They fastened a thick chain around his waist, and to this, a pair of what looked like police regulation handcuffs. Once locked, the assistants gave a sharp tug, showing that the cuffs were not only secure, but tight.
Around us a series of gasps sounded out and one by one the hands went down—forty-five, fifty, sixty seconds. I made it to seventy-five, then gasped. The Great Borelli smiled. ‘The longest an audience member has ever held his breath was eighty seconds. One minute and twenty seconds. Most of you can do this for less than a minute. I will now escape this tank, but it will take time. Longer than two minutes. It is extremely dangerous. A colleague of mine recently drowned attempting to duplicate this trick. Are you ready?’
The audience responded in affirmation. Holmes leaned forward in his chair. The Great Borelli, now upside down with chains connecting his handcuffs to his waist, was upended so he was hanging from his pinioned ankles.
The entire thing was winched into the air and Borelli was suspended upside down, over the tank. He took in a deep breath of air, and nodded at his assistants to lower him in.
The clock began.
Madame Borelli stepped forward. ‘My husband is risking his life. In the case that something goes wrong, we do not wish for you to see him drown.’ A curtain on a frame was then rolled in to block our view of the tank.
The audience gave audible disapproval. Some boos were heard.
Madame Borelli smiled. ‘Oh … you want to see?’
‘Yes! Yes!’ came the louder response.
‘He’s unlocking the handcuffs just now,’ whispered Holmes.
‘Stop it.’
She nodded at an assistant and the curtain was wheeled off. Forty seconds, fifty, a minute. Borelli could be seen writhing as he seemed to struggle with the handcuffs.
‘I think he’s having trouble,’ I whispered to Holmes. He just smiled at me.
Borelli continued to struggle. The music began to play ominously.
‘I don’t know. This looks like a problem,’ I said.
Ninety seconds. Suddenly Borelli cast off the handcuffs. A ripple of applause. Then the illusionist contorted in the narrow tank to bend at the waist to address his ankle restraints. The clock indicated two minutes.
The audience vocalized its thrilled concern. I glanced at Holmes. He was watching closely. I turned my attention back to Borelli, who was working at the ankle cuffs. One ankle was free, the other still trapped. He paused and threw his head back in seeming despair, beating his hand against the window.
Two minutes and twenty seconds.
Madame Borelli appeared concerned.
‘Holmes!’ I said.
He seemed fascinated. Perhaps not as wide-eyed as those around us, but definitely interested.
Borelli once again attacked the remaining ankle cuff.
Two assistants approached Madame Borelli and appeared to confer with her in something of a dither. She shook her head.
Two minutes and forty seconds.
‘That is a terribly long time to hold one’s breath,’ I said.
‘He is practised, Watson,’ said my friend.
One ankle was free. The other was not. Borelli worked at it, apparently frantic. One assistant came out with a sledgehammer. Then the second.
Three minutes. Were we going to watch a man die before us?
‘Holmes?’
‘He is having trouble with that second ankle cuff,’ said Holmes.
Three minutes and ten seconds. The music stopped. Silence. Borelli seemed to collapse and float downward, becoming caught halfway, still bent at the waist, against the side of the tank, unconscious perhaps. The assistants raised their sledgehammers and glanced at Madame Borelli.
Her posture had changed. She was leaning forward, the picture of alarm.
‘Oh no!’ I said.
Suddenly Borelli gave a great twist and his second ankle came free. He folded like a jackknife, reversed position in the water, and shot to the top.
He pushed the top free! Borelli surfaced, gave a huge gasp, and then shook his head violently, sending a spray of water into the air.
The musicians played a triumphant flourish. The audience burst into applause.
The top was taken in hand by the two assistants who had scrambled up two ladders on either side. One assistant held a hand down to pull him out of the tank. Borelli waved the man away and stayed in the tank, perched on the edge and leaning on his two arms. He gave a salute to the audience, who continued to applaud wildly.
The assistants looked a bit confused. I glanced at Holmes. He was staring at Borelli, his forehead creased in a frown. What had just happened?
