“She fought right enough,” the inspector said. “By the time the Professor and Miss Scarcez were awakened, one of the suspects’ turbans was lying on the carpet. Mr. Herrmann says he tried to free her from the grasp of one of the wogs, but was overpowered—knocked on the head by a gun or sap or some such.”
Dr. Stephan C. Ware, a well-known physician to the theatrical community, was brought in to examine the injured magician and declared him fit and needing no time in hospital.
Prof. Herrmann believes that Princess Noor was taken by agents of the Grand Sultan of Oman. Early last year, the famed magician effected a daring rescue of the exotic beauty from the Sultan’s harem, where she was said to be one of over 300 women designated as “wives” of the heathen king. Since that fateful day, the loyal girl has refused to leave Prof. Herrmann’s side, becoming his assistant in his magic performances.
“She was the Sultan’s favorite,” the crestfallen Professor said. “I am not surprised that he should try to recapture her in this way. It is my clumsiness, my lack of vigilance, that has allowed this to happen.”
Prof. Herrmann created a considerable scandal in New York City when he first introduced Princess Noor to the public on May 11. Appearing in the clothing of her native land, which often consisted of little more than transparent silks and gold coins, she inspired protests by religious groups and was denounced by politicians. A similar reaction greeted her in London.
Perhaps owing to the controversy, performances both here and in America were consistently sold out. Herrmann and Princess Noor were slated to open a new show beginning Monday.
“With only six days until our premire, my managers have advised me to cancel the date,” Prof. Herrmann told the press. “But the princess would not have countenanced such an action. She was a professional—what we in the show business call a ‘trouper’—and she would insist that the show go on. The police are scouring every dock and boat slip and I myself have engaged a veritable army of private detectives to find her. And so, I promise the public two things: first, if Princess Noor-Al-Haya is anywhere in Britain, she shall be found! Second, all ticket-buying patrons to my exhibition may be assured of my best efforts and will be provided with new and bigger thrills as always, at popular prices.”
37
WHEN THE YOUNG WOMAN AWOKE IN HER STATEROOM, SHE knew that Princess Noor-Al-Haya was dead.
Her first indication was the room itself. It was not the kind of accommodation the princess would ever tolerate: the bed was narrow, its blanket brown and coarse; the walls had been given only the barest whitewash and were stained with grime. There was only one small porthole, and the furnishings consisted of the bed, a plain nightstand with pitcher and basin, and a single iron chair.
Although groggy from whatever drug she had been given, her skin still possessed enough memory to realize it was encased in animal hide. Staggering to her feet, she stumbled to the mirror above the dressing table.
Looking back at her was Lady-Jane Little Feather.
This was not the Lady-Jane who had been the Red Rose of Omaha; it was not even the apprentice prostitute receiving fifty cents or a dollar for her two minutes’ work. This was the Lady-Jane she most hated and feared.
The face was devoid of paint. A band of unadorned leather encircled her head. Her clothing was stitched from the kinds of skins reserved for a family’s least favored daughter. This was the woman harbored by the Ponca, the Lady-Jane of hard work and want.
Turning from the mirror, she looked out the porthole and saw the docks of Southampton. She ran to the door and began to pound on it. In seconds, Wind Whistler opened the door. Lady-Jane flung herself upon him, scratching and biting and cursing him in two languages.
“Don’t blame me,” Wind Whistler said, fending off a slap. “I’m just here to guard you. If Little Feather feels the need to complain, I suggest you speak with One Tongue. It was he that put me here.”
“Then get him, Shit Whistle.”
“I have been instructed to wait until one of the white-coated slaves comes by and then send him for anything needed. I will do this if Little Feather will stop shouting and calling me names and hitting me.”
Lady-Jane didn’t reply. Panting, she walked to the edge of the bed and sat down. Wind Whistler nodded and returned to the corridor, locking the door behind him. A few moments later, she could hear him speak haltingly:
“Fetch … Mister … Jool-is … My-er.” Wind Whistler needed to repeat the phrase several times, but at last he stopped and she heard the sound of footsteps in the hall.
