Walking the Labyrinth (16 page)

“My father took me to see the Allalie Family at the Palace Theatre when I was ten,” the actress Lucy Benham writes in her autobiography. “When the curtains closed and the lights came up I felt as though I had been rudely slapped, dragged from a world where I belonged into some pale, inferior copy. Wherever they came from, the Allalies, it was where I was meant to be, it was my true home. That was the afternoon I realized I would be an actress.”

“They were from England, I think,” Michael Claudine, another magician of the day, said. (There was a footnote here, and Molly, turning to the back of the book, read “Conversation with the author, May, 1971.”) “They had that accent, anyway. There were a lot of them, more every time you turned around, fathers and mothers and aunts and uncles and cousins. They kept to themselves a lot—I don’t think they even joined the Society of American Magicians. I never saw them at the society dinners, anyway.

“They were good magicians, though, I’ll grant you that. One day I started rehearsing with them on the train ride out west. There wasn’t much to do during these jumps—people would sit on those hard seats of woven straw and write letters or argue politics or practice their instruments or play poker.

“I held out my deck of cards and asked the guy next to me, the sword swallower and fire-eater, to pick one. ‘You’re holding a red card,’ I said to him. ‘No, wait, a black one. A face card.’

“All the time I talked I watched his eyes. Your eyes dilate when I guess the right card—you can’t help it. All I have to do is ask a few questions, narrow it down.

“I did this with a few other people in the car and then turned to one of the Allalies, Verey I think his name was. And I could not get a fix on him, I could not guess what card he’d chosen. Well, finally he showed me how he did it. What he’d done was to bite down on his tongue, and that had kept his eyes dilated the whole time.

“We talked a bit after that. I remember mentioning the prize of $2,500 that
Scientific American
had offered for psychic phenomena produced under their control. This was in 1922 or thereabouts—that was a lot of money in those days. I wanted to claim that prize, get out of vaudeville for good. I thought I could work up some trick, hoodwink the muck-a-mucks at the magazine.

“‘And do you believe in psychic phenomena?’ Verey asked me.

“‘Of course not,’ I said. I’d never seen anything to convince me, anyway. One of the Allalie children was listening closely while I talked. Corrig, was that his name? Something like that, anyway.

“Well, in the middle of what I was saying this Corrig flew—I mean literally flew—out across the car, did a few somersaults, burst into flame, and then flew back. I couldn’t believe it. I combed the passenger car for days, looking for wires, for mirrors, for some kind of explanation. Finally I even went against the protocol of the Society of Magicians and asked Corrig outright how he’d done it, but he just shrugged and grinned. Later, when we got to San Francisco, I cornered Verey and his sister Lanty and asked them. ‘Trickery,’ Verey said, and Lanty said, ‘Illusion.’”

Even today professional magicians are at a loss to explain some of the tricks that were performed by the Allalie Family. In one contemporary newspaper account Verey Allalie steps on to the stage, takes off his top hat, and draws out stars, which he throws to the ceiling. Then he takes out a crescent moon, far larger than the hat itself, and hangs it from the sky, where it sheds a blue-white light. The moon tilts, becomes a jug; water pours to the stage. The water becomes a lake, lit by the moon and stars. Ripples appear in the water; a woman emerges from the lake and draws it around her shoulders like a cape. The stage is left completely dry.

Other newspaper articles speak of people becoming statues, statues becoming tigers. Dancers changed their shapes as easily as they changed their places, turning to animals, chairs, pianos, and cellos. And all of this was done, not hidden behind curtains or inside boxes, but out in the open, in the light, and in full view of the audience.

The Allalie Family differed from the rest of the vaudeville acts in other ways as well. “Everyone wanted to play Albee’s Palace in New York,” said Claudine. “That was the pinnacle, the top of the profession. But the Allalie Family didn’t seem to care. Some acts would say they’d already played in palaces in Europe, before real royalty, that it didn’t matter to them what Albee thought. We kept waiting for the Allalies to boast about something like that. If you could believe it of anyone you’d believe it of them, with their high-class accents. But like I said, they kept to themselves pretty much. And they did make the Palace—they got there before I did.”

