The Illusion of Murder

by McCleary, Carol

  “Any volunteers, gentlemen?” the man asks. “We need three men true and strong from the audience for Carolina Magnet to test her strength against.”

  Three large men, two fellow passengers and the ship’s second officer, are coaxed onto the stage.

  Carolina Magnet grasps a cue stick, holding it up about neck level as the ship’s officer is instructed to also take hold of the stick by the master of ceremonies. “Carolina Magnet,” he bellows, “has the ability to use the mysterious power called ‘magnetism’ to create a force that makes it impossible to move her.”

  The man steps to the side so the audience can get a full view of the woman and the ship’s officer facing off, each grasping the cue stick.

  It is obvious to me that without a “trick” up the woman’s sleeve, the man will easily push her back. But, of course, watching her succeed is the fun of it.

  “If this manly officer is able to push the strongest woman on Earth back a step, he will have accomplished a feat that no man has succeeded at.”

  “The man will best her,” a well-boozed male shouts from the audience.

  The tug-of-war begins and the officer can’t push her, no matter how hard he tries. It’s as if the woman’s feet are nailed to the floor. I lean forward, trying to get a look at her shoes, wondering if they bear some sticky material that keeps her from sliding back, but even if her shoes were nailed to the floor, the man would be able to push back her upper body, and he can’t do it.

  There’s a hand of applause and the other two men attempt to push her back and fail also.

  I’m really intrigued and my curiosity as usual is chomping at the bit for an answer. To ensure that I get one, I’ve placed myself at the same table as Von Reich and swore literally on a stack of Bibles beforehand that I would never reveal the secret of any conjuring he explained. I know his loyalty toward the world of magic evaporates whenever his ego is excited by a woman’s plea.

  “How does she do it?” I whisper. “Please, I’ll die if I don’t know.”

  He grins smugly as he leans close to whisper. “If she pushed toward the men and they pushed back at her, she would be easily defeated. Instead, she holds the stick high and as a man pushes forward toward her, she pushes up on the stick. It takes very little effort on her part to hold back the much greater strength of the men because she has deflected their force up, instead of against her.”

  “It’s that easy?”

  “We can do it with a broomstick later and you’ll see. If you push up, I won’t be able to push you backward.”

  “Now the incredible Carolina Magnet will demonstrate her ability to use the mysterious power of magnetism again, this time by lifting more than twice her weight,” her husband informs us.

  A large dumbbell atop a wheeled cart is rolled out on a platform. The dumbbell, an iron bar with a large ball of iron on each end, indeed looks hefty—each ball is the size of a large round melon. It’s obvious from the squeaking of the wooden stage that a heavy weight is being rolled.

  Once again three men are invited up on the stage. None of the men is able to lift the big dumbbell off the cart.

  With a roll of drums from the ship’s band, the woman who claims to be able to manipulate the powers of magnetism, a secret which confounds the greatest scientists in the world, steps up to the dumbbell and lifts it, to the amazement and applause of all except Von Reich.

  “Child’s play,” he snorts. “The dumbbell is very light, but the cart holding it is very heavy. There’s a hidden latch that keeps the dumbbell stuck to the cart. When the men pulled up on the dumbbell, they were actually attempting to also lift the cart, which weighs several hundred pounds. When it’s her turn, she releases the latch and easily lifts the fake dumbbell off the cart.”

  In some ways, it’s better not to know the secret of how it’s done. But from my point of view, the most interesting conjuring was about to be performed—my own.

  I slip out of the entertainment lounge when the next magician billed as a master of Chinese rings comes on stage. I’ll find out later from Von Reich how the magician manages to loop what appears to be solid rings in and out of each other.

  The ship is rocking a bit from a tropical blow and people are leaving with me, some already queasy, making my own exit natural.

  The interior corridor of the main deck is deserted as I hurry down it. Passengers are either watching the entertainment, or in their cabin, while the service crew has retired to get some shut-eye before their early morning chores.

  The assistant purser is on duty behind the counter, looking bored and sleepy.

  “How is the show going?” he asks.

  “Amazing. A small woman bested three large men at shows of strength.”

  “How does she do it?”

  I lean across the counter and whisper, “Mirrors, it’s all done with mirrors.”

  “Amazing what they can do, making it look so real.”

  “Incredible, isn’t it? I want to make sure the rug I purchased in Aden made it into the passenger storage compartment.”

  He removes a clipboard that hangs next to the key to the storage area on the wall behind him. He sets it on the counter and I put my hand on it.

  “One more thing. You keep a record of cablegrams passed to passengers, do you not?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We have a board in back on which we post all cablegrams sent over to the ship from cable offices along with the time and date delivered to passengers.”

  “I believe a cable has fallen through the cracks some time since I boarded at Brindisi. Would you please check?”

  “That will take a moment, ma’am.”

  That’s the idea. “Thank you. I’ll wait. I’ll check on my rug while you look at the cablegrams.”

  The moment he disappears into the back room, I unhook the clawed back-scratcher that I have hidden beneath my dress and belly up on the counter in a very unladylike pose.