When Julius Meyer entered the room, he was dressed in a new suit. The sight of his gold watch fob and bowler hat only made Lady-Jane angrier. She spat on the floor.
“So. I see you’ve gone back to being a Jew.”
“And you’ve gone back to being an Indian.”
Lady-Jane laughed bitterly. “You think you can hold me on this goddamn boat? Wait until Alex hears of this.”
“He has heard of it, Lady-Jane. I’m afraid it was his idea.”
“You’re full of shit, Julius. He loves me. I’ve made him more famous than he’s ever been. I went through everything for him, shared his bed, kept my mouth shut.”
Julius crossed the floor and sat down in the iron chair.
“And now that’s over,” he said. “Your passage has been booked and paid for, your passport, which I assure you is in order, is in the possession of the prophet for safekeeping. As far as the dock officials know, you’re a red girl leaving this country unconscious; another Indian who couldn’t hold her liquor.”
Lady-Jane leaped upon Julius. She tried to bite his face, to scratch out both his eyes. He took hold of her wrists and held her fast until she stopped struggling and then deposited her back on to the narrow bed.
“I’m sorry, Lady-Jane. It’s not exactly with relish that we do this. Believe me when I tell you that Alex saw you as a valuable member of his troupe and was truly grateful for all you did. He was thoroughly prepared to keep you in his act, to exalt your talents, to make you rich. But then you attacked Adelaide.”
“That lying whore. No one saw me do anything.”
“Oh, but someone did—and that witness told Alex everything. He wept when he saw the blood caked in her hair, the bruises across her body; and when he asked me if I thought you could tolerate the presence of another woman in his life, I had no choice but to tell him about your past; and how you had dealt with others you had come to hate.”
Lady-Jane’s eyes began to fill with hot tears. “You have no proof.”
“I have the word of the great and good Eli Gershonson. Just as he had your word in the letter you wrote, warning him. If you had not escaped to the Ponca after the Nickel & Dime fire, you would have long been hanged by now. Not that I blame you for barbecuing that pig, Calhern. You should have put an apple in his mouth. But to destroy all those girls …”
“A few less white whores, Julius—an inconvenience for Swain and his partners, including your Jew miser brother. It took all of a week to replace them. Besides, I noticed that you were always too good to risk your holy circumcision on any of us. Why should you care?”
“It doesn’t matter, Lady-Jane,” Julius said. “You’re going home.”
Lady-Jane threw her hands over her eyes. She would be damned if she would let this little bastard see her cry.
“Home to squat in horseshit? Home to watch a bunch of savages begging white trash to show them which is the business end of a plow?”
Julius shifted in the chair. He took a silver case from his jacket pocket and offered her a small cigar. She spat at him again.
“A substantial sum of money has been wired to my bank in Omaha,” Julius said. “It’s the equivalent of the salary you would have made in the next two years plus a bonus. If you live wisely, or perhaps open your own business, you’ll be comfortable the rest of your days.”
Lady-Jane removed her hands from her face; her eyes were dry.
“You white bastards make
me laugh. First, you drag me to your school. Then you turn me out before I’m grown enough to bleed regular. You hoodwink the world about who I am and get rich off the lie. You think you can put a few dollars aside for the whore and that’s all it’ll take to buy her off—that she’ll jump for fucking joy at your generosity! Well, I don’t care about the money. Don’t you understand? He loves me.”
“Lady-Jane …”
“He loves me.”
Julius stood up. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more to say. I need to stay here and raise more money. You and Wind Whistler and the prophet sail in another hour.”
Lady-Jane whirled. She seized the pitcher from the nightstand and hurled it at Julius. He ducked down and saw it shatter against the rough pine wainscoting.
“Bring Alex here,” Lady-Jane shouted. “When he finds out what you’ve done, he’ll put you in jail. He won’t stand for this. He can’t open the show without me.”
