Death from a Top Hat (31 page)

The Society of American Magicians

Masters of Ceremonies

Al Baker and Dennis

“Merlini,” Gavignan said sharply, “Is Jones backstage?”

“Yes, but you sit right where you are. Before the evening is over you can have at him all you want. But not now.”

The auditorium lights faded. Al Baker stepped from between the curtains carrying Dennis, a harsh and utterly irrepressible ventriloquist’s dummy, who interrupted violently every time Al tried to speak. Dennis finally M.C.’d the show, introducing Joseffy’s act as a masterpiece of skullduggery.

The skull—Cagliostro’s, so Joseffy said—rested on a glass plate held by a committee from the audience and indicated, with a gruesome clicking of its white teeth, the names of cards surreptitiously chosen by the audience.

Gavigan’s disgruntled comment was, “Maybe I should ask
him
who our murderer is.”

John Mulholland caused a rosebush to grow from nothing and mysteriously blossom. Bernard Zufall instantly memorized a list of fifty words supplied by the audience and repeated them forwards, backwards, and then singly as they were called for by number.

Dennis then introduced the LaClaires and challenged Zelma to read
his
mind. Dressed in white and blindfolded with a black bandage, she was apparently in constant communication with Alfred, who silently went up and down the aisles, glancing at the various objects held up for his examination, which she immediately described, and listening to whispered questions, which she answered. The act was well done, faster paced than most, and it finished with a clairvoyant climax that consisted in Zelma’s addition, sight unseen, of several six-digit figures written my members of the audience on a slate.

Duvallo’s act took some time to set. We could hear the thump of heavy apparatus being moved into position as Al Baker, before the curtain, put one over on Dennis. The latter pooh-poohed Duvallo’s skill, boasting that he could do as well. Mr. Baker, taking him at his word, produced a miniature strait jacket, laced the dummy in, tied a handkerchief securely over his protesting mouth, and commented, “That’s the best gag of the evening, if I do say it myself.”

When the curtain went up on Duvallo’s act, I saw the Inspector sit up and take notice. I dropped my cigarette on the floor and ground it out nervously with my heel. Was it coming now? Would we get a hint of the way in which someone had escaped from those two apartments? I looked about quickly. Judy, the Colonel, and Madame Rappourt were all present and accounted for.

On the stage I saw a great box whose sides were large rectangles of heavy plate glass, bound along the edges with steel bands. A fire hose from off stage was rapidly filling the box with water. Duvallo’s offering was obviously going to be the escape from the Chinese Water Torture Cell, a creation of Harry Houdini’s, and the secret of which was lost with his death. Duvallo had successfully re-discovered, if not the same, then an equally efficacious method of release. An assistant hoisted a smaller steel box with an open top and a steel-barred front up and into the water. Duvallo, stripped to bathing trunks, came on, and the separate top of the glass box, a heavy metal affair having two leg holes in it after the fashion of the Puritan stocks, was locked securely about his ankles. With block and tackle this was raised high, and then lowered over the box. Duvallo, hanging head down, was completely immersed in the water. Several large padlocks were quickly placed, locking the box and its top together, the keys being thrown into the audience. A concealing canopy was drawn around the Torture Cell and the assistant stood outside peering in through a slit in the curtains, holding a fire axe in readiness should anything go wrong.

For three minutes the audience, sensing the danger that was on the stage before them, sat very still, tensely searching the assistant’s face for some clue to what he saw. Then, at a sign from him the piano player stopped in mid-bar, and the curtains were flung wide. Duvallo, last seen upside down and smiling through thick plate glass, steel bars, and water, was sitting outside the box on the stage floor. He dripped water and was breathing heavily, drawing in the air with great gulps. The box remained inscrutably locked and was shy of being filled with water only by the amount his body had displaced. The applause of the audience expressed relief.

As the curtains closed, Merlini rose and excused himself to go and prepare for his own act. The audience got up to take a stretch and wandered about, smoking and chatting. Gavigan and myself went to the lobby and walked to the end of the corridor where he rapped lightly with his knuckles on the banquet hall door. It opened a crack and Malloy peered out.

“We’re bored stiff, Inspector,” he whispered. “Anything doing yet?”

“No, but sit tight. Merlini acts confident as hell.”

“Doesn’t he always?” Malloy asked and closed the door. As we came back, I noticed a man standing before the elevators, trying hard not to look like a detective. He paid no attention to us, nor Gavigan to him. The Inspector repeated his knock on the door leading to the roof, and got an answering reply. I recognized Brady’s voice. I asked, “What about exits from backstage?”

“There aren’t any except for the two doors on either side of the stage that lead from the dressing rooms directly into the auditorium. And I’ve got a couple of men backstage, anyway. Merlini had me place them everywhere, short of behind the woodwork.”

We slid back into our seats again, just as the lights dimmed. I saw Gavigan glance anxiously at the still empty chair where Judy had previously sat.

Merlini stepped on to a stage that was bare of everything except two or three small spindly-legged tables. He announced that, in his opinion, it was high time someone revived Joseph Hartz’s great trick
Le Chapeau du Diable
, neglected since that conjurer’s death in 1903. Borrowing a collapsible opera hat from a member of the stock exchange in the fifth row, he proceeded calmly and with smiling deliberation to produce from its empty interior the following objects in order named: a bushel or two of large silk handkerchiefs, six bottles of champagne and a dozen goblets, enough playing cards to fill three hats, an electric table lamp whose bulb burned brightly with some infernal energy of its own, a canary complete with cage, and a large goldfish bowl brimming with water and fish.
¹
And finally, as he returned the hat to its owner in the audience, it collapsed with a snap, disclosing the inevitable rabbit.

