The Masquerading Magician

by Gigi Pandian

  He shook his head. “I worked the night shift right before flying in to see you this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “We don’t have much time together. I didn’t want to waste it sleeping. But after that sherry … ”

  “Come on, Toby. You know there’s no sense working on alchemy when you’re so tired. I’ll fix up a bedroom for you.”

  Between the coffee’s physical effects and the mental strain of thinking about Ambrose, the cathedral, Dorian’s deterioration, and Peter’s quest, I knew I’d never sleep. After I saw Tobias to his room, I heard him speaking softly to someone on his cell phone, followed by snoring that was anything but soft. I scribbled a note and grabbed my silver raincoat.

  A light misty rain fell from the night sky. I breathed in the scents of fresh rain and blossoming fruit trees as I set off on a brisk pace. I had no destination, but I needed to keep moving. It was early enough in the evening that other people were out, but as soon as the rain began to fall harder, I found myself mostly alone on the sidewalk.

  I walked past the restaurants and bars on Hawthorne, past the signs for hand-crafted beer, hand-poured coffee, and hand-made clothing and hats. Turning off the main drag, I passed households watching television for the evening, and parks vacant from the rain. The rainwater streamed down my face, nourishing my unnaturally dry skin. Once my hair was soaked, I began to get a chill, so I came home. The front door creaked loudly enough to awaken the dead bees in Dorian’s book in the basement.

  “Zoe!” Tobias’s voice in the living room startled me. He leaped up from the green velvet couch. “Thank God you’re back. You didn’t take your cell phone with you.”

  “I’ve never gotten used to taking it with me everywhere. What’s the matter?” I stood there dripping onto the floor.

  “I woke up thirsty after drinking all that sherry, so I went to get myself a glass of water. The house was really quiet. Too quiet, like houses get when everyone is sleeping.”

  “Dorian doesn’t sleep.”

  “I know. You told me. That’s the problem. You said he shouldn’t go out this early in the evening—especially now that the police will be on the lookout for a stone gargoyle.”

  “He’s hiding in the attic,” I said. “He’s probably reading quietly.”

  “I climbed up to the attic, Zoe. I wanted to be sure, so I checked the whole house. The gargoyle is gone.”

  Forty-Two

  paris, 1871

  Sleep was not a necessity for the gargoyle. Without knowing any other state of existence, Dorian thought this neither a blessing nor a curse—until his father died. Jean Eugène Robert-­Houdin passed away from pneumonia, not long after the tragic news of his son’s death due to injuries suffered in the Franco-Prussian War. Dorian found himself more alone than he imagined.

  His new employer, the blind chef, understood Dorian’s grief at his relative’s death. But Dorian could not tell him this was the first person in his life he had lost to death. He had been brought to life only eleven years before, yet with his deep voice and keen intellect, it was important for him to maintain the illusion that he was a much older man. And a man, not a gargoyle, of course.

  Luckily, Dorian found himself without much time to be maudlin. Between the distractions of Paris and the cooking lessons from his employer, Dorian could have filled more than a twenty-four-hour day.

  At first Dorian objected to the part of the agreement that involved cleaning, but after some grumbling, he found washing dishes and dusting could be contemplative exercises. It was but a small price to pay for the lessons in French gastronomy he received.

  The chef could not have been more pleased with how well Dorian took to the demands of French cooking. Dorian did so well that the chef pleaded with him to allow some former friends to come over for dinner parties, as he wanted very much to showcase the gourmet cooking of his successor. Yet Dorian was resolute. He had been traumatized by his disfigurement, he said. Nobody could be allowed to see him.

  To keep up the pretense, Dorian pretended to wear the clothes his father had given him for the charade that was to be his life. To add verisimilitude, on his nocturnal explorations Dorian would bring a handful of clothes with him, which he would toss in the dust. Therefore he was able to have his clothing laundered with the chef’s clothing without raising suspicions.