Julius sighed. He could not bring himself to tell her of Alexander’s cold rage when he was informed of the assault: or to tell her that her lover’s first suggestion was to have her transported to Whitechapel and murdered as a streetwalker. When Julius told him he could be no part of such a scheme, Alex suggested sending her back to Nebraska penniless, to finish her days in her old profession or as the wife of some red farmer. It was only after Julius told Alex that he would not help him unless she was provided sufficient funds to live in dignity that the current solution was reached.
“I suppose it’s up to you if you want to spend the next hour screaming and throwing yourself against walls,” Julius said, “but this stateroom is far down in steerage—where cries and moans are hardly unusual. The crew has been warned that you are likely to become hysterical—to holler and carry on—and to pay you no attention.”
Lady-Jane sprung at Julius, again swiping at him with her nails, her feet trying to find his groin. She spat at him over and over, covering his nose and eyes. Wiping his face, he found her saliva mixed with his own tears. He turned and quickly left the room, locking the door from outside.
In the corridor, he collapsed against the wall, exhausted. From inside the stateroom, he could hear Lady-Jane shriek in vain, shouting out her hatred of him and her love for Alexander. “You can’t do this,” she pleaded, “you can’t.
“I was a princess.”
As he continued toward the stairs, Julius marveled at how quickly her cries faded, swallowed up by the clattering sounds of the main galley and the dull roars of the engine room.
Still, he wondered what sympathies might be raised from anyone who passed a room so filled with fury, seeming to contain its own storm at sea.
38
FOR THE LONDONERS WHO SOUGHT OUT THE GREAT HERRMANN to amaze them, nothing matched the pomp and majesty of his grand entrances. At every performance, the orchestra began with a stirring trumpet voluntary, heralding his arrival. Following this, anything could happen.
At one show he entered dressed as an Eastern potentate, a monkey on each shoulder and flanked by two snarling tigers; at another he emerged from a coffin in a black leotard decorated with bones of phosphorus paint, so that he looked for all the world like a skeleton come to life. Many still spoke of the famous evening he rode down the center aisle astride a baby elephant, followed by a fully armed contingent of Khyber Rifles.
But how, many wondered, could the Great Herrmann possibly take the stage tonight—only days after the disappearance of his notorious assistant?
Not a person in the theatre could have been unaware of her abduction; newspaper hawkers had arrived early that evening, descending upon the Egyptian and shouting their headlines at the incoming patrons.
Times here! Princess Noor still missing!
Get your Telegraph! No clues in the disappearance of magician’s girl!
Evening Standard here! Magician’s assistant feared dead!
Ever since she had vanished the week before, all of London’s papers had speculated upon what the Great Herrmann would do without his illustrious auxiliary. Opinions varied widely. The Herald, for example, had insisted that the professor would continue to dazzle audiences exactly as he had before the advent of Princess Noor, while the Gazette maintained that it was curiosity about the renowned exotic that had been the key to the magician’s current popularity. “Without her,” its critic said, “he is just another conjuror, certainly inferior to his brother Carl, whose new show is premiering the very same night at the Opera Comique.”
In the event, it took Alexander less than five minutes to make the audience forget her completely.
As the lights went down, there was no blare of trumpets, no trademark fanfare. Dressed in a black velvet suit with britches and white stockings, Alexander appeared without introduction or musical accompaniment, the only sound the wild applause of the audience. Walking slowly to center stage, he acknowledged their enthusiasm and, his hand over his heart, bowed humbly.
“My lords, ladies and gentlemen … my friends. I cannot possibly express my gratitude to you for the support I have received since the terrible kidnapping of my helper and protégé. Ever since her taking on the last night of November, I have been deluged with letters and telegrams from both heads of state and little schoolchildren. You, the people of this great country, have offered me, an outsider, succor and hope during a time in which it has been impossible—even for a magician of my powers—to make such heartache disappear. But now …”
Alexander looked toward the orchestra. They began to softly play the sensuous, whirling notes of Princess Noor’s theme, a tune well known to the many repeat members of the audience. As the notes rose and fell, smoke began to billow from an opening at the center of the stage and the hall was soon filled with the aroma of sandalwood incense.
