by Sophie Davis
“Touchdown!” he cried and did a little victory dance in his seat.
“Find anything new about our masked villain?” I asked, climbing the staircase to the bedrooms.
“Not sure. I’m having a hard time translating the words, though the pictures tell quite a tale.” He folded back the paper at one end of the sandwich and took a large bite. Around a mouthful of food, Gaige added, “Dude’s pretty wicked.”
“I’ll look at it later,” I promised. “Though I doubt I’ll understand much more than you do. I’ll be ready soon, just need to change. Oh, and just so know, I sent a message to Eisenhower requesting info about the Night Gentleman.”
“Good. I was actually considering doing the same. Let’s hope he responds quickly.”
“Let’s hope,” I agreed.
When I finally returned to the living room, I wore a silver and green lamé gown trimmed with pearls, and a matching headscarf. My partner had not moved. The sandwich’s paper wrapping was on the coffee table, but otherwise the scene was exactly the same as when I’d left.
A knock on the front door broke the quiet in our Parisian home.
“Oh, no, Gaige, don’t trouble yourself,” I muttered when he didn’t even acknowledge the sound.
“You got it? Thanks, Stass.”
The door opened before I reached it. Ines swept in, wearing a daring backless gown of black silk.
“The car is waiting, if you are both ready?” she asked.
I looked to Gaige, since he was the one with his eyes glued to a book.
“Sorry. Are you talking to me?” he said. “Yeah, I’m ready. Oh, wow, Ines, you look great. You too, Stass.”
“Thanks for noticing,” I said dryly.
A black Rolls-Royce idled on the street in front of our townhouse. Jacque greeted us each formally as he held the back door open.
During the ride, Ines wasn’t her usually chatty self. Unsurprisingly, she chained smoked the whole way, managing to suck down two cigarettes on the quick trip. Our guide’s obvious anxiety had me glancing over my shoulder as if something or someone might attack me at any moment. Her demeanor improved slightly when the Rolls pulled up in front of a beautiful red and gold theater with Exotique spelled out in bright white lights. In contrast to the previous night’s club, the sidewalk in front of the theater was teeming with eager men and women.
Starting for the end of the line, I pulled my shawl up to cover my shoulders against the brisk air.
“Stassi, dear, this way!” Ines called after me.
I turned and saw that she and Gaige were heading in the opposite direction. Ines had her arm looped through my partner’s. The two made a striking pair. The carefree smile that our guide wore like armor was firmly back in place.
We made our way through the crowd to the front of the line. Ines spoke to the slimmer of the two doormen. When she presented our tickets, the bouncer nodded and unhooked one end of the rope.
“Come along, dear,” Ines called, waving me forward with her cigarette hand.
“Enjoy the show, Mademoiselle Prince,” the bouncer said as I hurried to catch up with Gaige and Ines.
“Th-thank you,” I stuttered in surprise.
What did Ines tell him about me? I wondered.
Somehow, the lobby was even more crowded than the sidewalk. Waiters wove seamlessly through the theater patrons, carrying silver trays with champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. Young woman in gold and red quintessentially flapper-style outfits sold cigarettes from trays hanging around their necks.
I took in the festive scene before me, feeling like an extra in the Gatsby movie we’d watched with Molly. Smoke curled around the ornate light fixtures, an ominous gray haze hanging over the celebratory night like a storm cloud about to burst. A chill ran up my spine, despite the considerably warmer temperature inside the theater.
“Ah, champagne, merci, merci,” Ines cooed, snagging two flutes from a passing tray and handing them to us. “One more, love,” she added when the waiter started to move away. He paused long enough for her to claim the remaining glass, and then bowed his apologies. Ines ignored the gesture and turned back to us.
“A toast,” Ines declared, raising her glass. “To an exotic night of fabulous entertainment.”
Gaige touched his glass to hers. “Here, here,” he said.
“Here, here,” I echoed, doing the same.
The effervescent bubbles made my nose tingle. Ines was blatantly scoping out the room, doubtlessly cataloguing each of the attendees.
“Not to be rude…,” I began.