In the twenties and thirties Neesa Allalie’s grandchildren joined the act, and musicians and stagehands were hired as needed. But like so many others in vaudeville the Allalie Family could not compete with talking motion pictures, and they performed their last disappearing act sometime in the 1930s, leaving the stage forever.

John called a few days later. “Hey, John,” Molly said. “Good to hear from you.”

“Is it?”

Molly laughed. “I guess we didn’t part on such good terms,” she said. “But I was just thinking of you. Did you find out anything new?”

“Yeah. It looks like I owe you an apology.”

“Great. For what?”

“Someone in England was able to find me proof of Lydia’s death. She died in 1913. Emily and Harrison were in the United States by then—they immigrated in 1910.”

“So they didn’t kill her.”

“No. She must have left the Order, just as Emily said. Emily probably felt guilty over taking Harrison away from her, nothing more.”

“I knew she wasn’t a bad person.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. She still bilked Dorothy out of a lot of money—Well, let’s not get into that.”

“Did you ever find the missing three pages from the journal?”

“No. I had an idea Ottig might have mailed them to himself, so I tracked down his last known address. Nothing. And my contact in England looked all over for them, too. Searched the storefront from top to bottom, checked out all the places Ottig had stayed—”

“Too bad. I have a feeling we’ll find all the answers if we just find those pages.”

“Another feeling? Well, that’s not why I called. What I wanted to tell you is that my client asked to talk to you.”

“Your client? That’s terrific. Can you tell me more about him?”

“Yeah. Are you sitting down?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’ve got more relatives than you thought. Your grandfather, Callan, had two children. One was your mother, Joan. The other was a man named Samuel Allalie. Your uncle.”

“Oh my God. Uncle Sam?”

“Yeah. He wanted to know what happened to Joan, his sister. She apparently left him and her parents, disappeared off the face of the earth as far as they knew. I traced her to Fentrice and then found you. He’d never heard of you.”

“I never heard of him either. So the inheritance—”

“Callan had apparently always told Sam that Fentrice had taken some money, but that wasn’t the important thing. He wanted to know what happened to Joan, what happened to Fentrice and Thorne. I couldn’t tell you about him so I used the inheritance as a reason for digging into the past.”

“You knew—you knew I have an uncle, and you never told me? Does he have any kids?”

“Two. Your cousins.”

“Cousins. And you never told me.”

“I couldn’t. Professional ethics. You can see that, can’t you?”

“You’re a cold man, John Stow. Didn’t you at least want to say something?”

“A couple times, yeah. So when do you want to meet him?”

“As soon as I can. Tomorrow’s Saturday—what about then?”

“All right. He wants to meet you too. Your place?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Hold on,” Molly said urgently. “Tell him to bring pictures of his kids!”

“All right. See you then.”

She hung up. An uncle. An uncle and cousins. She smiled to herself.

It was only when she had gotten into bed that she wondered why he had lost touch with her mother, and with Fentrice. Did they have some sort of falling-out? And why had Fentrice never said anything?

Peter let himself into his hotel room. He sank wearily to the bed, resting his head against the wall and putting his feet up on the covers, and took the phone into his lap. He hesitated a moment and then dialed his editor in New York.

“Listen,” he said when the editor answered. “Listen, I think I’ve got something. That famous actress in the thirties, Lucy Benham, she had an illegitimate child. And here’s the thing: the kid became an actress too. Only no one knows they’re related.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Don’t you see?” Peter said. “I could write about both of them. It’s two books in one, really. And the kid’s still alive. I’ve found someone who knows her, says she’s ready to talk.”

“No one remembers these people, Peter,” the editor said.

“Sure they do. They’re on TV all the time, on cable.”

“Okay, they remember them, but no one cares about them. An illegitimate child? Everyone has one or two nowadays—it’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, but I could recreate the atmosphere of the thirties in the book, show what a big shock it was at the time.”

“I don’t think I’d be interested, Peter.”

“But—”

“Now if one of them murdered someone, that would be something,” the editor said. “That’s what sells books these days.”