  Dorian learned not only how to cook everything from creamy aligot to succulent magret de canard, but also how to find his way through the world without being seen. He learned through trial by fire, as he was in Paris during the short-lived War of 1870.

  While the chef slept, Dorian pretended to use the very nice bed chamber created for him, when in truth he was exploring the City of Lights under the cover of darkness.

  paris, 1881

  Ten years later, when the chef approached the end of his life, he wrote Dorian Robert-­Houdin a reference so he could be a home companion to other blind people who did not have families to care for them.

  Upon Martin’s death, a small inheritance was bequeathed to Dorian. The gargoyle was unaware of the money until a letter reached him at the home of his next employer, an avocate who had long ago retired from practicing law and had recently been widowed. Not realizing the true form of his disfigured friend, the chef did not have the foresight to give Dorian his gift in person. Now, it seemed Dorian would not be able to claim his inheritance without being seen. But all was not lost. By that time, Dorian, even more than his father, was a master of illusion. His greatest skill was not being seen.

  Dorian’s penmanship was superb. This was not an easy feat, considering his clawed hands, which Viollet-le-Duc had never intended to hold a pen. Holding a whisk and beating eggs was one thing. But it was important for Dorian to rigorously practice writing, for written correspondence was his connection to most of the world.

  Upon receiving news of his modest inheritance, Dorian asked his new employer, the barrister, for counsel. Explaining that he was far too embarrassed to show his disfigured face to anyone, Dorian gave the barrister permission to act on his behalf, and the lawyer declared under oath that the tragically disfigured Dorian Robert-­Houdin lived at his home and was who he claimed.

  It was with methods like these that Dorian made his way in the world.

  He moved from place to place with only a small travel case in which he kept a few remembrances of his father, including Non Degenera Alchemia. Dorian appreciated art, but he didn’t especially care for the illustrations inside the alchemy book. He kept the book because it reminded him of his father, but whenever he opened the book, he felt a strange sleepiness overcome him. He suspected it was his imagination, that it was sadness he was feeling as he thought of the man who gave him life and raised him. The man who was no longer on this earth. His father had explained to him that something in this book had brought him to life, but Dorian was not a philosophical creature. He was a gourmand who appreciated the finer pleasures in life, not a philosopher. If it had been a cookbook, he might have spent time unlocking the book’s coded messages. But why dwell on things that had no bearing on his life?

  Forty-Three

  It wasn’t yet ten o’clock. Far too early for Dorian to be out of the house. He never left the house until the dead of night, when fewer people would be around. Did he think that because of the rain it would be safer?

  “Maybe he went to hide the knife.” I cringed at the thought. One of these days, I was going to have to sit the gargoyle down to talk about police evidence.

  “The knife is in the attic.”

  Great. Just great. All I needed was for the police to raid the house and find a murder weapon inside.

  I texted Brixton to ask if he knew where Dorian was. Less than a minute later he texted me back.

  He went to see Julian Lake.

  I groaned.

  “What is it?” Tobias asked.

  “He
went to see Julian Lake of the Lake Loot. How can he do this? What does he hope to learn by spying on the man whose family heirlooms were stolen decades ago?”

  “That’s nice of him, though. The little guy is helping Brixton with the magician’s quest to clear his dad.”

  “It’s not nice. It’s not safe for him to leave. His leg is effectively broken, and the police are looking for a missing gargoyle statue.”

  Another text popped up from Brixton. He left a while ago. He’s not back yet?

  I made a mental note that I should never leave the two of them alone together.

  Don’t worry, he’s probably waiting until it’s late enough to sneak home more easily, I typed. I half believed it. No need for both of us to suffer a sleepless night.

  Text me when he’s back, Brixton wrote. We both cared about the gargoyle.

  I felt marginally better after I looked up Julian Lake. He was eighty-five years old and blind. If Dorian was able to catch him alone, the sightless Mr. Lake would assume he was a man.