Gaige snorted. “Which means you’re about to be rude,” he teased.
I shot him a pointed look. “No, I’m just wondering what we’re doing here. This isn’t vacation, we’re here on business.”
“Of course, of course,” Ines agreed, taking another sip of champagne as she returned her attention to us. Two red lipstick marks stained the rim of the glass when she was done. “And business, as you say, is why we are here.” She waved her cigarette hand lazily, the lit end just missing the coat of an older gentleman passing by.
“Seriously? We saw Rosenthal today, and I didn’t really get the pulling-rabbits-from-hats vibe from him,” I replied.
“Vibe?” Ines asked, confusion pursing her bright red lips.
“My apologies,” I said, remembering my diction. “What I meant to say is that he does not seem the sort to attend an event such as this.”
“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you,” Ines said. “However, I happen to have it on good authority that your target was sent tickets to tonight’s show. A mutual friend of ours owns this theater, and told me that he personally had two tickets messengered over yesterday.”
“And you think Rosenthal will actually attend?” Gaige asked doubtfully.
“I was just looking for him,” she replied and resumed crowd-scanning.
While she and Gaige perused the faces in the lobby, I leisurely sipped my champagne and let them do the work.
“He is already here,” Ines proclaimed triumphantly, pointing. On Rosenthal’s arm was a beautiful olive-skinned woman with sleek chocolate waves hanging down to her waist. A short, crimson dress showed off the woman’s tanned, toned legs. They were dancer’s legs.
Carmen D’Angelo, I thought.
“Andre, dear, over here!” Ines called, waving that damned cigarette wildly about. “And you brought Carmen, how lovely.”
The lights in the lobby flickered, and a male voice boomed over unseen speakers.
“The Rochette Theater is pleased to welcome you all. The doors are now open, and we ask that you find your seats so that we may begin tonight’s performance. Prepare to be entertained!” the voice thundered in French, the English translation playing in my ear.
Doors at the back of the lobby banged open, though no ushers or theater workers seemed to be standing on either side. Applause rang out from those gathered, as if this was the first illusion of the evening. I clapped politely, though I wasn’t nearly as impressed as the rest of the audience. I’d seen true magic. I’d also seen automated doors.
Rosenthal and Carmen made their way over as we joined the line to enter the theater. Ines attempted to make introductions, but the conversations taking place all around us were too loud to hear what she said. I smiled and nodded like I understood anyway, shaking hands with both the author and his date when the time came.
“Fancy running into you here.” The voice was deep, sensual, and oddly familiar.
Startled, I spun around.
“Mademoiselle Prince, you look lovely this evening. May I escort you to your seat?” Charles DuPree asked, offering me his arm.
“Sure,” I mumbled.
Why could I only manage one-syllable words around this guy?
I cleared my throat and raised my voice. “Excuse me, you startled me, Mr. DuPree. What I meant to say was, yes, that would be fine.”
And now I sound like an uptight character from an Austen novel. Way to go, Stassi.
Charles’s golden-brown eyes sparkled with amusement. Trying not to blush, I slipped my hand through the crook of his waiting arm. The people in front of us were moving nowhere fast, leaving me scrambling to fill the conversational void.
“I see your brother has found his pet,” Charles noted, nodding ahead of us to where Gaige was leaning over and talking into Rosenthal’s ear.
I had to suppress a groan. My poor choice of words during our dance the previous night was going to come back and bite me in the ass.
“Gaige is a huge fan of Mr. Rosenthal’s work,” I said. “We actually saw him earlier today. In fact, he even bought us a round of drinks.”
One of Charles’s light eyebrows winged upwards. “You must have made quite the impression, Andy is not usually so outgoing.”
“Andy? Is that like when you called Gertrude Stein ‘Gertie’? Or does Mr. Rosenthal prefer the nickname?” I asked.
“Perhaps you should continue to call him ‘Mr. Rosenthal’,” Charles replied, grinning down at me.