They talked a little more and then Peter hung up. If one of them murdered someone, he thought, shaking his head in disgust. Wait a minute. Who was it who had told him about finding a dead body recently? Molly, that’s right. Molly was on to something in England. Peter reached for his legal pad and pen on the nightstand and began taking notes.

EIGHT

Disappearing Acts

M
olly’s first thought was that Samuel Allalie had the family look she had come to recognize. He was short and muscular, and when he smiled he showed the same gapped teeth they all seemed to have. He transferred the backpack he was carrying to his other shoulder and shook her hand warmly.

“I’m Sam Allalie,” he said. “I’m glad to meet you, Molly. Finally.”

“So am I,” she said, showing him and John into her apartment. “Sit down, please. Would you like some tea? Or biscuits?”

He smiled again. “My grandparents used to offer guests tea and biscuits. It’s a British custom, I think.”

“My aunt Fentrice does it. Not that she gets very many visitors besides her bridge club.”

“Aunt Fentrice. So she’s still alive.”

Molly blinked in surprise. “Very much so. Didn’t you know?”

“No. She left the family and never said a word to anyone after that. We looked for her for years—” Samuel turned to John. “Our family’s very good at finding people, but she seemed to have disappeared completely. How did you find her?”

“I’m very good at finding people,” John said.

“John—” Molly said.

“I know how to use a computer, and how to tie into databases across the country,” John said. “Driver’s licenses, social security cards—”

“Aunt Fentrice never learned to drive,” Molly said. “Lila does all her errands. And I don’t think she ever got a social security card either. She started working long before you needed one.”

“No, but you know what she does have? A credit card.”

“A credit card?” Molly said, amazed. “Fentrice?”

John laughed. “That’s right. Uses it pretty heavily, too. I got her address and phone number from that and tried calling a few times. She wouldn’t talk to me, so I decided to go after Molly here instead.”

“Well,” Samuel said. “So Fentrice is still alive. But John told me that Joan and Bill died in a car accident. I’m sorry, Molly.”

“Thank you. You’re her—you’re my mother’s brother, aren’t you? What was she like?”

“A lot like Fentrice and Thorne, I gather. Wild, determined to go her own way. And she left the family just like Fentrice did, though I never knew she had had a child. Or that she found Fentrice. I wonder how.”

Samuel looked at John, who shrugged. “There’s a lot about this family I don’t know,” John said.

“Like what happened to Thorne. Like why Joan left the family—or why Fentrice did, for that matter.”

“I’m going to interview Fentrice next.”

“Great,” Samuel said.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Molly said. “Fentrice doesn’t see too many people. I said I’d ask her if she’ll talk to John, that’s all.”

“I’ll wish you luck,” Samuel said. “Oh, and I brought this. Maybe it’ll help.” He opened his backpack and drew out a large leather book, brown and stained with ink and coffee cup rings. “This is my father Callan’s journal.”

“Callan’s …”
Molly said. She reached for the book, held it reverently. The cover, she noticed, was made of imitation leather and cracked in several places. “Was there anyone in this family who didn’t keep a journal?”

Samuel laughed. “I never have,” he said.

“Did you know about this?” Molly asked John.

John nodded.

“I told him,” Samuel said. “I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone else to read it, but now I think it might help.”

“What else are you hiding from me?” Molly asked John.

“Nothing,” John said. “We all know each other’s secrets now. Unless there’s something you haven’t told me.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” Molly said.

She opened to the first page. There were no ruled lines on the pages; it looked like an artist’s sketchbook. Callan’s writing, unlike Emily’s, was sharp and spiny. “‘January 2, 1935,’” she read aloud. “‘Thorne gave me this book for Christmas.’” She looked up at Samuel. “This is wonderful. Thank you so much.”

John held out his hand for the book.

“I’ll start reading it right away,” she said.

“You—” John said.

Molly smiled as sweetly as she could. “I am a member of the family, after all.” She turned to Samuel. “Did you bring pictures of your children?”

“Yes, I did.” Samuel took out his wallet and opened it. “That’s Kate, and that’s Elizabeth,” he said, pointing to a photograph. “And this is my wife—she’s also named Elizabeth.”

“They’re beautiful,” Molly said. “Didn’t you want to name them something stranger? Like Verey and—what was it?—Lanty?”