  Up in the attic, Tobias and I sat on the floor playing gin rummy and drinking cocoa that wasn’t nearly as good as Dorian’s, while we waited anxiously for his return. With my favorite wool sweaters ruined from the destructive winter storm, I wrapped a blanket around myself to stay warm. As Tobias dealt the cards and light rain tapped at the tarp securing the roof, a comforting familiarity washed over me. I was still worried about Dorian, but the edge was gone from my worry. I had friends who wanted to help.

  “You can go back to sleep, you know,” I said.

  “Not a chance.” He paused before picking up the hand he’d dealt. “It’s good to be here, Zoe. Even under these screwed-up circumstances, I’m so glad it led you back to me.”

  “I am too.”

  For the next hour, we caught up about life and where our travels had taken us. We learned we’d almost been in Albuquerque at the same time, and because we were both on the road so much we’d learned to fix up cars ourselves. Tobias owned fewer possessions than I did, so all his belongings fit into a 1956 Cadillac Eldorado.

  “What’s so funny?” Tobias asked when I laughed so uncontrollably that I dropped my cards.

  “The two of us. Could we have picked more conspicuous cars?”

  “In this life we lead, we’ve gotta take our enjoyment where we can get it. Though my wife hates that car.”

  I froze before I could pick up my scattered playing cards. “You’re married? Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Isn’t everything in our lives? Does she—”

  “She knows. It would be impossible for her not to.”

  I no longer felt like playing gin. I looked from Tobias’s resigned face to the strewn cards. The King and Queen of Hearts stared up at me. “She’s grown older than you.”

  “So much so that when we moved to Detroit we couldn’t tell anyone we were married. I don’t talk about it out of habit. Since I’m an EMT, we tell people I’m her live-in companion to help with her health.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Is it okay for you to be away from her?”

  He chuckled. “I knew you’d be concerned about her if you knew. That’s why I didn’t tell you when we emailed. I wanted to come see you. And you would have stopped me.”

  “Of course I would have stopped you!”

  “She’s okay. One of my friends is looking in on her while I’m gone. And it’s just two days. But Rosa is the most important reason why I need to get home.”

  “What’s the matter with her? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Nah. I’ve got it covered. And there’s no disease or condition to treat.” A wistful look passed over his face. “Simply old age.”

  “When did you tell her?” I asked, thinking of Max.

  Tobias stood up and walked the length of the attic, coming to a stop in front of a shelf of antique books on gardening and herbal remedies. “Too late,” he said. “I told her too late.”

  “Once she’d already fallen in love with you.”

  He gave a single curt nod. “Even though I pretended I gave her a choice, I didn’t give her a fair one. If she’d always known, she could have steered clear of me, and had someone to grow old with.”

  “You seem like you love her very much. Haven’t you had a good life together?”

  “We have. I would have made the same choice to be with her. I just wish I’d given her an honest choice.”

  We stopped talking as a faint scratching sounded on the roof. The noise was followed by the appearance of a gargoyle squeezing through the rafters and carefully reattaching the tarp. A cape of black silk was fastened around his neck. It looked suspiciously like the cape I thought was hanging inside my old trailer parked in the driveway.

  “Ah!” Dorian cried out when he spotted us. “You wish to kill me by a heart attack, so I will not become trapped in stone?”

  “We know where you went,” I said.

  Dorian stepped to the empty corner of the attic. He unfurled his wings and shook off the rainwater. “Magnifique, is it not?”

  “No, it is not.”

  “He is blind, Zoe! It was the perfect mission for me.”

  “You were able to talk with him?” Tobias asked.

  “I thought he didn’t take visitors,” I added.

  “He does not like most people, yet I believe he is lonely. His caregiver is a spiteful woman. And she is a terrible cook.” The gargoyle sighed wistfully. “His kitchen is four times the size of this one.”

  “Hey,” I said to the little ingrate.