Suddenly, my throat felt extremely dry. I gulped champagne, swallowing nearly half the glass. Immediately, my head began to spin. I coughed as the liquid scorched my throat. Ever the gentleman, Charles rubbed my back between my shoulder blades with one hand. With the other, he withdrew a scarlet and gray handkerchief from his breast pocket. He brushed the cool, silky fabric over my hand to wipe away the stray droplets. A shiver ran down my spine when our skin made contact.
Lock it up. Lock it up right now, I commanded myself, as if sheer willpower alone could prevent my body from reacting to his touch. Gaige was right—I needed to start dating in our time. Maybe then I wouldn’t melt every time a handsome man was near me.
Just then, Rosenthal turned to look over his shoulder, causing his glasses to slip down his nose.
“Charles, there you are,” Rosenthal said pleasantly. “We looked for you when we arrived, you must have been hiding.”
“No, sir, just late. I had some matters to attend to,” Charles explained, his tone deferential and devoid of the playfulness he used in our banter. Turning his attention to Rosenthal’s date, Charles took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Mademoiselle D’Angelo, wonderful to see you, as always. What fortune that you have the evening off.”
Carmen D’Angelo was more stunning up close than her pictures had let on. Her voice was deep and rich, like dark roast coffee for the ears.
“You as well, Mr. DuPree. It is a rare occasion that I am on this side of the stage. My own show was canceled this evening. Our stage manager says these murders have people scared to leave their homes.” Glancing around at the full theater, she added, “Though you would not know from this crowd.”
“Carmen is an exceedingly talented dance,” Charles explained to me. “Her show, Danza de los Flamingos, is simply the best in Paris. We must go while you are here.”
His use of the word “we” was disarming.
“You are too kind,” Carmen said demurely, though it was obvious she enjoyed the accolades. I’d learned enough about her to know that complimenting the dancer was easily the quickest way to friendship.
“Apologies, I’ve forgotten my manners. Carmen D’Angelo this is Anastasia Prince. Mademoiselle Prince is visiting our beloved city from America.”
“Charmed,” she replied, eyeing me up and down.
“It is lovely to meet you,” I said warmly. “I am quite looking forward to seeing your show, I’ve heard many praises of your talents.”
Carmen’s false smile immediately turned genuine. Unfortunately, her response was cut off when an usher appeared by my side.
“May I help you find your seats?” he asked brusquely. “The show is about to begin.”
Ines produced our tickets from her beaded clutch and showed him our seat numbers.
“Right this way,” he replied, his tone noticeably more respectful.
Leaning down so as not to be overheard, Charles whispered in my ear, “It appears you rate highly, Miss Prince.” His lips almost brushed my skin when he spoke, sending another pleasant tingle through my body.
The interior of the theater was grandiose, opulent to the extreme. Plush crimson seats were trimmed with gold brocade. Gothic-style light fixtures with electric candles cast an orange-red glow down over the crowd, creating a decidedly creepy ambiance. The brass railings on the balcony level were polished and gleaming to perfection.
Our group, including Charles, followed the usher straight to the area directly in front of the stage. A braided gold rope cordoned off small sitting areas with red velvet couches and matching armchairs. On the table in front of the couch we stopped at was a Rèservation pour Callandries sign.
“Your champagne will be delivered straightaway,” the usher told us. “All other beverages can be ordered through your waiter. Please enjoy the show.”
Ines thanked him as the rest of us filed into our seats. Gaige managed to wiggle his way to Rosenthal’s side. Carmen was then relegated to the corner of the couch, a position I was sure she was neither accustomed to nor appreciated.
I sat on Gaige’s other side, so that I could eavesdrop on his conversation with Rosenthal. To my surprise, Charles settled in beside me. The couch was large enough to comfortably accommodate all five of us, though having mere inches between Charles and myself was not what I’d expected of the evening.
“I wasn’t aware you were joining us,” I said plainly. It was a rude statement, but his nearness had caught me off guard.
“I hope you find this a pleasant surprise,” Charles replied, cocking one eyebrow.
“I have met so few people in Paris, it is always nice to be in the company of a familiar face,” I said, drawing on every ounce of my etiquette training.
“Why Miss Prince, I do believe you would have made an excellent courtesan.”
