The Last Illusion

“I want to hire you to protect my husband,” she said.

I couldn’t have been more surprised. I started to say, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” but I swallowed it back. “You want me to protect your husband?” I repeated.

“I think that someone’s trying to kill him,” she said.

My mind went immediately to the horrifying scene I had witnessed. “Is this because of what happened to Scarpelli’s assistant the other night?”

“That did make me think that it wasn’t just my nerves and I hadn’t just been imagining it,” she said.

“If someone’s trying to kill him, then surely it’s a matter for the police,” I said.

She shook her head vehemently. “No, that wouldn’t do at all. Harry would never countenance it. He’s a very proud man, Miss Murphy. You might even say a very vain man. He’d hate the thought that he couldn’t take care of himself. And he’d hate the thought even more that someone wanted him dead. That’s why I came to you.”

“What exactly do you think I can do?” I asked.

“Two things, I hope. Keep an eye on him and find out who wants him dead.”

I tried to compose my racing thoughts. One part of my brain was saying this was a plum assignment and I could forever after advertise that I’d been hired by none other than the premier magician of our time, the great Houdini. But the more sensible part of my brain was asking me how I could ever protect a man who risked his life on a daily basis and how I could ever hope to discover who might want him dead. But I’ve always loved a good challenge, and I had no other case on the books.

“Very well, Mrs. Houdini,” I said. “So tell me how your husband may be linked to what happened to Lily the other night. Do you suspect that Lily’s death was a murder and that the same person is trying to kill your husband?”

She shuddered as she remembered. “I’m not sure. But I tell you that’s the first thing that came into my head when I saw her lying there.”

“So you’re suggesting that a murderer is loose in the theater—someone who is trying to kill illusionists or at least ruin their reputations?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know who that could be. The other acts on the bill, they’re real nice. They seem like gentlemen and it’s not as if they’re Harry’s particular rivals. None of them tries to do what Harry does. Of course he does have his rivals, but not on this bill. And it would be hard for an outsider to get backstage, particularly when a show’s going on.”

She paused, looking at me expectantly.

“So maybe you’d better start by telling me why you suspect someone wants to kill your husband.”

She leaned closer to me. “Ever since he got back to this country last week I’ve had this feeling of danger,” she said. “I can’t explain it, but I’m sort of looking over my shoulder all the time. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do,” I said. “We Celts are supposed to have that sixth sense and it has served me well in the past. So is there anything more concrete than a feeling of danger?”

“I think that we’re being watched,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure that someone tried to break into our house the other night. I heard someone outside. I woke Harry and when he turned on the light the fellow ran off.”

“Surely someone with your husband’s notoriety would be watched all the time,” I said. “He’s a recognizable figure. I imagine that gentlemen of the press would follow him, hoping for a sensational story. And if you really think someone tried to break into your house, then maybe that was also an unscrupulous newspaper reporter, trying to find out how his tricks are done. Or maybe a rival illusionist. That’s what Scarpelli claimed, you know.”

“Did he? Maybe he’s right, but I don’t know who that would be.”

I looked at her sitting there, staring at me with big timid eyes. If the person who wrecked Scarpelli’s act and killed Lily was also out to ruin Houdini, he had already proved that he’d stop at nothing and Mrs. Houdini was right to believe her husband in danger. “But being watched and even a break-in don’t amount to death threats, do they?”

“But there have been other things,” she said. “While Harry was out, a man came to the front door—two days ago, I think it was. I don’t know what there was about him, but he made me afraid. Just the way he asked the questions, they came across as threats. And he said to tell Harry that he’d be back.” She paused and plucked at her muslin skirt nervously. “And when I asked his name, he said that Harry would know who he was.”