The Last Illusion

by Unknown

  I went around to the stage door of the theater. The doorkeeper recognized me instantly. “You back again? Lost another shawl?” he asked.

  I gave a nonchalant laugh. “No, tonight I’m here to see the show as guest of Mrs. Houdini,” I said. “I helped her the other day when she became upset after seeing Scarpelli’s assistant lying there with blood all over her. She was grateful and when she heard that the show was sold out for the rest of its run, she invited me to come and watch it from backstage.”

  “I see.” He was staring at me hard. He started to say something, then he shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if you’ve been invited by one of the performers, then I guess there’s nothing more for me to say. I’ll have the callboy send up a message to them that you’re here.”

  “I’m sure I can find my way,” I said.

  “I’m sure you can but it’s more than my job’s worth to have an outsider wandering around backstage when illusionists are setting up their acts. They are so cagey about their secrets that they wouldn’t even allow their own mothers anywhere near them.”

  At that moment a reporter showed up. “So what’s the news on Scarpelli, then?” he asked. “Has he been found? Has the girl’s body been found?”

  “No good asking me anything, son,” the doorkeeper said calmly. “I’m just the guy who guards the door. Nobody tells me anything. If you want to know that, you’d better ask the police. All I can tell you is that his name’s not on the bill tonight. Now beat it.”

  While they were talking I had moved down the little passageway that led to the backstage area. I wasn’t intending to make a run for it, but I thought I might just be able to see what was going on back there. As I came near the end of the hall I heard voices. Two men talking. One of them said, “I don’t know what you’re doing here. I told your boss I’d get it to him and I will.”

  “He just wanted to make sure that it reached him safely,” the other voice said. “If what you’ve hinted is true, then this is serious stuff.”

  “It sure is. Very serious.”

  “Then we’ll be watching your back,” the second voice said. “You can’t be too careful. I’d hurry up and hand it over, if I were you.”

  “Not until I can deliver it to your boss personally,” said the other voice. “This is too important to take any risk.”

  Before I could move back to the doorkeeper’s booth a man came past me. He was slim, well dressed with neatly parted blond hair, and carrying a silver-tipped cane. He pushed past me arrogantly, not pausing to apologize when he knocked my arm.

  “Who was that gentleman?” I asked the doorkeeper as he disappeared into the night. “He didn’t look like a theater type.”

  “Never seen him before in my life,” the doorkeeper said. “I don’t know how he got in here either. Must have come from front of house.”

  “So you can get backstage from the front of the theater, can you?” I asked.

  “There’s the pass door, isn’t there? Every theater has a pass door.”

  Of course, I realized that I knew that. I’d used one myself before now. So all those theories about the backstage area being carefully guarded were wrong. Anyone could have gotten through the pass door if they were willing to take that risk. And it might have taken only a second or two to tamper with Scarpelli’s equipment.

  The callboy appeared then and was instructed to tell Mrs. Houdini that I was waiting down by the stage door. A few minutes later he returned, breathless.

  “Mrs. Houdini says she’ll meet you in the wings, on the dressing room side,” he said. “Come with me.”

  He set off again at another lively trot. I tried to keep up, while avoiding the normal hazards of the backstage. It was still poorly lit back there, although chinks of light shone through the closed curtains and the excited murmur of the audience could be clearly heard. I noticed that the locks and tarpaulins had been removed from those mysterious heaps and boxes beside the stage. A tall man in a long black cape, lined with scarlet, was standing beside one of the big crates, extracting glass trolleys, birdcages, velvet drapes. I remembered him as the opening act on the bill: Marvo the Magnificent. He looked up in annoyance as he heard our footsteps approaching.

  “What’s she doing here?” he demanded.

  “Guest of the Houdinis,” the callboy said.

  “Then keep her away from me,” Marvo snapped, waving me away as if I was an annoying fly.

  “I saw your act the other night,” I said, giving him my winning smile. “I was most impressed. I still can’t imagine how you make those birds appear and disappear.”

  “Magic, my dear,” he said smoothly. “Now keep out of my way, like a good girl. I have to prepare in peace.”

  “I was here the other night when that awful accident happened to Scarpelli’s assistant,” I said. “I bet that has upset all of your magicians.”

  “Illusionists, if you don’t mind. We are all illusionists. And if you want my opinion, Scarpelli was asking for trouble.”

  “He was? How?”

  “Sawing a girl in half? I mean, really! The act has never been tried, at least not in living memory although they claim an illusionist in France had performed it long ago. They will keep taking greater and greater risks to impress the public. And the horrid thing is that the public has come to expect greater and greater risk. It’s Houdini, you know. He’s setting the bar too high—putting his life in jeopardy every night. They all try to compete, but they can’t, can they? I, with my doves and my gentle sleight of hand, am no longer anything more than a warm-up act, however good I am. Now please be a good girl and buzz off.”

  I retreated as instructed and found a chair tucked between two of the side curtains that gave me an excellent view of the stage, also the occasional sneaking glance at Marvo the Magnificent. I was especially interested to see how and where he managed to secrete his doves, but no birds were in evidence as he wheeled out his props table and placed it in the center of the stage.

