“But what can we do?”
“If we proceed from the hypothesis that Mr. Collins is telling the truth, then it stands to reason that someone else is responsible for the death of Miss Moore.”
“You’re no longer blaming the restless spirit of Kalliffa?”
“I am compelled to set that theory aside for the moment.” He turned a corner onto Orchard Street. “I believe that if we were able to discover how Miss Moore was killed, we should soon find out who killed her.”
“Makes sense.”
“Lieutenant Murray laid out two very distinct possibilities—a jealous lover or a rival of Mr. Kellar’s. Since he believes Mr. Collins is the villain, he is obviously leaning toward the former. I favor the latter. There can be no other explanation for the sensational manner in which she was killed.”
“I’m not sure I entirely agree.”
“I thought you might not. That is why I am assigning you to look into the young lady’s background.”
“Her background?”
“We know very little about Miss Moore. I believe there may be some clues to be had in a thorough investigation of her past. Are you still acquainted with that newspaper fellow? What was his name again?”
“Biggs. Harry, you know perfectly well that his name is Biggs. Are you never going to forgive him for that bad review?”
He pretended not to hear me. “The newspaper archive at the New York World is perhaps the finest resource of information in the city. I want you to see what you can discover about Miss Moore—particularly her years with the Kendall Brothers.”
“Harry, it seems unlikely that there would be much information in the newspaper morgue. The Kendall Brothers are strictly bottom-rung.”
“It is a fool’s errand, actually. But I see no other means of convincing you that Miss Moore was simply a pawn in a larger plot against Mr. Kellar. Therefore I must allow you to eliminate the hypothesis that she was the sole victim. At the same time, you might look through the Kellar file and discover if you can isolate anyone who might be harboring a grudge against him.”
“Kellar’s file will be massive! It could take all day!”
“That will give me just enough time,” Harry said.
“Enough time for what?”
“Enough time to deal with this,” he said, stopping abruptly before a large theatrical poster. It showed a trim, dapper man in a tailcoat, gesturing extravagantly at a ghostly figure that appeared to be hovering above the heads of an enraptured audience. “Servais Le Roy presents his greatest mystery yet!” the poster announced. “The Mystery of Lhassa—a woman floats in the empty space!” A slash-panel pasted along the lower corner read: “Debut tomorrow evening!”
“Well, I’ll be a fish on a bicycle,” I said.
“Indeed.”
“Servais Le Roy is in town, performing a Floating Lady illusion.”
“Indeed.”
“He and Kellar usually avoid each other like the plague.”
“Indeed.”
“So the timing is...suggestive.”
“Indeed.”
“Harry, what are you going to do?”
“Me? I am going to do exactly as Lieutenant Murray suggested.”
“What’s that?”
“I am going to ask Mr. Servais Le Roy for a job.”
11
KARNAC IN FLAMES
I SPENT TEN MINUTES GRILLING HIM, BUT HARRY REFUSED TO elaborate on this curious remark. We parted in front of the courthouse after arranging to meet at the end of the day. I rode the elevated train to the offices of the World, convinced that an afternoon of fruitless labor lay before me. The prospect was not entirely unpleasant, as my friend Biggs could usually be relied upon for the name of a good pony or two.
I found Biggs slouched over an angled compositor’s desk, as always. He wore his customary grey tweed suit with an open waistcoat and carelessly knotted wool tie, along with the ragged expression of a man perpetually three days behind on his sleep. His wavy red hair seemed to be fleeing in all directions from a bald patch at the back of his head, and dark smudges clung to his pale blue eyes.
“Dash, you old pepperpot!” he shouted when he saw me lounging in the doorway. “Just the man I need to see! Where have you been? Your landlady hasn’t seen you for a week!”
“I’ve been on the road,” I said, tossing my Trilby onto a battered stand in the corner. “We only got back to town yesterday.”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “you’ve been working with the Kellar show. I know all about that, of course. That’s why I’ve been looking for you. The death of the Floating Lady! The tragedy of the falling star! It’s the biggest story of the year, and somehow you and the ape man have wound up right at the center of it!”
