, we’re part of the same fraternity, aren’t we? One big magical family.”

  “Is that why you tried to prove I was a murderer?” Vickery asked.

  “I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” Skelhorn said. “I was asked to demonstrate whether the alleged accident could have been staged deliberately.”

  “They asked you to give away the secret of an illusion,” Vickery said. “How terribly ironic.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Skelhorn asked.

  “You have a reputation for stealing the secrets, not giving them away,” Malloy said. “I’ve heard that, and I’m not even a member of your circle.”

  “Does this oaf really have to be here?” Skelhorn asked.

  “Mr. Malloy is here to ensure that another murder is not committed,” Vickery said.

  “I didn’t come here to threaten you,” Skelhorn said.

  “I meant your murder,” Vickery said. He smiled. “Why did you come here, Raymond?”

  “I need your help,” Skelhorn said softly.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Vickery said, cupping his ear, “you know how it is at our age.”

  “I came to ask for your help,” Skelhorn said more loudly.

  Behind them, Malloy snorted.

  “What possible help do you think I can be to you?” Vickery asked.

  “You’ve seen all the evidence,” Skelhorn said, “someone is trying to make it look like I killed Charlie McNair.”

  “And Bristow,” Malloy said, “don’t forget about poor Mr. Bristow.”

  “Can’t you throw him a stick or something?” Skelhorn said.

  “If you want my help, insulting my associate is not the best way to go about winning me over,” Vickery said.

  “Then you will help me?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You know I’m innocent!” Skelhorn said.

  “Innocent is not a word I would ever apply to you, Raymond.”

  “I did not murder Charlie!” Skelhorn insisted.

  “Perhaps not,” Vickery said, “but what makes you think I care?”

  “You would let me hang for a crime I did not commit?”

  “I would prefer to see you hanged for one you did commit,” Vickery said, “but this is the next best thing.”

  “What do you want from me?” Skelhorn asked.

  “A confession would be nice,” Malloy said.

  Skelhorn swung round and faced him. “I did not murder Charlie McNair. How many times must I say it?”

  “You can say it until you’re blue in the face,” Malloy said, “but that won’t make it true.”

  “Did you kill Bristow?” Vickery asked.

  “Of course not. I could never kill Bristow.”

  “Because if you did, you knew he would release evidence of your previous crimes?” Malloy said.

  “Benjamin, what is your idiot babbling about?”

  “I think you know,” Vickery said. “Tell us where you were on the night Bristow was murdered.”

  “I was – I received a message, telling me that Bristow had a secret hideaway...”

  “And suggesting you had better go there before the police discovered what he’d hidden there?” Marlow asked, smiling.

  “Did you send that note?” Skelhorn asked.

  Vickery shook his head. “You were out in the middle of nowhere, with no one else around,” he said, “and have no alibi for the time Bristow was killed.”

  “That’s very poor planning,” Malloy said.

  “Or very good planning on someone else’s part,” Skelhorn said, still eyeing Vickery suspiciously.

  Vickery looked at his pocket-watch and started walking again. Malloy and Skelhorn walked on either side of him.

  “You searched Bristow’s workshop,” Vickery said, “and when you found nothing there, you burned it to
the ground.”

  Skelhorn nodded. “It was an accident, obviously. There was petrol spilt on the ground, and then a stray spark...”

  “Did you accidentally burn down his house as well?” Malloy asked.

  “That wasn’t me, I swear,” Skelhorn said.

  Vickery seemed to be giving this careful thought.

  “When you went to Bristow’s workshop, did you find his delivery van?” Malloy asked.

  “Delivery van?” Skelhorn said.

  “An old Morris,” Malloy said, “rust-coloured for the most part.”

  “There was no delivery van,” Skelhorn said. “The place was empty. And filthy.”

  “No van,” Malloy said, looking at Vickery. “I wonder where it went. And what was in it.”

  Skelhorn’s face had gone pale.

  “No alibi for the night of Bristow’s murder,” Vickery said, “so you could have killed him. And on the night of Charlie’s death...”

  “I was on stage at the Alhambra!” Skelhorn said triumphantly. “I couldn’t have killed him.”

  “Not by your own hand, at least,” Vickery said.

  “Bristow said you didn’t like to get your hands dirty,” Malloy said, “you prefer to have someone do the nasty things for you.”

  “He did, did he? And what else did that little rat tell you?” Skelhorn asked.

  “He told us he was afraid of you Raymond,” Vickery said. “I would go as far as to say that he was terrified.”

  “Why would he be afraid of me?” Skelhorn laughed nervously. “The man was a drug addict – he was afraid of his own shadow.”

  “Perhaps,” Vickery said.

  They had walked almost a full circuit of the park now, and the path curved around to where the Alvis was parked under the trees. A second car pulled up behind it and two men got out: Detective Inspector Grives and a uniformed police officer.

  “Benjamin, you didn’t?” Skelhorn said, slowing.

  “I’m afraid I did,” Vickery said. “We need you to join us for a little get-together. You may ride with the police, or you can come along with Jamie and me.”

  “The police station?” Skelhorn asked, a picture of defeat.

  “A night at the theatre,” Vickery said.

  Chapter Thirty-Two