Borelli waved to the two assistants. They clambered down the ladders, and with the help of two more stagehands wheeled the giant tank off the stage, Borelli still within. Madame Borelli came to the front of the stage. She bowed deeply.
‘On behalf of the Great Borelli and myself, we thank you for coming today. Grazie. Grazie.’ She bowed again, blew kisses as the music played, and the curtains closed.
I looked at Holmes.
‘Backstage, Watson,’ he said. ‘I am curious about what just happened.’
CHAPTER 9
Misdirection
We pushed past a large crowd of fans and well-wishers to a guardian at the stage door who turned all away. Not to be thwarted, my friend led us to the side of the building to another entrance, a plain locked door which he handily picked with a small tool from his pocket.
In a moment we were greeted by Madame Borelli at the door to their dressing room. The Great Borelli sat on a chair by his cluttered dressing table, still wet and in his bathing costume but royal in demeanor, with a luxurious, embroidered silk robe thrown over all. One leg was elevated, his foot resting on a chair. His foot angled oddly, and I saw in an instant that the ankle was broken. It was swollen and tinged blue. He grimaced in pain as he issued sharp commands in Italian to two stagehands and his wife.
One assistant held the top bar of the tank as Madame Borelli examined the cuffs embedded in it. One was open, but the closed one held her focus. She was frowning and said something in Italian to her husband and their voices rose.
A stagehand pushed through to interrupt urgently. I made out the words ‘il dottore’ and stepped forward. ‘I am a doctor,’ I said. ‘May I assist you?’
The Great Borelli looked up and took us in. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘And how you get in here?’
His accent was thick. The magician eyed the two of us with scorn.
‘I invited them,’ Madame Borelli intervened. ‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. Mr Holmes, he solves crimes. A famous detective, very good. I called him about the finger you received, about Santo Colangelo. It is especially important, Dario, now that someone else is trying to kill you.’
‘Simple! Is Colangelo,’ cried Borelli.
‘Darling,’ said Madame, ‘Maybe not Santo. He has not the skills.’
‘But perhaps an agent of his?’ said Holmes.
‘You have spoken before, you two,’ said Borelli, his eyes darting between Holmes and his wife. His face grew red with rage. ‘Why do you two speak without me?’
‘Dario, caro mio,’ began the lady in a soothing tone. ‘I wanted his help. I read in the paper, and Scotland Yard recommended.’
Borelli stared at Holmes, considering this.
‘I am a great appreciator of your skills, Mr Borelli,’ said Holmes.
‘A detective? Who tries to flatter me? Who meets in secret with my wife?’ Borelli eyed Holmes from head to toe and snorted. ‘No. For you I have no use.’ He said something in Italian to his wife, who flushed.
Holmes smiled. ‘I am not Madame’s “type”, apparently, Watson,’ said he.
I did not realize my friend spoke Italian. Six years into our partnership, he continued to surprise me.
Borelli turned to me. ‘But you? You are a medical doctor?’
I nodded.
‘Where is your bag?’
‘At ho
me. We came to see your show,’ I said. ‘May I have a look at that ankle?’
‘He is an army surgeon,’ said Holmes. ‘That is a very nice dressing gown, by the way.’
The magician paused only for a moment, then nodded. ‘Look, then.’
I pulled up a chair and leaned in to examine the injury. I had barely touched him when Borelli leaned over his leg, thrusting his face towards mine. He took me by the arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. ‘Ah!’ I said.
‘You will be very careful, no?’ His dark marble eyes bored into mine.
‘Of course.’
‘You make like new.’
‘I will know after I have examined you.’
‘I must perform. Important shows. Make right very fast.’
‘I will do my best,’ I said.
‘Grazie, grazie.’ Still leaning forward, he released my arm and patted me on the back with his other hand. He remained uncomfortably close.
‘Sit back, sir, and try to relax. It will go easier for you. Is there any brandy about?’ I had uncharacteristically left my own flask at home.
‘No, no! I no need,’ said Borelli, waving a hand dismissively.
‘Sit back, please, sir!’ I said.