“… it is my happy duty, my dear friends, to tell you that Princess Noor-Al-Haya—the Pearl of the East and Gem of the Nile—has been found!”
Alexander turned to his left and indicated the swirling mist. As he pointed toward the smoke, a light suddenly shone through it.
At first, the audience could discern nothing; but then ragged outlines began to appear, dark against the brilliance: first a hand, followed by an arm or a leg and finally a long sweep of wild hair. The orchestra played louder and faster, cymbals crashing, drums beating.
At last, a figure broke through, its golden tunic of coins shimmering in the footlights. The dark, strong limbs shone through the transparent sheen of her silks. The long, black hair whipped up and down. At the ting-ting sound of her finger cymbals, the audience rose to its feet, stomping and applauding as the music ended. On the last beat she stopped center stage and froze, feet arched, hands and head raised high.
The applause became a roar. Men shouted, women screamed and waved lace handkerchiefs. After what seemed an hour, Alexander raised his hands for silence.
“Thank you so very much, my dear, dear friends. I am sure that you are both relieved and amazed at this appearance. But please allow me to remind you that ours is a performance of magic—that all may not be exactly as it seems—so pray permit me to read to you this letter.”
Alexander raised an arm and from nowhere, a piece of yellow paper appeared in his hand.
“‘Dear Professor Herrmann. I much appreciate your rescue of my daughter from my enemies. But I cannot allow you to continue to employ her. According to our faith, this is unseemly. By the time you receive this, my agents will have restored her safely to the bosom of her family. I am certain you understand that I do this drastic thing only out of a father’s love. Still, I thank you. You protected my child. May Allah protect you.’ And it is signed His Royal Highness Daoud Ali, Third Caliph of Egypt.’”
There was near dead silence in the audience and then a murmur of confusion began to arise. How could this be? The orchestra struck up the princess’s music once more and the beautiful figure began dancing again.
“So! I know what you all must be wondering: if Princess Noor-Al-Haya is safe with her father in Arabia, then h
ow can she also be on the stage of Egyptian Hall, dancing for you as only she can? Not even at a performance by the Great Herrmann could a woman be in two places at once. Or could she?”
From the misty rear of the stage, an elaborate Moroccan tent floated forward and came to rest. Its walls were purest white with tent ropes of gold brocade, and its roof was red and yellow silk. Princess Noor continued to revolve and twist, dancing twice around the magician; and then, with the kick of a heel, gliding upstage.
“In fact, my friends, the presence of the princess here tonight is less in the nature of an appearance and more of a tribute—a fond farewell to a beloved colleague who added much to the legend of the Great Herrmann. Her bold, exotic beauty captured the hearts of two continents. Unique! Irreplaceable! But now …”
The princess danced into the great tent, disappearing from sight.
“… with the princess’s enthusiastic permission, I now present another great lady of illusion. Though British by birth, she was years in a convent school in Italy, where she spent her formative years in prayer and contemplation. Some time ago, her simple, hardworking parents died in the great train accident at Luton and she had not a soul in the world to care for her. Luckily, her mother had once served as my governess and her father my parents’ footman. They left her in my care in the hope that she would perhaps become my cook or maid or even take on holy orders. But no, my friends—she was made for something higher!”
The audience gasped to see a figure in purple and gold descend toward the stage from the top of the proscenium. She hung suspended in mid-air, her red hair flying as if blown by a hurricane. Her head tilted slightly to the right, her hands clasped as if in prayer, she might have been a Madonna straight from a canvas by Giotto or del Sarto. As she continued her descent, two gigantic hoops inched toward her from both sides of the stage, each passing over her body, proving no wires held her aloft. As the music swelled, the young woman spread her arms wide as if blessing the audience.
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