  Extending it as I lean across the counter, I hook the Passenger Luggage Compartment key ring and bring it back, sticking it in my pocket and then quickly flip through the luggage manifest, turning immediately to Port Said.

  Lord Warton checked in three boxes the evening Mr. Cleveland was killed. I had been with him and his wife for almost the entire time they were in the city and had never seen them make a purchase.

  The log shows the boxes are stored at B5-3.

  The assistant purser returns, shaking his head. “Everything has been delivered to you, Miss Bly.”

  “Thank you, that’s a relief.”

  “Did you find your rug?”

  “No, but I just remembered it might still in my room. I’ll give it to my steward in the morning.”

  A passenger is coming up to the desk and I quickly move away, leaving the ship’s officer a bit perplexed and still sleepy-eyed. I’ve already decided how I will get the key back to him after I search the luggage compartment. I’ll come up to the desk, suddenly stoop down, and rise up, holding the key ring in hand, exclaiming I found it on the floor.

  A bit of sleight of hand.

  I’d be in awe of my own cleverness except that my stomach is tied in knots because I’m scared half to death by the realization of what I had done—I stole a ship’s key to enter a restricted area and am about to search boxes belonging to a peer of the British realm.

  Completely batty, that’s what I am, no doubt about it. My ten days in a madhouse must have turned me into a real lunatic. Why in God’s name would I put myself in harm’s way again?

  The real question is why I have these moments of remorse only after I have done something completely insane.

  30

  My nerves are still on fire as I quickly go down flights of stairs to the utility deck.

  Opening the door to the luggage hold, I fumble with my hand until I find a switch on the wall. I turn it and a single naked lightbulb hanging in the middle of the storage area goes on.

  Thank God they have installed a newfangled electric light, a single dim bulb, but
one that at least takes the edge off of the darkness. Too bad it doesn’t take the edge off of my jangled nerves.

  Slipping inside, I leave the door open just a hair and place the key on the inside of the lock, rather than take the risk of losing it.

  “This is not going to be easy,” I mutter, staring at the walls of luggage and boxes.

  Storage areas are on both sides of the aisle, three tiers, with luggage and boxes stuffed four or five high in compartments of each tier. Each compartment is screened in by a floor-to-ceiling netting that keeps the items on the shelves in heavy seas. When I find the correct section, I will have to release its netting in order to get access to the items piled on the shelves.

  Getting close enough and squinting, I quickly learn the numbering system. The two lines of storage areas split by the center aisle are A and B, respectively, with B being the one on my right. It begins with storage compartment labeled B1-1.

  Going down the narrow, claustrophobic passageway, with luggage and boxes on each side straining back and forth against the netting like a great beast’s innards as it breathes, makes me feel like Jonah inside the whale.

  Finally reaching the section I’m looking for, I groan. B5-3 means the items are located on the third tier, access to which is obtained by a narrow ladder that a monkey would find challenging, less more a woman in a full dress with heeled shoes.

  Similar to a tall stack ladder in a library, the ladder is rolled sideways along the floor to where you want to ascend, but book ladders don’t move all by themselves and this one does, sliding back and forth as the ship plows into seas whipped up by the blow.

  I’ll probably break my neck. They’ll find my crumpled body when they empty the hold at the next port. But there’s no turning back; it’s too late. I have no place to go but up, literally. I’ve crossed the Rubicon and don’t even have Caesar’s army to back me.

  Somehow I manage to reach the third level, unhooking the netting as I go up, but I’m only halfway home. Luggage and boxes are piled two deep and three or four high in the space. The only saving grace is that the items are not piled completely to the top, permitting me to move some of them as I hang on to a sliding ladder, worrying that the whole shebang will come flying off the shelves with the violent roll of the ship.

  If I hadn’t boasted to myself about my cleverness in plotting this ransacking of the ship’s luggage hold, I would abandon the project. Only stubborn pride and a lack of good sense keep me going.

  With very dim lighting it’s hard to see the numbers on the individual items, but there are only five boxes and three of them should be the ones that Lord Warton has stored.

  Now I am in a dilemma. I can’t get them down to the floor to search and bring them back up because they are too awkward and heavy. They will have to be searched on the tier and that is only going to happen if I have two hands free instead of one clutching a ladder rung while grabbing out with the other to keep the ladder from sliding.

  As I shove and restack everything, I manage to separate the luggage enough to create a hole big enough for me to squeeze in and I find myself standing upright on the third tier, hot and sweaty and a little nauseated from the ship’s motion as I hang on to the top box of a stack I want to go through.

  Never never never again will I be so stupid.

  Each box has twine tied tightly around it and I don’t have a knife. I am angry enough to rip it off with my teeth.

  Lacking both a blade and strong enough teeth, I use an object from my hair that women all over the world for centuries have found as handy as the tools of men: a hairpin.

  With sheer stubborn determination I manage to untie the string, open the box, and find the books.

  Removing the piece of paper with numbers written on it and the Yorkshire book of laws, I take turns holding each of them in the direction of the light to see the printing.

  The first set of numbers lead me to the word “extreme” in the law book; the second sends a quiver down my spine: “danger.”