The magician paused, took a deep breath, then finally relaxed back into the chair, giving me room. As he did, he noted Holmes examining the contraption that had held his ankles.
‘Interesting,’ said Holmes.
‘Put that down!’ ordered Borelli.
‘Dario, please,’ said Madame Borelli. ‘I believe he can help to prove that you did not tamper with Santo’s guillotine trick. We must clear this up, Dario, or who knows what Santo may do?’
Holmes set down the contraption with the ankle cuffs and wiped his hands with a nearby towel. ‘The lock appears untouched. The wood around it is not scratched. If the one lock that malfunctioned was indeed tampered with and not merely broken, then the culprit is an expert.’
‘Colangelo did this,’ snarled the magician. Then, to me, ‘Ach! Easy there, you!’
‘How and when did he allegedly do this? Surely you check your equipment?’ asked Holmes.
‘Always. I examined it at six p.m. tonight.’
‘But the show commenced at seven-thirty. Did you not look again, just before going on? Such a mistake can be fatal,’ remarked the detective.
Borelli waved a hand. He was not yet ready to let Holmes in on the case. ‘But it was not fatal. I escaped! You are so smart, tell me how I do this!’
‘Impressively! You twisted your ankle at an extreme angle until you could slip free by force – abrading the skin there and breaking your ankle in the process. Few could manage this.’
I looked up at the man. ‘You broke your own ankle? On purpose?’
‘Better than drowning, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘Or perhaps worse, failing the trick.’
Madame Borelli smiled at this. The magician did not.
‘Why should I trust you?’ he said. His eyes swept over Holmes, taking in everything from my friend’s sleek hair and closely fitted frock coat to his polished boots. ‘You say admirer. But … you are dressed like magician.’
Holmes laughed.
‘Like a gentleman, Dario,’ corrected Madame Borelli. ‘It is the fine English tailoring of Mr Holmes.’ The lady gave her husband a stern look. ‘You need to listen, caro mio.’
The man raised his eyebrows. ‘Speak, woman.’
‘We must discover not just Santo Colangelo’s guillotine mystery, but also who tampered with your equipment tonight, Dario,’ continued his wife. ‘Possibly it was the same man.’
‘Or woman,’ I said.
‘Many are jealous of my illusions, my fame,’ said Borelli.
‘Oh, to be sure,’ I said. This man’s conceit knew no bounds.
‘Who guards your stage properties when you are away?’ asked Holmes.
Madame Borelli gave a low growl. ‘Falco Fricano. He was married to Dario’s sister, before her death. He watches over things, or says he does.’
‘He is a good man,’ said Borelli. ‘Falco!’ he shouted.
‘He is the wrong man for this job,’ said Madame.
Borelli grunted. ‘What do you know, woman?’
His dismissive manner raised my ire.
‘But you know Falco, caro mio,’ she said before turning to Holmes and me. ‘Falco likes the cards and wine. He is very good for organizing the travel but not for the long, boring jobs like sitting backstage and watching all the equipment. I think he is not there all the time.’ To her husband, she added, ‘I tell you this before.’
A tall, handsome man with the flushed countenance of someone who indeed was a fan of the grape poked his head in the door.
‘Falco!’ cried Borelli.
Fricano smiled and nodded at us. ‘Si, Dario?’ he said.
Borelli said something in rapid Italian to the fellow, who responded with a short, conciliatory burst of words. Borelli replied with a sharp retort, then waved him away. Fricano saluted us with a smirk and disappeared.
‘Falco, he admits,’ said Borelli. ‘Maybe he stepped away for an hour. After five p.m. Maybe after six. He is not sure.’
Madame Borelli turned back to Holmes. ‘You see.’
‘Was he unsure of the hour, or the length of his absence?’ asked Holmes.
‘He says he was gone only one hour,’ she said. ‘But I think it was more.’
‘Whoever did this obviously came between six when you checked and seven-thirty, then,’ said Holmes. ‘I wonder that you put your faith in this Falco Fricano, Mr Borelli.’
‘He is family. He never will cross me,’ said Borelli. ‘Maybe make mistake – he will not make again.’