  I heard sounds of the orchestra warming up beyond the curtains and picked up the tension that is always evident just before a show is due to start. Stagehands scurried around, steering well clear of the magician’s props, I noticed. I was just wondering whether Bess would put in an appearance before the show started when she came toward me, arms open.

  “Molly!” she exclaimed. I remembered that it had been “Miss Murphy” when we were discussing business at my house, but then it came to me that she was giving the impression of dear friends meeting.

  I stood up and extended my own arms. “Bess. How good of you to invite me. I’m so thrilled.”

  We embraced and while our heads were together she whispered, “I haven’t said a word to Harry. He’s not in a good mood, tonight. Something’s upset him particularly. So we’ll have to tread carefully. Somehow I’ll have to convince him that you need to take my place for a while.”

  “Could I not be your dresser or something?” I asked. “I really can’t picture myself onstage in tights and spangles like you. I’m not graceful, for one thing, and I’m not decorative. And it must take years to be able to do all the things you do.”

  “But my dresser would stay up in our room,” she said. “I need you beside him, onstage.”

  “Beginners, please. Five minutes to curtain,” the callboy announced, crossing the stage. Marvo the Magnificent ran a comb through his hair, patted it into place, then strode out onto the stage. Bess vanished and I was left alone, surrounded by curtains in my own little world. The orchestra struck up a lively tune and I felt that thrill of excitement that one always gets when the curtain goes up on a show.

  The theater manager came out onto the stage and the music became softer. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to Miner’s Theatre and an evening of illusion starring an assembly of the greatest illusionists the world has ever known. We begin with a performance of prestidigitation that will take your breath away. Direct from his triumphant tour of the West Coast, it’s Marvo the Magnificent!”


  Marvo strode out, his hands outstretched to the audience. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket, crumpled it up, threw it into the air, and it turned into a dove that fluttered and wheeled before coming to rest on his shoulder. Even sitting a few feet away and watching him in side view I couldn’t see how it was done. The audience clapped. More feats of sleight of hand followed, culminating in the disappearance of a cage full of doves from under a velvet drape. The audience clapped, without much enthusiasm. Marvo took as many bows as the applause would allow, then made his exit right past me.

  “Good audience tonight,” he said. I couldn’t tell if it was to me or someone I couldn’t see standing in the wings.

  His act was followed by the magician with the card tricks. Unlike the others with their fancy names he was introduced as Billy Robinson and his only distinguishing feature seemed to be a drooping mustache, which gave his face a lugubrious appearance. His card tricks received only lukewarm applause even though I thought they were pretty clever myself. Then followed Abdullah, the Fakir from Egypt, who was a last-minute replacement for Scarpelli. Apparently he had come straight from his success at the Cairo Pavilion on Coney Island. He was a fire-eater and sword swallower—in fact I remembered seeing him there. He got a better reception, especially when a whole long cavalry sword that had previously sliced an apple in half disappeared down his gullet. But the audience was clearly waiting for the high point. I could hear the murmur of anticipation.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the act you’ve all been waiting for,” the theater manager announced. I didn’t think this was particularly diplomatic to those acts that had preceded. “Straight from his amazing successes in Germany and Russia, where he played to kings and emperors, Miner’s Theatre is proud to present Houdini, King of Handcuffs!”

  There was a tremendous roar from the crowd and Houdini swept onto the stage, resplendent in white tie and tails. His smile lit up the whole stage and I saw instantly that this man had presence. Bess stood out of the spotlight to one side while he accepted the applause. At last he held up his hands. “Please. You are too kind. We have magic to please you all tonight. Tricks of the mind and feats of strength and endurance that will take your breath away. And, as always, my hundred-dollar challenge. Anyone who presents me with a pair of handcuffs from which I can’t escape will earn one hundred dollars.”

  An excited buzz ran through the audience.

  “Any takers tonight?” Houdini paced the front of the stage.

  “Any legitimate pair of handcuffs,” he went on. “Several times while I was in Germany some guy too smart for his own good brought me handcuffs that had been tampered with. Locks that were plugged so that they wouldn’t open. But in America we play fair, don’t we? We like a good fair fight and a good challenge. So remember, if you come up here with your cuffs, I may want to try them out on you first.”

  A laugh went around the audience at this.

  “What, no takers tonight?”

  “Down here!” A shout went up from the audience. One man was making his way toward the stage. Houdini greeted him like an old friend. “Oh, it’s you again, Cunning. Still haven’t given up, have you? Still trying to catch me out.” He turned back to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen. This man is a fellow illusionist and he’s determined to get the better of me. Well, let’s see what you’ve come up with this time.”

  A pair of monstrous-looking handcuffs were passed across to Houdini. He examined them, then handed them back and nodded. “Seem fair enough. Where did you dig these up?”

  “The new regulation handcuffs of the Chicago Police Department. State-of-the-art, these are.”

  Houdini looked amused. “Okay, let’s give it a shot, shall we? Let’s see what the Chicago police department can do.”

  “Behind your back,” the man insisted. “And in full view of the audience. No funny business.”