Inspector Gavigan sat back in his chair, one finger tapping impatiently on his knee. Whatever he had expected had not happened. Had something misfired, or was it still to come? There were two acts yet which might have possibilities, Jones’ and Ching’s.

I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to Max Holden’s dextrous shadowgraphy. Instead, I watched Judy’s vacant chair and eyed Watrous, who was whispering excitedly to Madame Rappourt as she sat stolidly behind her dark glasses, possibly watching the performance, but giving every impression that, except for her body, she was lost in some other world. That woman’s dead-pan attitude got on my nerves.

Under cover of Dennis’ boisterous kibitzing, Merlini slipped back and took his seat again.

“Won’t Jones’ ventriloquial act be a bit flat after this Dennis kid?” Gavigan asked him.

“He’s doing something else tonight. Keep your eyes open.”

I didn’t like the way he said that, and a cold shiver coasted down my spine. So—now it was coming.

When the curtains parted the audience were still smiling over Dennis’ final remarks. But when they saw the bare, black-draped stage and the solemn, strangely pale expression on Jones’ face as he walked out and stood motionless near the footlights waiting for quiet, something stilled them.

He began quietly, in a soft, flat voice that accentuated the dramatic import of what he said.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this evening I shall present one of the most famous feats in all magic—and yet one that is rarely seen. It has been attempted by but few performers, for the very excellent reason that its presentation must always be absolutely perfect. Make just one mistake—as almost all its performers have eventually done—and it’s your last. It is the most dangerous trick in magic.”

His speech was somewhat stilted, as if memorized, and, as he paused, something of his nervousness passed across the footlights into the audience. There was a stiffening of attention, a hushed absence of those rustling, stirring noises that indicate lack of interest.

“Captain Carl Storm, formerly of the United States Army,” Jones continued, “is here tonight at my invitation. Will you please step up, Captain?”

From as aisle seat on the other side of the auditorium, a man in uniform rose and made his way toward the stage. Under his arm he carried several implements that had, in their smooth, machined lines, an efficient, deadly look. The polite applause was hesitant, apprehensive.

“I requested the Captain to bring with him from his collection three army rifles which he was instructed to choose at random. Did you do that, Captain?” The man nodded.

A mumbled undercurrent of excitement wavered through the audience, many of whom apparently guessed what was to come.

Jones faced the footlights. “I would also like to have several gentlemen from the audience form a committee to assist me on the stage. Particularly those who may have some knowledge of firearms, though anyone at all is quite welcome to volunteer. Perhaps I should add that whatever danger exists does so for myself only an can in no way touch anyone else.”

Before any ordinary audience Jones would most certainly have made this request prior to any hint of danger or any display of armaments. But volunteer assistants come easily enough from an audience of magicians and their friends. There was a slight hesitation; then, almost at once, several persons rose from different parts of the auditorium. In a moment or two Jones had to hold up his hand indicating that that was enough. There were five men on the stage besides himself and the Captain.

Two of them I recognized immediately. One was a detective I had seen outside with Gavigan before the show, the other was Dr. Hesse. Then, as I watched them line up under Jones’ direction on the left side of the stage, a man in evening dress, the last to go forward, turned, and I saw that it was Watrous. I looked about quickly. Gavigan, bent forward, and scowling heavily at the stage, obscured my view; I couldn’t see Madame Rappourt. Judy was still missing. Duvallo, Ching, and the LaClaires were, I supposed, still backstage.

Jones spoke again. “Captain Storm, will you tell the audience if, since you chose those rifles, I have had any chance to examine or handle them.”

The Captain shook his head and answered in a parade-ground voice, “This is the first time you have even seen them.”

“You brought ammunition?”

The Captain placed the rifles on a table and drew a box of cartridges from his coat pocket. At Jones’ suggestion he slit the box open and poured the bullets in a heap on the table.

Jones, keeping some distance from the table, motioned to the committeemen. “Will you kindly step over and examine the bullets. When you are quite satisfied that they are genuine, will you select two and stand them on end, at the edge of the table away from the others.”

When this had been done, he asked, “Does someone have a pocketknife?”

The man whom I recognized as a detective produced one and offered it.

Jones indicated the selected bullets. “Will you choose one of those,” he said, “and scratch your initials on the nose of the bullet and on the case.”

As the man did this, Gavigan curled a few words from the side of his mouth at Merlini. “
You
would think up something like this, dammit. I’ve a good notion to break it up right now.”

“Easy, Inspector,” Merlini whispered. “We’re going to get a nibble.”

Jones spoke to Watrous and Dr. Hesse. “Will you gentlemen please select one of those guns.”

They did so, examing each and agreeing on one.

“Who, beside the Captain, knows how to load this gun. You, sir?”

He looked at the fifth committeeman, a shy professorial looking man who wore thick lensed glasses and a short Vandyke. He stepped hesitantly from the background, and in a low voice that barely got across the footlights, said, “Yes. I think I can.”

“Will you take the gun then and load it with the bullet that is left, there on the table.”

As he did so, Jones picked up a white dinner plate from the table and placed it in a metal holder at the right and rear of the stage.

“Captain Storm, will you please take the gun and fire at the plate.”

The Captain nodded, took the gun and raised it. I saw a woman in front of me put her fingers to her ears. The gun cracked and the plate dropped, a shower of small pieces that rattled on the floor.

An odd sort of sound rose from the audience as more than one person gasped involuntarily and caught at his breath.

Jones held the tension steady. He quickly took the marked bullet and held it in turn before each committeeman, asking that the initialling he noted. He passed the bullet to the man who had loaded before, and as Captain Storm held out the gun, the latter threw back the breech, ejecting the spent shell. As he loaded the gun again, Jones turned his back, walked across stage to where the plate had been and faced his audience.

“The trick I am about to present, is, of course, the Great Bullet Catching Feat.”