  “He has two refrigerators, each of which is twice the size of this—”

  “Dorian.”

  “You distracted me with your talk of food.”

  “I didn’t mention food. You did.”

  “Semantics. Where was I? Ah, yes. Not only was I able to talk to him, but after I presented him with a slice of chocolate cake—my new recipe, which is my best yet, if I do say so—”

  “Dorian. I’ll grant that the cake is good. Back to Julian Lake.”

  “Oui. I could not carry much with me and remain nimble, but I knew chocolate would be a good choice, because most people favor it. In this, I was not disappointed.”

  Tobias put his head in his hands. “Is he always like this?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Impatient Americans,” Dorian grumbled, then cleared his throat. “Very well. I learned a very important fact. Monsieur Lake was present on the train Peter’s father, Franklin Thorne, was accused of robbing. He has a great memory. He remembers the guard, Burke, very well. It is not possible that the guard was the guilty man. It is as the police reported. Peter Silverman’s father was the thief and murderer. The magician is lying about his motive for returning to Portland.”

  Forty-Four

  I texted Brixton that Dorian was home safe and sound, in hopes the kid would get some sleep. I needed more time to figure out the best next steps, and I didn’t want Brixton running off doing anything foolish.

  If Peter was lying about his motivation, could he also have a motive for murder we didn’t know about? Or was he simply an innocent victim who incorrectly believed his father to be innocent? He was only a child at the time of his father’s death.

  “Something strange is afoot at Persephone & Prometheus’s Phantasmagoria,” Dorian said. “Do you think he is framing you for the murder of the treasure hunter, so he may find the loot for himself?”

  I briefly considered his suggestion that I might have been framed in such an obscure way, but dismissed it as the lingering effects of the coffee. “I don’t know, Dorian. That seems pretty far-fetched that he’d find a stone toe in the theater, associate it with me, and leave it in the fingers of the dead body in hopes that it would lead the police to me.”

  “Oui, without fac
ts it is only a theory. But magicians are masters of misdirection. We must investigate!”

  “Hold on, you two,” Tobias cut in. “I understand that you’ve been pulled into this inquiry because of Dorian’s missing toe, but investigating yourselves?”

  Dorian blinked his black eyes at Tobias. “Have you not read the works of Agatha Christie? She was an Englishwoman, yes, but her investigative skills are unparalleled. She has taught us that it is the amateur sleuth who is most capable of using his little grey cells to solve the most complex of crimes.”

  “That’s fiction,” Tobias said. “Anyway, Poirot wasn’t an amateur.”

  “Semantics,” Dorian mumbled. “He was not un flic. He was not a policeman. Those who work outside of the law are privy to more—”

  “The backpack!” I cried.

  Dorian grinned. “Merci, Zoe, for proving my point.”

  “What backpack?” Tobias asked.

  “Dorian and I saw Peter and Penelope taking a small backpack out of a trunk in the theater. They were acting in secret, and at the time I believed he was an alchemist, so it made perfect sense that he’d be acting secretively. I didn’t give it another thought. But since his secret is that he’s Franklin Thorne’s son who’s looking into clearing his father’s name, what was in the backpack?”

  “I remember thinking,” Dorian said, “that it looked like the possession of a child.”

  “It did. It wasn’t a briefcase of research papers. It looked like a child’s backpack. I wish I could remember what the two of them said to each other.”

  “Let us return to the theater,” Dorian said.

  “No,” Tobias and I said simultaneously.

  Dorian scrunched his snout. “Dual-faced alchemists! I thought you were on my side.”

  “I’m so much on your side that it would kill me if you were taken into police custody again. We take no unnecessary risks, which means we don’t return to a crime scene.”

  Dorian’s wings slouched. “Your heart is in the right place, Zoe Faust. No matter. It is nearly time for me to return to Blue Sky Teas to bake for the upcoming day. You need not remind me to be careful.”