That’s an odd choice of words, I thought. Wait. Did he just call me a prostitute?
The house lights began to dim, growing fainter until we were shrouded in darkness. Soft, eerie music played, increasing in volume and tempo with each passing heartbeat. Cymbals crashed and a spotlight appeared in the center of the stage. It blinked from white to yellow to orange, before settling finally on red. When the crimson orb appeared, so did a caricature of a man. He was impossibly tall, as if standing on stilts. His black top hat added another six inches to an already impressive height. A handlebar mustache curled across his cheeks and hung down from either side of his face like ribbons on a birthday present. The gold bowtie around his neck stretched from ear to ear. A red dinner jacket with black lapels and striped red, black, and gold pants completed the ensemble.
“Prepare to be entertained!” the emcee boomed into the microphone. “My name is Vladimir, the Viscount of Villainy, the Father of Fear, the Ringleader of Risqué. I will be your host for the evening. We have prepared a special show for tonight. It will shock you. It will amaze you.” Vladimir narrowed his eyes and panned the audience. “It will terrify you. Just remember one thing.” He held up one finger, paused, and then threw his arms up in the air. “It is all an illusion!” he cried.
The audience’s applause was deafening, as if he’d actually done something worth clapping for, instead of merely introducing himself in grandiose fashion. Vlad beamed, drinking in the praise with all the humility of a man accustomed to the spotlight. When the applause died down, the host continued to grin like a fool until it became awkward. I began to squirm in my seat. Finally, the emcee’s expression faltered. His smile vanished, and he became alarmingly serious. The man curled into himself, curving his spine to the point he bore a striking resemblance to the hunchback of Notre Dame.
In a stage whisper meant to inspire fear, Vladimir the Vexing—two could play the alliteration game—said, “Or is it?” And the audience went wild.
The show continued in a similar fashion.
Good ole Vlad presented each act with the same vigor he’d used while introducing himself. Every entertainer had a name like Ballantine the Beautiful, Katy
a the Contortionist, and Niccoli the Neanderthal. Each performance took the trickery to the next level. It started with a run-of-the-mill illusionist named Miguel the Malevolent. His most impressive trick was disappearing from the stage and reappearing overhead on a zipline that ran from one end of the theater to the other.
The last act before intermission was that of Tai Wei Jong, a Chinese dwarf with the skill and grace of an Olympic gymnast. He tumbled across the stage, performing gravity-defying acrobatics as he traversed an obstacle course made up of replicas of the manmade wonders of the Western world: The Eiffel Tower, The Statue of Liberty, Big Ben, and the Colosseum from ancient Rome. The act reminded me of parkour, though the training discipline was over half a century away from becoming popular. Tai Wei’s performance was by far the most impressive, despite being the least magical. He received a standing ovation and thunderous applause that shook the very foundation of the theater.
During intermission, my little band of friends discussed the acts we’d seen thus far. Ines and Carmen spoke animatedly about their favorites. Charles proffered guesses as to how the stunts were really done, since the notion of magic was not one he bought into. Naturally, Gaige insisted on playing devil’s advocate, poking holes in each of Charles’s theories. Then he went a step farther, suggesting ridiculous alternatives. Each one was more outrageous than the one before it.
When Gaige suggested that Tai Wei had been bitten by a radioactive spider and could now shoot webbing from his wrists, which he used to swing from one miniature building to the next, I kicked him in the shin.
“What a delightful idea for a novel!” Ines trilled.
“We could call him Arachnidman,” Rosenthal suggested with a chuckle.
“Yes!” Gaige exclaimed. “Just make sure you credit me in the acknowledgments.”
Rosenthal raised his champagne flute in toast to my partner. “You have my word, Mr. Prince,” he said solemnly.
“Are you serious right now, Gaige? You just put a major would-be comic book franchise out of business,” I mumbled under my breath.
Unfazed, my partner simply gave me a wink.
He leaned over and spoke directly into my ear. “Keep them talking, I have to go to the little runner’s room.” Standing and speaking loud enough for everyone else to hear, Gaige said, “If you will all excuse me.”