  “No funny business, he states.” Houdini gave the audience an amused look.

  “And I get to search you first.”

  “I’m not stripping naked as I’ve done at quite a few police stations,” Houdini said. “There are ladies present.”

  “Take off your jacket and shirt at least.”

  “Very well.” Houdini was still in good humor. Bess came forward and he removed his jacket and then his shirt. Underneath he was wearing what looked like a shiny red singlet. I saw what Ryan had meant about Houdini’s torso. He was as well muscled as any bodybuilder.

  “Right, turn around,” the man commanded.

  Houdini turned. The man put on the handcuffs, high on his forearms so that his arms were jammed together at a strange angle. It looked very cruel to me. I could see them digging into Houdini’s flesh, but he didn’t complain or even make any comment.

  “Right, let’s see you get out of that,” the man said with satisfaction.

  Houdini wriggled and jiggled and shook his shoulders a bit. He turned away from the audience, then back again. Suddenly there was a clatter and the handcuffs fell to the floor. Houdini picked them up and handed them to the visibly shaken man.

  “Really, Cunning, I’m surprised at you. I thought you could come up with something better than that. Even my dear Bess could escape from those.” He turned to her and she came back with his shirt and coat, helping him to dress.

  The man left the stage to catcalls. “There you go, fellows,” Houdini said to the audience. “If you plan to commit a crime, then I suggest Chicago. You’d be out of their handcuffs in no time at all.”

  As the fellow magician departed one fact clicked into place in my head—something that had been bothering me while I had watched the act. The other voice I had heard speaking in low tones in that hallway had been Houdini’s.

  Eight

  Houdini’s act continued. Bess was presented as the incredible mind reader.

  “I’m the brawn, she’s the brain,” Houdini told the audience.

  He went down into the audience with a pack of cards. He stopped by an elderly woman and asked her to pick a card, memorize it, then place it into a little black box.

  “Bess will now read your mind and tell you what card lies inside the box,” he said.

  Bess appeared to go into a trance.

  “When you are ready, Bess. We don’t want to rush you.”

  “I see the card,” she said in a high, tense voice. “It’s—it’s the nine of spades.”

  “The nine of spades. Was she right?”

  “Yes, she was,” the woman replied.

  “Then please open the box and show us your card.”

  The woman opened the box. “It’s empty!” she exclaimed.

  “How unfortunate. Something must have gone wrong,” Houdini said. “Wait a minute.”

  He ran nimbly back onto the stage. “Bess, would you please stand up? I believe you are sitting on something.”

  She stood. A card was on her chair. It was the nine of spades.

  The audience cheered. Then a black hood was placed over Bess’s head after audience members were given a chance to examine it and declare that nothing could be seen through it. Harry went down into the audience again and asked people to hand him articles. Bess identified, without hesitation, a lady’s handkerchief, a pocket watch, even a photograph of a child.

  “This child is no longer with us,” she said. “Am I right? She wants you to know that she is safe and happy where she is.”

  There were murmurs through the audience. “Can she contact the spirits?” someone asked. “Can she talk to my dead husband?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we don’t profess to be spiritualists,” Houdini said. “Bess is—well, let’s just say she has a gift in that direction. But now let’s move on to the part of the show you have all come to see. We now present for you the Metamorphosis, as performed before the great houses of Europe. The Kaiser offered me a thousand marks if I would tell him how it is done. Others have claimed that I can dematerialize my body or that I am in league with the devil. I assure you I am not in
league with him.”

  A trunk was pushed onto the stage. It was bound with metal straps and held with two large locks. Houdini removed his jacket and his tie. Then he removed his shirt and trousers, so that he wore nothing more than a one-piece, form-fitting costume rather like a pair of combinations that have shrunk in the wash.

  “I now invite two strong men from the audience to come up onstage to examine me and this trunk,” he said.

  There was a stampede to get to the stage and the first two were allowed up the steps. They were burly young men, both of them, the kind you’d expect to see hanging around some less reputable type of tavern.

  “Perfect for the task,” Houdini said. “Now if you would be good enough to search me to see that I carry no tools on my person that might enable me to free myself from any lock or key.”

  They duly patted his body and pronounced him clear. Then he opened the trunk. They felt around inside, tried the locks, and nodded.

  “Now,” Houdini said. “Here on the table you will find an assortment of handcuffs and leg irons. I invite you gentlemen to examine them, then apply them to my arms and legs any way you see fit.”

  The two men went to town, clamping the cuffs and irons on him with his arms tightly behind his back and his legs bound together.

  “Thank you, you have been most helpful,” Houdini said. “Don’t go away. I have more work in store for you. Now I ask Madame Houdini to wheel onstage my special cabinet.”

  I felt the curtains brush at me as a contraption was wheeled out. It was nothing more than a three-sided frame with velvet drapes, about shoulder-high.

  “The bag, if you please, Bess,” Houdini said. He turned to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, I shall now place this bag inside the trunk, and ask these gentlemen to help me into it, then tie the drawstring tight. Then when I am in the trunk, they will secure the locks.” He turned back to his volunteers. “Is that clear to you, gentlemen?”