“You really must stop calling him that.”
“Oh, but I will, dear boy. Just as soon as he stops dragging his knuckles on the ground.”
I sighed. Biggs and my brother had nurtured an intense dislike for one another since boyhood. Biggs had been a sensitive and somewhat fragile boy, while Harry had been a bit of a showoff and a bully. It made for a poor combination. My friend had matured into a fine journalist and a promising writer, while Harry had turned his youthful braggadocio into the cornerstone of his act. It remained a poor combination.
“Pull up a stool and tell me everything you know,” Biggs was saying. “Don’t leave out anything, especially if it’s gruesome.”
“To be candid, I’m not certain that I can add anything to what appeared in your newspaper this morning. The account of Miss Moore’s injuries was rather shocking in its detail.”
“Well, yes. We have a man at the city morgue. But I need you for the background. Come on, young Hardeen. Tell me everything about the accident. From the beginning.”
I sat down and passed twenty minutes or so giving him an account of our actions from our first day with the Kellar company, carefully omitting any reference to the fact that Miss Moore’s death had not been an accident. I took particular care to lavish attention on Harry’s encounter with Boris the lion, which sent Biggs’s pen flying over the pages of his notebook.
“Finally came up against a mouth bigger than his own, did he?” Biggs chuckled. “It was bound to happen one day.”
“It’s not a laughing matter, Biggs. That lion could easily have killed half the company.”
“I know, Dash. I know. And I’ll be certain to cast the Great Houdini in a properly heroic light when the time comes. Tell me, how is Mr. Kellar bearing up? I understand he’s taken it all rather hard.”
“He feels responsible for the death of Miss Moore, as one might expect,” I said carefully. “She came to harm in his employ.”
“Yes, but I understood that he was thinking of closing the show for good. Leaving the field to men like this Le Roy character.”
“That would be a great loss,” I said, “but I would not presume to speak for Mr. Kellar.”
Biggs eyed me carefully, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Why, Dash Hardeen! You’re holding out on me! When did you get to be so crafty?”
My cheeks reddened. “Mr. Kellar requires confidentiality from his employees,” I said.
“Well, well. Then it can’t be a desire to tell everything that brought you to the offices of the World this morning. How may the fourth estate be of service, may I ask?”
“I want to find out a bit more about Miss Moore if I can.”
He gave me a suspicious look. “Why?”
“It may help me to understand how the accident occurred.”
“Balderdash,” he said. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, Dash. What are you hiding?”
“Nothing, I assure you. I just—”
“Can’t help you, in any case. She’s a complete blank. Not a thing in our files.”
“I may have a better idea of where to look.”
“Oh, really?” Biggs asked, hopping down off his stool. “Are you willing to share?”
I nodded.
&
nbsp; “Then let’s head down to the crypt.”
He led me through a warren of offices to a dim basement chamber arrayed with row upon row of dusty wooden file cabinets. “I’ve already been down here this morning,” he said, pulling open a creaky file drawer. “There’s nothing here under the name of Francesca Moore. The unfortunate woman is a bit of a puzzle. Quite an eyeful, I understand.”
“You’ve no idea,” I said. “These are the footlight files?”
“From here to that wall, yes. Everything we have on drama and the arts, going back forty-two years.”
I reached for the drawer marked with a “K.”
“ ‘K’ for Kellar?” asked Biggs.
“No, ‘K’ for Kendall Brothers. Miss Moore received her acrobatic training with them.”
“Never heard of the Kendall Brothers.”
“I’m not surprised. They’re small-time.”
“How did Miss Moore happen to cross paths with Kellar, then, for all of her surpassing beauty? It’s been some time since he played anything less than the Palace.”
“Mr. Kellar doesn’t engage his own staff. He leaves that to his manager, Mr. McAdow. I can only assume that McAdow keeps an eye on the variety circuits, looking out for rising talent. Let me see...” I thumbed through the sheaves of yellowing documents until I came across the file on the Kendall Brothers. The packet was notably slim, and when I opened it a single newspaper clipping fluttered out.