  Hanging on tight as the ship rolls, I quickly check the written number scheme for page, line, and word place, and find the word “for.”

  My knees tremble with so much excitement, I’m ready to collapse.

  As I’m reading the fourth set of numbers, I hear voices and the door opens. Petrified, I freeze in place.

  “Here it is! In the door. You must have left the key here the last time you brought down luggage.”

  It’s the purser, chewing out his assistant.

  “But, sir, I would swear—”

  The ship rolls again and I let out a startled yelp.

  “Who’s there?” the purser snaps.

  The two men are sent staggering against the compartment to their left as the ship rolls again. The stack of boxes I’m using for support go and I throw myself deeper into the compartment to keep from being flung off the tier by the motion of the ship.

  The ship pauses for a moment at the end of its roll and then starts to roll again in the opposite direction.

  Frantically I grab at luggage as everything around me begins sliding off the shelves—no longer restrained because I had removed the netting.

  Unable to keep my balance and with nothing left to hold on to, I follow the avalanche down, screaming bloody murder.

  31

  “With thirty years experience at sea, from stoking the boiler to raising the sails and commanding the entire ship, I can tell you that despite any old sailors’ tales, a woman is not bad luck at sea.”

  The captain is leaning back in his swivel chair, staring up at the ceiling as if he is expecting a missive from heaven.

  Sitting perfectly still, I stare straight ahead, my hands in my lap … waiting for lightning to strike.

  He leans forward and shifts a little to meet my eye but I turn away.

  “Madam, my officers suggest that perhaps now there is something to the connection between women and bad luck aboard, but I reject that contention because you are not bad luck, you are a regular Medusa, worse than the plagues God threw at the Egyptians.”

  The purser and first officer are standing behind me, shaking with smothered laughter.

  I just cringe. I know my face is flaming red and I am so angry that I have to struggle to keep my composure—not angry at the captain or the ship’s officers, but at myself. I have made a complete fool out of myself. Again.

  “Well, what do you think, gentlemen? What shall we do with the young woman who has disobeyed the laws of the sea?”

  “Keelhaul her, Captain,” the first officer says.

  The captain leans forward in a pretense of gravity. “Do you know what keelhauling is, young woman? We run a line from one side of the ship to the other and tie an end of it around the miscreant. We then throw him into the sea and pull him back aboard … only we pull from the opposite side we threw him over so he is dragged under the keel, his flesh rubbed off by the rough barnacles that attach to the keel.”

  If this charade is not gotten over with soon, I will scream. There will be no punitive action against me except the one I dread the most—humiliation.

  A pretty picture I must have made, flying off the tier and onto a mountain of luggage and boxes.

  I’m mortified and so embarrassed at making a fool of myself. I will never go back out on deck where people can see me, never into the dining room, I will have to take meals in my room. Or drown myself.

  What bothers me most of all is the dishonor I have brought to the death of Mr. Cleveland.

  “Keelhauling is too harsh for a woman’s delicate skin, Captain,” the purser says. “I say we put her in irons and throw her—”

  I leap out of my chair and push by the two officers and flee, their laughter flying at me faster than I can move.

  Frederick is in the corridor outside the office and I rush by him, breaking into a run.

  “Nellie! Wait!”

  I shake my head without turning back and hurry to the stairway to my deck. Thank God it is late and there is no one in the
corridor. I will throw myself overboard if anyone sees me running like a dog with my tail between my legs.

  Not bothering to knock, I fly into Sarah’s dark stateroom, pouring light in from the corridor behind me.

  Her coffin lid is open and she sits upright, startled. Her face is covered with cold cream, her creamed hands are in gloves, her hair soaked in some other cream and bundled under a shower cap.

  “What are you doing?”

  “They’ve beaten me!” I wail.

  “Who?”

  “Warton, Frederick, the British Empire!”

  “Well … that certainly narrows it down.”

  I cry for the damage I did to John Cleveland. And Nellie Bly.

  “Nellie—”

  “No, not Nellie, my real name is Elizabeth Cochran. Nellie Bly is the name of a reporter. I’m nothing, just a factory girl who thought she knew everything.”

  32

  Lord Warton stalks back and forth, glaring at the pile of luggage and boxes that fill the end of the Passenger Luggage Compartment aisle.

  He whips around and demands from the captain, “Well, where are they?”

  The captain and the first officer look to the assistant purser, who squirms under their stares.

  “The books were here,” he says, “fell out of a box Miss Bly had opened before she took her tumble. When everything came off the shelves, the box dumped its contents. I saw them right there.” He points to an empty spot on the floor. “Three books, scattered about along with some papers.”

  “If they were here,” Lord Warton yells, “where are they now? I demand you search the room of that troublemaking reporter.”

  “She was with us when the books went missing,” the captain answers. “Someone took them when my officer went to find crewmen to clean up the mess.”

  “Who? Who took them?”

  The captain gives Lord Warton a tight grin that says he has had about enough with the man’s demands. “Sir, obviously I don’t know, but I suggest that in order to find out who, we start with why. What’s the importance of these books?”

  “You told me the woman said there were writings in a secret code,” Lord Warton says, directing the statement at the assistant purser.