Now You See It (2 page)

The house was (still is) in Massachusetts, standing in the center of a twenty-two-acre plot of woodland, set back approximately a quarter of a mile from the road. (Forgive the exactitude of detail, it’s a habit I’m unable to overcome.)

Described briefly (I’ll try, anyway),
Delacorte Hall
was (is) French Provincial in design, a truly splendid two-story structure which I’d had built in 1943, a choice earning year for me.

The house had (has) seven bedrooms and baths, a modest theater, a swimming pool below, a large kitchen, formal dining room, a large living room, and the rooms in which the hours of insanity took place—my study and, later, Max’s.

The Magic Room
.

Why do I call it that? Because it was a masterpiece of prearrangements, a cornucopia of gimmicks and arcana. I had begun the process in 1945 for my own pleasure. Later, Max had added to it; so much so that, at the time of these events, even I was unaware of what he’d done to the room, my earlier years of invalidism having been spent in my bedroom.
It was only in the late sixties that Max saw to it that Nelly brought my wheelchair on a daily basis to TMR, knowing the pleasure I had always taken in it when I was a real person instead of a two-eyed potato.

The study then;
The Magic Room
.

Thirty feet in length, twenty in width, many-windowed with one particularly large picture window affording a spectacular view of the countryside behind the house, a small lake in the distance, a gazebo on its shore.

The study had always been luxuriously appointed. Built-in shelves lined two walls, many filled with leather-bound scrapbooks: my reviews and news clippings, and Max’s. The remainder of the shelves were filled with books almost exclusively devoted to magic history and/or methodology.

On a third wall hung framed lobby posters of my and Max’s more notable appearances.

A fieldstone fireplace (quite massive) stood against the fourth wall, on its mantelpiece a collection of relics, souvenirs, and
objets d’art
which Lenore and I—and, later, Max—had collected through the years. Also standing on it was a silver candelabra with three black candles, next to it a silver matchbox.

Fret not, dear reader, these details are of consequence, all of them a valid part of the account.

Where was I?

Yes, the fireplace. Above the mantelpiece hung several items.

Two were large oil paintings, one of my lovely Lenore (I blessed my son for leaving it there), the other of an equally lovely (perhaps stunningly beautiful would be more accurate a description) young woman: Adelaide, Max’s first wife, who died in 1963.

Also mounted above said mantelpiece was a set of English
dueling pistols, circa 1879; a pike from the nineteenth-century Spanish Army; and an African spear and blowgun—all to play their roles in the murderous exploits soon to commence.

Near the fireplace was my (then Max’s) desk, eighteenth-century French, its glossy surface seven feet by four feet, on it an arrangement of relics, souvenirs, and
objets d’art
from my (our) collection. A telephone and a silver-plated decanter (with glass) completed the articles on the desk. Behind it was a high-backed revolving chair, upholstered in black leather.

Other items to be mentioned: a handsome brass-and-teakwood bar, glasses and silver ice bucket on its top; two red leather easy chairs with end tables; an extremely large (two feet in diameter) antique world globe.

Finally, a quintet of items vital to the narrative.

One:
a standing lobby display poster—a life-size photograph of Max in top hat and tails, a placard reading:

THE GREAT DELACORTE
“In Touch With the Mysterious.”

Two:
an ornately decorated Egyptian burial case, standing upright, its lid open.

Three:
a suit of armor (sixteenth-century German), its faceplate shut.

Four:
a lever-operated guillotine (a miniature version of the one used during the French Revolution), its blade raised to the top as though positioned to decapitate some doomed marquis.

Five:
set upright on its lever-operated base, a mahogany casket with a window to reveal the head and shoulders of the deceased.

Inside the casket were what appeared to be the head and shoulders of my son—Maximilian Delacorte, handsome
(got my looks), vandyke-bearded (an ostentation I eschewed), eyes shut, expression imperious, the very image of a Spanish grandee lying in state.

How’s that for memory?

Anyway, dear reader, mark these things.

All were integral to the madness.

How shall I typify what happened? Passion play? Somewhat. Weird tale? Indubitably. Horror story? Pretty close. Grotesque melodrama? Certainly. Black comedy? Your point of view will determine that. Perhaps it was a combination of them all.

Suffice to say that the events which took place in the home of my son on the afternoon of July 17, 1980, were, to say the least, singular.