“Not much of a legacy,” Biggs observed. “What’s it say?”
“ ‘Kendall Brothers Top Bill at Hogarth Fairground.’ ” I scanned the article. “Let’s see... ‘The youthful acrobats delighted the citizens of Hogarth with their aerial wizardry’ ... ‘the human pyramid was an especial highlight, causing much astonishment’ ... ah! Here we are! ‘The fetching Miss Francesca Moore drew much appreciative applause during her solo turn upon the high wire, which concluded with a stunning backward somersault.’ ” I passed the clipping over to Biggs.
He read it through and then looked up with feigned amazement. “Good God, Hardeen! What a scoop! We’ll have to re-make page one!”
I sighed and replaced the clipping in the file. “Hardly the revelation I was seeking. No doubt there will be more material on Kellar.”
Indeed, Mr. Kellar’s file was so extensive as to require seven packets to contain it all. Biggs left me alone to work my way through it while he returned to his desk. In all I spent the better part of three hours sorting through the various reviews, advertisements and press announcements. The clippings presented a fascinating overview of the magician’s long career, beginning with his modest appearances in vaudeville, where his efforts were usually described as “engaging” and “competent,” through the long years of his worldwide travels, when the label of the “wandering wonder-worker” appeared with great frequency, and concluding with the period of his greatest success, during which he was referred to almost without exception as “the Dean of American Magicians.” I noted a few familiar names running through the articles, including that of Dudley McAdow, whose appearance in Mr. Kellar’s life appeared to coincide with a dramatic upturn in the magician’s fortunes. Try as I might, however, I could find nothing to suggest a reason for anyone to wish harm upon Mr. Kellar, far less a motivation for the murder of Francesca Moore.
Upon finishing, I closed up the final file and replaced it in the cabinet, then went off to find Biggs. He looked up at my approach. “You didn’t find anything, I take it?”
“How can you tell?”
“That fancy manicure of yours. You always chew your thumbnail when you take notes, but today it’s positively pristine.”
“You should have been a detective, Biggs.” I reached for my hat.
“Come clean, Hardeen. What exactly are you digging for? The woman’s death was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“There’s certainly nothing in the files to suggest otherwise,” I said.
“That didn’t exactly answer my question, Dash.”
“Look, Biggs, I just wanted to find out a bit more about the poor woman who died last night. That’s all.”
He studied my face. “You really are a terrible liar, Dash. It’s quite endearing, actually.”
“You see? I was never cut out for journalism.”
“Promise me one thing, then,” he said, as I made for the door. “Promise that when the story breaks—”
“Don’t worry, Biggs. You’ll be the first to know.”
A heavy snow was falling as I left the offices of the World. Even so, I decided to make my way back to the hotel on foot. My finances were precarious at best, and the events of the past few days had left my prospects uncertain. A long walk in the frigid air, I told myself, would do me a world of good.
I had learned nothing to shed any light on why anyone should wish to harm Miss Moore or Mr. Kellar. From all that I had seen, Mr. Kellar was a generous employer, and most of my fellow crew members were openly grateful for the terms of their employment. Most, like myself, had worked in far less pleasant conditions, and enjoyed the little comforts and fripperies that came with a front-rank touring company.
Miss Moore, for her part, remained a troubling question mark. She had been with the company only a short time before the tragedy occurred, and no one seemed to have come to know her terribly well. Apart from her European birth, and her years with the Kendalls, I knew almost nothing about her. How had she come to be murdered in such an astonishingly dramatic fashion? I felt no closer to finding the answer.
By the time I neared the hotel, my face and hands had gone numb in the biting afternoon wind. My route happened to take me past the Belasco, and I was just thinking to myself how pleasant a roaring fire might be when I saw a column of dark smoke rising from the dome of the theater. Fearing the worst, I ran forward only to find that the black plume was coming from a trash fire in the back. I hurried down the access alley and came upon Silent Felsden and Valletin stoking an enormous bonfire.