‘Do you have any theories about who might have tampered with the lock tonight?’ Holmes asked. ‘Anyone with a long-standing grudge, perhaps?’
‘Many people are jealous of the Great Borelli,’ said the magician with another wave of his hand. ‘Could be one of a hundred. Ah! Do not poke at ankle so.’
‘I am palpating to find the exact break,’ I said. ‘You have fractured the lateral malleolus – the area where the fibula joins the foot. Not an uncommon break for a sportsman. You will have to immobilize this for a while. It will require a splint,’ I announced. Spotting a stagehand at the door, I called him over and described what I needed. As he departed, strident voices floated in from the hall. The word ‘officer’ was clearly in the mix.
‘Ah, the police are here. Wife!’ said Borelli. ‘Send them away!’
Madame Borelli stepped outside and closed the door. I could hear her conferring with several male voices.
‘Have you had any recent threats by post, or directly? Any suspects from this list of a hundred who seem more likely than others?’ persisted Holmes.
Borelli glanced at Holmes. ‘I do not need you. Are you still here? Go, go!’
‘Fine, then,’ said Holmes, taking up his hat. ‘Watson, I will find you in Baker Street.’ I remained seated next to Borelli’s afflicted ankle.
Madame Borelli returned. ‘I told them we know it was an accident. They go away.’ Noting Holmes was about to leave, she attached herself to his arm. ‘Mr Holmes, please stay.’
‘Madame, if you don’t mind,’ said he, attempting to disengage.
But the lady clung to his arm. She turned to her husband. ‘Mr Holmes is very good, Dario. Some say he is like magic. In his profession.’
Just then the stagehand returned with some items that could serve as a splint. I chose a wooden ruler and set about breaking it in half. ‘Holmes, I will need your help,’ I said. I did not want to be left here with this explosive fellow. ‘Hold this piece of ruler just here, while I wrap this around.’ I indicated the makeshift splint and a strip of fabric. Reluctantly, Holmes complied.
‘Ha, you are “like magic”, she say?’ Borelli challenged Holmes. ‘Do you know, then, what is the secret of my success? Why I am the Great Borelli? Who next year will be playing in Prince Albert Hall?’
‘Let me suggest it is not due to your diligent stage personnel,’ said Holmes, ‘or your immense personal charm.’
‘One time only, Falco, he leave the tank. This never happen before and will never happen again! Believe me, I make sure. Now, enough. But why am I great? The secret of my success? You will never guess!’
‘That is true. I never guess.’
‘What, then are you a genius?’
Holmes glanced up at Borelli. I recognized that look. There would be trouble.
‘You have six attributes. Three of which, of course, are quite common.’
‘Only six? Ha! Name them.’
‘The first is showmanship – that is, a well-written patter, delivered with a certain panache. Second, custom props: special, pre-rigged equipment, a kind of cheat.’
‘This is no cheat!’
Unruffled, my friend continued. ‘Pre-rigged equipment has not much to do with skill. One can purchase, for example, the floating lady illusion or—’
Borelli shot a quick angry glance at his wife. ‘All my equipment is made by me!’
‘Designed by your wife, I understand.’ Holmes turned to me as though I’d asked for an explanation. ‘Pre-rigged tricks are the kind that creative artists, such as Madame here, sell to lesser magicians, Watson. Special boxes, tables, card decks. Guillotines that seem to cut off fingers.’
At the mention of the guillotine, Borelli glanced again at his wife.
‘Yes, I told you I consult about Santo’s accident,’ she said. ‘I gave him all the details. Mr Holmes will find who sabotaged Santo’s trick, and Santo will stop troubling you.’ When he grimaced, she pleaded, ‘Dario, listen.’
Holmes had warmed to the topic. ‘The table is rather well done, Madame. Flicking the scarf, for example, as he disposes of the teacup and then the rabbit into a hidden pocket.’
The hidden pockets again! I wondered what happened afterwards and looked about the dressing room in concern, until I spotted the baby rabbit in a small cage, happily chewing some greens. Madame Borelli caught my concern.
The Three Locks Page 5