So to the story. A chronicle of greed and cruelty, horror and rapacity, sadism and murder.

Love, American style.

By shifting my eyes to the utmost, I could read the small clock on Max’s desk. Eleven fifty-seven
A.M
. A gray and windy morning, outside sounds—wind, rustling foliage, distant thunder rumblings—harbingers of an approaching summer storm. Nature herself conspiring to set the scene for that turbulent afternoon? Who knows?

I was seated in my usual place, a location chosen by my son from which I could, by (as noted) shifting my eyeballs, get a panoramic view of The Magic Room. I had breakfasted, been changed, and now was in position to observe the many doings about to occur.

Which began, as I recall, at noon. And if it wasn’t exactly noon, to hell with it, I’m going to
say
that it was exactly noon.

At noon, the cabal began.

I heard a voice shout, “Cassandra?”

That of Brian (Crane), calling from the entry hall. My eyeballs shifted; pretty much the extent of my physical dexterity, I might add.

There was silence for a few moments. Then Brian called again, more loudly,
“Cassandra!”

Somewhere upstairs, a door was opened (my hearing, too, was unimpeded) and Cassandra answered with her usual imperious tone,
“What?”

“Come down to Max’s den!” he shouted. “I’ve got something to show you!”

“Brian, I am really
busy!”
Cassandra shouted back.

Brother persisted. “You can spare a minute! Come on!”

“Brian!”
a protesting cry now.

He would not back off. “I guarantee you’ll love it!” he shouted.

Reluctant submission from Cassandra. “Oh, all right.”

I heard the clicking of a woman’s shoe heels on the wooden floorboards of the entry hall—

—and Cassandra entered The Magic Room, tall, blonde, alluring. Long-sleeved pink blouse, light brown skirt, brown, high-heeled shoes.

I would have frowned if my facial muscles had been up to it.

How did Cassandra get here first when she was upstairs and Brian down?

I tried to see more clearly as she crossed to the bar and, stooping, opened the door of the ice maker. I heard her start to ladle ice cubes into the silver bucket.

I would have frowned again—in spades—if I’d been able to.

For, down the staircase and across the floorboards of the entry hall, I heard the clicking of a woman’s shoe heels—

—and Cassandra entered TMR, tall, blonde, alluring. Long-sleeved pink blouse, light brown skirt, you know the rest.

“What the hell?” I would have said if my voice had been attainable. I certainly thought it.
What the hell is going on?
Was I hallucinating now, a new (and lower) stage of strokedom?

The moment the second Cassandra had entered the room, the first Cassandra had stopped putting ice cubes into the silver bucket.

I watched the second Cassandra as she looked around, her gaze passing me, as usual, with non-reception. Does one take notice of a plant?

Then the first Cassandra rose from behind the bar and
thrumped
down the bucket on the counter.

The two Cassandras eyed each other, doppelgängers to the detail. I closed my eyes; that I could manage.
When I open them
, I thought,
I’ll see only one of them
.

I did. I didn’t. There they were, the Cassandra twins. Did I begin to get the message at that point?

If I did, it wasn’t because I was helped by either of them.

The first Cassandra smiled.

The second Cassandra smiled—then shook her head with a chuckle.

As did the first.

The sounds they uttered were identical as the second Cassandra indicated amusement, then the first.

There was no way, let me assure you, that I could tell them apart. It could have been double vision. My mind’s eye knew otherwise but my skull’s eyes didn’t.

Now the second Cassandra approached the bar and stopped, peering closely at the first. The first peered likewise.

The second made a sound of appreciative recognition. The first made the identical sound.

The second gave the first a chiding look. Received it back, identically. The game was getting on my nerves; patience was not one of my virtues at that time, though obviously no one knew it.

Irritatingly, these two were clones in manner as well as appearance.

The second gnawed at the edge of her right index finger, smiling, making noises of amusement. So, too, did the first.

Then the second spoke.

“All right,” she said.

“All right,” echoed the first.

Their voices were identical
.

Damn it, will
one
of you crack?
I thought.

The two Cassandras eyed each other saucily, smiling the same smile, affecting the same expression; an uncanny sight, I’m forced to admit.

The second ran fingers through her long blonde hair. So did the first, laughing throatily—as did the second.
When will this damned burlesque conclude?
I wondered.

It had a few more stages to go.

The second Cassandra raised her right hand. The first one raised hers, the movement a duplicate.