“Hardeen!” cried Valletin as I emerged from the alley. “Just in time! Join the party!” The biting cold had reddened his cheeks, making him seem even more cherubic than usual. He took a bundle of scrap wood from Felsden, who was taking a long swig from his glass flask. “Come along! You can toss in the drapes!”
“What—what’s going on?” I asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Valletin asked, taking the flask from Felsden. “It’s a funeral pyre for Princess Karnac!”
I peered into the inferno. Sure enough, I could just make out, amid the cracking wood and peeling paint, the outlines of the dragon-footed levitation banquette.
“The costumes and screens are already gone,” said Valletin merrily, “but look, we’ve saved you the cloak!”
“I—I don’t understand,” I said. “This illusion cost Mr. Kellar a fortune! How could you just toss it onto a fire?”
“The old man gave the order himself,” Valletin explained. “Says he never wants to lay eyes on the Floating Lady ever again.”
“But the police! They may yet need to examine the equipment!”
Valletin waved aside a wisp of smoke. “Mr. Kellar said they were done with it. ‘Throw it on the fire, boys,’ he told us.”
I hesitated. “It just seems such a waste, that’s all.”
“Hell, I once saw Mr. Maskelyne toss away an entire Temple of Benares illusion. Said he didn’t like the way it creaked.”
I watched as a pair of boards collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks. “That illusion cost more money than my father made in his entire lifetime,” I said. “Just throwing it all on a fire like this, it doesn’t seem right.”
“Come on, Hardeen. It’s just a pile of wood! You look as if you’ve lost your best friend!” He took another swig. “Who knows? Maybe this will drive out the evil spirits. Send the curse of Kalliffa across town to plague Mr. Servais Le Roy. Have a drink with us! Give the princess the send off she deserves!”
I took the flask from his hand and stared into the heart of the flames.
“Rest easy, old girl,” I said. I raised the flask in a salute and took a swallow.
“That’s the spirit, Hardeen,” said Valletin. “Come on, here’s another piece of the braceworks, why don’t you—oh, good afternoon, Miss.”
We turned to see Perdita Wynn standing at the mouth of the alley, dressed in a fur collar and muff. Her eyes were wide and gleaming in the reflection of the fire, and an expression of utter dismay was stamped upon her features. She took a step closer, but halted. Tears were streaming down her face.
“What’s the matter, Perdita?” asked Valletin.
“How could you?” she sobbed. “How could you do such a thing?” She turned and fled into the alleyway.
“What’s she off about?” asked Valletin. By way of a reply, Felsden shrugged and tilted the flask to his lips.
I dropped the wooden slat I was holding. “She seems rather upset,” I said. “Hadn’t you better go after her?”
“Why me?” Valletin snapped. “Miss Perdita Wynn is none of my responsibility.”
“But—”
“See here, Hardeen,” he continued, “if you’re so concerned, you can go chasing after her yourself.”
“As you wish.” I turned and set off down the alley.
I caught sight of Miss Wynn hurrying along Broadway in the direction of the hotel. She did not seem to hear my shouts, so I ran a short distance to overtake her, grasping her by the arm as I reached her side. “Miss Wynn!” I said, catching my breath. “Perdita, what’s the matter? You’re trembling!”
“It’s nothing, Mr. Hardeen,” she said, taking the pocket square I held out to her. “I’m sure I’m being very foolish.”
“Your cheeks are flushed with the cold,” I said, clasping her hands, “and your fingers are like ice. Come on, let’s get you inside.” I led her a short distance across Broadway to Mickelson’s tea room, and soon we were installed at one of the marble tables near a gleaming brass samovar.
“Is there no end to your capacity for chamomile, Mr. Hardeen?” she asked, smiling bravely through her tears. “It seems that you are forever obliged to ply me with cups of tea and endure my tales of woe. You’re terribly brave.”
The Floating Lady Murder Page 16
